Trouble with the Flarf

I get the feeling that flarf is for a special group of people; a group that I do not belong in. I can enjoy the absurd, the internet, and words...so you'd think I'd enjoy flarf. And sometimes I think it may just be the fact that I haven't been exposed to the right flarf, but it's difficult to find the energy to look further into flarf when we are told to read Annoying Diabetic Bitch for the second time.

I like dirty jokes, I like ranting (if you couldn't tell), and I like kinda saying 'fuck you world' too often.

I DO NOT like Sharon Mesmer's book of curse words and sassy flarf that reads like one of the biggest, loudest, most annoying FUCK YOUs to ever be. But what confuses me the most is whether or not that's the point...does she want us to be offended by the words of the internet? Does she want to take what makes us terrible and funny and offensive and throw it at us? Does she want us to hate this book? WHAT IS THE POINT?

I think it makes me feel a bit pissy if the point was to make us hate it. Because it worked, and everything about this book makes me not want it to work. I mean, urban dictionary is funny. Annoying Diabetic Bitch  is annoying. And watching Mesmer read the first poem, which the book is titled after, manages to grind my gears even more.

You annoying diabetic bitch.
You anorexic bulimic diabetic bitch.
You dumb annoying talentless diabetic bitch, eat some diabetes.
You and your bitch monster diabetic junkhead father,
and your diabetic cat, your pathetic geriatric diabetic cat that eats birds —
bitch birds —
you fuck-ass body monster, you're lulling me into a diabetic coma
like that annoying secretary from Ally McBeal,
you cold British diabetic bitch-dick.
Look — I've played a hooker, a diabetic inmate requiring hormones,
a divorced shit-ass son-of-a-bitch, a kitsch bitch, an idiot, and — oh fuck it,
all this diabetes is making me into a bitch.
Go eat your diabetes, bitch,
I have never seen someone so loud and moronic and annoying and diabetic.
The last thing I need to find out is that I am diabetic,
someone with six diabetic relatives who beat each other to death
with their own shoes.
Is there a chat room?  Because this is just fucking annoying.
Just take into account that I am a heartless bitch, Millicent.
I have a kick-ass diabetic section and I'll turn you into a diabetic.
I'm what's called a pre-emptive diabetes bitch.
Top model bitch, you do not want to be a diabetic in a
typepad-cum-hammer/peg situation
I can be extremely diabetic, and you can be only slightly diabetic.
So that's Queen Bitch to you bitch,
you're annoying like a fucking annoying
diabetic bitch.

And you read the comments on this video and it just makes you realize how she found such language and absurd, vulgar material to work with from this world the internet has created.

I believe that Sharon's work supports that idea that the medium is the message, and the fact is, while she's written a book, the original words are from the internet. And it says a lot about us as humans that these terrible ideas, terrible rants come from the place where we feel we can reveal ourselves the most while still remaining protected behind our screens. Sharon has taken the worst of ourselves and put it in a book, where Mary-Kate and Ashley want to rape people and there's plenty of references to dicks, asses, and vaginas using creative words, in order to paint ugliness on politics, which is already an ugly subject.

I hate it...and if that's the point, then good job Sharon.

Examples of comments:

Paul Merrill 8 years ago

Sharon Mesmer rules my freaking world. I love "Annoying Diabetic Bitch" so much, it makes my ass hurt.

annieduke04 6 years ago

Your diabetic cat eats birds...bitch birds...ROFL!!! You annoying diabetic bitch go eat some diabetes...ROFLMAO!!! God I love this stuff...it's so utterly ridiculous it's hilarious!!! FLARF RULES AND SHARON IS THE QUEEN!!!

I believe that Sharon's work supports that idea that the medium is the message, and the fact is, while she's written a book, the original words are from the internet. And it says a lot about us as humans that these terrible ideas, terrible rants come from the place where we feel we can reveal ourselves the most while still remaining protected behind our screens. Sharon has taken the worst of ourselves and put it in a book, where Mary-Kate and Ashley want to rape people and there's plenty of references to dicks, asses, and vaginas using creative words, in order to paint ugliness on politics, which is already an ugly subject.

I hate it...and if that's the point, then good job Sharon.

For the Love of Writing

I'm going to steal a quote from the movie Stuck in Love (which I love because it's about love, writing, and Logan Lerman...okay it's technically not about him, but he's in it!) in order to justify why I am such a bad procrastinator when it comes to something I love the most...writing.

