capriuni: Text: If you want to be a Hero, be Good to the Storyteller. (Default)
Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.



You know, as of today (17 January, 2017), the top three (American) Google auto-complete results for “Shakespeare Sonnet” are:

  • 116
  • (Let me not to the marriage of true minds),
  • 18
  • (Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?) and
  • 130
  • (My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun).


I predict this one will rise in the rankings over the next four years.
capriuni: text: "5 things" (5 things)
1) My latest Tumblr entry: https://aegipanomnicorn.tumblr.com/post/140443131998/a-history-of-the-word-handicap-extendedkeith

I'll probably be doing a lot of reblogging-with-commentary here, rather than weighting it more toward original content,* because my ulterior motive is to connect with the existing Networked Disability Community, so when my book is finally finished, I'll have a wider audience (I hope) to announce it to.

2) Speaking of which --

a) It's more done than not done, but the time spent on each facet seems to work on a reversed logarithmic scale: the later, smaller steps take increasingly more time than the earlier big steps.

b) I made the decision (not yet firm) to get rid of my first chapter -- the vaguely chronological autobiographical one -- and reshuffle its poems into other chapters; I'm moving Ghost story: 1966, for example, to the chapter "Expert Opinions."

c) Meanwhile, I keep getting hit with more unfortunate inspiration. The February 24 episode of NOVA ("Rise of the Robots") was all about the latest DARPA challenge to invent a robot that could be used in search and rescue. And, regarding the question: "If walking on two legs and opening doors ends up being what causes all these robots' downfalls, why keep trying to make them look like humans?" a DARPA official answered (something to the effect of): "Well, these robots will being going into buildings built by and for humans, so the robot will have to do human things like climb stairs and turn doorknobs." ... No mention (or thought) of humans who can't climb stairs or turn doorknobs, and so get left behind to die in the stairwells, waiting for rescuers to come get them.

That will be another poem in the "Expert Opinion" chapter.

The printed transcript won't be online for another two weeks or so (probably -- info on the official Nova says the transcript is "typically" available online three weeks after an episode airs). When it is available, I'll make another, more detailed post about it, with a link that folks who can't watch the PBS episode can go to instead.


3) I think my next YouTube video (that I upload) will be of this poem, however.

4) 5 Brilliant Scientific Accidents -- A YouTube video from NPR

5) I may be slow in noticing important details, but I saw "my" first robin of the season, today, while eating lunch.

{ETA -- lost footnote: *That's what this place is for.}
capriuni: Text: If you want to be a Hero, be Good to the Storyteller. (Default)
Here is her description of how that works (Excerpted):

(Quote)
Today's theme is "building a future." I will be checking this page periodically throughout the day. When people make suggestions, I'll pick some and weave them together into a poem ... and then another ... and so on. I'm hoping to get a lot of ideas and a lot of poems.

(unquote)

Read the full details (and other people's prompts), here: http://ysabetwordsmith.dreamwidth.org/10493425.html
capriuni: A a cartoon furry monster whistling a single note; text; One-Note Nellie (1-note Nellie.)
So, I;m currently writing (or trying to write) a poem on how certain words (like the 'R*-word' and the 'sp-word') get picked up and used in the culture as triggers for violence.

... And so far, on average, it's taking me three days to write each eight-line stanza.

One part of that is because I'm trying to write about the process without actually mentioning specific weaponized words (I want to save that for the prose commentary). And that takes a lot of cognitive work.

Mostly, though, it's because I'm trying to write satirically in the style of a survivalist handbook on "how to make your own weapon," while justifying why those dirty freaks deserve what they get.

...And that just makes me feel disgusted/disgusting.

*shudder*

On the other hand, the fact that this poem is so hard to write is a signal of just how important it is to write. ... And the more I procrastinate, the longer I'll be living inside it.

*ick!*
capriuni: Text: If you want to be a Hero, be Good to the Storyteller. (Default)
My new headset/microphone arrived Friday. I plugged them in on Saturday. And guess what? The microphone actually works, so I can record my voice again (which I haven't been able to do for over a year), which means I can get back to making videos of my poems, and maybe some other stuff, too....

This means also desensitizing my cringe reaction to the sound of my own voice, which will be awkward...

