Stuff

Well...you don't have to know me to know I'm a bit of a Disney Freak XD

So, I wanted to share my Disneyland flickr

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mordooraq/

also this is sort of random but... I just love this song from 1967's Doctor Dolittle
sung by Anthony Newley



if you have never seen this movie I recommend that you do :D

Short Update

I started work yesterday. Re-learning everything, getting back into the Cashier Groove.

Nothing else exciting has happened...but that is life.

Sentence

I thought of this sentence a couple of nights ago, and I wrote it down...but with all the papers I have and finals I have a feeling I am going to lose it so just as a back up I am writing it down here.

Her laugh sounded like sharp nails smothered in honey.

Ok. Thats it.

Last Poem for WR 441

Yes I have pictures and video just for the heck of it. It amuses me :D

So, yesterday right after class I got an idea for a poem. This maddened me because I wish I could have included it in my book. Though I already wrote my last thoughts for WR 441 I did not write my last poem. So, here it is now, sort of a farewell present to anybody in my class who is actually reading this.

YO HO

If Pirates
were a lollipop flavor
would you guess it
to be mango?
I believe
that mango
gets rid of scurvy.

But being a Pirate
Isn't about being
a fruity spherical candy

it's about sword fights
hidden treasure
and Orlando Bloom.

But sometimes
It's about the Muppets
Singing "Cabin Fever"

But mostly it's about
Orlando Bloom.

and talking skulls
that tell you
that "Dead Men Tell No Tales"
Which really doesn't make sense.
Because it's a skull...
that can talk.

I guess now everything from here on out is totally not going to be for 441...weird.

The Ending and then the Begining...or maybe the end.

So I inadvertently asked my mother what she thought poetry was today. I said I thought it was about ego, and she told me that she thought it basically boiled down to connection, and hoping what you write connects with someone else.

I don't think that I agree, though I wasn't sure (while laying on the couch discussing this) how to argue against it. I guess on some level poetry is about connection. But then I think about all the poetry we have read or have listened to where there is no connection. It isn't about pretty lakes/forests/birds/deer/mountains/[insert more nature words and phrases here], lost loves, or finding yourself...all the things a regular Joe person usually associates with connecting to poetry....but it's the poet who writes (and maybe even says)about nothing, that it is all about sounds...it's about sounds.

Are sounds connection? Do I connect with sounds? When sounds form words, and then those words form sentences, and those sentences are coherent (and maybe even commanding) then I guess I connect, but what about when you see:

Uhgha mugga mooga moof-frickle bood facky miffle morf. Naffy gordon copple plaf.

Do you connect with that readers? Do you have some emotional connection to mooga moof?Ok, yes I admit it, I am being facetious writing that.

Then it got me thinking...anybody here watch Home Improvement? If you do, or did, or you are familiar with Tim Allen you will probably get what I am about to say and have probably imitated it:

Tim the Tool Man Taylor, in every episode makes grunting noises. They differ in pitch and tone depending on the situation but it's still grunting...yet the audience gets exactly what that grunt means in that moment. It can be an excited grunt, a confused grunt, an angry grunt, or a grunt of despair.The point is they are mostly just noises...not even words but they inflict an emotion.

So what would happen if those grunts were on a page rather then on t.v? Would they convey the same emotional connection? I am guessing that if one was to read it correctly it would- but on paper how would one convey that connection?

Oh oh oh oh oh
wrowro oh ah ah ah ah
AH AH AH AH!

Is that anger? Sadness? Tenderness? Or complete bullshit? I really don't know, yet if Tim Allen were here to read it out loud maybe he could convey some deep emotional feelings that will make me weep in joy.

So maybe just maybe when read the right way even Uhgha mugga mooga moof-frickle bood facky miffle morf. Naffy gordon copple plaf. Would have someone balling like a little baby.

So where was I? Oh yeah connection. Maybe it really is all about connection maybe the poet doesn't even care what connection it is as long as one connects.

So maybe it really is about ego, we are trying to make someone feel something and if we succeed it is because we are the masters of some higher power.

It's like bully's encouraging the little kid to cry and then getting some sick joy out of watching that kid ball their eyes out...they are so porud of themselves because they got the kid to cry.

So what am I saying? Is poetry all about being egotistical bullies? Maybe.

I think there is so much to poetry, so much I want to write about and share and ask but there is always not enough time to soak it all in. Life is like that, you can never answer the question in exactly the way you were initially thinking.

I could go on and on, trying to convey every thought I have about poetry...but then I wouldn't be giving anybody else a turn. So there, I have written a small snippet of how my brain works, and what I think poetry, and writing poetry is all about.

and hopefully, I have made a connection...

Bad Country Song

We all have problems
some more then others,
and we all want to be
loved by our brothers
reach out your hands to strangers,
for we all wander the same road
our lives are broken circles,
with forgotten oaths.


Some people talk of sunshine,
some people talk of snow
some people talk of rain
but we don’t know.

We all say we're different
yet we all act the same
we are all hypocrites,
but no ones to blame.

Some people talk to somebody
but that is rare,
mostly we talk to nobody
because nobody cares.

We want to be noticed,
we don’t care how
all we want is,
to be noticed now.

And,

We all have problems
some more then others,
and we all want to be
loved by our brothers
reach out your hands to strangers,
for we all wander the same road
our lives are broken circles,
with forgotten oaths.

Wayne Allwine February 7, 1947 – May 18, 2009

No more, no more
the voice is gone
my childhood
my childhood is gone.

Oh Monday, Monday
it was thirty two
thirty two and sixty two
not alive in 77 but
my childhood is gone.

life and love he preached
life and love and joy

I wrapped him in my arms
I wrapped him in my world
so tightly did I hold him
so tightly did I know him

No more, no more
the voice is gone
my childhood
my childhood is gone

Twenty three
and my childhood is gone.