Showing posts with label Frolic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Frolic. Show all posts
Wondered about getting a tattoo about your favorite literary work? Cam and Alexandria offer their takes on it. 

Cam: 


 As an almost English teacher with an appreciation for tattoos, I’ve thought of how badass I would be if I had full-arm sleeves of literary references. While there’s the concern of deterring a future employee with tattoos, raising questions of professionalism, I can’t help but get giddy over the idea of teaching a book to my future students and showing them a tattoo in reference to that book.

Of course, for now, I’m a coward over body modification and commitment. I would have to be dead in love with a work of literature and a design for the tattoo before I considered maybe getting it. But there’s at least one tattoo idea that I’ve toyed with for four years that I hope to get someday. It references my favorite poem: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot. It’s the poem that made me realize I was a poet.

A long-term substitute teacher for my senior AP English class introduced me to the poem during our Hamlet unit, reading it aloud with passion and character. I started working on memorizing the poem –I carried around a copy of it everywhere I went. My sophomore year of college, I started to think about getting some sort of tattoo to commemorate my love for the poem. I had to analyze it for a History of American Literature class, and the image hit me: a pocketwatch with a swatch of the universe replacing the face, with the minute and hour hands flying off the hinges, with the line “Do I dare / Disturb the Universe?” arching around the time piece.
To me, this poem became a carpe diem mantra. Sure, there’s the whole “I want to carpe diem for a girl but I’m too socially awkward to profess my love” undertone to it, and sometimes a lover can be someone’s universe… but the main take-away for me is that Prufrock wants to make something of himself but doesn’t know how. It would be a reminder for me to be extraordinary, to be as grand and explosive as the universe. 


Alexandria:


Like Cam, I too was worried about professionalism when contemplating my first tattoo. Plus, I was a total chicken and nervous about walking into a tattoo shop and acting like a dweeb. Which I did, by the way. My best friend took me into a tattoo shop and I was so awkward and weird. But you know what? I went back and went through with it. I am a dweeb, but I'll be damned if that holds me back.

I've wanted this tattoo for at least six years. Ever since I read Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. The full line from the novel is: "I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am." 

 For me, "I am, I am, I am" is an affirmation of my identity as a writer. I look at this tattoo to remind myself of who I am and what my purpose is. 

 When I was looking around for fonts, I found this quote tattooed upon someone's wrist in Sylvia Plath's handwriting and that just smacked me over the head with how right it was. So I went and found her handwriting and delivered it to my tattoo artist. He was able to work his magic and turn it into this tattoo. 

 Okay, and so this did hurt ever so slightly but it was over super fast and sort of just felt like getting stung by a bee slowly. In case you were wondering about the pain and all. 

 And also, yes, I am already plotting my second tattoo. The addiction is not a lie. I will probably end up being the tattooed professor Cam talked about. Just wait. 


Thinking about getting your own literary tattoo? Have one you're super proud of? Share your experience with us in the comments or send an email our way!



By the time you get to the end of the line, you have the whole train car to yourself. You’ve done it. You’ve stuck with this train until the bitter end. The end of the line has its secrets, its gifts; it has little rewards that it gives to people that stick with it all the way. 

And now, tales of 7 journeys to the end of the line: 


242nd Street/Van Cortlandt Park, The Bronx: End of the 1 line

Underneath the elevated track of the number 1 train sits a little diner called Shortstop’s. I haven’t eaten anything all day. Slept through breakfast. Worked through lunch. It’s too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the dinner crowd. The waitress leans on the counter and cranes his neck to see the television. The Mets are up by two runs. I can’t recall who they were playing. The cook has a Greek accent and is missing at least two teeth. My burger cooking, and a woman in a shining blue dress, her head adorned with huge sunglasses and a gigantic blonde weave, steps into the diner. In a barely audible voice, she asks to use the washroom.
“Sorry, miss, the restroom is for customers only,” the waitress says. 
The woman buys a banana so as to qualify as a customer. My burger is half-eaten before the woman emerges from the washroom. She scurries out the diner door.
“I should probably check the bathroom,” the waitress says to the cook, “Make sure she didn’t make a mess in there.”

