WRITER – genre-crossing writer challenging convention one narrative at a time. Lover of narrative, I write to join the perpetual conversation between readers and authors, across time, cultures, and languages. 

Interactive Intertextual Narratives, open for discourse on writing and writers, politics and protests, culture and (dis) continuity. A space for critical thinking to explore genre, disruption, and reading. 

 

 

 

Lyric essay, creative non-fiction, experimental fiction

 

(You are)

To me a puzzling tune with hidden meaning

A lyric I mediatate on

A mantra repeated in my heart

The lover of my soul (more than mate)

More like a limb broken in a storm

Sprouts fresh growth in damaged joints

Algorithm the machine has succeed –we are the machine-there is a force- we are the force-we created – no we “discovered fire”-designed the wheel-made the machine then developed the software. It took many millions-centuries to express the code. Algorithm- a rhythmic ticking codification of all knowledge pieced together over centuries of human trial and error. Have we found the code – again?

A Messiah is born to each generation. Come on, this is completely sci-fi shit. But the narrative writes itself from the original algorithm (spelling doesn’t). You see? You see.

Y-O-U S-E-E

We see through culturally coded representation, we cannot, will not admit we see. To see is to threaten no no no no accountability, responsibility – agency. It is the polar opposite of victimization. If anything it is insidious gaming of the system – playing dumb – laughing all the way to the bank of one-up-man-ship. The cheater, the under-performer in possession of a magic empowering code (not necessarily negative) algorithm accelerated but not new, global millions reached with a finger click.

My head is micro-coded. Codification. How the mind works in cultural captivity. The imbalance set into motion is, could be, the fucking dark force.

If I could believe in what feels like my core. I’ve been watching too much media. 

Prophets:

Marshall McLuhan – “The Medium is the Message”

Jean Baudrillard – “Simulacra and Simulation”

(Ah misspelling the blips of transition in thought) – thinking out of the (whose) box!!! You cannot be high- we cannot put anything into motion without motion. Motion creates force – get caught up in the force. There is no peace working against the force of a personal galaxy.

But to put it into words makes it all trite. The clockwise force of time – was Einstein the first to remove the romance, the cloying sentimentalization in a single algorithm, of time.

Of course that was after the discovery to one force – a belief in one unifying source sought for all known existence. The absolute certain force of self constantly invaded. Always asking-seeking something – so simple as the cure for mortality.

The demand of the machine forever coded – captured in the rhythm of desire? Desire is that right?

Dante segregated the motion of like desire into tiers – condemned to one and only one tier Dante’s Commedia – should we remember never to forget Dante’s Commedia (comedy). Does Popular education (academia) glosses over the simple algorithm of Dante’s hierarchy of “sin?”   

And then – I was bored with the muddled movement of my mind on pot disjointed, sophomoric perception. I went to the kitchen to make dinner. I often paused in forgetfulness of simple, repetivie movement.  

Two months without a post! Where have I been? 

Contemplating the reasons to continue writing 

Writing – writing – writing into what I hope will be my new novel

Annual March Cabo vacation

Visiting my brother 

Contemplating the rise of the Christian Taliban (where’s my burka)

Trying to figure out the empty rhetoric of right-wing (small) vaginal-centric governing (really in the 21st century)

Following the (pathetic) political thing we call a Presidential election

Weight loss – working out – Pilates reformer

Working on creative MFA thesis – trying to work on creative MFA thesis  

Missing a deadline on what should have been a no-brainer (essay on fashion)

Recuperating from rejection

Submitting 

Writing – reading – trying to figure the grand it of writing – reading and living.

(and you, what have you been up to?)

My writing process changed my narrative perception. My initiation, like most writers, began in early childhood education. We are given linear texts to map our developing minds. Our first readers are cogs in the socialization machine. Our eyeteeth cut on the expectation for Aristotelian narrative convention. I love to read and write plot-less narratives.  

The past four years have liberated my writing from the conventions of fiction. Woolf’s essay, “Modern Fiction,[i]” reinforced the epiphanic moment when I learned women (brave) don’t write plot (this needn’t be gendered).[ii] The discourse on women’s writing and plot informed years suffered in workshop critique, and rejection. I realized early in my nauseating initiation into writing how poorly class, gender and generation had equipped me for the arduous task of becoming an author.[iii] The Beginners Comic Books, literary theory Dick and Jane type readers, opened thory’s complexity. Literary theory, often disparaged, shapes my narrative perspective. My solitary autodidactic experience failed to quell my desire for a MFA. The mirror reflects the background, not only what is held in front of it, even the gaps, completing an undergraduate degree seemed like an impassable crevasse until I rode the web to Goddard’s low-residency BFA program. Linearity on the page was a circumnavigated experience.

I only have to complete my creative thesis (novel in progress) to be receive my MFA (The City College of New York). My process was blindsided by my older of two brother’s catastrophic brain bleed. He continues to recover thanks to and despite the healthcare system. He has fallen out of the quotidian linearity he recently described in mind numbing sequence begun each day with the alarm clock set five minutes fast going off at 5:13 a.m., shower-shave, drive to the station, taking the same seat, talking to the same people, his egg white omelet set on the grill as he walked into the same diner, coffee break at 10:10, lunch at 12:40, card game with the same guys on the 4:45 back to the car parked in the same spot and home again. Is it any wonder he loved to read science fiction?   

I have rambled to my obsession with writing, my own and others. My brother’s tragic case represents the danger of imposed conventions. I neither want to trivialize or minimize my brother’s event by comparing it to writing. His illness, entwined with my every waking moment pushes against my process actually altered my course, found its way onto the page. The association of everything to writing opens new ways of seeing, not material to exploit, to influence narrative representation. Fiction’s imposed conventions and constraints can form a block that like routine need release. I question as reader/writer how this is represented on the page.   

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[i] Look within and life, it seems, is very far from being “like this”. Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day. The mind receives a myriad impressions—trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel. From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms; and as they fall, as they shape themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the accent falls differently from of old; the moment of importance came not here but there; so that, if a writer were a free man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he must, if he could base his work upon his own feeling and not upon convention, there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest or catastrophe in the accepted style, and perhaps not a single button sewn on as the Bond Street tailors would have it. Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end. Is it not the task of the novelist to convey this varying, this unknown and uncircumscribed spirit, whatever aberration or complexity it may display, with as little mixture of the alien and external as possible? We are not pleading merely for courage and sincerity; we are suggesting that the proper stuff of fiction is a little other than custom would have us believe it.

[ii] A women’s poetics, therefore, may have to reconceive the notion of plot as a fundamental aesthetic category so that it may be grounded in an idea of temporal order more appropriate to the cyclic experience of women’s lives. (Josephine Donovan, “Toward a Women’s Poetics”)

[iii] “A writer is expressing, and an author is communicating.” Richard Nash replied to Gabriel Cohen’s question, “What is the difference between a writer and an author?” (P&W, Nov-Dec 2011)

 

 

The mother tongue often silenced wakes in embryonic dreams of rebirth. 

Women writers are harnessed with the sentence that is a male construct not suited to women, and a form that although pliable, had distinct codes and conventions of genre and genre is a false constraint. 

Title Quote: Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own.