Textual Orality

For my final piece and project,  I will be going back to Tisa Bryant and Douglas Kearney.  With tha being said, I would like to return to the idea of textual oralilty. So to jump back a few weeks to the AMAZING Bath house events, what is textual Orality? For me, it's not just the meaning of the word but it is also the sounds of the words. It's the word play that you seemingly forget to write about in your work when you are trying come with when you are trying to write these masterful pieces about whatever it is we are supposed to write about or whatever we are trying to write about, but w loose the sounds of the words as they roll off the tongue. The images given when words are spoken, said, shouted, sung. The Prosody and Musicality of the sentences structure. Speed, pace and pauses. Sorry I started singing these words in my head. That's just Jason right. But anyway, back to Tisa and Douglas, Kearney used his words and sentence structure along with music and voice to make sense of struggles within the African American community. Bryant does the same, while describing the images of paintings and film. Truly bring picture to life. So what does this have t d with teh final project? Mainly what i would like to do is bring teh text I have written to life with Oral tradition, using music and words t bring my piece alive while still answering a very simple question, What is the space between life and lifelessness? Stay tuned to the answer.

Identity with Stein

"I am I because my little dog knows me"
Gertrude Stein is asking the question of what makes up identity. To me, she is going back and forth on what it truly means to have. "Thank you for the name. Thank nobody for the same" is a way of stating that names are a huge part of our identity. Names make up probably half of who we think we are. This is a reason for people who do not like their name to actually change their name legally. Sometimes, people try to predict what name goes with what face and what personality. I can honestly say, I've considered many Andrews to be douchebags, mainly because of who they are and what experiences I've had in the past dealing with Andrews. It's also a big reason why I have to write people's names on their cups at Starbucks, to recognize the customer as an individual. Isn't that what Identity is all about? Being an individual is what identity strives to do. The quote from her text, "I am I because my little dog knows me" is a slap to the face of identity because she is saying it really doesn't matter if you think my identity is important because I think it is and so does my dog. That is all that matters. She is stating that we need to look past what everyone else is looking at in terms of identity and we need to look within ourselves and only care what we think, no one else. Identity is the Human mind.

Please help with my poem Feedback is lovely

I plant my Semiology deep within her vast shell
It's weak, flimsy, brittle stability shakes the laced bridge
I give him a quick glance into the hollowed, empty library.

My photographs are the only way I can show you the grayed images in my head
As your photographer, I show you your rainbow,
The curl of your lip, thin lines of beige and brown,  penciled in by needle point
The slant of your nose as it drops off the slopes of Mt. Fuji into the white, fluffed snow
The corners of your pale eyes, pink like the pattern of the flamingos woven fur
Blues irises, seemingly mimicking coral reefs and sapphire stones entangled in jade green vines
Ungrown golden locks, superman jheri curls tightly wrapped around spools of thread
Un-molded red clay, lumped and still awaiting for the frail, bone dry fingers to work in their own fallacies

I have no fallacies to teach,
I choose not to impregnate your mind
As my father penetrated mine
It was his light bulbs I carried for 9 months
Until I birth his ideas from my lips
And love it as my own

1.
Careful!
Small repetillian frames crave attention
Cord fed like corn bread reduced to it's roots
Tiny Tim's heart was more stable
Girls still press their moist lips to the dry, dirty paper of cigarettes
My Life, My lungs is a poor Philosophy
Especially when you've created another Adam's Eve
You allowed his slick snake to slither in and take your apple
Yet God blessed you rather than sending his locused wrath
We do not blame you
It's not your fault you were late

Dos.
Duck fingers and webbed feet
We see Italy above your eyes
Questions of ethical value not at a ponderence for most
Still, stillborns stale a mother's sternum
"Can I live" is your soundtrack
Mother it is not too late
I am not too late
Because " You know I'd fall apart without you, Don't how you do what you do
Cuz everything that don't make sense about me, makes sense when I'm with you"
Lifelives

Three.
Mother it's decision time
Vaccum seeled death
Sharp needled reasons may stab through my experiences
You've already started to show through that loose cover up
Passions and dreams are too cliche to understand what I am begging for
See, 10 and 10 is 20 See!
I am already smart and I already have those
Please don't allow the slip of a thing rubber shaft that you thought ruined your life, ruin mine
Please