"Rusty, a writer is the sum of his experiences. Go get some."

And me, with my love of writing and my lack of committing to it, tell myself that this is what I'm doing–getting experience. I'm living. So that when I have the time to sit down and finally commit myself to my work, I'll have something to write. Alas, this is why my blog is filled with not enough. Filled to its brim with not enough. I know that's impossible, but still.

I'm sad that younger me went and destroyed younger younger me's random notes on Facebook that were meant to put my soul on display even though it more or less just made me look like a self-absorbed kid. What kid of kid in North America isn't self-absorbed at 13? 

Since I sabotaged myself those years ago, I'm going to now fill out on of these random answer things and then follow up with a review of 2500 Random Things about Me Too.
Let the self-attentioning begin!!!

Question 1: Do you have any pets ?
Yes and no. I grew up on a farm, and will be moving back there with all the farm animals. However, I, myself, am not a lover of animals. Maybe a liker...

Question 2: Name three things that are physically close to you?

Is it strange that I thought of the people who've held me the most? Like my ex, my niece, and my nephew. But physically near me in the sense of things are a rabbit stuffy named Mojo (after my best friend and I's nicknames for each other),  a candle, and the pamphlet given out at my friend's funeral.

Question 3: What’s the weather like right now ?
Full of promises; hinting at summer but the air is drenched in spring.Questions 4: Do you drive ? If so, have you crashed?
I drive, and I pray I won't be crashing. I hit a ditch once at 4 am. But drove out of it like a pro ditch driver.
Question 5: What time did you wake up this morning ?
9:58 am 'cause I sleep in like that.
Question 6: When was the last time you showered ?
10:00 am 'cause I wash my body like that.
Question 7: What was the last movie that you saw ?
Five seconds of Sin City 2. Ten minutes of Pitch Perfect. Half of Birdman. That's like 5/6 of a movie.
Question 8: What does you last text message say?
You?!!! you mean your? "There's fritters, sausage rolls, ham and cheese croissant, cinnamon twists blah blah blah :) it is Friday though so idk how much stuff will be left by the time we go through"
Question 9: What is your ringtone ?
Normal one: Nirvana's Heart-shaped Box Mother's: Pearl Jam's version of Last Kiss The BFF's: Let's Fall in Love by Mother Mother (he hates the band :D)
Question 10: Have you ever been to a different country?
France, Mexico. Space.Question 
11: Do you like sushi?
Do I ever.
Question 12: Where do you buy your groceries?
Where I want to at the time?
Question 13: Have you ever taken any medication to help you fall asleep faster?
No.
Question 14: How many siblings do you have ?
4+1 who is like an adoptee, and then there's the brother-in-law that is like a brother anyways.
Question 15: Do you have a desktop computer or a laptop?
Laptop
Question 16: How old will you be turning on your next birthday?
200000000! or just 20
Question 17: Do you wear contacts or glasses ?
Four eyes
Question 18: Do you colour your hair ?
:) yes, with henna. Haven't been all natural since I was 8
Question 19: Tell me something you are planing to do today:
Meet BCIT students for dinner, probably be awkward.
Question 20: When was the last time you cried?
Last weekend. I'm a girl. It's okay.
Question 21: What is your perfect pizza topping?
Goat cheese!!!!!!!
Question 22: Which do you prefer, hamburger or cheeseburger ?
cheeseburger, no bun because that shit gives me heartburn
Question 23: Have you ever had an all-nighter ?
Did you pee your diaper as a one year old? Duh.
Question 24: What is your eye colour ?
Grey, but that's not an option according to the jerks at the license place. So according to them, they're blue.
Question 25: Can you taste the difference between Pepsi and Coke?
Stupid question.

2500 Random Things about Me Too is a book of poetry by Matias Viegener. Reading it initially, I couldn't catch on to the link between the old posts people would write on Facebook and the work Matias has done. Maybe it was because a lot of the 'random' things became not so random, but rather created a narrative between the lines. Maybe it's because I'm dense like that. 

I did very much enjoy this book (unlike most of the other books we read....) because of that strange narrative it'd take on sometimes. Humans are bad at being random, I think. We are driven by reason, by needs and wants and so it's hard to truly write something that falls under the 'random' category. Unless you're Kevin...I feel like Kevin can be very random. 

