the den of the muon.

(Written for Interpretation of Lit., University of Iowa. January.)

Autobiography of (an Airhead) a Reader

The textures and smells of books have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. Even now, the desk in my dorm room has a haphazard array of novels lined up behind my laptop, external drive, and copious snakes of wires; in fact, there are so many books that my friends often good-naturedly throw jibes at me. While my exposure to reading may have begun with books in the Russian language, I don’t believe my exhilaration at reading has diminished from the transition of preferred languages in my head. For me, reading remains a matter-of-fact joy and way of connecting myself to all the different walks of people who have ever lived in this world.

If a book were to be written about my own life, it would doubtlessly be a bore. However, one of the main themes would undoubtedly be reading. From the first page to the current day, it would be chock-full of such phrases as, “Ah, once again she has flipped open a book, gently running a finger down the crease…” or, “Ah, she has given up on giving precedence to homework over a good story again, the idiot.” Self-teasing aside, it seems that while children often blame parents for their own foolhardy actions, my parents really are at fault. Like me, they were and are voracious readers. I grew up munching at a kitchen table with people whose noses were constantly stuck in white pages, one hand set to page-turning and the other to cutlery. Due to such memories, it’s hard for me to define exactly what reading means to me. Like breathing or walking, it has remained an essential constant. And that is something I can only deeply thank my parents for. While such absent-minded parents (who sometimes ended up not hearing me in favor of an engaging read) were often times clumsy with their first child, they gave me the dearest gift of all: the ability to enjoy expression in written form, a true recitation of human thought and existence.

While I laud my parents an awful lot, I sometimes look back at a choice selection of their ideas and wonder what the hell they were thinking. When I was young, my mother was insanely infatuated with Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. She insisted that I, who wasn’t even out of elementary school, should read it! My mother’s enthusiasm hasn’t changed since then, except I am now considerably more mature (from my point of view) and can better appreciate the things she recommends me. In any case, my young mind greedily took it as a challenge, the biggest book I had read so far. Armed with a dictionary and scooter-accident band-aids, I still didn’t understand everything (how could I, possibly?), but it was a good experience. I look back fondly upon Jane Eyre, having reread it in more recent years, but my happy memories of struggling through it as a child remain and serve to motivate me. Another category of written work that inspires me is, oddly enough, stories written by fans. It is a category that is derided and misunderstood by many. Some people say that writing other people’s characters is a gimmick and unoriginal, that fanfiction is a weak facsimile of the real thing. It is my personal opinion that fanfiction is valid and, indeed, very difficult. Writing characters not your own requires faithfulness and skill, and crafting a story with such understanding of personality defines the ability of an author. Over the years, I have read so many amazing things written by amateurs that I can easily say they all inspired me. Just because a work has not been published doesn’t mean it is less valid; it can still be just as skillful, beautiful, and as worthy reading as any best seller from the New York Times. Reading has given me an appreciation of the published and unpublished, the refined and unrefined, and I think it has also given me a greater understanding of the beauty humans are capable of.

Proper Methods of Sleeping
by Eve (Julia)

1. Never fail to take off glasses or other uncomfortable material appendages. They will disrupt your deep, procrastinating sleep and such a thing is unadvised to any student at any scholarly level.

2. Learn how to sleep-txt. Your phone will undoubtedly go off with vibrations, loud beeps or bright lights at least two times during your valuable sleeping time. Learn how to wake up just enough to send a partially conscious message before dropping back into the depths of the beyond.

3. Paste distressing optical illusions on all the walls surrounding your bed. You will have no choice but to sleep.

4. Make a proper body cocoon with the blankets. From now on, you are a caterpillar. This is a very important part of sleeping properly and getting the most out of the time you sleep, whether it be four hours or 10. If you do not like tucking the blankets around you, learn to like it. There is no other proper way to sleep.

5. Do not spend money on a punching bag or stress-relief squeeze toy. Your pillow will suffice. Learn to let the hate seep away with violent night attacks on your pillow. No one will be hurt, though this must be timed correctly and neither too late or too early for anyone to observe the crime.

6. You are a caterpillar and all sleepwalking, if need be done, must be done in a cocoon. There is no other proper way to sleepwalk.

