critique_write

Is this community still alive?  I have a poem.  My teacher said that I need to work on the line construction because it doesn't always feel like the beats are in the right place.  Can someone tell me what he's talking about?


Brown
Filled with fascinating little items and situations of life and light
There's always someone to talk to even if pain sometimes gets in the way
There's always something to remind you that you exist oh please don't ever take it for granted
This strange environment reminds me abstractly of freedom and growth and though it might become ugly at least it fills up all of the space
Every disgusting thing leads to argument and you don't realize that argument and anger are rare in some places
And beautiful without being realized
So tightly woven and alive and stunning
Though, neglect plagues and shows its face more and more often and I believe it truly means tragedy
But don't forget how alive you are and if fortune exists you have plenty
Take being alive it means vision even if it sometimes always often appears disgusting
This very hallway this very greeting so full of being, of nonsense, of feeling
This scene reminds me of family
Please don't ever forget that thoughts of fury and anguish and confusion and duty and fun and the million other sentiments that run small or         swell within situations of light make you who you are
Make you stand upright instead of walking invisibly through invisible situations and that is beautiful that is life
So even if your emotions sometimes dwell in harrowing spots of the spectrum,
Please remember that.

Hi, this is the rough draft of my college admissions essay for Naropa University. It's a Buddhist school in Colorado. The rules for this essay are pretty loose, so it's not going to be judged as it would traditionally be judged. To help you better evaluate this, I should tell you that the school is very big on authenticity, integrity, honesty, sincerity, passion for learning, and the search for wisdom. Without further ado, this is my essay, entitled, "Me, So Far":


More than anything, I just want to avoid being like my mother. When in my early teens, my mother was constantly going off her head trying to scare my drug-addicted sister into submission. It started with Jenny smoking weed and my mother grounding her, and it went on to snowball into an outrageously unnecessary beast called heroin addiction and hugely traumatizing gigantic scream-fests every day. Imagine being trapped in a room for several years and listening to screaming arguments, scary, loud, shrill arguments, every single day. That is basically what I was up against.
I watched it all go down from the background. My sister would get into some kind of trouble (ditching class, flunking, being caught with drugs, running away from home, stealing, etc.) and my mother would scream at her. My sister was the type who would always puff out her feathers and stick out her chest at any sign of a threat, so my mother’s attacks never went unchallenged. The result was always a thunderous screaming match that could only end in so many ways: my parents calling the police, my sister throwing and breaking something, my dad storming out of the front door and leaving, my mom sobbing on the living room couch, my sister running away from home, etc.
I would watch this all silently but furiously. Time after time, I watched confrontations escalate, I watched my sister being screamed at, and I watched my mother being screamed at in return. I was about eleven or twelve (six years younger than Jenny) when this all started. I could sense almost immediately that what was going on was completely unhealthy, while nobody else would ever stop to think about it. What terrified me most was knowing that I was under the guidance and control of two adults with such dangerous neuroses. I saw the way that neither parent would ever stop to reflect that perhaps something was going on that they did not understand, that perhaps their parenting methods weren’t as perfect as they believed, and perhaps their emotions weren’t always the one thing that should fuel their actions.
During this time, I quickly became extremely depressed. I could sense nothing anymore. My strands of thought could only travel so far until they were broken off and abandoned. Right at the part where I thought I might just have an answer, my thought and even my memory of the thought would evaporate. Then I was left trying to explain to myself the truth about whatever was going on, trying to get a handle on a mental situation that was bigger than me, even though it was me.
I came to separate myself emotionally from my parents. Today, the emotional separation still remains. As far as the depression, I’m working on it. Actually, I’ve been working on it for several years with the help of deep thinking, journal-writing, a variety of psychology-focused reading materials, my personal discovery of Buddhism, one or two remarkable friends, and two separate therapists. I do not hesitate to say that I am extremely proud of my resilience and the progress I have made so far.
I have experienced more pain, agony, misery, suffering, and grief than many people will in their lifetimes. At the same time, though, my expansion into such extreme negative emotional depths has awakened me to the largeness of being alive and the potential for experiencing all of the beautiful, tender, savage, frantic, and tragic joys of life. I’m ready for whatever the world throws at me.
More than anything else, I’ve learned to be, basically, the exact opposite of my mother. I’ve examined all of the beautiful nooks and crannies, subtleties, and intricacies of the terrible and wonderful things I have seen. I have learned to be acutely sensitive of other people’s feelings - specifically, I have a delicate radar for other people’s pain. I have also taught myself to be patient and gentle with others, including (or especially) those who hurt or frighten me, or who I do not understand. There is so much pain in my past, but there is so much joy in the future. I truly look forward to leaving home, growing, evolving, and learning how to use my insight and passion to help those who suffer and to live happily and healthily for the rest of my days.