The downside is that, in the meantime, Windows Movie Maker has 'updated', and a lot of my favorite features for animating text and transitioning between still images are no longer available [/sarcastic yay], so I'll have to come up with other means of blending word/audio and visual elements into something that expresses what I mean.
capriuni: Text: "an honorable retreat ... not with bag and baggage, yet scrip and scrippage. (Scrippage)
Today is Emily Dickinson's birthday. It's also the birthday of Melvil Dewey, who invented that book-cataloging system that American schools and public libraries use (My 'Merkin ignorance is showing, and I'm not sure about its use in other countries).

A search of The Internets has told me that 811.xxx is "American poetry in the English Language". Anyway, here's a poem by the late, great Dickinson that seems appropriate for the subject:

Forever – is composed of Nows –
‘Tis not a different time –
Except for Infiniteness –
And Latitude of Home –

From this – experienced Here –
Remove the Dates – to These –
Let Months dissolve in further Months –
And Years – exhale in Years –

Without Debate – or Pause –
Or Celebrated Days –
No different Our Years would be
From Anno Dominies –
capriuni: multicolored text on black: "Quips and sentences and paper bullets of the brain" (paper bullets)
Still working on that poetry collection* I drafted during July's Camp NaNoWriMo... And a good quarter of them, so far, are etymological-- often snagged directly from dictionary pages, rearranged for the purposes of scansion.

Right now, I'm writing a longish poem on the word "Cripple," and trying to explain why I love the word, even though it is most often used in hateful contexts. And this simile / analogy popped into my head: Etymology is to cultural beliefs what fossils are to biology. People choose words to convey their thoughts, and the meanings of those words change gradually over time as people's attitudes change. So by tracing the meaning of a word, through its different language roots, you can find evidence of what people were experiencing a thousand years ago, even if they weren't writing them down explicitly, in a "Dear Diary" format. Just like the fossils of tiktaalik tell us about how we are related to ancient, bony, fishes, words themselves can provide evidence of the people whose lives and experiences are otherwise not recorded at all


*or "short essays that just happen to be in iambic pentameter"?
capriuni: Text: "an honorable retreat ... not with bag and baggage, yet scrip and scrippage. (Scrippage)
(From my Camp NaNoWriMo project):

THE QUESTION:

I navigate the steepness of the path
As gravel slides beneath my rolling wheels,
To join the stranger standing on the bank,
And share, in silence, the beauty of this place.
The curve of Highlands across the river's breadth,
The murmur of the water against stone,
The golden blush of light that fills the sky,
All this helps me forget the ticking clock.
Read more... )
capriuni: Text: "an honorable retreat ... not with bag and baggage, yet scrip and scrippage. (Scrippage)


My project is nowhere near "done," but now, I have a mess of words that's worth editing, I think....

I'll post specific, favorite pieces, soon
capriuni: multicolored text on black: "Quips and sentences and paper bullets of the brain" (paper bullets)
I just finished this one, and it amuses me. I thought it might amuse you, as well.

AN ANSWER TO A FAQ:

It's weird, but I suppose it might be kind,
When strangers ask me this, out of the blue--
Acknowledgment I have an inner mind,
(When all they see is what I cannot do).
I know the answer that they hope to hear
(Their desperate longing leaks between the seams)
Although the truth is something else, I fear:
“Not really, no. I never walk in dreams.”
I leave it there, instead of going on:
“Except, of course, when nightmares trouble me.”
Within my mind, twixt midnight and the dawn,
“Walking” means “coerced conformity.”
In really happy dreams, I belly-crawl--
True to myself, my body, brain, and all.
capriuni: Text: "an honorable retreat ... not with bag and baggage, yet scrip and scrippage. (Scrippage)
1. I remembered, in replying to [personal profile] raze, yesterday, that I eventually learned react before the scary music cue, and thought that it might be good to make that clear.

2. Much of the language in this poem is self-reflective, adult, and jargony. So I tried to make the two lines where I'm "hiding," at least, sound more like the voice of the two-year old me (cue Eleven's regeneration speech).

3. Question -- Considering the above: Back then, my actual name for the show was "Scare Trek." Should I call it that, in the poem?

A SPASTIC CHILD WATCHES THE T.V.

I learned to tell a story at age two
(At least, the craft of pacing and suspense).
Propped up between my parents on the couch,
With season one of “Star Trek” on the screen,
I could not hide, but quickly learned:
Anticipate the music's minor shift,
Then plug my ears and close my eyes and hum
Until the things that scared me went away.
I never feared the aliens as much
As all the angry shouts and lasers' whine
That always happened – every episode –
As soon as any “monster” came on-screen.