148th Street/Harlem, Manhattan: End of the 3 line (source)

I’m on the wrong train, it occurs to me. But I decide to see how this plays out. I figure I can get off the number 3 train on 145th street and walk home easily. But the train doors don’t open at 145th street. A confused-looking man says something to me but I don’t hear him. I bury my headphones deeper into my ears. I don’t care if we’re in the same boat – we’re not friends.
It’s cold on 148th street. It’s midnight and the streets are deserted. I feel a pang of fear and I accelerate my pace. In the park, I find the broken handle of a rake. With this weapon I can defend myself from feral dogs. From crackheads. From hypothermia. From fear.
I walk back to 148th street in the morning just to revisit what I had felt. In the daylight, I am surprised that I was afraid of anything at all.

207th Street/Inwood, Manhattan: End of the A line


There’s a lamppost planted in the ground in the midst of the forest. It’s antique, rusted, and the globe is shattered, wires protruding. Once, the city cared about lighting this park. Once municipal workers would have replaced light bulbs and cleared brush off of paths. It’s better now though. It’s the one spot in the city where the wilderness has reclaimed a spot. It’s an enclave of real vegetation, so unlike the manicured lawns of central park.
A group of kids emerge from the foliage. They brush themselves off and avoid my gaze. Their eyes are bloodshot and a cloud of marijuana smoke follows them.

Flushing Main Street, Queens: End of the 7 line

Chinatown, as with so many neighborhoods in Manhattan, has become a tourist destination. And as gentrification changes the demographics of the city, immigrants no longer settle in the areas historically designated for them. New Yorkers in the know recognize that the real Chinatown moved to Flushing, Queens (and, as a side note, the real Little Italy is located on Arthur Avenue, the Bronx). 
In terms of train time, Flushing is an hour away from midtown Manhattan; in cultural terms, it’s a continent away. Restaurants serve dishes with no English names. A vast mall seems only to sell odors and aromas. The streets buzz with people speaking Korean, Tagalog, and at least three distinct dialects of Chinese. 
I could live here.

Maokong, Taipei: End of the Brown Line

I can’t visit Flushing without thinking of you. Do you remember when we took the brown line all the way to the end and rode a gondola even further? It was so long ago that the details of how I felt escape me. But I still remember what we ate. We ate fried flatbread with egg and hot sauce. We ate taro and pineapple ice cream, dusted with peanut powder and adorned with cilantro, wrapped in spring roll skin. We may have eaten stinky tofu, though now I realize that my memory doesn’t keep good track of that either.
I remember that we didn’t drink tea though. Maokong is famous for its tea and for every tea house we passed one of us would say, “Would you like some tea?” and the other one of us would shake their head. I suppose we just wanted to keep walking. I suppose we didn’t want to sit. So we walked up the mountains and into the woods where is was quiet and where spiders spread their webs through the canopy – golden-abdomened orb weavers, their legs held together like the four corners of a mysterious rectangle, two and two, two and two.

Tamshui, Taipei: End of the Red Line

I went to Tamshui alone, though I wanted to go with you. This was before the city of Taipei finished construction on the green line, so you could pick up the red line in our neighborhood and relax. North of the city, it followed the river past rice paddies and temples to the northernmost point on the island. 
If this were the US, the wharfs would be crowded. Here, people seem to prefer the mountains, especially in the heat. I can feel my skin dry out and begin to burn. One brave man fishes off the end of the wharf, just as fishermen have done for centuries, braving the heat and the cold, the sun and the rain, fair weather and storms. 
Me, I buy a lemon jelly and walk back.