seawalls will stand straight &
roads will lead you home,
wherever you find her.

my palms, maps drawn in dust,
they lead to where i am from,
across the ocean & deep inside
peninsulas, where the dead rise against the ground.

you sleep straight on your back, folding galaxies into
your fists , for keeping, & now, that i am traveling open highways

those fists open, letting go of the body next to you.

If your mind sleeps, twisted & pure, then mine sleeps inside of you,
when your heart burns, lonley & deserted, then mine burns for you.

every day
is one day that i begin
to leave you.

charlie parts i and ii [in no order at the moment]

i

Charlie Tilden wakes and struggles to shake off his cold sweat as if he could. He scratches around the bed for a clean shirt but eventually puts a molding one on after picking it off the floor. He doesn’t eat breakfast. Charlie takes the blue suit to the ironing board and irons out all of the little mountains that formed on the surface the day before. A foul smell of something burning fills the room but he isn’t cooking anything.
He finds both painfully icy air and the rental car he has had for months outside of his apartment. He unlocks the door and that plastic smell comes out to be conquered by the deadly cold mist from all sides. The car never warms up as Charlie drives down to Third Avenue to find himself something warm as he always does before his first client denies him the privilege of a paycheck. He likes to consider them clients rather than customers because he never sells a speck of insurance to these people. It’s been so long; he hasn’t a clue what his quota is. He can’t remember being paid a good enough amount to live off of and not have to sell anything that might be of value around that crummy little apartment his off of Sixth. It’s this town, he thinks to himself as he pulls up to the crumbling little cardboard-box of a place called Edna’s. This town is as empty as a grave robber’s heart, Charlie ceremoniously observes
Edna’s Coffee is run by a brittle old tart and squats on the corner of Third and Garden, right next to the morgue. It is amazing that she is still in business and when Charlie is in his better mood he likes to think that he is the reason. He is the only person he has ever seen in here and he has been coming for over twenty years.
Edna’s place is dark but of course it’s open and when he pries the door loose from it’s frame, that familiar stench of burnt-rubber comes out at him. The place is warm and quiet and the old woman isn’t so bad since she went blind except that she never changes the coffee filter. On the counter are apples and oranges. The bananas are too old to be bananas anymore. There are sugar packets that have been there for decades. Other than a few vacant shelves and a couple of stools up against the bar which is so greasy that it is best not to put down your drink because it will stick; there isn’t anything but dust. Edna behind the counter knows the routine and begins another pot of coffee, which is going to taste just like gravel, but Charlie doesn’t mind so much.
He sits down in a pool of something wet but doesn’t notice at first. Instead Charlie sees a brittle little girl, maybe even a woman, with her hair over most of her face, sitting on another stool in the corner reading a book. Since twenty years of coming here, Charlie thinks she is the most interesting thing to be found inside of the compound.
Edna eventually brings him his dreadful cup of coffee and sets it down in front of him just for him to immediately pick it up before it sinks into the counter and sticks too bad. He puts as many sugar packets worth of dead sugar into the little chipped ceramic mug as he can find and hardly takes his eyes off of the girl. She turns her pages every five minutes and he studies her as she does just that. He watches her turn her pages five times before he is sure that he is late enough for work. He hasn’t even touched his coffee, if you can call it that.