Could I have understood, as young as that:
My difference, too, was something that they feared?
capriuni: Text: If you want to be a Hero, be Good to the Storyteller. (Default)
Here's my current draft. I've put particular words and phrases I'm waffling about changing inside parentheses:

I learned to tell a story at age two.
At least, I learned the pacing of suspense
(Propped up between my parents on the couch
With season one of “Star Trek” on T.V.).
Unable, as I was, to run away,
I'd listen for the music's minor shift,
Stick fingers in my ears and close my eyes,
And wait until the scary moment passed.
I never feared the aliens as much
As all the angry shouts and lasers' flash (whine) (screech)
That always happened – every episode –
As soon as any “monster” came on-screen.
Could it be I understood (have been I knew), that young (back then):
My difference, too, was something that they feared? (not allowed?)
capriuni: Text: "an honorable retreat ... not with bag and baggage, yet scrip and scrippage. (Scrippage)
A CRIPPLED CHILD WATCHES THE T.V.
(or: “Why I am a fan of 'Doctor Who'”)

I learned to tell a story at age two
(Propped up between my parents on the couch
With season one of “Star Trek” on the screen) …
At least, I learned the pacing of suspense.
Unable, as I was, to run away,
I'd listen for the changing music. Then
I'd plug my ears, and close my eyes up tight
And wait until the scary moment passed.
I never feared the slime, or scales, or claws;
It was the lasers' flash and angry shouts
That always happened – every episode –
As soon as any “creature” came on-screen.
Did I understand, as young as that,
That I was, too, a monster in their eyes?
My diff'rence, too, was something that they feared?

[ETA: That's the third edit of that final line within the last 20 minutes]
capriuni: multicolored text on black: "Quips and sentences and paper bullets of the brain" (paper bullets)
Last night, with an ear-craving, I combed through YouTube for readings of Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 ("My Mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun"). And I came away quite disappointed.

The most common reading that had been uploaded was one by actor Alan Rickman, and for the occasion, he'd put on his "Listen-to-Me-I'm-Reading-Shakespearean-Love-Poetry" voice -- slow as a dirge, and fairly dripping with seductive intent -- completely missing the point that Shakespeare was mocking those romantic conceits to shreds.

*sigh*

I just needed to vent.
capriuni: multicolored text on black: "Quips and sentences and paper bullets of the brain" (paper bullets)
I've observed that dreams, which seem, upon waking, that they would make fantastic stories, rarely, if ever, do.

After two days of trying, I've come to a similar conclusion regarding poems...

*sigh.*

I think the metaphors in dreams are just so personal to the dreamer that trying to convey their impact to someone else just makes them collapse under their own weight.
capriuni: multicolored text on black: "Quips and sentences and paper bullets of the brain" (paper bullets)
To celebrate, I will publicize one of your saddest sonnets.

Ironic? Perhaps, but I love your wordplay, here. And I also love your closing thought: that despite the cruelty of abused privilege, power and corruption, there is one thing that makes life worth trudging through -- and that's love shared between two people.

Sonnet 66:
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
capriuni: Text: If you want to be a Hero, be Good to the Storyteller. (Default)
The sound quality isn't that great; the gasps and comments from the audience nearly drown out the performer... And for some reason, the closed captioning isn't working for me (I see the text box background, but not the words ... Is it working for you?).* But it's still powerful.

Here's the comment I left on the video, when I rewatched it, a couple hours ago:

Perhaps the most disturbing thing about this is the gasps of astonishment from the audience, representing all the history we are never taught, because the points of view are from those we consider "unimportant" (the disabled, those of a linguistic minority, women... all of the above...)



[ETA: Okay -- Now, it's working. I wonder why it wasn't working on the YouTube page...]
capriuni: multicolored text on black: "Quips and sentences and paper bullets of the brain" (paper bullets)
Two years and one month ago, I wrote the following in this space:

I was going to go on, and write further about geekery and disability. But this has taken up too much space-time already.


... and promptly forgot to post a follow-up. I only found it again because I was trying to remember what I'd said about hipsters vs. geeks. I've been puzzling till my puzzler is sore, trying to remember what I'd thought 25 months ago.

When I've had a thought and lost it, or a thought that's gone fuzzy, usually the best way to find it again is through poetry, rather than prose...

It's been a while since I've written a poem for a poem's sake...

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