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capriuni: Text: If you want to be a Hero, be Good to the Storyteller. (Storyteller)

Notes, Notings, and Common Refrains

The songs that are stuck in my head

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Created on 2009-06-18 01:10:21 (#408248), last updated 2017-03-23 (6 days ago)

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Name:Ann
Birthdate:1964
Location:Virginia, United States of America
"To do is to be" -- Socrates.

I do be a writer. And now, some of my writing is tangible. After two years, my debut poetry chapbook, The Monsters' Rhapsody: Disability, Culture, & Identity is now available for purchase at Lulu.com:

thumbnail cover
[Image description: thumbnail of the front cover for Monsters' Rhapsody]

Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.


For the Record: My Subscription "Policy":

I LIKE meeting new people. I'll probably subscribe to you in return, if I don't already, if only to see what sort of person you are. I'd also appreciate a note in my inbox saying what prompted your subscription, because otherwise my curiosity will make my brain itch.

What you'd see when you look at me:
brussel sprouts
(Photo by Audrey Mackie, 24 November, 2012)

I use a wheelchair. I say that first, just to get it off the table, and we can get to more interesting stuff. I am not "bound" to, or by, it. And it's not permanently bolted to my rear, despite whatever impression you may get from watching TV or movies. I use a chair because I have cerebral palsy. Here is an explanation of what that means.

If you were spying on me right now, you'd see my computer table is a mess -- it's piled high with books and art projects -- both old, and still-in-process. You'd see an old Yamaha Digital Midi Keyboard behind me, that I use for doodling around with music. Even though I have almost no formal musical training, I like to make up simple, folk-like songs, often childlike and nonsensical (but sometimes serious, too), just for fun.



What I see when I look at myself:
naart-16-13

Forget what the professional psychologists say is possible, my earliest memory is from when I was about six months old, and I was trying to get my mother to stop talking with our grownup guests, and listen to what I had to say -- even though I didn't have any words in my brain, yet. That drive to communicate -- to get what is inside me out into the world -- has never lessened, from that day to this.

So when I say "I'm a storyteller," it's more than just a job (or hobby) description -- it's an existential proclamation.

Between 8 December, 1989, and 24 November, 2012, I was a regular contributor to The Art Garden: A Literary Magazine for the Stage.

Here are links to a couple of the Art Garden pieces I've written, in the past:

Why I did not go see "Arachnophobia" (YouTube video ~5 mins.) (June 1991; theme: Animals)

Father Christmas, Father Wind (November 2004; theme: Flight)

The Barefoot Queen (May, 2006; theme: Shoes)

The final Art Garden was held on 24 of November, 2012, with the theme of "Harvest," and this was my contribution:

This Poem is a Trick

Just like the garden, this poem is a trick.
What seems, at first, so natural and free
Is just the clever artist's sleight-of-hand.
With all the awkward phrases weeded out,
And punctuation paving stones swept clean.
Just turn your back a moment, then you'll see:
True Nature has a way to claim her own.

The poetry they handed you in school
To memorize, and analyze, recite,
Will cross pollinate and then, bear fruit
And Dickinson and Shakespeare will entwine
And you'll forget--
Who wrote the one about the hen and the wheelbarrow?
Scraps of conversation overheard
Will drop, like seeds, from a passing bird
Onto the farmhouse roof,
And Virginia Creeper, like illuminations
In the margins of the page
Will curtain down your windows and frame the scene
As garden transforms to enchanted wood
Where tadpoles, covered in fur, and web-footed mice
Swim in the frog pond,
And men sprout beards of leaves
And goat beginnings end with fish's tails
Like the punch-line to some joke.
And Red Riding Hood seeks flowers that never grew
On her mother's windowsill

Where, once upon a time,
Rapunzel, her hair cropped short,
Banished from her tower, built a house of her own.
And did just fine.
With her son and daughter toddling at her heels,
She harvested acorns for their bread
Until the blind, despairing, Prince
Stumbled to her door,
And carried her home to a royal garden
Always tended, never free.

I wonder: did she ever crave a taste (as her mother had)
Of her own green namesake,
That grows, unbidden, amid the stubble of last years wheat?

...Do you?



I am currently working on finishing a memoir-tastic book of poetry and commentary about the intersection between Disability, Culture, and Identity. I hope to self-publish it by the end of this year (I said that last year, too).

Interests (72):

agnosticism, animals, asl, atheism, august, bats, buckaroo bonzai, cats, children's and young adult lit., children's lit., chimera allsorts, chocolate, corvids, disability culture, disability rights, doctor who, dogs, epicureanism, etymology, fantasy, folk-ish music, folklore, frogs, geeks, goats, horses, hugs, impromptu confectioneries, jim henson, kids' shows, laughing, literary criticism, lucid dreaming, making art, making art on mspaint, metalanguage, monsters, month-long challenges, music, mythology, naarmamo, nanowrimo, noveling, november, oralature-literature spectrum, pbs documentaries, phenomenonology, poetry, preferring co-operation to competition, pretty much anything in moderate amounts, pro-fun trolling, progressive politics, protozoa, proverbs, reading, riddles, science fiction, shakespeare, singing spontaneously, songwriting, sonnets, speculative fiction, spiders, storytelling, taoism, toads, traditional music, unicorns, wondertales, wordplay, writing, writing songs with noteworthy composer
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