On Why Creatives Must Learn to Follow Rules, Or Not

I failed one of my first creative writing classes in undergrad. 

Well, not failed, but I got a C which isn't a passing grade when the course is integral to your major. 

Integral? Well, it WAS my major.

Never mind that I took it again and did much better. 

The point is that I got a C.

Because I didn't follow the rules.

"Rules? But I got into a creative field for the lack of rules!"

Or so I thought. 

With a broken spirit

 (or so I thought) 

I retook the course with another TA and passed.

I played by the rules, used all of the required literary elements and wrote my thesis by. the. book.

Then I got out of that course and started breaking every damn rule they taught me.

Or so I thought.

I had to know the rules to break them.

Or so I think.

What do you think? Do you think art has rules?

*A project that I spent the greater part of the last 2 years, but not the last few months, developing was launched today.

I don't have any babies.
But I do have a kind of organism.
One that I bled into.
One that I spent a long gestation waiting for.
One that pained me, restricted me
worried me at night in dream, in waking
I kept at it, unwilling to separate myself
Myself someone else separated.
Today, in a city like a sci-fi movie
was born the digital babe that sucked and was severed.
To some other parent.
To a silent audience.

Happy Valentines

To a Late In Life Love, Pink

I've had a strange relationship with pink.
I never liked her, never met her.
As an eclectic, elective, inventive second girl,
I much preferred, always received, came to own
purple
blue
green.

Those last three came in dolls
They came in matching clothes
Pink for her and other for me.
As a second, of course,
Pink was for firsts and onlys.

I took pride in purple!
Boasted full of blue!
Grabbed green by the horns!
Pink and firsts deserve one another.
What they have together they can keep forever.

Repressed, Pink laid in wait.
Patient, Pink.

All in one day I grew up
into a long, pink gown.
Hi Pink.
"Hi, piano-play-ivory-pale skin," she replied.

Afterwards
I took on blush.
I welcomed watermelon.
Pale red read well.
Dark, near oranges
arranged upon me.

Finally feeling first, feminine,
I flush in a complimentary shades
of and for a late in life love.

Flip-It Friday: Honest

Source: buzzfeed.com via Jennifer on Pinterest

I don't write enough poems, you know that? I majored in Creative Writing in college and specialized in poetry. Silly. To remedy, I'm going to write this post as a poem.

...

Honest

I once had an orangutan.

Now that I have your

attention,

Confession: I lied.

Rather,

I'm so honest.

Some 

get a rise

get-our-eyes

with bright orange beasts,

whooping jungle calls spread over cicadas

like butter on a hot bagel.

I beat my chest with

silly confessional sins, with

uncharming short-comings, with

popular soap box rants, with

swear words.

"How's the view from the high horse?"

Two pageviews.

"Where is your gut?" Says the curve cave in The Bell Jar.

My gut?

My gut.

Is spread over the cicadas 

(instead of the bagel),

ripped from me by Hand of Orangutan

and sold at a loss - mostly on Tuesdays -

at answertheunaked.blogspot.com.

...

Did you know I was a beat poet, too? Surprise, I'm not black.

Oh We Got Trouble With (a) Capital Confusion

Trying not to lose my head but I have never been this scared before
Tell you what I'll do instead, lay my body down on the floor
To forget what I've done, silhouette til the good lord come
All we know is distance
We're close and then we run
Kiss away the difference
I know you hate this one
Trying not to lose your own, boxing up everything, you've got
All you ever knew of home, you're scared scared to see
Your mother there in the door, you wonder where did the years go
All we know is distance
We're close and then we run
Kiss away the difference
I know you hate this one
But this is how the story ends
Or have we just begun
To kiss away the difference
I know you hate this one
The violins make no sound
And I begin to feel the ground
All we know is distance
We're close and then we run
Kiss away the difference
I know you hate this one
But this is where the story ends
Or have we just begun
To kiss away the difference
I know you hate this one

Song Suggestion: Where the Story Ends by The Fray

For the self-titled album by the The Fray, the song above is one of the less somber sounding. It starts with a good cymbal beat and perking teeth-tickling (the ivories, the keys).

Anyone else feeling overdue for the election?

 (murmors in the crowd)

Hell. I can't even listen to some piano rock without it glazing my interpretation of the music.

Hell. Even Time magazine is spinning on it's desk chair and clicking the print button 3 times too many:

via

They have me asking, literally, "Which way's up?"

Hell.

When I was in high school I was in theatre. During dress rehearsal week of the 5th production of my 7-production-career I had a melt down. Crying in the hallway outside the cafeteria. Just overload. So ready to freaking give birth to the anticipated event that I started making mistakes. One too many sashays to the left. A beat too late on "right here in River City".

I feel that's how we are, as a nation, now. People are retracing the baseboard next to the yellow wallpaper of their beliefs. And we're wearing a hole in the floorboards people. We're losing site of how we even got in the attic.

Take heart, my fellow Unionites!

The eve of our greatest relief is upon us. In a few short/long days we'll be done with Obama-Romma-Drama and onto reporting Honey Boo-Boo's new line of wheeled sneakers called "Go-Go-Boo-Shoes."

So look forward to the new glitter-n-belly flesh-toned shoes for toddlers. But in the mean time, don't forget to sashay over to the polls and vote right here in River City.

Dear Google

Dear Google,

First you made it impossible for me to navigate Google Reader.
Now you have switched all of my blogger (a Google product) ad-ons to make it difficult to read my blog.
I hope this is just a coding mistake and not a "new feature".
I know I'm not the only one effected by whatever you did that jacked up blogger templates.

Please fix and we'll be friends again.

Sincerely,
J.Mill

P.S. I use Chrome, YOUR search engine, so I'd expect it to work with all of your products. C'mon, Google-man. I'm drinking your Koolaid. Don't bail on me.

---

A Haiku for Google


I use Google much.
Google mess with code too much.
All my shit's messed up.