Based on my (weirdass) poem, “Akin to the Legend of the Stork and the Baby Basket” and filmed last spring. The visual assault continues!
Pre-rap days, I was drawing tiny men and starring them in Stoppard-esque (I flatter myself) screenplays. Meet these guys, the despondent alter-egos of my Letter Play final project for Erika Boeckeler’s “Alphabet in Literature and Visual Art” class from Spring 2010! Did I mention I went to a ferociously liberal arts college? If the BBC produced Pinky and the Brain with a 5-year old Production Assistant, you’d have this video. Called “Yalp.” The theoretical significance of which… well… you’ll just have to watch. As if you needed more, long-winded proof that my sense of humor lurks in tepid limbo between bizarre and unfunny. Watch… maybe… 3 minutes and you’ll not-laugh. More to follow re: what the hell I was thinking when I submitted this for a grade.
Mixing bizniss with pleasure, pleasure with bizniss, turns out to be a redonkulous elixir. Forgive me. It’s just that a certain “Young D” seems to ebb in and out of my persona in a real Dr. Jeckyll feat. Hyde kind of way. Bet you didn’t know this white girl from the souf was rife with riffs! EW – I CAN’T BELIEVE I JUST TYPED THAT. Did it. A co-worker told me my rapping seemed “Haystack and Bubba” influenced. Welp, I’m flattered. Because, clearly, my point of references for split personalities was Jeckyll Hyde, not of the retro rapper-cracker ilk.
Anyway. I know Christmas is awkwardly distanced from us on this grimy February Eve (word up, Santa, if you’re reading), but I’d like for you all to make my sugar plum wishes come true by watching THIS VIDEO over, and over, and over again. You’ll make me the happiest AmeriCorps on this CO2-groped earth! And tell me what you think! I am working to make it better, shorter, better!
You see, tiny crickets of the universe, in order for me to earn esteem and recognition in the work place (a pat on the back from Adrian Benepe? a raise in the form of extant Egyptian currency?) I need to prove that there is some demand for tree care-related video content. My whole goal for Ye Old Year of AmeriCorps Service is to make the MillionTrees message SOMEWHAT PLAUSIBLY ENGAGING for kids in tough neighborhoods so that they will respect – and potentially water – their street trees planted by Parks n Rec.
So send it to yo kids, yo wife, even your pgymy shrew if you have one (I know you do!)… and refresh your browser so the hits go up and up! That way everyone in New York City will take care of their trees and “It’s a Small World After All” will suffuse the universe entrancing us all like Disney roller-coaster puppets!
Oh right, this blog’s a nexus for alphanerds. Forgot. Guess that’s because alphabet theory isn’t interesting at a glance UNLESS … the primer of primers!!!!
Here’s my application essay:
I’ll never lie. I like things that are true. Mad Men, the show, is true. Milton’s Paradise Lost, is true. Jan 2012 was the first time I’d ever watched the Bachelor. Because, you know, I’m the kind of girl who can quote Paradise Lost. It was… “not my kind of show.” No, I’m not a snob – quite the opposite. But friends would tell you I’m the last girl on earth to go on the show. I’m too “nice.” I’m too young. I’m not a devoted Bachelor fan. And still when I watch it, I get a rush when I see girls – who want Ben SO badly – say the wrong thing. They’re not true. To themselves – to Ben.
So why do I want to be on the show? 15 minutes of fame? Aspiring actress? Feminazi plotting revenge for womankind? No! The fact is: I’ve been in three serious relationships and have made me more sure, than ever, that love is a phenomenon and why not indulge the impossible – going on The Bachelor – to find it? I know, I’m young. But I’m a romantic – a lover of life – someone who feels things – and the three boyfriends I’ve had have had I swear I’ve been in love with. But I’ve come out of each learning more about myself and becoming more self-assured – despite the heartbreak. I don’t know who I want, but I know what I want. I want a man who’s true. The Bachelor is the truest platform there is: hidden cameras, mediating girlfights, making girls feel comfortable to open them up by being true. I want that man, and I’m sure enough of myself to know I can also be true to him and to myself.
Oh… and I’m pretty! See?? …
So that’s it. A year ago today I was dumped by a man-ballerina sociopath. Though I think that description makes him sound more exotic than he was. But the year since? Oh man. It’s been good. Here’s to you Ben, Mazel. I’m ready to love again!!!
I’m going to tell you something profound in just a moment. Check back in soon.
My first six months in “the real world” (i.e. outside Kenyon, or Utopia) has made me realize that I am not very good at getting to the point in my creative writing. Probably in speaking too. Euphemistically speaking: it’s the writer in me. Nothing black and white. Must conjure every statement into a rhetorical snowflake: no sentence of mine may have a twin in the universe.
I liken my condition to David Foster Wallace, who sure could “write well.” But he wrote well because of the way-in-which-he-wrote, not necessarily what-he-wrote. It compromises the reader’s ability to emphathize with characters. Franzen, by contrast, can syringe every last drop of your emotional stability out of you with his characters. He’s master of what-he-wrote. So where’s the balance? Because they’re both geniuses but, in a way, ying and yang – one has what the other lacks.
Maybe the parallel I’ve drawn between my newfound creative pragmatism and New York City is also writer’s whimsy, but I think it’s true. I think therefore I am: New York is to pragmatism as Kenyon is to floundering about in a wordy tide pool. Writing dense, syrupy prose now seems to me the equivalent of those subway door stragglers who insist on hanging halfway out of the door in a fully saturated car, like fat parakeets on a frail perch. Get out da way. I’m always the subway enter-er who goes circque du soleil to wedge under armpits and consume minimal space. And yet no one ever assumes the responsibility of scolding the parakeets. Have you ever heard anyone say, “Get out of the door lady, you’re clearly not going to fit!” Nope. Because New Yorkers know that approach is less than pragmatic; argument wastes more precious time than the cosmos signaling the lady to retreat from the front line.
All of this is to say – that I am of course joking about my creative, locational epiphany. Here’s the point I wanted to make in sentence one:
I have never told a story start to finish. I write to create these rhetorical snowflakes, not to assume the responsibility of a plot.
So here’s what Ima do. Next few posts? All plots. Plots plots plots! It’s my challenge for 2012.