Experimental Essay

Outer Beauty

(inspired by David Shields' Life Story, available in 'The Next American Essay', ed. John D'Agata)

Clothes make the man. I´m not cynical, I´m just experienced. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, of the beer holder, and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye. But if you don´t like what I´m wearing... feel free to undress me! My wild oats have turned to shredded wheat. Wrinkled was not one of the things I wanted to be when I grew up. You don´t get a body like this by working out. Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.

So, life has a hill. Get over it!

Always remember you´re unique... Just like everyone else. Ham and Eggs – a day's work for a chicken; a lifetime commitment for a pig. I may not be right, but I can sure sound like it. If we are what we eat, then I´m fast, cheap and easy. Size does matter! I never fake a sarcasm. If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular? Weapons of mass distraction. Whisky tango foxtrot. Upon the advice of my attorney, my shirt bears no message at this time. Never judge a book by it´s cover.

reflection:

I really enjoyed David Shield's Life Story, which was a narrative entirely composed out of novelty bumper plates (I think!). I tried to do the same, this time using t-shirt slogans to create a piece about beauty.

extract from assignment

Learning to Breathe

Are you ok?

Yes. No. I’m fine. It’s just tough in this position.

Well, remember to breathe ok. And don’t push yourself.

I stretch out, feel the strain on the backs of my knees. My face red and the blood thumping. I’ve forgotten to breathe.

Inhale.

Eyes on the mat, my hands splayed before me. Chipped nail varnish. Trace the folds of my knuckles, the lines of my life. But those are on your palm. Was it written there? What is written there?

And breathe out. Now bring the right leg forward and stretch your neck to the sky.

My legs feel stuck but I drag one forward in a daring move, ungraceful. My neck is taught as I tilt it back, but the stretch is in my fingers, grappling with the floor. I glance at Chellsy, who seems to fit perfectly into the instructor's mold, a smooth curve running the contours of her back. I glance further round the room, my eyes stretching beyond their periphery. Everyone looks perfect.

Neck to the sky.

I jerk back into position. It´s agony now, the V-spread of my hand about to implode outwards. A lyric lingers. Se mi rilasso, collasso. Reflective pronouns.

Breathe in. Bring your arms to your knee and open your chest wide to the side.

Easier now, I feel the balance and take a few more breaths than necessary. My head is hot, a teardrop of sweat trickles down my brow.

Have you done yoga before? She had asked.

Once, I had said.

Exhala profunda. Now work your way back through the movements to standing.

I glide awkwardly through each position, racing back to the start when I was upright; where I was sure of my balance. But I arrive and it’s not as it seems, not as I had hoped. The arms above my head begin to buckle and white spots flash in my eyes, sending everyone sideways. The sweat is now a steady stream.

Stop. Blink. Breathe.

Do the same movements again, this time with your left leg forward.

I swoop my arms in an arc and the room balloons in my vision. I close my eyes and push into downward facing dog. But I stay there, obedient to my body. It calls to me, to stand up and run away. I feel my hands clammy beneath me, my arms shaking, trying to support me. I will not give up. I will push through this, push my leg forward and push my chest open and feel the air rush slowly into my lungs. I can do anything I put my mind to.

Inhala profu –

But then my knees give way and my head spins out of control. I fall to the floor and lie in a kneeling ball, my heart galloping ahead of me. I grab hold of my feet and breathe hard into the mat. Fue pánico, puro pánico. The sweat mixes with tears and I don’t know what is happening.

¿Estás bien?

I wipe away my woe and look up with a meek smile.

Yes, sorry. I´ve, - em -, I´ve had a cold recently and I think this is maybe working the last of it through me.

I move my hands to let my body speak. I can feel my mouth asking to be excused, but she encourages me back into a kneeling ball.

Let your body relax and don´t push it. Continue when you´re ready. Just breathe.

That´s what it´s all about really. Learning to breathe. In...and out. In....and out. Inhaling Qs and exhaling Rs. I sink into the floor, my eyes closed to the world. Q. R. Q. R. What must they be thinking of me? What must Chellsy be thinking? I can explain to her, she´ll understand. It wasn´t like this the first time, Chels, I was good then. I even did a shoulder stand! This is just a glitch. A blip. I haven´t been feeling well, you see.

My mind races, fractured. The low rumble of thoughts as they approach the forefront of my mind. The grammar of memory. Epanaleptic excuses. But some of them are negative. Some of them I don´t want. Not active, but passive. Judgment will be passed on me, on my failings, on my inability to articulate my body. The impediment of my orthoepy. But the fault wasn´t mine. It lay with someone else, with someplace else. It could be worse though. You, they may not have seen.

Now we´ll do some floor poses. Let´s start with the Butterfly Asana. In a seated position, hold the soles or toes of your feet and push...

And so I am not there, invisible as they continue. Forgotten rubble on the floor, the remains of yesterday. But if they notice you, they would clear you away. Nobody likes a visual reminder. But isn´t that what we do? Create monuments, install museums, plant poppies. To download our memories into reality, to Kindle them.

So I here I lie, the tomb to the fallen yogini.

