What I'm Doing: Finishing Season ONE of the TWO-12 Blog
212:
It takes me an average of thirteen bites (with twenty-six chews per bite) to finish the last quarter of my whole wheat bagel as I stare in a stoic trance, waiting for the shuttle in the morning. It takes me approximately seven steps to walk from the front of the shuttle to the back, where I take a seat in the usually packed form of public transportation. It takes me, on average, the entire allotted time for me to complete an exam and to double check all of my responses. It takes me about seven (same number of steps to the back of the shuttle) months to write twenty-six blog posts (same number of chews in one bite), 37,256 words, and 72 pages of material. This post, Zeptember, is therefore the Season ONE finally.
Of sorts.
I've joined the Creative Writing club called ECWC here at UA. It's pretty sweet, and is a great and relaxed environment to think with the imagination and let the non-mathematical brain juices flow. Here are two pieces I wrote last Tuesday. The first is a stream-of-consciousness, the second is written completely with my right hand (a very hard task for a non-ambidextrous lefty).
I've joined the Creative Writing club called ECWC here at UA. It's pretty sweet, and is a great and relaxed environment to think with the imagination and let the non-mathematical brain juices flow. Here are two pieces I wrote last Tuesday. The first is a stream-of-consciousness, the second is written completely with my right hand (a very hard task for a non-ambidextrous lefty).
Light my Cabeza
In a powdery cadence repeat aloud the timelessness, the timelessness of a music note not in memory, but sound- sound like rain drops trickling in a cruel rhythm, a beat determined by some to pierce ear drums and break sonic barriers. The timelessness of memory as music, the drifting words of that song that rings in your head like clockwork. Tick. Tick. Tick.
As people we create the clouds of imagination which spur forth consciousness and destroy the vague reality that reality is the tick tick tick of a clock, and you are the minuteman of a country, your country's hour. Faded are the memories that were thought to be the absolute shred of timelessness and suddenly, so suddenly you're lost in the tick tick tick that was the repeating cadence of your existence. Tick. Tick.
The moon shines daylight on the invisible city as waterfalls crash in the distance. The memories they, tick, are blending now like the colors blue and yellow when they form that other color, the color you called white. Opaque powdery white. The soft flakes of snow as they fall on green buildings making the sound which is only a memory of the timelessness pronounced through speakers as tick. tick. tick.
Lick your lips as your spit falls on clouds and turns to liquid on your tongue. Is this taste real or imaginative? Questionable or questioned? It surely isn't real- if it were real your mind wouldn't be crumpled with excess sardine cans and excuses for excuses. Words that are words that are pictures with vocal chords, vocal chords that mumble under the constraint of gravity and the atmosphere- tick. tick. TICK.
In a powdery cadence repeat aloud the timelessness. The words. The memories.
In a powdery cadence repeat aloud the timelessness, the timelessness of a music note not in memory, but sound- sound like rain drops trickling in a cruel rhythm, a beat determined by some to pierce ear drums and break sonic barriers. The timelessness of memory as music, the drifting words of that song that rings in your head like clockwork. Tick. Tick. Tick.
As people we create the clouds of imagination which spur forth consciousness and destroy the vague reality that reality is the tick tick tick of a clock, and you are the minuteman of a country, your country's hour. Faded are the memories that were thought to be the absolute shred of timelessness and suddenly, so suddenly you're lost in the tick tick tick that was the repeating cadence of your existence. Tick. Tick.
The moon shines daylight on the invisible city as waterfalls crash in the distance. The memories they, tick, are blending now like the colors blue and yellow when they form that other color, the color you called white. Opaque powdery white. The soft flakes of snow as they fall on green buildings making the sound which is only a memory of the timelessness pronounced through speakers as tick. tick. tick.
Lick your lips as your spit falls on clouds and turns to liquid on your tongue. Is this taste real or imaginative? Questionable or questioned? It surely isn't real- if it were real your mind wouldn't be crumpled with excess sardine cans and excuses for excuses. Words that are words that are pictures with vocal chords, vocal chords that mumble under the constraint of gravity and the atmosphere- tick. tick. TICK.
In a powdery cadence repeat aloud the timelessness. The words. The memories.
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Dear Right Hand #1
Synthetic is the unreal facility
where machines eat and drink they are robots
with human arms and their favorite
food is ice cream-
Specifically vanilla bean
mixed with happiness.
Dear Right Hand #1
Synthetic is the unreal facility
where machines eat and drink they are robots
with human arms and their favorite
food is ice cream-
Specifically vanilla bean
mixed with happiness.
--------
Recently, I’ve started running with a good friend of mine. I learned my lesson in Philly that while it is fantastic to be busy, exercise still shouldn’t be ignored. I’ve never been a runner- I’m more of a sea creature, if anything- but it is nice to get out and explore the roads of Tucson with feet instead of wheels.
At first appearance, Tucson can seem worn down, beaten, ugly. But if that’s all you see, then you don’t know Tucson. I’m still getting to know the place, and every day I see more and more beauty, more and more qualities of nature of character that shine. I find myself standing outside at nighttime, taking a fresh breathe of air. The air is so sweet out here- so tasteful, fluid, and gentle on the lungs.
Sometimes, it’s relaxing just to take in what surrounds you.
Over the past few months, I've really struggled to meet my self-designed four-post-a-month quota. If you are a consistent reader, you've probably noticed this… and laughed at how I post two or even three posts on the last day of the month. So, finally after several periods of thirty-day difficulties, I've decided to cut back on quantity and propose a new era, a new season if you will, of quality. From hence forth, there will only be one major post per month. If I am feeling extra ambitious or full of creativity though, don't be surprised if there's more.
I really, really, really want to write a novel.
I was talking with my roommate, Michael, yesterday about why we take such hard classes, such hard majors, and such hard schedules at the University. Why can’t I just take fifteen credits of a non-science major per semester, breeze through those classes with B’s and C’s, and smell the roses? I could write a book in my spare time, snag a part-time job, beef-up my resume for the corporate ladder. We talked, and eventually we came to a conclusion that involved a video-game metaphor.
We can’t go through life on EASY mode. It just wouldn’t be fun. It wouldn’t be interesting. There would be no challenge. Instead, we have to play INSANE mode, LEGENDARY mode, MENTAL mode (to name a few). We have to struggle through the most impossible challenges, and then beat them. Conquer them. Crush them.
Where’s the rush in beating a game on EASY? I’d rather play LEGENDARY and fight with all my strength to win in the end.
INSANE > CASUAL
Like I said, I want to write a novel. I don’t need to take fifteen credits per year with a simple major to do it. I added a Creative Writing Minor to my Biochemistry and Molecular and Cellular Biology Majors just to have more time to write.
The brain is about to storm, baby, and the world better watch out for my lightning bolts.
-TWO-12