ii

The sky is dead with winter.
Charlie sits across from the day’s last job, another house, inside of the silence of an empty rental car. He has is eyes on the front-door but he knows that is not what he is really waiting for right now. That is the next step, habit assures him. He knows the procedure, as he has for years: Wait until the eligible is comfortable then proceed with the proposition. As many times as has done this, he still gets as nervous as he was the first day on the job crammed into the same old blue suit he has worn everyday since. For some reason it smells like an old sockful of loose change and each day he washes it because this suit is his only one.
Knock-knock and then the hesitation; whoever is inside is probably putting down what they have in their hands or turning down the volume on their TV set for a second, holding their breath thinking who could it be? Eventually the locks are clicked dormant and the door swings open to reveal the same sort of person, every time. The file in the passenger seat of the rental car across the street says that this time it is Linda Boyer and she is ninety-seven years old.
“Use the same tone of voice every time, loud but not intimidating. In grade school, this would be considered an outside-voice,” Charlie remembers his preparation for the job.
He would have never dreamt of doing something like this with his life, back when he was just a little shit throwing rocks at the windows of passing cars, years ago. He dreamt of being a racecar driver maybe, or a movie star who shoots the crooks and gets to have the President of the United States give him a pat on the back like his father never did.
As crisp and as smooth as he can, he really starts his day the way that disgusts him most; with a retired widow. “Hello Ms. Boyer, my name is Charlie Tilden and I am with Osterberg Insurance. Are you covered?”
“Oh no… I am sorry Charlie… but I am afraid that I am not interested… but thank you... have a nice day… goodbye now…” And another door closes slowly with a dash of sympathy maybe but at once in Charlie’s mind is the image of just another file put on the trashy desk of some poor kid who has to try by phone instead; someday, when he gets to it. The door closes as it does everyday and it haunts him until he finally gets to sleep late in the night [and early in the day]. Who knows what happens in his dreams; he can’t remember.

i don't know about the seasons or the rhythm of your feet or where you are going or if the rain has soaked on through your clothes and has touched your pale blue skin
i don't know how to whistle, or to talk to the sisters who live upstairs and are always angry
i don't know where you are or if you are thinking of me or if you have a new boy and if he is nice or like those sisters who live above me
i don't know your name or how to spell it or if you would ever want me to and if i did, what would you do if i said it to you?
i don't know if you miss me or if you are lying and if you aren't, what do you want to do with all of the time left to us to slaughter our regrets and laugh

All comments, thoughts, suggestions &criticisms will be greatly appreciated.

( hereCollapse )

the lines on the faces are harder than mine,
you've been drunk for days & stumble.
realize, i am the kind of woman who would take
great care of you, love you invertedly &
cover the marks on my neck.
i already realize you are the kind of man
whose kisses & sweat taste like whiskey,
& who comes home fron job to job
to see the progress of humanity.



you've rolled over to me, each time with a different countenace,
all resulting in one.
for years & years , saying,
i've got to go,
see you soon.

this is a second draft of soemthing i just threw together. serious critique is reguired.

