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poem: A Young Minotaur Learning to Rhyme

"You can always learn to rhyme well later but, unless you have that compulsive pleasure in consonant sound, to the point of nonsense, you'll never be a poet."

-Gwyneth Lewis, poet, person who has experienced depression, and author of Sunbathing in the Rain: A Cheerful Book About Depression.


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In Conversation with Richard Hornsey's "After the Bathhouse; or, In Praise of Awkwardness"

When I was shelving some journals today (yesterday, now), I stumbled across a special issue of English Language Notes (v. 45 no. 2, Fall/Winter 2007) entitled Queer Space (and there's a special issue of Social Text that I want to look at, too, called What's Queer About Queer Studies Now?). Richard Hornsey's piece "After the Bathhouse; or, In Praise of Awkwardness" raises some interesting questions for me. As I start writing, I've read about 7 of 12 pages. I will put summarizations of Hornsey's points in regular text and my own comments and reactions in italics.
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A Final Paper, or, A Generic Experiment: Epilogue, or ...

Epilogue, or, whatever you call it when a smart mentally-ill student who has issues with authority and with deadlines, and who is fed up with dragging zhirself along like this, totally cops out and doesn’t put nearly as much work into zhir final paper as everyone else in the class, because zhe’s pretty sure zhe can get away with it with this professor (just don’t tell zhir dean), but wants to justify zhir brattiness somehow (and how distracting were those third-gender pronouns I made up for myself?).


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A Final Paper, or, A Generic Experiment [version 3]

[this space represents the traditional academic paper which I am fully capable of writing, but which I simply could not be bothered to do.]

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A Final Paper, or, A Generic Experiment [version 2]

Spent a day trapped in my own head, relieved by one brief phone conversation, and no writing. It is extraordinarily difficult to care about tactics in academic writing, when one is so utterly self-centered. I’m in some kind of waiting room, metaphorically speaking, and only a very narrow slice of the rest of the world exists to me. Audience, what audience? The writer is alive and kicking (and crying, and going for walks at 3 am, and at 6 am, and spending whole days getting nothing accomplished, and playing with hot wax, and setting up a printer, and getting to the grocery store ten minutes before it closes, and fooling around with the Tarot, and
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A Final Paper, or, A Generic Experiment [version 1]


May 21, 2008

(The last line makes me laugh. No, no, don’t skip ahead. But speaking of genres. And if you don’t think it’s funny, it’s because of all the things you don’t know.)


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This Is Not a Performance: Critique of a ?Genre? (final performance)

Stage directions: I drag my chair to the front of the room, out of the horse-shoe of chairs in which the rest of the class is seated. A few minutes are spent in deciding whether to turn the projector off or if I should drag my chair to the side. Shortly, the projector is turned off. I stand on the chair.


This is not a pipe

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a poetic prelude

Some of my poetry is not intended to have any meaning whatsoever - it's an exercise in breaking down language, because language doesn't say everything I want to say anyway (labyrinthlanguage). It's fun. It keeps my fidgety mind occupied during class, while I listen with half an ear. It's stringing together words that sound ... right. Here are two poems that I thought were meaningless. The first developed meaning as I wrote. The second ... I think it has meaning, though it's damn oblique. But I think it's about continuing, and continuing, and continuing to makea certain kind of effort ...

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