One of my favourite lines is "Many non-human sounds are nice, and almost all nasty sounds come from humans somehow" (line 12, X). It's written like a simple truth, a fact more than a pondering observation. This is a line that made me pause and think it through, to examine the noises around me and find the beautiful ones and the ugly. Most human voices spew ugliness, anger. The way a crane moves, with it's grinding and metal parts, is made from humans. Ugly ugly ugly.

I feel like I get off topic easily.

Matias does a good job of slipping in those facts he's created, these perfect lines that read like quotes that have been well designed to hit you hard and fast. To stick to you. But it's mixed among all these other things that are personal and impersonal. Unlike Disclosure, I feel like I do get a sense of who Matias is, not just because it's a book about him technically, but because how  he wrote the random things. He doesn't always explain, give reason, but there's enough there to build an image of a human being. I feel like if we were all to do a large scale project like this the end result would be surprising. That we wouldn't know how much of ourselves we've given until we came to the end, when at that point you're having to dig deep to not repeat yourself over and over. This is the poetry I want, the confessional kind redone in new ways. We give away this info about ourselves freely as if we want to make our mark in the world, but how can we do this if we stick to the small talk. Maybe it's the same for our work...how can we possibly make our mark in the world of poetry if we aren't willing to dig up ourselves and write work that doesn't just look at the skin of our words, but the intestines, the liver, and maybe even the blood that pumps our hearts.

These Days I Catch Colds...not Soup

I want to write about 2500 Random Things about Me Too, but I won't. Because I'm one of those people that give in to what I feel like doing which is sometimes nothing. It's good stuff though, that poetry. I liked it; thought of all us 13 year olds on Facebook writing about ourselves. So here's a snippet of what I will write about when I get to the point. Here's terrible evidence of 13 year old me infecting the internet with useless knowledge–I just looked guys! and it's gone!! all gone, erased by probably embarrassed 17 year old me at some point. What a sad day...

So, instead, I'd like to post an awesome poetry video I found by writing the words 'hidden poem' into the box of all knowing Google, our master! But seriously, not only is it cool to watch this girl do her work, but the poems are decent as well. And this pen is super impressive! (I want it!)

The lady's blog: http://arteascuola.com

I'd love to do something like this for the community poetry project, but I get the feeling that libraries and bookstores would kill me for doing this...so instead I'll stick to my poem slip with a hashtag :) So far I've recruited my best friend to help me out and I'll post photos once we got some things covered. I'm actually really excited/kind of scared.


I also just got a brilliant idea...write poetry on money! DIBS no copy cats!

Well crap...

Yeah, so I'm failing at my avoid failing...again. BLOGS ARE EVIL AND SHOULDN'T EXIST.

Just so everyone knows, as in the few people who may read this, I'm going to Squamish for the music festival :D and some Vernon talent will be there...who just so happens to be a rapper. SO Here's a Sonreal video. I think it's pretty neat that he's getting recognized more and more...kind of gives the rest of us small town artists (writers, singers, painters, etc) some hope.

The last one actually has Vernon in the film :)

Now here is my review of Disclosure:

I was excited when I bought this book...it's cover was shiny and interesting and all wrapped up in terrible plastic. I thought it was maybe going to be confessional poetry–which I love–and that Kevin has chosen something I could really enjoy.
Of course, Kevin had to do it again.

I don't think this is a terrible piece of work...I think it's a really interesting idea and I did enjoy the voyerism factor that let's us see her as the many different pieces of paper that are supposed to describe her. I just don't know if this is what I'd call poetry. It's art, I believe, but maybe not in the medium of creative written words. Why, Kevin, do you insist on us reading work that tries to defy all rules and say fuck it to the conventional styles of poetry?! Can't we just enjoy the norms for a second?

Dana Teen Lomax has a life like most mid-life aged people I'd believe. There's records from her job, her past, and even her google search results for her name. I liked this to be honest, the weird way she shows us her life but not really. I love the concept–not the placement of genre she's published it to. I mean, it's interesting, yes. It has written words. Pictures. But what makes it poetry instead of a neat art project???!! I don't know. I mean, photocopying isn't a talent. Arranging pages takes somewhat of a skill and an eye for placement but it's still not comparable to the great poets out there that slaved over there work, died, and still live on through their words. Maybe that's the saddest part of this whole 'book'; that this is an account of a life. A life that doesn't matter to me, or probably you. I get the feeling that Dana knows she isn't the next Shakespeare, or even next Dr. Seuss. This is an outside-view account of a life, and it's out there in print but still, she doesn't become anymore real to me than most strangers we read about from afar.