LEAVING THE TUNNEL, THERE IS A NEW LIGHT IN HER FACE. THERE IS A BLUE IN THE ATMOSPHERE OF THIS DYING DAY BUT IN THIS WEATHER, EVERYDAY IS AN ALMOST DEAD ONE. SEEING HER WALK AHEAD WITH ME AND UP OVER ONTO THE SIDEWALK THAT WE CAN ONLY NOW SEE BRINGS A HEAVY ADORATION. WHEN SHE TURNS THE BLUE COMES THROUGH IN THE CURVE AND THERE IS NOT A SINGLE VEIN IN MY BODY WISHING AGAINST IT. THERE WAS A TIME I WOULD LAUGH OUT LOUD AT THE FIERCE UNREALITY OF IT ALL BUT NOW IS NOT THAT TIME. CROSSING OUR PATH, AS WE STAND MINDFUL ON THE CORNER OF JUST ANOTHER STREET, POLICE AND FIRE TRUCKS ROAR BY LIKE A FIRE OF THEIR OWN TOWARDS THE SOUTH END OF THIS TOWN. NINETEEN VEHICLES IN ALL, EACH ONE CONTRIBUTING TO THE HARD CACOPHONY OF SIRENS AND A ROARING TERROR OF ENGINES IN THE STREET. FROM THE SHOPS AND THE PLACES ALL AROUND US, FOLK COME OUT TO WITNESS WHAT IS GOING ON FROM THEIR OWN PLOT ON THE SIDEWALK. I CAN LOOK AROUND AT ALL OF THEM AS I CARRY MY EYES LEFT ONLY TO LOOK AGAIN AT HER AND YES, SHE IS STILL THERE AFTER ALL. THERE IS NO LOOK OF HORROR OR EVEN INTEREST, ONLY A SIMPLE PASSIVE FASCINATION MUDDLED BESIDE ME. HE GLANCE TRAILS THE WAKE OF ALL OF THE NOISE ONCE IT PASSES ON AND DOWN OUT OF SIGHT. I CANNOT HELP BUT FEEL THAT SHE IS THINKING OF ALL THAT SHE HAS LEFT BEHIND FOR THIS. ALL THAT COULD HAVE BEEN. ANY REGRETS IN THERE, IN THAT HEAD OF HERS. BUT IT IS HARD TO CARRY THOSE THOUGHTS ON VERY FAR BECAUSE THIS HAS BEEN GOING ON FOR DAYS AND STILL THERE HAS BEEN NO REAL WORD AGAINST IT. I FEAR THE WHEN. THIS DISCOVERY HAS STILL KEPT US INSIDE IT’S INTENT ON WONDER. I KNEW SOMEONE FROM A LIFETIME AGO WHO HAD SAID TO ME IN THE GRASS THAT THOSE OF US SO HEAVILY ENGULFED IN AWE AT WHAT WE MAY NOT FULLY UNDERSTAND CANNOT HELP WHATSOEVER THE HELPLESS FEELING OF IGNORANCE. THIS IGNORANCE WEIGHING ME DOWN NOW. THIS BRICK ON MY ANKLE. THIS LEAD IN MY POCKETS. THIS IGNORANCE WEIGHING ME DOWN RIGHT HERE AND NOW. SHE LOOKS BACK AT ME AND NODS TO THE OTHER END OF THE ROAD SO WE CROSS AS THE RAIN PICKS UP WHERE I FEEL IT HAD LEFT OFF ABOUT AN HOUR AGO AND IT BEGINS TO POUR DOWN ON US AGAIN FROM THE BLACKER HEAVENS. I KEEP MY EYES TO THE CONCRETE EXPECTING THE PAVEMENT TO MAKE STEAM OF THE RAIN AFTER SUCH A PARADE HAS PASSED JUST MOMENTS AGO BUT I LOSE INTEREST WITH THE OTHER SIDE APPROACHING OUR FEET. HER WALK HAS CHANGED A LITTLE SINCE WE BEGAN TO MOVE TODAY. THERE IS A BOUNCE IN HER STEP UNLIKE THAT OF A BALL. THE BOUNCE IS SMOOTH, NATURAL. LESS FOLK ARE IN THE STREETS AND THOSE LEFT SCURRY TO DOORS IN BRICK. WE ARE IN A MORE FOREIGN PLACE NOW TO ME THAN WHERE WE HAVE JUST COME THROUGH. “SOMETIMES,” SHE BEGINS AT THE BASE OF HER THOUGHT, “SOMETIMES I GET THE IDEA THAT YOU ARE NOT REAL WHATSOEVER, THAT YOU ARE FROM ANOTHER STAY OR A FABRICATION OF MINE ENTIRELY. YOU COULD BE ANOTHER TRICK.” I AM NOT TRICKING ANYONE. I AM NOT TRICKING YOU. IT HAS TO COME AS A DAILY THING, I SAY. IT HAS TO GROW, IT HAS TO SWELL INTO SUBSTANCE. IT