7. You will not be a beautiful butterfly when you wake up. That is a lie. The proper method of sleeping involves hanging your head over the side of the bed, creasing it and looking as outrageously diseased as you possibly can upon waking up. This is particularly useful to students.

8. Sleep is not a restorative process; rather, it is simply a way of putting off anything you have to do. The proper method of sleeping does not let anyone convince you otherwise, and the only time to sleep must be with that intrinsic truth in mind. Sleep may be entirely arbitrary based on your tasks.

9. The proper method of sleeping involves keeping a self-responsibility of staying nourished and hydrated during the time of hibernating procrastination. Keep small snacks and water by the bedside at all times. Having to trudge towards a refrigerator during the night is outlawed by the proper methods of sleeping. Crackers and other loud, crackly foods are recommended. They are annoying and will test the proper sleeping methods of everyone else around you.

10. From now on, you are a caterpillar.

pd. 4, --> yon, shi [death]

dylan thomas exercise

He sits beneath the snowpiles beneath the icicles - the humming thrum of silence, the quiet murmur of men is off in West Easthampshire; the snow drips pink and blue delight and he digs fingers into the wet earthy dandelions; they open their faces to the sun in weedy glory with roots copulating under the earth, winding and twisting round each other, round and round, singing - the piper plucks a dandy lion, whistles through it, and places into it his hungry hands. The snow is like candy on his tongue and perhaps, perhaps perhaps he should head west to Easthampshire where the ladies stream water off their balconies like skimming cream, but for nowtime he will crouch here under the overhang.

Treatment for Episodic Television

TITLE is a half-hour situation comedy which concerns the plight of two researchers from a distant future who, through their own folly, have become trapped in 19th century England. In the future, the Earth has become a focal point of a megastructure that encompasses the Milky Way and several smaller surrounding galaxies. Due to the Earth itself becoming more and more uninhabitable with time, human civilization has settled out in space. Life has, of course, adapted, and therefore is not very different from the trends that have defined humanity for the whole of its existence. However, ethnicities have largely mixed. The two researchers, Annabelle (Abe) D. Danzo and Patrick Menny, are exceptional in the field of astrophysics. As they are given free reign by the Interspace government for their pet projects, Abe and Patrick become particularly enamoured with exploring one thing that has evaded the scientific grasp of humanity so far - time. Through a wildly explosive mistake that obliterates any evidence of their research, the two men find themselves somehow transported to a remote field in 19th century England. Both astonished and terrified by what they have accomplished, the two attempt to fashion a way home in a world that is largely treating them with hostile intent.

CHARACTER DESCRIPTIONS:

Annabelle (Abe) D. Danzo
While a respected figure within the scientific community, Abe is nevertheless covertly teased because of his first name. He had a normal name as a very young child; however, he was such an annoying presence that his father, in a fit of righteous fury, legally changed the boy's name to Annabelle. Thirty-four years later, Abe has not changed much. He is 36 years old, hailing from the small planet commune Yorkland in the far right reaches of the Milky Way. Abe fought his way through the education system and, eventually, bullied his way in to the elite scientific university on a full scholarship. Somewhere along the way, due to an incident he never mentions, he became involved with the Interspace government. At age 24, he met Patrick, and the two decided to become partners. Abe is sarcastic, somewhat sadistic with the application of science, and has a reasonably loose moral center for what others would find obscene and wrong. He is extremely annoying in many situations - nevertheless, his colleagues take it with a grain of salt, due to his efficiency as a scientist. He is not married. He loves the color green to a high degree; the fact that his employee tag is tagged with red bothers him, and he spends much of his time annoying the higher-ups about this. His interns/assistants are Jalee Hu, Michael Gross, and Ben Silmer.

Patrick Menny
Much like Abe, Patrick's name can be often seen in recent scientific journals, citing various advancements. He is a bit of a Mother Bear figure to Abe's interns, who can usually be found gravitating to him whenever Abe is being particularly nasty. Patrick's usual mood seems to be a cross between gloomy and forlorn, whether he is feeling that way or not. Whenever he has a mental breakthrough, he gets very excited - often in bad places, like the street or meetings. Patrick comes from a small Irish community on the Moon, though he doesn't really care that he is one of the few people left to have a distinct ethnicity. He is 37 years old. Patrick is divorced, and has not seen his ex-wife in six years. Consequently, one reason for the divorce is that Patrick hardly spent any time at home, instead preferring to work at the laboratory. Unlike Abe, Patrick was specifically propositioned by the Interspace government for his job. When he's in unfamiliar places, he panics. Patrick mostly works with Abe's interns, but he does have Aaron Peld - an intern that, despite being brilliant, rarely comes in to the lab.