4.
I had to make the decision that was best for all
Accidents are like freckled elephants on unicycles riding down the wrong side of a one way
Their danger is as real as a time bomb explosion
They are 9/11 attacks
That happen everyday
Work places fail to compensate
Most call you fat
Just because your ankles resmemble Thanksgiving dinner and the days of leftovers after
Body image Body image
It taunts like little school childern picking on the disabled at recess
Why can't you be more like Beyonce
Or did she choose the Kim Kardashian route?
Childern can be so mean
So why would I want one?
I had to make the decision that was best for me
So you lived

5ive
Our heartbeat has become one as you feed me your meals

Gertude Stein Part On

So Not So funny story, my very indepth article on Gertude Stein did not post properlly and was erased... That'ls So Gertude

Anyway the show must go on.

World Famous Gertude Stein writes the book, The Geographical History of America,  a book clearly about teh differences between the Human mind and Human nature. Human nature is repesented as instinct, traits that both humans and anmals share. Human Mind is represented as intellect, things that only humans can do. So a good example of this would be, breathing is human nature whereas writing is the human mind. All animals need to have the ability to breathe, this comes standard with our DNA, however humans are the only animals that have the abilityto write which turns itinto a human mind trait, intellect is a human mind trait.
Stein states "What is the diffeence between remembering what has been happening and remembering whats has been as dreaming. None. Therefore there is no relation between human nature and the human mind." Here she is saying there is not difference between dreaming and remembering and they both fall under the human mind. I feel this is just her weird way of giving us lists and examples of how human nature and the human mind are not connected. Same goes for the quote, ";Human Nature does not excite me but it makes me nervous. Therefoe hman nature is like the great war, it makes you nervous. It is not nevous but it makes you nervous. And as it makes you nervous it has nothing to do with the human mind." Here she is saying nervousness is not a human mindtrait, the human nature has this trait as well. More so she is dispelling the myths fwhat is actually human nature and what is the human mind by comparing dogs to humans and allowing dogs to have humanly trait as they typically do.

Blog remodeling

Just tk let everyone know this blog is currently under construction and I woll be posting again on monday with redo post from before with more information

Bath house

Last Wednesdays I opportunity to attend the bath house event with Douglas Kearney and Tisa Bryant.  They spoke on the connectionetween text and oral. This was an amazing display of what text and oral can do. Douglas displays a fun energetic performance brimg his words alive over song and lyric. Tisa uses images and the film to bring her texts to life. She also is talking about the talking book and tactile experience.  It is a root to a  analytical thinking on African American lit.  Douglas spoke on contradiction and power. Hiding in plain sight, double language.  Soul music as a contradiction. That is taking the lyric and text and putting the vocal to change the meaning. I found it interesting that Douglas finds it upsetting when people only get his work when he reads the work. This is why it is important for this text to merge with the oral

My ideas on transgenre

What is transgenre to me?
For me, transgenre is the the ability to set outside the box.  We, as human beings,  often must have the  ability to label. Labels allow us to class. Classification allows us to discriminate. Discrimination allows us to pedestal.  This is a continuous process of the human race.  We constantly look to be able to place things into boxes. Without order there is disorder. Disorder leads to disorganization,  which leads to chaos. As writers we have to ability to stand on that very thin rope we call order and chaos. Our generation has taken huge steps forward in the process of literature.  No longer are we writing in these five paragraph forms. Stories no longer beed a beginning,  middle and end. Character introductions are no longer necessary.  Text are allowed to have holes in them.  The plot is not going to be evident,  you MUST find it for yourself, and evidence might not be the same as their evidence. So far in this program I have read the insane styles of Kathy Acker, the broken narrative of Tea Oberht, the all knowing language of Gertrude Stein and the careful thinking of Jeannette Winterson. Each of these text, among many more have forced me to look at words and meanings differently. I had to detached meaning from words. I've learned ekphrasis style of writing.  Writing so that the words can try and emulate the picture.

The idea behind project 2

My second project is about life and death but more importantly, it is about time. The time continuum has been broken within this text as well as the narrative.  The bases if the story is about my relationship between my grandmother and myself.  However the story starts  at her funeral.  This is a third personnstiry however the second person aspect is added by way of flash back scenes where the reader is put in the driver seat to feel the emotion I felt during other events in my life. The reall kicker is when you transition from the funeral to the death bed because the story is being told in reverse. This allows the reader to ease the pain.

