Monthly Archives: November 2005

It’s November 2nd

And I haven’t started my novel for NaNoWriMo yet. It’s almost Nov. 3rd actually, so I guess tonight I have to get going.

Plus I have homework, but grades are nothing!

see yuns later.

I figure I have to write about 2000 words a day to win this thing now. Or complete the challenge, anyways. Wish me luck.

Somebody Said…

Somebody once said,

“There are two kinds of people in the world, those who walk into a room and say, ‘Okay, here I am,’ and those who walk in and say ‘Oh, there you are.'”

I saw it on a quote site, but can’t find it again, so there you are. I think it’s interesting what this says about people. Sometimes I feel like I’m one, sometimes the other. It’s impossible to put someone in either category all the time, but we are always either one or the other.

Also we have words today:



These words are pretty opposite in their connotations, although thanks to the tv show, felicity has a certain connotation of a pretty, curly-haired, hare-brained female.


I think I’m going to make this a regular Wednesday thing.
“Words of Wednesday” Or “Wednesday’s Weekly Words” or something else like that.

Sonnet III

Sonnet III
On Becoming Aware of Death

Maybe it was the year the Challenger failed
on TV, maybe the year they showed the standing
man in front of the tank, his hand pale
against the olive-drab paint in the square in Beijing

and he refused to move. He’s crushed under
tread and they showed clips on the news
for a week, or maybe two, but over and over
again. These were not it, but I still had curfew

at dark, and my parents watched ABC
because they knew and trusted World News Tonight
with Peter Jennings. It was the night he
showed the men kneeling down blindfolded in line

and said something about gross images,
then black and white exploding blood and heads.


Yes, it still needs work. Especially in the metrics. But it is much farther along than how it started out:

I think it was fourth grade
the year the Challenger failed
or maybe later, the man standing
in front of a tank, unmoving, slowly
crushed down under treads in Beijing.
They showed these on the news, but
these were not it. It was when,
on ABC (my parents were Jennings’ fans)
they showed the men, blindfolded, on
their knees, lined up straight, heads bowed,
hands tied, grainy black and white,
each shot in the back of the head
by his own AK-47-wielding executioner,
that I knew Death’s face.

Which not only poorly fits the form, but also makes a poor poem, being circuitous and too laden with my own realization when it is so obviously stated in the title. Plus, ‘Death’s face’ sounds trite to me. Also, anyone who has seen these clips will recall them in detail without my forcing those details on them. The final image in the current revision is sudden and shocking, definite, while the last line of the draft is unoriginal and forgettable. That final punch is important to this poem, and reinforces the impact seeing this clip had on me. It made me throw up, all the dinner I had just finished into the toilet, and I felt sick for some time.