Jalee Hu
While being an otherwise sensible young woman, Jalee has been driven a bit bitter by the nuances of Abe's personality. She can usually be found bemoaning her fate around the coffee machine, or otherwise trying to avoid her boss by throwing herself into work. She shares an apartment near the laboratory with Michael and Ben.

Michael Gross
A recent university graduate, Michael is a joker who manages to keep Abe's nastiness in stride. However, this often leads him to be in bad positions with the other researchers. Due to being a ward of the state, he puts pressure on himself to be the best, and only wants approval from his close colleagues. He shares an apartment with Jalee and Ben.

Ben Silmer
Having worked with both Abe and Patrick longer than either Ben or Jalee, Ben's life has reached an easy rhythm of being completely owned by his job and his boss. It had always been his dream job ever since childhood, so he doesn't really pay this situation much mind. Ben is a bit obsessed with fixing the environmental problems on Earth, though he has never actually visited the planet. He shares an apartment with Jalee and Michael.

Aaron Peld
A brilliant underachiever, Aaron nonetheless has a job with the Interspace government. He spends much of his time at home, sleeping on his couch. Whenever he actually comes in, he usually contributes something uncharacteristically brilliant. Aaron seems to be detached from society.

---

Another Creative Writing class exercise. It'll be, um, updated as I go along, I guess.

Small things from the Writing Center today.
---

For a mere second after I jerked my gaze up from my book, it seemed to me as if the world around me was simply a moving picture, complete with sound and smell and three-dimensionality, but nothing concrete, not reality. It was one of the oddest sensations I had ever felt in my life.

*

Something of my derisive attitude about it remains, though I do think that I'm self-entitled to any rage that I express through my writing. There is much to write about. Rage is as good as any fuel to write about common things in your life that, while not being intense or shattering, are still hurtful and an itch that life has deposited on you.

*

With some people, it's very pleasant to simply let myself go. Without anything restraining me I am a wild thing, largely unconcerned for the feelings of others. When this happens, I am no longer concerned about the question that haunts me daily, that search for that something which continuously elusive and that I will never be able to find. However, there comes an inevitable depression, and so I don't let myself free very often.

*

I don't think a lack of understanding is always necessarily bad. There are probably times when it will be the worst thing of all, a murderous thing, but then at over times I feel like it can also be something powerful. Sometimes people say wonderful things when they don't understand. Someone else will have understood the significance of those words, though, and I think that defines the beauty of the world.

*

Someday I will figure out why I am so fixated on writing about deserts.

I have yet to visit one, and maybe I should make that a personal goal.

*

I think it's rather frightening that our own perceptions can fool us. (How fragile everything is, how intelligence depends on genes or the tissues of the brain or a superfluous chromosome and not the, I suppose, well, the person - and even that I wonder about. If my brain is 'me' and my body is 'me,' why is it such that it is 'the brain' and 'the body' and not the person... this is probably a very stupid thing to even think about. Leave it to the realm of philosophy.) When you look at the numbers on a digital clock and it says 1:45, you don't think that it's a very long time to 2:00 at all. But when you look at a physical clock, at the hands ticking around and the circle, it seems that 1:45 is so very far away from hands-at-12-and-2. But it's the same thing, and that's distressing. I think it's distressing that I can't master that.

---

I still can't write the things I want to write the way I want to, though. Still working.

That day was the sixth day of her waiting. It was as hot as any other. The heat of the land leaked out of the ground and blurred the air, creating a false illusion of movement. Everything was still, though; still and dry and cracked. The land itself stretched like this in all directions. Lizards lazily made their way through the scattered bits of rock upon the plateau and hunting birds spiraled overhead, searching for easy prey. The air itself was acrid.

It stuck in your lungs and stayed so for many hours.

She clambered over the rocks, swearing softly as her thumb stubbed itself in a nook and leaked red. From overhead, this place was evident as one of the great masses of rock that interrupted the smooth, sweeping plane of the land. The rocks here were dry and sore-red.