Kathy Acker

•Kathy Acker
The Killers

•By Jason B. Crawford

•Kathy Acker

•Born: April 18, 1947
New York City, United States

•Playwright, Novelist and Essayist

•Wrote on Naïve Realism, Sex- Positive feminism, Post Modernism, etc.

•Died November 30, 1997 (Age 50)

•What is Naïve Realism?

•Naïve realism is the idea that we can display the images in head through text.

•We tend to have the believe that there is a word mirror between reality and what we think

•This is not true

•The Killers
Three Parts to One Story

1.The Conversation- With Bob Gluck and Kevin Killian about what book should Bob read. 

2.The Memory- About her childhood and meeting her cousin for the first time

3.The Dream- Searching for her father or any information about her father

●

4.The Connection- Is the narrative

•Questioning Narrative: Rethinking Realism

•Other Notable Works

•Great Expectations (1983)

•Blood and Guts in High School (1984)

•Hannibal Lector My Father (1991)

•My Mother: Demonology (1994)

•Bodies Of Works: Essays (1996)

•

•

The First Page of my project 1

: "Who's Daniel?" The crowd looked around, soft murmurs of contemplation filled the air. No one could answer the question. "I'm Daniel," I said as I raised my hand. "Are you ready to give your report?" Dr. Linda Schultz asked. "Yes", I replied, slightly hesitant, mostly nervous. I started walking towards the front of the class, staring at blank faces. They had no emotion, nor knew who I was. To them, I was the kid who sat in the back of their Gender and Sexuality 104 class, never spoke, not even a sound. No one knew I was even there. Today however, was report day and I had to give my report. This was the longest walk I've ever had, or at least it felt like it. My report was done and I was pretty proud of it. I rehearsed it at least a thousand times in my dorm. So why am I so nervous?

 I finally reached the front of the room. "You have 5 minutes to speak on your topic." She had a stopwatch in her hand, "the timer will start when you start to speak." My heart dropped, my feet melted into the floor as my mind froze. ‘Deep breaths Daniel,’ I had to remind myself, ‘deep breaths.’ I started to open my mouth, as I did the blank faces became visible. I could see the judgment from their eyes.  But how can you judge something or someone you don't know. They were and it was very evident.  My face became pale, the sound of the classroom dead silent. Or was it? I slowly looked around only to see snickering voices that I couldn't hear. "Daniel,” a faint voice started to fade in, “Daniel.” I looked over to Dr. Schultz. “Daniel, class is almost...” She looked at her watch, “over. Okay class we will start with Daniel’s report on Monday.” She turned to me, “Be ready next Monday or I will dock you points.” I hurried through the halls, covering my face of embarrassment. I dare not look them in the eyes. Even without looking at their eyes, I could feel the judgment in their glare. The kid who froze up in class, forgot how to speak. That idiot kid who for his lines, who dropped the ball. No, I couldn’t look my peers in the eyes. Funny thing is, the souls that stared at me were not even people in my class. These people had no idea of my stage fright or my humiliation form class, still I could feel them judging me. I kept my head down until I had completely escaped the campus, not even stopping at my dorm to see if my roommate was there.

 As I drug my feet across the busy streets of Downtown, I saw a man sitting in front of a building. His clothes tattered, his hair looked like unkempt ball of yarn that had been thrown in the bottom of grandma’s purse. He had a sign made out of  old, soggy cardboard that read, "Homeless- please spare food or change". His face looked depressing and lifeless.  This man had nothing. I dare not stop, he would beg me for money. Why not just get a job? Besides, I was already late meeting up with Mary Rose, no doubt in my mind she would be upset. I walked up to the jagged picket fence ready for the wrath of my girlfriend. The chime of her doorbell sent an unfamiliar chill down my spine. The door slowly creped open. "Sorry I'm late babe." I quickly started to explain. "You're fine." She replied her face neither mad nor sad. She looked tired, not physically but mentally, as if she had something on her mind that was killing her inside. Some kind of emotional turmoil that would not allow her to sleep. Her long black hair split at the ends, dyed once too many times, a mess not like the usual up kept and stylish way. Her nails often painted now bare, her skin seem dry. Mary, standing about five eight usually, today hunched over to a five-six or five-five. She sat on her couch lifeless, without makeup to hide her tired eyes. She wore a baggy sweatshirt I had never seen before, it looked used, a male size large. Most likely her dad’s, seeing he attended our school years before. It had a few grass stands from a possible football game from back in the day. 

so I creative writing major and this is my blog