I think the most surprising aspect of this semester is that I was able to survive three classes on Thursday evening. I think, judging from that first day, it will be annoying but, ultimately, bearable—if only for the knowledge it is bringing me closer to graduation. Of course, I am also looking forward to taking two classes this summer, which will accomplish the same. 

Chris is having knee surgery on Monday, so we are both a bit on edge; I made sure to have film on hand. There is something cathartic about the process of documenting life's misfortunes. There is an understanding gained by shooting photographs, even the chaotic nature of life can, somehow, be more bearable by taking control through art—no matter the form.

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BIOL 101 Humankind in the Biological World
SOCI 100 Introduction to Sociology
WRIT 300 Advanced Expository Writing
CMAT 351 Project Management I
CMAT 497 Special Topics in Communications (Advanced Print Design)

This is the first time I have ever been frantically swapping classes around this close to the start of a semester. I think the classes I've decided upon will be the best to take at this point in time, however. Every single one of them fulfills a degree requirement. The first three classes are core education requirements, and the last two are requirements for my major.

Unfortunately, I am not able to continue with my job at The U.B. Post, as it would put me over the credit allowance. In addition, I am already taking an advanced design class, so I don't want to burn out on design classes, as was the case when I attended MICA full-time.

I look forward to posting work from my Advanced Print Design class throughout the course of the semester, so stay tuned!

Thankfully, the professor, Valzhyna Mort Cortese, was not a sadist; she gave us the literal translation of each symbol. It was up to us to make sense of the mostly-nonsensical way the words were written in the original poem. I am quite happy with how my iteration turned out.

The Story of Ch'ang-Kan

My hair scarcely covered my forehead
when I played, plucking flowers by the front gate.
You came on your bamboo horse,
circling the garden to play among the green plums.

Together in Ch'ang Kan village,
too young to know hate or suspicion.

At fourteen, I became your wife.
Ever bashful, I lowered my head in darkness to face the wall.
You called one thousand times,
but I could not turn back even once.

At fifteen, my the furrows of my brow vanished,
and I wished us ever together as dust with ash,
often thinking of your embrace, unwavering.

How do I now ascend the widow’s walk?

At sixteen, you left on your voyage,
travelling beyond the Keu-Tang Gorge,
where the boulders heap up the swift river,
and the fifth month brings unpassable rapids.

Why now do the heavens cry out like the sorrows of apes?

The footprints you left—they are covered in moss…
moss so deep, I cannot sweep them away.

The autumn winds bring their falling leaves.
The butterflies of the eighth month arrive
from the west in pairs, to play in the garden.

My heart aches at seeing them…
I sit alone, sorrowful,
for, the vermilion in my face is fading.
Even now, I look for your letter to tell me
you are returning from the three gorges.

But, I look forward to when we meet again,
far away from the garden,
all the way to Long Wind Sand.

Opening Sentences:

1. The beautiful, golden sunrise rose over the orange-drenched field as the sun’s rays stretched out like yellow fingers over the waving sheaves of wheat.
2. This really long time ago—no, seriously, like, a really, really long time ago—all these people, I think they had a name, but it is not important, lived peacefully in this group of villages in these green mountains somewhere far away.
3. Once, there was this guy, and he was walking down the street, and he met this other guy, but it wasn’t the guy he meant to meet, so he kept walking.

Character Description:
She walked in with her inky, raven hair shimmering in the sparkly, sunny light from that big window with the long curtains. The silk blouse, red as raw ground beef, pulled tightly across her great, squishy pendulous breasts which felt like yeasty, unbaked bread.

Closing Sentences:

1. And so, the tides of time drifted onward, as she bobbed up and down in her memories like a marshmallow on a chocolatey sea of Hershey’s hot chocolate.
2. After his father died, he felt a great sadness, not unlike that kind of sadness you feel when you scrape the bottom of the peanut butter jar with the knife and know you have to go to the grocery store soon instead of sitting at home eating sandwiches—that kind of sadness.
3. And then they all died; the end.

I have never uploaded anything literature-wise before, despite focusing more on writing than art lately.

This was a short poetry assignment in my 400-level writing course last semester. We were to write an antipoem* inspired by Nicanor Parra.

*From Wikipedia: Anti-poetry is an art movement that attempts to break away from the normal conventions of poetry. Early proponents of anti-poetry include Nicanor Parra. Nicanor Parra, known as the father of anti-poetry, published his first collection of antipoems in 1954 (Poemas y antipoemas) and sought to reject the belief that verse holds any mystical power. The poems have been described as prose-like, irreverent, and illuminating the problems of human existence.

Not unlike a garden, blogging must be tended to in regular intervals to bear the desired fruits of labor. The last thing anyone, especially a writer, wants is for his blog to have three posts from two years ago with sporadic updates until the blog is a barren wasteland. Nobody wants one of those blogs—certainly not me. I have had one of them before, and it is not a scenario I wish to repeat.

Where the blogging garden might only need the occasional watering, writing a novel—or three—is a different beast altogether. First, you plants the seeds of your novel in reams of notes. Then, you write each chapter, carefully tending the garden bed to assure you grow a beautiful carrot or cabbage, and not a soured rutabaga. Finally, for many writers, comes the taste test: you hand over your draft to a test reader or two. If you are lucky, like me, you have several ample readers to write notes and comments in a draft. Once you have read through such comments, it is time to edit the draft—numerous times.

This editing stage is the stage I am currently at with two of three books. The third, only having notes, a prologue, and chapter i written, has barely germinated beneath the soil.

Now that I have rambled on for a bit, I suppose I will wrap up by saying I have worked a bit more on the painting I previewed in a prior post. With any luck, I will post a larger preview within the next few days. Stay tuned!

Click to Enlarge

Here is a small preview of a new painting I have been working on. It is based on one of the characters in my novel, Gawain. I am interested to find out what people who have read the book think when they see my interpretation of my own character.

As someone who strives to be organized, it is of great help. For those as addle-brained as I can be at times, you should check it out. Pinterest is a great way to store useful/inspirational/etc. images and links to things you want to remember in the future.

Just as an aside: in addition to its organizational attributes, Pinterest has a great social aspect, allowing you to link it to your Facebook and Twitter feeds.