Monday, September 25, 2006

Thank You AUTODESK VIZ 2007

Please excuse the recent absence of intelligence, I am currently in school.

Poetry soon, probably.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

To Begin With

My name was once Tyler. I grew up in three places, starting on Camano Island, ending up in Monmartre, and living in Spokane in the middle. My mother took the divorce hard even though she got me, my little brother Eddie, most of the money, and the house. Father got away. We only lasted a year in Spokane when Eddie took the fall at eight, crushed by an overturned garbage truck. Mother ODed two days later on my thirteenth birthday. That’s how I ended up in Paris, with dad.


I am losing days. Moving too slowly. The Safe has me now.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Fall Music

This is the start of my Fall Music posts. For this one we have three bands and three seperate CD's. If you like original music that surprises you and affects you emotionally, then these three might be for you:

The Mars Volta - Amputechture

This CD lacks the focus the concept album format afforded their last effort, but there is more of the sense of a journey. The first song is reminiscent of Frances the Mute, and truly, the album can seem B-Sides of that Mute until "Asilos Magdalena" forces it off track. This new direction explodes into "Viscera Eyes" and through the last two songs. The second listen yields less of a Mute feel and retells the album as something wholly new and different. The conversation between guitar solos and Cedric Bixler-Zavala's better than ever vocals plays prominently into "Viscera Eyes", but runs more subtly throughout the entire album. Astounding. Their fourth album is as good as the rest, and still so different.

mewithoutYou - Brother, Sister

I am brimming with teenage glee over the coming of this CD. September 26th. I bought their first CD, [A--->B] of Life, the day it came out on accident: I liked the artwork and happened to be shopping then. Their second CD, Catch for us the Foxes, came out in September 2004 and I remember buying it in Totem Lake the day it came out on purpose, putting it in the CD changer in my car, driving to school in Bothell, and I honestly haven't taken it out since - it has stayed in my car for two years. No other CD has ever come close. They are truly, truly original on the same scale as Clann Zu and The Mars Volta. The powerfully personal lyrics mix well with their originality to provide stunningly savage and soft songs every time.

Broken Social Scene - Broken Social Scene

An ensemble cast of musicians dig their fingers into the sounds of Canada's Broken Social Scene. Each song is a a a piece of an album crafted with overarching themes and sounds, but varying widely in their uses song to song. That make sense? Didn't think so. Their standard is progression. I think that's all that can be said about them. Also, I can't stop listening to this album - I have it on for homework, parties, cleaning, waking up, and going to bed. It is perfect. It is surprising. It is the only one of their albums that I have heard. It is making me buy the rest of their work.

Lines By Robert Lowell

"The muskrat that took a slice of your thumb still huddles, a mop of hair and heart-beat on the porch."

"All Autumn, the chafe and jar of nuclear war; we have talked our extinction to death."

"Life danced a jig on the sperm-whale's spout."

"But in the silence, some one lets out his belt to breathe, some one roams in negligee."

For The Union Dead

Robert Lowell

Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam

The old South Boston Aquarium stands
in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.

Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass;
my hand tingled
to burst the bubbles
drifting from the noses of the cowed, compliant fish.

My hand draws back. I often sigh still
for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom
of the fish and reptile. One morning last March,
I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized

fence on the Boston Common. Behind their cage,
yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting
as they cropped up tons of mush and grass
to gouge their underworld garage.

Parking spaces luxuriate like civic
sandpiles in the heart of Boston.
A girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders
braces the tingling Statehouse,

shaking over the excavations, as it faces Colonel Shaw
and his bell-cheeked Negro infantry
on St. Gaudens' shaking Civil War relief,
propped by a plank splint against the garage's earthquake.

Two months after marching through Boston,
half the regiment was dead;
at the dedication,
William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone
in the city's throat.
Its Colonel is as lean
as a compass-needle.

He has an angry wrenlike vigilance,
a greyhound's gentle tautness;
he seems to wince at pleasure,
and suffocate for privacy.

He is out of bounds now. He rejoices in man's lovely,
peculiar power to choose life and die--
when he leads his black soldiers to death,
he cannot bend his back.

On a thousand small town New England greens,
the old white churches hold their air
of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags
quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic.

The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier
grow slimmer and younger each year--
wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets
and muse through their sideburns...

Shaw's father wanted no monument
except the ditch,
where his son's body was thrown
and lost with his "niggers."