It leaves me questioning what it takes for one to connect to another being? Why can someone with a real talent for singing die, and we not feel the impact? Yet when Zayn leaves one direction, thousands of teenage girls swear they feel as if someone had ripped their hearts out and ate it whole? How can we, as writers, imitate that odd sense of connection people have to their idols with our writing? Can we make a character of value? Why is it that looking through a book of intimate details about one's health and work and life not bring us a sense of connection even though it's shockingly relatable?

I don't know...maybe I'm just bonkers.

I am pathetic...Poetry Cookies

So I am a failure...and I knew it would happen, I did. I suck at the blogging thing! In fact, did I ever mention that I've literally tried to blog three different times in the last few years, and everyone has ended the way this blog has: in silent failure. Even worse, is this one actually counts for something–a grade that actually has a major importance to me.
I'm going to challenge myself therefore, to win at life! Or actually just try and blog every day (maybe every second day) from now one until the end of this semester! Can I do it? Possibly! Will I? Hopefully! What are the actual chances? Pretty pathetic but still!
I don't know what it is that's so daunting about blogs that puts me off...I love writing! And I never shut up, so you'd think it'd be an epic adventure for me.
The struggle, I believe, is the realization of how many words I waste doing what I am now–blabbing. I can always find a reason why not to blog, but I find very few to justify why I should. Who wants to hear my words anyways? I mean, most days people just block me out when I talk, so why would they go out of their way to read my pure, garbage worthy ramblings that add up to very little.
I don't know. I don't know.

So here is my try, my last sprint at the race of posting a solid amount to this blog–enough not to fail and maybe even get a decent mark. And, on top of that, prove that I am capable of sticking to something for once. And I'm sorry, Kevin (if you even read this), but if I do continue with this blogging thing for some magical reason, it will slowly transform into a more prose than poem kind of thing.

Class is soon so I'm going to end this pity party with a summary of some of the ideas I've been souping up in my broth-like brain for the community poetry project (and no jacking any of my ideas people though I'm sure my classmates are very capable of coming up with much better things). I've already talked one of my friends into attacking the bookstores and libraries around Vernon with :) now I hope to convert a few more of my friends into temporary criminals (if hiding bad poetry in books is equivalent to a crime...which I think it is). On top of that, I hope to create stickers to put everywhere and anywhere I want. A little boring, right? But here's the brilliant, possibly going to fail bit that I'm excited about...

#################
yes #hashtag hashtags! I want to create a very unique hashtag to put at the end of the poems and leave instructions to upload a photo on instagram if you were one of the unlucky souls to receive my gift of words...will people do it? I have no clue! Would it be epic if they did? YES! Am I tempted to write that by uploading the photo they have an opportunity to win an awesome (non-existent) prize so that more people actually might do it?! YES YES YES! but I have not decided yet how very criminal I hope to be so the last bit may not happen :D Now, I must write some poems to put on the stickers/bookmarks/slip in graffiti pages!

Now I must also review some of the class textbooks...(which I mostly hated :O sorry Kevin, again)

Super Donair kind of Experiment (I sold all the soup)

So today in Kerry's class we looked at some cool closed cpoetry–sorry, poetry. Anyways, I really liked a lot of the forms so I wanted to quickly post what I wrote in the 8 minutes we were left to experiment with...going to work in like ten so I'm going to have to write fast, edit and add to the blog later. See, I'm that excited about trying some of these out!
Also, kind of upset because I waited on a table of eight today and managed to sell 7 of them the soup special...leaving no beef soup for me! I may have a super donair when I get back to work, and though it is not the soup for soul, it is pretty damn good. :)

Remember, this is rough!!

I have trouble sleeping,
voices crawl along pillows
leaving stains on the satin.
His red wine kisses–toxic,
arms strong and bent like bars 
and caging me to his heart.
He leaves the window wide–
to let in my nightmares.
I close my drunken eyes,
remaining wide awake.

Remaining wide awake,
I close my drunken eyes
to let in my nightmares.
He leaves the window wide;
and caging me to his heart,
arms strong and bent like bars.
His red wine kisses, toxic,
leaving stains on the satin.
Voices crawl along pillows,
I have trouble sleeping.

I will be BACK...after I work.