Linden, Chicago: End of the Purple Line (source)

Your mother said she could see my face light up when I saw the northern suburbs of Chicago. She said it was because the Midwest was a much kinder sight to me than the towers of New York. The Midwest had nothing to do with it, I’m sorry to say. Eventually, I will grow nostalgic over the recursive landscape of the “flyover” states, I’m sure. But the only kind sight for me at the end of the line was you. 
Sweetheart, let us ride trains together until the bitter end.


Read more of Vernon's enchanting work on Floodmark.



Shelley knew what he was on about when he said "Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world." He's been saying the same thing writers have known since the first cave man started dreaming in symbols on the cave walls: writing changes the world. If not the whole world, then one world at a time. Suddenly, you have the words to describe every detail: who you are, what you look like, how you feel, and everything you're experiencing, right down to the pebble stuck in your sneaker that's been stabbing you in the heel all afternoon. Writing is an act of liberation. Set the words free, crack the world open wide, and see how everything changes.

This is what we believe in at Floodmark, what we're passionate about: helping the full power of the written word find its way into the hands of a creative community who cares. And you know what? Good things come when you follow your passion. It's not always easy, and passion demands you put in the hours, but somewhere along that road serendipity is waiting for you to unknowingly walk into its embrace. Hence, the beauty in this wild universe. 

So, when I was offered the opportunity to lead a creative writing workshop on identity at Q-Cafe for the LGBTQIAP+ community at Loyola University, I realized it was time to start practicing what I preach. From there, the SDMA department at Loyola was kind enough to invite me to present at their Q-Summit in April following my first presentation. Just like that Floodmark had a whole other avenue of getting our message out into the world -- to hopefully change it. Serendipity. 
And it doesn't stop there, folks. At  Q-Summit, it was my pleasure to make the acquaintance of Vanessa Sheridan, the director of Trans Relations and Community Engagement at the Center on Halsted in Chicago, an authoress of three books on gender identity and transgender issues in the workplace and beyond, and one of the most inspirational, warm, passionate people I have ever had the fortune to meet. The Center on Halsted is the third largest LGBTQ+ community center in the country, behind NYC and LA. Vanessa and I had kept up our correspondence since Q-Summit, and recently she offered to give Floodmark a tour of the Center. To say it was a lovely afternoon would be an understatement. We learned a ton about the incredible work the Center is doing in Chicago, a lot about the remarkable work Vanessa is doing, took a stroll in the sunshine, and shared some great conversation.

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I'll let Rukmini take it from here. She sums up our experience and  our takeaway as Editors at Floodmark perfectly:


I was especially excited to visit after seeing Phillip Dawkins' play, Charm, last year. Charm tells the story of an etiquette class run by Mama Darleena Andrews at a community center known as The Center. It's based on "Mama" Gloria Allen's real-life charm school at the Center on Halsted. I don't cry easily while reading books or watching theatre (movies are another story, I will often bawl while watching them), but I cried a lot while watching Charm. The reason I cried so much was because Charm told the story of a community--a fragile, often dysfunctional community, but a community nonetheless. And that's what stayed with me most about our visit to the Center. No longer fragile, certainly not dysfunctional, it provides a community for so many people--from the 70+ LGBTQ+ seniors who live in the apartment block we visited to everyone who uses the space and participates in the seemingly unlimited variety of programs it offers. Vanessa explained the architecture to us, saying that all the glass walls and windows serve not just to let in natural light, but as a symbol for a community that no longer has to hide in attics and behind closed doors. Just like the Center, we at Floodmark, and as citizens of the world, need to provide more spaces filled with light, openness and acceptance.


And that's precisely what we aim to do here at Floodmark: open the shades and let the light of inspiration stream through the windows. I hope our little creative community, growing larger with every post, can bask in the warmth with us.

And who knows what's next? Surely, you'll see more of us giving back to our community and finding ways our message can help make our corner of the world a little brighter, a little better.

As always, much, much more to come.