As her fingers went to the leather water canteen slung around her hips, she perched herself upon the rock. The girl drank down two deep gulps, and then corked it again. She was a child of this land, and water was sacred. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked to the west.

Heat wove its tight hold around her and the rock and everything else. The sky was a glorious blue that did not speak of rain, and the ground itself seemed to groan in agony amongst the silence. She sat still, as still as the landscape around her, and waited. It was the sixth day.

--
From an automative writing exercise. There's something I really like about these places, for some reason. I end up writing about them a lot.

3 Character Descriptions
Grandmother, boy who left for college in city, sister who's also moved away.

1) Grandmother
Name: Sarah
Age: 86
Location: Farm in Arkansas.
She folded the blanket with her wrinkled fingers, and put it aside before habit could move her to spread it over the boy's bed. She dusted the windowsill and the bedside lamp and propped open the window with the wooden stop that lay on the floor beneath it, so that all the dusty air in the room could escape and be replaced with sunlight. The sunlight glistened over her white hair and shined on the few black strands that remained and, when it hit her hunched body, made her look a bit younger, a bit more capable. Her nose was crooked at the bridge like it had been broken and then healed badly and her glasses sat straddled on that bridge, a kind in which you have to peer down through special lenses to be able to look below. After she had folded and dusted, she sat down by the powder blue phone and waited for the call. May stood in the doorway and watched her.

2) Brother (Grandson).
Name: Thomas, Tommy, Tom
Age: 18
Location: New York University, New York City, NY.
He moved his fingers over the taut strings and the melody came out short and slightly melancholy. The edges of the guitar cut into his thighs where they were loosely covered by the sports shorts and the rough cut of his black hair strayed and tangled in front of his eyes. The last note stretched and snapped like the curt tone of a call in waiting. The boy stood up and put the guitar into a corner by the wardrobe, where it was cushioned by the thick padding of discarded clothes on the floor and the sterile-looking comforter protruding through a side cabinet. Warm air drifted through the large, open window and the cheap pinwheel his roommate, Jake, had taped to the glass whirred and spun in a blur of red. Noises of the city drifted in and for a moment he basked in them, loved them, remembered that that was what had called him here in the first place, not the nature thrum of the Arkansas life. He was tall and solidly-built and for a second he looked down at his cell phone on the table, as if thinking about a tiring obligation he had to fulfill. An addressed envelope lay by it and a sheet of paper, erasure marks cutting deep into each other and into the white plane, lay by it. Then the young man shook his head and strode out of the room and headed to the basketball courts in the heart of the sprawling city.

I'm happy that you guys like my writing. This is an exercise for my Creative Writing class that I'm currently working on. :)

The first 10 people to comment on this post get to request a drabble (real drabble: 100 words exactly) from you. In return, they have to post this in their journal and write a drabble for you. Post all fandoms you're willing to write for.

Go ahead, request. I'm not following the strict 100 rule (that's boring) - don't know if I'll get ten, either, but that's not the limit for me. You can request more than one.

I'm willing to write for... a lot. I dunno, hit me. If you want a specific idea written, too, put it into the request and I'll do the best I can.

(No one's forced to do this in return.)

Night falls and the dust-storm wails in anguish, the land crying and billowing, tearing and spreading itself in all directions like skin torn under strain.

There must have been something. Nothing happens without a cause.

They sit in separate rooms and eat separate dinners and watch separate television. I do not speak of the rich family or the poor, but the one in the middle with the cozy house and the single television and the worn-down dining room table. That family doesn't exist, because everything is separate now, all on different spokes of the same wheel.

Father's Wife sits in the kitchen, and watches. The man on the screen says, "But I do not want to die," and the rigid woman answers him, "No one wants to die." That is the sort of thing Father's Wife watches with eyes glued to the screen. The pad of the kitchen counter chair is threadbare.

Father stretches out on the plush couch and watches apocalypses. Futility and desperation and fantasy and things that could never happen, just as much as Father never lived his dream. The man on the screen says, "No, no, one second more!" and I am sure that is what Father said when the test came to an end.

Brother curls his small body on the plush chair in his room and watches cartoons. He is still young, but already heading off an a different path; that is inevitable. Brother watches everything, but he pays the most mind to the things with story, and I believe that Brother might come out the best of us all. He will illustrate the stories in his heart.

Brother's Sister sits here.