And yet, I live.

Week 4: Flash Fiction

Blether

Leaving his friends, he came out of the station and looked around the empty streets. Out of the early morning haze, he saw a woman hobbling towards him, muttering under her breath. There was no one else. He approached her, readjusting the backpack on his shoulder.

“Sorry, hi there. I don't suppose you'd know where I could buy some really thick wooly pyjamas?” he said. She paused in her muttering and looked up at the boy. He was a tall lad, a little rough around the face with dark bags under his eyes. She caught the whiff of the night before on his breath. She cackled lightly.

“Hud somethin' tae bevvy lest nicht? Cheeky. An' whaur ye aff tae wi' 'at poke? Hikin' frae th' looks ay yer sheen. Sae pijamas? Lit me hink... mah mukker ary booght some nae tay lang ago, a bonnie blue pair gart ay lambs wool aye, och noo whaur was it? doon near joseph´s ur, nae,bide, aye doon by th' boats, th' docks. Bein sunday its closed thocht, but jist knock oan th' duir, he will answer,” she said tipping her head towards the town. She smiled at the boy, who looked bewildered. Lowlanders, she thought.

“The docks?” he ventured.

“Aye, th' docks. Gang doon 'at brae, an' 'en straecht doon pest th'...” She indicated with her hands in that helpful way as strangers do, but for the life of him he had no clue what she was saying. He thanked her and headed off in the vague direction she had pointed.

He looked at his watch as he descended the cobbled high street and picked up speed; ten minutes until the connection. He twisted and turned down various streets, following the smell of the sea. He only past a few people as he went, setting up their Saturday stalls in the cold air. On one last turn he emerged at the docks. A lonely fishing boat was moored at the side, a solitary seagull standing guard on the mast above. He looked left, right. Had she mentioned a name? A man in a grey woolly hat was walking along the shore front further up. The boy looked left again and started along the bay, frantic for the shop. He reached a row of houses with windblown flower boxes. He turned and ran back, now passing the seagull and in the other direction. No luck. His heart was racing; six minutes. The man in the hat was closer now. The boy dashed towards him. But before he got a word out, the man looked at him with his weathered face and smiled.

“Ye can buy pyjamas ower thaur,” he said.

Week 3: Acrostic/stanzaic Chance Poems

1.

The New Bling

Think “higher end –
New economy wealth!
Bling like investing (never) glases.

There, homes extreme,
November entertains Warhol´s
Bishops. Lees inhabits near gold-plated

Terrace houses. Excessively
normal, everything without
Bottles. London in noise glassware.

This was formed from an article in The Guardian weekend Saturday supplement (29.01.11) about the ridiculous spending habits of the super rich when it comes to home furnishings, even in this "age of austerity".

2.

State of Clay

State “These anemone thrive evergreen”
Of fear
Clay leaves are yellow.

Struggling, the autumn-topped edge
of foliage
(classic like adding year

sticky types) acquired tall elegant
orange flowers.
Colourful loveable actually yellow.

Taken from the same issue of The Guardian, this time from an article giving advice on planting in clay/sticky soil.


3.

From Bad to Verse

Fantastically read, open moment
blisters are dreadful:
Tell odes,
Verse evil, recite shivers, equilibrium

Favourites roll orange-spined marrow
books, although doom
Thursday. One
voice, emotional, reasons “summon Esterhaus”.

I hate poetry

Inheritance.
Hardbacks always tell evil
poetry of equilibrium. Thursday reads you.

Inches.
Heartbreak although tragedy. Emotional
Pants one even told recite yourself.

Imagination,
however ancient, terrifying, especially
power, odes Esterhaus. Terror rolls you

These two were created from a brilliant article by Lucy Mangan (available here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2010/oct/02/national-poetry-day-2010) where she sets out by stating how she hates poetry and by the end of the article she´s demonstrated just how wonderful poetry is. I tried it first with the title "From bad to verse" and then again with the line "I hate poetry". I admit I cheated a bit with the second one, selecting a better word from the text on occasion.

Overall I found I had to use punctuation to create meaning. This perhaps is a hinderance for the independent reader, as maybe one should find one´s own meaning from the punctuation free poem. However I found it more rewarding for me as the poet to create meaning in this way out of what seemed to be a nonsense exercise. In the end, it seems to have produced some interesting concepts.

Week 2: Charles Bernstein experiments

Experiment 2: He Do the Police in Voices: Dialect & Idiolect. Dialectise a poem using the dialectizer.

1- Sonnet 116 à la Elmer Fudd

Wet me not to the mawwiage of twue minds
Admit impediments. Oh, dat scwewy wabbit! Wove is not wove
Which awtews when it awtewation finds,
Ow bends wif the wemovew to wemove:
O no! it is an evew-fixed mawk
Dat wooks on tempests and is nevew shaken;
It is the staw to evewy wandewing bawk,
Whose wowth's unknown, awthough his height be taken, uh-hah-hah-hah.
Wove's not Time's foow, though wosy wips and cheeks
Within his bending sickwe's compass come:
Wove awtews not wif his bwief houws and weeks,
But beaws it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be ewwow and upon me pwoved,
I nevew wwit, now no man evew woved.

reflections: perhaps didn´t work quite as well as the meaning is little changed. However visually it´s rather harsh due to the excess amount of w´s. Perhaps the meaning is changed a little though, as its Elmer Fudd taking about that scwewwy wabbit, Bugs Bunny, who he perpetually hunts, so it´s rather a different type of love!