For more information about the Center on Halsted and the services it provides the community, you can visit their website. Our sincerest and most profound thanks to Dominique Petrassi and the Loyola SDMA Department, who gave us the inspiration and opportunity to find our way to make a difference in the LGBTQIP+ community, and to Vanessa Sheridan for her beautiful friendship, passionate soul, and commitment to making a difference for all in the LGBTQIAP+ community. 

&

Writer’s block? Follow these ten steps.



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1.  Analyze the lyrics of “Cotton Eyed Joe" for more profound meaning.


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2. Forget a walk through a bookstore. Take a stroll through a dollar store.


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3. Buy a bag of Dove chocolates and try to write snarky responses to the inspiring messages on the inside of each wrapper. 



For example, the follow up line to this tidbit of inspiration is obviously “become an arsonist.”

4. Find a patch of grass and roll in it until you’re tickled enough to write.

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5.  Read Dr. Seuss’s tongue-twister “Too Many Daves" . Read it aloud and increase speed each time until there are is nothing but sound in your mouth. 


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6. Dance aggressively, alone, in front of a bathroom mirror to Nirvana’s "Smells Like Teen Spirit" directly followed by, A$AP Rocky’s “F**kin Problems".


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7.  Break crayons in half. 


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8. Listen to Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball” in G major.









9. Google image search “Pez Dispensers.”


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10. Mix together cornstarch and water and food coloring. 


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The Robot, courtesy of Vernon


vs. 



Padraic.



Poetry has long been thought to be a strictly human domain, but the existence of AppliedPoetics.Org suggests otherwise. Created by George Mason University MFA student Doug Luman, AppliedPoetics.Org generates found poetry from a number of different algorithms. To use, simply input a text of any kind, pick an algorithm, and run. The simplest algorithms remove certain letters, while the most complicated are inscrutable to me.

Of course, this isn’t the same as letting a robot write poetry, but it’s the closest we can get with current technology. AppliedPoetics.Org requires a human to be on hand to operate it and revise the algorithm’s output. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but challenge Floodmark’s own Padraic Price to a game of “Can you write poetry better than a robot?”

The rules were simple. Padraic and AppliedPoetics.Org would both produce found poems using the same source text. I would pilot the algorithms and revise the output, and we would either watch man triumph over machine, or else witness the birth of a new robot literati. 

First, Padraic’s poem: 

“The transformation”

by Padraic Price

The quenching is necessary to suppress the normal.
reactions are often more complex.

lead baths. 
Uneven heating.
Overheating.
followed by a gradual drop 
due to breakdown of coherence.
due to an increased tendency to retain.

soaking time should be avoided.
Water is liable to cause distortion.
There is a serious danger of cracks at the roots of the teeth.

steel is exceedingly brittle.
steel becomes softer.
while the maximum effect is obtained.
This is known as toughening


Pretty good right? Just the sort of thing a puny human would write. Now witness the poetry of your new robot overlords.

“Hardening”

by Vernon Meidlinger-Chin using AppliedPoetics.Org

Quench crack if the alloy diffusion is so slow 
the corners and thick section at such a low temperature are forms. 
In chromium, for an example, pale straw corresponds to 300˚C, 
instead of 230˚C (Table 1).
Table 1).  Table 1). Table 1). Table 1). Table 1). 

Table 1. 2. 3. merge into ferrite masses and cementite, and to cause a particle. 
Where hardening. When cutting

Temperature and cementite masses and thick sections 
should be quenching is necessary, 
therefore depressed. 

Ok so at this point I should point out that AppliedPoetics.Org did not generate the poem as written. I input the text and ran the travesty algorithm with a 480 characters output and a granularity of 7, and the machine provided me with a single block that I then edited. I removed a few characters to bring the total number of characters down to 471, added line breaks, and switched the order of stanza 2 and 3 because I really liked the idea of ending a robot poem with the phrase, “therefore depressed.” Also, the robot really seemed to like “Table 1” and I’m not sure why or if there even was a reason.




Now it’s up to you, reader. Who wrote the poem better: a puny human or the pinnacle of poetry-writing technology? Will robots someday supplant humans both as the dominant species on this planet? And when they most certainly do so, will they use poetry?