MIGHT HAVE TO COME WITH THE MORNING AND END WITH THE DAY ITSELF IF WE CANNOT HANDLE WHAT IT SHOULD BE. WHAT WE WOULD HAVE ALWAYS WANTED IT TO BE. IF IT CANNOT LAST FOREVER, WE HAVE TO REMEMBER THAT WHILE IT DOES, IT IS NOT OURS TO LOSE AND LET DRIP INTO THE DRAIN. “I CANNOT UNDERSTAND YOU ANYWAY, BUT THIS FEELS FINE, THIS FEELS ALRIGHT.” IT IS FOREIGN TOO, BUT IT ISN’T GONE. I BREATHE. SHE BEGINS TO TREMBLE AND HER WORDS SHIVER WITH HER, “LET’S CROSS RIGHT HERE.” AND WE CROSS THE BLACK TAR TO THE OTHER SIDE. I LOOK ONE WAY, SHE THE OTHER. HER ARMS CROSS AND WRAP AROUND HER SHAKING SELF. I WONDER HOW LONG WE HAVE BEEN WALKING. AS IT DARKENS, I CAN IMAGINE US CLOSING OUR EYES WHERE WE ARE AND DRIFTING OFF IN HABIT. WITH A BRIDGE AHEAD A MAN COMES OUT FROM BEHIND A VAN ON THE STREET. HE HAS NOT BEEN IN THE RAIN FOR VERY LONG. THE BACK OF HIM IS ONLY BEGINNING TO SHOW SPOTS OF THE DAMP. “I DON’T NEED NO FUCKING DRUGS MAN. I DON’T NEED THAT AT ALL MAN. I AM HERE FOR SOMETHING REAL NOW MAN. SOMETHING REAL MAN. I DON’T NEED NO FUCKING CHURCHES NEITHER MAN.” I LOVE THE WAY YOU FEEL, I SAY AS CLEAR AS I CAN WITH HER GLOWING BRIGHT BESIDE ME. THE MAN SLITHERS UP TO ME AS THE THUNDER CLASHES ABOVE US ALL SO HIGH ABOVE. HE PUTS A HAND UPON MY SHOULDER AND HE NODS IN APPRECIATION. HIS BRAVE EYES ARE CRACKED AND HIS THICK SMILE BROKEN. HE WALKS ON AWAY AND WE WATCH HIM GO. WE BEGIN AGAIN IN THE FORWARD PERSUASION UNTIL WE PASS UNDER THE BRIDGE. HERE THERE ECHOES AND ART COMING FROM THE WALLS. WE CALL OUT INTO THE STONE WITH DELICATE PRAYERS OF OUR OWN AND FOR A MOMENT I BELIEVE I CAN SEE THE LIKENESS OF HER IN THIS ENTIRE MURAL OF CONFUSION. ALL OF THESE TWISTED WORDS AND METAPHOR MASK HER INSIDE. A PART OF HER. A PART OF ME. WE COME OUT FROM UNDER THE METAL AND STONE AND CLIMB INTO A VACANT LOT OF WEEDS AND BROKEN GLASS. THE LAST OF THE DAY’S SUN LOOKS AT US BRIEFLY FROM A CRACK IN THE DEEP GREY. WE WATCH THE LAST OF ITS LIFE UNTIL A TRAIN WITH SUGAR INSIDE BEGINS TO PASS BY. I CANNOT THINK OF EVER FROWNING AGAIN IN MY LIFE. I LOOK TO HER AGAIN AND I AM POSITIVE SHE CAN FEEL MY EYES ON HER. SHE COULD TURN TO ME AND LOOK INTO ME WITH HER BIG DARK EYES BUT SHE WONT.

( suggestionsCollapse )


I decided to make some suggestions for you at the beginning of this story; but am too tired to go through the rest of it. Overall, I really think it has great potential. It is, however, unfinished. There are too many questions left unanswered. For example why of all things, is he imagining a recreation room in his mind?

Don't take my criticism for any more than it's worth to you. You are clearly talented &this is the best creative piece I've seen in this community thus far. I hope you keep posting &if you decide to work on this some more, please share.

Recently wrote this short piece entitled 'Wake Up' and was wondering if I could get some opinions (angry, sad, positive or otherwise) on it.  Thanks.


( The storyCollapse )