Beef Soup and Fresh Breadsticks

So lately I've been working like a crazy poor person (aka student) at a great restaurant in Vernon, where I not only get amazing (Actually ah-mazing) soup for lunch on split shifts, but I also get to work with some great people and SURPRISE! I love my job...
That being said, I haven't had a lot of time to go through poetry, or view other peoples blogs/write comments. I'm hoping this reading break will let me catch up, because from the posts I have seen my classmates have been posting some pretty neat things. (Not as neat as soup though, of course).

So for this post, I thought I'd talk about Anne Sexton and her poems that made me believe I may develop some interest in the genre. Anne Sexton wrote mostly 'confessional' poetry that reflected on her struggles with mental illness and her relationships. She tried to commit suicide many times, until she finally succeeded at the age of 45 by locking herself in her garage and running her car. Her story is a sad one, and her internal struggles with depression are reflected in her works. This is what initially drew me to her poetry.

I've always have had an interest in metal health, especially depression. Actually, one of my dreams, besides becoming an author, is to go back to school later on and earn a degree in Psychology. My interest began as a child due to members of my close and extended family struggling with mental disorders such as Seasonal Affective Disorder, depression, and schizophrenia. As I grew up, I had to witness my friends struggle through high school, many of them talking to councillors and being diagnosed as having SAD or depression. Of course, the answer for the doctors and councillors was to prescribe 15/16 year olds meds to 'make them feel better'. I do believe in medicine, but I'm a big advocate of not treating mental illness as diseases that can be solely biologically 'cured'. After all, I've never heard of anyone truly being 'cured' of their depression.

Now I'm rambling. Anyways, so the point is, I'm highly interested in writings not only about mental illness, but from writers who've struggled with mental illness as well. Sadly, Anne Sexton was one of those amazing artists that lost the battle. Yet, I believe her work to be some of the greatest examples I've read of examinations of the struggle with depression and how it infects more than the mind, but the body and the world around oneself as well.

Below I'll post two of my favourite poems by Anne:

Love Letter Written in a Burning Building

I am in a crate, the crate that was ours,
full of white shirts and salad greens,
the icebox knocking at our delectable knocks,
and I wore movies in my eyes,
and you wore eggs in your tunnel,
and we played sheets, sheets, sheets
all day, even in the bathtub like lunatics.
But today I set the bed afire
and smoke is filling the room,
it is getting hot enough for the walls to melt,
and the icebox, a gluey white tooth.

I have on a mask in order to write my last words,
and they are just for you, and I will place them
in the icebox saved for vodka and tomatoes,
and perhaps they will last.
The dog will not.  Her spots will fall off.
The old letters will melt into a black bee.
The night gowns are already shredding
into paper, the yellow, the red, the purple.
The bed -- well, the sheets have turned to gold --
hard, hard gold, and the mattress
is being kissed into a stone.

As for me, my dearest Foxxy,
my poems to you may or may not reach the icebox
and its hopeful eternity,
for isn't yours enough?
The one where you name
my name right out in P.R.?
If my toes weren't yielding to pitch
I'd tell the whole story --
not just the sheet story
but the belly-button story,
the pried-eyelid story,
the whiskey-sour-of-the-nipple story --
and shovel back our love where it belonged.

Despite my asbestos gloves,
the cough is filling me with black and a red powder seeps through my
veins,
our little crate goes down so publicly
and without meaning it, you see, meaning a solo act,
a cremation of the love,
but instead we seem to be going down right in the middle of a Russian
street,
the flames making the sound of
the horse being beaten and beaten,
the whip is adoring its human triumph
while the flies wait, blow by blow,
straight from United Fruit, Inc.

Wanting to Die

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. 

I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.   

Then the almost unnameable lust returns. 

Even then I have nothing against life. 

I know well the grass blades you mention,   

the furniture you have placed under the sun. 

But suicides have a special language. 

Like carpenters they want to know which tools.

They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,   

have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,   

have taken on his craft, his magic. 

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,   

warmer than oil or water, 

I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole. 

I did not think of my body at needle point. 

Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.   

Suicides have already betrayed the body. 

Still-born, they don’t always die, 

but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet   

that even children would look on and smile. 

To thrust all that life under your tongue!— 

that, all by itself, becomes a passion.   

Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say, 

and yet she waits for me, year after year,   

to so delicately undo an old wound,   

to empty my breath from its bad prison. 

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,   

raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon,   

leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, 

leaving the page of the book carelessly open, 

something unsaid, the phone off the hook 

and the love whatever it was, an infection.