Awhile ago, I took a trip to Amelia Island, Florida. It's taken me three months to share the inspiration I captured for you, Floodmarkers. But...better late than never? Yeah, we'll go with that.

That pale speck on the beach? That's me. 

My latest frolic was a welcome escape from the chilly rollercoaster that is March in Chicago. You can't really call March springtime in the Midwest -- it's more like this miserable, slushy, night-is-always-darkest-before-the-dawn time period between Winter and Spring. As you can imagine, being a pale speck on the beach was paradise. First order of business once we settled in? Eat an entire king crab. And at least half a pound of shrimp.


IT WAS VACATION, OKAY? DON'T JUDGE ME.
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It was also the first time I had ever had crab. Yes, I'm basically ruined now. But let me tell you, give me a little sand, a little surf, and a pile of seafood and I'm one happy clam. Naturally, after consuming said seafood, we took our food babies, wiggled into swimsuits, and returned to where it all began: the sea. 

Only, it was freezing. The sea was so chilly we sat on this giant, empty expanse of sand and watched the waves, the birds, and each other. Which was slightly romantic in the sense that suddenly, against all the sand and sunlight, I realized I hadn't looked at the amazing human I've chosen to spend a few years consistently bugging. I was busy looking at my phone, or typing out blog posts, or staring, I now realized, anywhere but directly at this person. In some ways, it's like staring at the sun. Your heart sort of feels like it's going to burst -- you're feeling all the feels. And that's probably pretty alarming to your significant other, but in that moment it was this goofy thing and I was elated and exhausted by it all, sitting on that enormous white beach, next to an ocean that was probably filled with ice cubes, watching the clouds move across the sun and cast different shadows on this person. 

Eventually we went inside. 

Quite the serendipitous find, if I do say so myself. 


Later on in the evening (after consuming even more seafood), I found myself engaged in a charming conversation with a local:


I know what you're thinking. Yes, this did take five minutes and an imaginary conversation to capture.
(Not ashamed.)


Real nice guy. I imagine he had a lot of interesting things to say about poetry. We spent the rest of the evening on the balcony of the condo we were staying in, drinking wine and staring off into the giant stretch of darkness that was the ocean. When the sun went down, it completely disappeared. But somehow, the waves were even louder. It was peaceful in the sense that listening to the waves like that is all-consuming: conversations dwindle off into the distance slowly, you come back to the present suddenly and realize you haven't said a word in five minutes. Something about basking in the presence of an ocean you can't see encourages the brain to strip and run with reckless abandon toward the shoreline, searching for the water it knows, but secretly doubts, exists. 

Even sleeping was like being afloat. 


So many ocean polaroids. Never the right ocean polaroid.  

I snapped a photo from the balcony on my polaroid every morning I was there. Naturally, the first one was my favorite. But enough of dreamy mornings -- it was time for adventure. I had a date with a tandem kayak, a civil war-era fort, and a swampy hiking trail. (What can I say? I'm a busy gal.)



If we look happy, it's because we finally got the hang of kayaking and weren't
 frantically splashing around trying to get out of the way of a boat any longer.

Predictably, kayaking was gorgeous. I wasn't expecting to love it was much as I did, though -- if you've ever been kayaking before, there's a really unique and lovely rhythm that comes with paddling. It was incredibly satisfying -- a lift, contact with the water and a smooth pull back, and repeat. There's such a balance to it. Also, we saw a dolphin family and I nearly fell out of the kayak I was so excited. 


Life. Long. Dream. 

We had this beautiful moment with our guide at the end of it all. Throughout the excursion, we had been chatting about a big life choice that was looming ahead for both of us, among other topics of conversation, and him making sure we didn't die. So at the end, he offered to pray with us, if it wouldn't offend us. I'm not religious, but I am spiritual. We took each other's hands, and he prayed about this choice we were facing. The sun was warm on our drying clothes, my lips tasted like salt water, and there we were, three folks holding hands in a crumbling ocean-side parking lot, having a genuine human moment. Call me sentimental, but it's stuck with me. 


