Nietzsche, Pynchon, and McCarthy

I have so many things racing through my head right now and I can't even begin articulate most of them. But I will offer you these:

GOD IS DEAD. Read this short story. I've definitely got Nietzsche on the brain lately. I just wrote a paper based on "The Parable of the Madman" and William Blake's "The Tiger." My head hurts but I'm content with it. I love Neitzsche. 

"Shall I project a world?" If you don't know what this symbol means, read The Crying of Lot 49 and find out, please. This is the second time I've read it and Pynchon doesn't disappoint, and the book will take you a few days, at most, to finish. 

I just finished Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy. He's also the author of No Country for Old Men and The Road, which has been made into a movie and is coming out in October. I can't even begin to describe my thoughts regarding Blood Meridian and I have to write a paper about it due in less than a week. It's extremely violent and bleak, yet at the same time beautifully poetic and philosophical. It's a true piece of art if you can get past the grotesquely violent scenes. I could only compare it to Moby Dick, and that wouldn't even do the book justice (although there is a sentence that lasts for a page or two).  

Yes, this is post is entirely literary, and yes, I'm aware I'm a huge nerd. 

Some Thoughts

Poetry is consuming my life and I'm not sure how I feel about it. It seems as though I'm constantly reading, writing, and now listening to poetry. Last week I went to a reading with my dad and he awkwardly asked me, "so...now can we be poetry partners?" I don't know what that means, but yes dad, of course we can. Then we talked about how he is very Whitman-esque in every way while I'm more like Bukowski (minus the prostitutes), and how based on these generalizations we shouldn't be able to get along. But I love my dad more than anything, and maybe that's why I like Walt Whitman so much.

I'm sick right now and can hardly think, so I'll leave you with two poems that have been on my mind lately. We've been reading them in my Literary Analysis class and I have to chose one to write a paper on. 

"The Panther" by Rainer Maria Rilke

"A Hardworking Peasant from the Idyllic Countryside" by Linh Dinh

The Rilke translation is different from the one I've been using, but it's close enough. Also, Linh Dinh is reading his poetry at the printing press I intern at in November, if you're interested.

Adventures in Poetry Writing

As you may know, I'm currently taking a poetry composition class at school. You also may know that I think it's absolute bullshit. I'm aware I tend to be a cynical bitch by nature, but I'm not exaggerating when I say that this class is possibly the worst piece of shit I've ever experienced.  

So far, here's what I've learned:

1. Creative Writing is a bullshit major. I didn't want to believe this either, but my incompetent instructor is living proof. I wasn't aware you could graduate with a BFA in poetry and not recognize a Keats reference, but apparently I stand corrected.

2. Reading poetry isn't about analyzing form and content and close reading texts, it's about talking about your feelings, you dumb-ass. Nothing is more objective than going around the room and saying "this poem made me sad" with no explanation why, obviously. My Advanced Literary Analysis class is right before this one, and needless to say, I die a little inside every time we contradict all that I've learned as an English major in simple class period.  

3. Writing a poem that's good is a rare phenomenon and when it actually does happen, there is no explanation for it. Okay, I know you can't teach someone how to write poetry, but after reading so much of it over my lifetime, I feel there are at least a few guidelines, tips, etc. that can help the process. But, no. That's makes too much sense apparently, therefore I am condemned to a hell every Monday for 3.5 hours which consists of regurgitating awful as shit poetry because, uh, I don't fucking know how to write poetry. It seems to be a conundrum without a solution. 

Needless to say, writing poetry seems to be bane of my existence as of late. So far I've written a ridiculous poem about getting wasted on the Salt River, something sappy about my dad, a bad ekphrastic poem about a watercolor painting, and a little something about the house on 7th St. It doesn't seem like things will get any better, either.  

Yesterday in class we received our assignment for next week. After "writing a secret" onto a piece of paper anonymously, we each ended up with someone else's. Here's the secret I have to write a poem about:

"I'm afraid that I am only dating my boyfriend because I like having a boyfriend, but I fear that in a few weeks I will stop liking him because that's how I roll--I'm an independent and I'm really only in it for the chase. The problem is, he is my boss. And I just got this job. I'm too awkwarded out to sleep with him, but again, he's my boss."

Oh shit! I don't know how the fuck to go about making this situation *~poetic~* but I'm pretty entertained nonetheless. We'll see where this juicy little secret takes me. 

Evolution of Obsession

When I first heard "Just Dance," I had no idea who the hell Lady Gaga was. I mostly found the song obnoxious and myself bored, as I was with everything playing on the radio. My initial commonality with Lady Gaga, however, was an affinity for getting wasted and doing shameful things. I guess we were off to a good, perhaps shaky, start. 

Next I heard “Poker Face,” which somehow managed to become my second favorite guilty-pleasure track along with some Pitbull song (I know). Then I saw the video for the song and freaked the fuck out over what a babe that girl was in a teal space-age leotard. See also: air-humping on a lounge-chair. Also: poker-game orgy.  Also: “‘Cause I’m bluffin’ with my muffin.” Need I say more?

Then I saw this shot:

I mean, really?

At this time my fascination with Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta was in full-throttle. Despite the snapshots I saw of her in Turkish tabloids looking pasty and chubs, I wasn't phased.

When I came back to the states, the show-tune acoustic version of "Poker Face" was permanently stuck in my head and I must have watched her play it on the Ellen Show so many times it was negatively affecting my health. 

Then "Love Game" was playing, and after watching the video I was reminded yet again of what an insanely sexy psycho maniac Lady Gaga was. "Disco stick" is just the kind of metaphor I would think up. At this point I believe we must have been on the same dirty wave-length. Nearly soul-mate status. But then she had to turn it up a notch by covering her naked body in Star Trek-esque glitter formations and doing the dirty with male and female cops. At this time I think you could safely say I was deeply enamored with The Gaga.  

But tonight I saw her performance at the VMAs.  

How the hell was I to react?

I initially regarded the woman's performance with curiosity, which soon became fascination. Then, suddenly, ABSOLUTE FUCKING TERROR. 

Okay, yeah, I can handle theatrics, McQueen-esque bird masks, bootylicious black dudes, back-up dancers in wheelchairs...but wait...

BLOOD? No words, friends. I felt legitimately horrified by the image of the crazy bitch dangling hangman-esque like a bleeding corpse of insanity. Lady Gaga has managed to etch her creepy face into my brain with a cocaine-covered scalpel. I fear she will at any moment parade into my bedroom in an excrement-drenched high-cut leotard and force me to join her macabre circus cult.  

BUT WAIT, she already has. Yes, I'm officially OB-FUCKING-SESSED with the lady and there is no return for me, friends. I love her and I am willing to follow her to the edges of this planet. I want to become blood-sisters with her and wear leotards and Lennon-glasses and be utterly terrifying and obnoxious. 

Sometimes I wonder what Lady Gaga is doing at this exact moment, do you? Right now I imagine she's tweaking and having an intimate conversation with Jesus himself, and I wish I was too.