2. When ah' am an old honky chick (in "jive" dialect) by Jenny Joseph

When ah' am an old honky chick, ah' shall wear purple
wid some red fedora dat duzn't go, and duzn't suit me.
And ah' shall spend mah' pension on brandy and summa' gloves
and satin kindles, and say we've no bre'd fo' butter.
Ah be baaad... I shall sit waaay down on de pavement when ah' am tired
and gobble down samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run mah' stick along de public railin's
and make down fo' de sobriety uh my ya'd.
I shall go out in mah' slippuh's in de rain
and pick de flowers in oda' sucka's's gardens
and learn t'spit.

Man! You's kin wear terrible shirts and grow mo'e fat
and feed da bud dree pounds uh sausages at some go
o' only bread and pickles fo' some week
and ho'd pens and pencils and bea' nuts and doodads in boxes.

But now we gots'ta have clodes dat keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in de damn street
and set some baaaad 'esample fo' de kids. 'S coo',
bro. We gots'ta have homeys t'dinna' and eyeball de sheets.
But maybe ah' ought t'practice some little now?
So's sucka's who know me is not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly ah' am old, and start t'wear purple.

reflections: this poem works much better, probably because it is contemporary, allowing it to be believable in this dialect.

Experiment 17 - Alphabet poems. Write a poem where each word begins with the next letter of the alphabet. Do it again, though the next time with the letters jumbled up.

Ants bundle carefully
down each flimsy gstring
hovering in
juxtaposition
knowing love might never offer
peculiar questions. Roaming
sideways
they uncover violets whispering
XL yoddles zealously.

Jaded nettles often frollick
hugging pansies in shades,
aware dragonflies zoom by
under tutelage.
Yet grass will linger
cursing xylology.
Quietly vicars mutter
repeating eulogies.

reflection: It seemed to work rather well! It was a struggle to keep some sort of theme flowing through them as the ordered structure was constraining. The first one flowed out easily. The second one was a bit of a struggle, and admittedly I changed some verbs (eg. move became mutter, fight became frollick, xenophobes became xylology) to allow some semblance of meaning.

week1

The Wine Challenge

First carried out after hours in the Blue Duck pub in Milford Sound, New Zealand, January 2007

Aims: To prove Big Dave and those snap-happy guys from Magic memories wrong and save Gemma from shame for not rising to their dare – that it is possible to drink a bottle of wine in under 5 minutes.

Hypothesis: Big Dave set the challenge thinking it was impossible. Being 18, I thought it was. Therefore, my hypothesis is that it is possible to drink a bottle of wine in under 5 minutes. However I did state that it would only be possible if the wine was white, as the red variety proves rather to heavy for the stomach. Therefore, after consultation of the menu, we selected Montana´s Sauvignon Blanc. If I was to succeed, Big Dave would pay the bill for it.

Method: Big Dave times me on his watch. On his mark, I pour the wine into the glass and start chugging and dont stop until the bottle is gone. As this was my experiment, I deemed it would only be possible if the wine was drunk from a glass, and not from necking it back. This also had the advantage of adding some class to the activity.

Results:

• The bottle was drunk in three minutes and 26 seconds. Time should be subtracted for the pauses taken to pour the wine into each glass. However given that it is well within the aim of 5 minutes, this was disregarded.

• Big Dave sat back in awe, his bushy blonde moustache framing his open-mouthed gape.

• Gemma yelled “Sweet!” and patted me on the back as I finished.

• Contrary to expectation, after three more minutes I began to feel the effects of the alcohol seeping through my body. Although an unforseen consequence of the experiment, as I was stone cold sober before the dare was set, this aspect gave the most exciting insight into the process of inebriation:

I was sitting on the stool, smug in my moment of glory, when suddenly my feet slipped off their perch on the footrest. They felt like lead weights. Then I could feel a tingly sensation crawl hastily up my legs, causing my thighs to sink into the seat, followed by my entire upper body slouching involuntarily and my neck losing all control. My head flopped onto my chest and I found myself as floppy and flexible as a puppet, unable to stay seated on the chair. My brain stayed completely sober though for at least another two minutes. In that time, I asked Gemma to carry me over to the bar, her freckly face morphing from amusement to concern and finally to hilarity as she realised what was happening. Erin the barman shared his cold pizza with me, although I couldn´t pick it up with my fingers so I tried to lap it up with my tongue (and I can´t begin to describe the humiliation of that in front of this American stud). Soon after, I passed out.

Conclusion: Yes, it is possible to drink a bottle of wine in under 5 minutes.

Evaluation: It was legendary to some, stupid, rash and dangerous to others, but the worst hangover in the world to me.