Tiger Island is where we paddled to for our halfway point.
In case you were curious, my arms nearly fell off at Tiger Island.

After we dried out, we headed to Fort Clinch, a Civil War-era fort on Amelia Island that was in use off and on throughout the years before it became a historical landmark and museum. I won't lie: it was eerie even in the sunshine. Maybe even more so. I loved it.

In some ways, it looked like the soldiers of old had shaken themselves awake that morning and walked away from it.











I promise that Fort is haunted. It maintained a feeling of silence, despite the roar of the nearby ocean and people wandering around the buildings, tunnels, and walls. The weight of someone else's memory was heavy in those wanderings. You almost felt like if you closed your eyes, you could summon it all back. 





The perspective of the canon. 




After awhile, we found our way out of the Fort and onto a swamp hiking trail. By this point, it was starting to get quite humid and hot, which was pleasant up until we started getting hungry. And also, I was admittedly rattled by all the signs warning hikers about gators and the lack of people on the trail. Nonetheless, the swamp had so many unique little features here and there that I couldn't resist snapping lots and lots of photos. Here are two: 







Naturally, we found our way onto a beach. Our feet were pretty much toast at this point, so the ice cube water actually felt great. For once. 



The pattern the tide left in the sand. I think it looks like trees.
Even the ocean is a better artist than I am. 

The next day brought the threat of thunderstorms, horseback riding, more hiking, and lots and lots of salt water. 



But about the hiking. The trail started out normal enough. 




Eventually, the trail let out on a sand dune with a great view. But then the rest of the loop was on the beach. And...it was high tide. And the Driftwood Jungle, as I started calling it, took up all the higher ground, forcing us to both wade through the tide and pick our way through tangled branches and roots. 

Not pictured: two pairs of soggy, sandy hiking shoes, multiple scratches, and determined game faces.

Look, this might not have been the smartest move, but there's something slightly charming about doing something stupid with the person you love. It's dumb, but quite frankly we just didn't give a damn. No one else was around, except one elderly man perched amid the driftwood jungle, watching us trudge through the tide, holding onto the odd branch when the tide came rushing back out. We must have hiked two miles like this, alternating between scrambling and wading, hanging on to the worn, smoothed wood and splashing through sand and I'm sure a few sea critters. Finally, the driftwood gave way to clear higher ground and the tide began receding. We finished the last mile under the threat of a late afternoon storm. 

Not 30 minutes after we made it inside the condo, the storm we had been discussing all afternoon with critical eyes cast toward the overcast sky moved in. Thunder, lightning, driving rain -- the works. I don't have any  photos because we opened the sliding glass door on the balcony and fell asleep on the couch listening to the rain. I don't really need photos to remember that moment because I hang onto that feeling whenever I'm feeling particularly worn out at work, or am staring at a blinking cursor waiting for inspiration. 

After all, isn't that the point of vacations? To give you moments in time where you have nothing better to do than to listen to the ocean and the rain and the person you love breathing until all those noises become one and the same? All essential, all rushing toward you, and all gone before you can open your eyes fully to appreciate them. Presence is not a gift I am given often, so those memories become little rooms inside me that I find my way back to when I'm running through the hallways, desperately tearing open doors in search of a peaceful moment. And eventually, those little rooms become stanzas and those stanzas join together to shelter both me and my readers. Inspiration, after all, is an urge to preserve clarity in moments large and small. What moments from your past trips can you claim?



Read more of Alexandria's work on Floodmark.

Psst! Like this article? Perhaps you'd like to read about Alexandria's trip to New Orleans, or her experience at the Morton Arboretum in the Spring. Or maybe you'd like to hear about Vernon's trip to India, and the Tale of Jaspal Sehdave? So many frolics, so little time.



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