The ditch is nearer.
There are no statues for the last war here;
on Boylston Street, a commercial photograph
shows Hiroshima boiling

over a Mosler Safe, the "Rock of Ages"
that survived the blast. Space is nearer.
When I crouch to my television set,
the drained faces of the Negro school-children rise like balloons.

Colonel Shaw
is riding on his bubble,
he waits
for the bless├Ęd break.

The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere,
giant finned cars nose forward like fish;
a savage servility
slides by on grease.


Notes to Myself -

"They relinquished all to serve the Republic"

The transition between distanced, dreamlike images and concrete, concise images makes the latter resonate. The distance comes from his use of a double-adjective tactic coupled with increased assonance. His concise stanzas come through alliteration ("savage servility slides").

I love end-rhyme like Lowell's. It is subtle, often just a repetition of a single consonant, hard to pin down, quiet, unnoticable when read outloud, secondary to his internal rhyme, and most of all discarded when it needs to be. The internal rhyme is breathtaking.

This piece would not stand without the research Lowell put in to it. Writing about a family member often implies the author's self in the character, but Lowell pulls it off stunningly. From quoting the letter to the tidbits about Boston, this poem is whole. Immunity is also impossible: there is shame at the segregation and television. Did Shaw die in vain?

This idea that past progress proved positive before present progress displaced past is wonderfully put. In a time (1960) when Lowell, Bishop, Berryman and other poets were against the mass-production America, Lowell uses this series of images to implicate himself in the mess while still whining about the changes to Boston. Also, the statement here that nothing is physically lost, just changed, is in some ways more hopeful and some more depressing than loss altogether: the fish are transformed into cars, the Aquarium still stands, the monument is moved and placed out of bounds, the Statehouse lacks dignity while propped up so the dinosaur steamshovels can gouge a parking garage beneath it, the ditch becomes the underworld garage, (Shaw's choice to be buried is taken from us as we must park underground and use mass-produced items) respect of the past becomes exploitation of the past, childhood is only a memory. Lowell draws parallels between the Confederate state that buried Shaw without military honors and the mass-production society that forces all people to line up neat.

This piece is an example of Lowell's sometime mastery. I don't like all of his work, but some of his lines are splendid. His style stays very consistent, which bores me a little. But most Poets Laureate bore me because they occupy a political post and therefore cannot be too polarizing - Louise G. being the main exception, but she got lucky. I like Lowell best when he uses this series of short stories to set up a larger theme. The book, For the Union Dead is good, not great. "Fall 1961", "Eye and Tooth", "Those Before Us", and the title poem stood out as the strongest pieces and all of them utilize the same tactics.

(Yes, I do realize I am saying I like variety and don't like it, but what I mean is this format works best for Lowell as I read him - he does not seem quite as confident elsewhere.)

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Man With Wooden Leg Escapes Prison

Albert Einstein

The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education.

Man With Wooden Leg Escapes Prison

James Tate

Man with wooden leg escapes prison. He’s caught.
They take his wooden leg away from him. Each day
he must cross a large hill and swim a wide river
to get to the field where he must work all day on
one leg. This goes on for a year. At the Christmas
Party they give him back his leg. Now he doesn’t
want it. His escape is all planned. It requires
only one leg.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

Life As A Poetry Major:

So what's your major?

Pharmaceutical Science. What's yours?


Oh. I used to be published for poetry. Some press back in Minnesota. My brother has all the sweet hook-ups. My brother's an author, (Name I can't remember.)

I got nothing.

I am going to make so much more money than you.

You probably will.

I definitely will.

Good for you.

Do you know when M. is going to be free?

Nope. You should ask him.

I think I'll just come back later.


Good luck in school.


See ya.



Flying free of his limbs,
wailing his fate, leaving his manhood
far behind, his young and supple strength,
his helmet flashing, his helmet
flashing, his helmet forever flashing:
the end closed in around him.
This is a found poem.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

What I Find Fun

Birdhouses designed after architects.

Creative statues.


Thank You 3dsMax8

Randall Teal


"I like art where I feel like it's coming for me."


My Favorite Book Since The Bible

The Architect's Brother

Forgive The Stingray

I call on all peoples to forgive this attrocity! There shall be no stingray hunts, no Holy Crusades to the Great Barrier Reef, no inflaming speeches in Times Square about an answer to The Stingray Question. No! I for one will continue on, as he would have wished us too, and furthermore I will let the stingray continue!

Let us now turn our eyes to the more important question: Will Steve be buried in his khakis?