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February 19th, 2007 • 7:06pm

ADDENDUM: See http://imdb.com/title/tt0416449/usercomments
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June 11th, 2006 • 4:21am
you are the rain trickling down my windshield;
i'm wiping you away but you keep coming, harder and harder.
you're pouring now; you're cracking and thundering,
you magnify, distort, and intensify the oncoming headlights,
i dance with you, between the traffic lines
(it's a waltz at first) and then a tango...
i'm just going home
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June 11th, 2006 • 4:08am
i am the apex of satire
i shred the harmony of concise thought with garbled, belligerent sallies in directions that are anything but my own.
i am the black forest and the wind rouses my branches and curled appendages;

[it is a, like-
like, avalanche.
yes, an avalanche.]

the images of snow in my mind stir memories of canal skating and ski lessons.
i am the crown prince of "inspire,"
dethroned by the illegitimate bastard son "post-modernism."
i am an exile; i was born to a vast, frigid nation with a maple leaf in its flag.
as a child i was transfused with socialist dreams; (dreams of peace and harmony).
i knelt to the queen of england: /the united kingdom/ and carried with me to school books on french grammar and conjugation.
oh canada, our home land,
strong and free,
true patriot love,
in all thy sons command.
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June 11th, 2006 • 4:03am
syntax itself has become a form of expression;
out of chaos comes the semi-colon, the parenthesis, the benevolent comma,
we break the radio static of the meandering prose into verses and couplets,
our attention spans can hardly swallow a motif
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June 10th, 2006 • 3:02am
The answers to our questions obey the principles of physics: the answers are no greater than the desire we have for them multiplied by the grace with which we seek them. The law of the conservation of mass states "THAT," and I quote: "ANSWERS ARE NOT CREATED (THEY ARE FOUND)." And thus a question is itself a lost answer. This also means that an answer we want too much or pursue too flawlessly will never be found. (Why?) The answer cannot be greater than the question.

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June 10th, 2006 • 2:51am
within the context of my trembling heartbeat,
you move like a curtain by an open window,
from my mother's dreams into my arms.
the blinding light of god behind you, permeating, running through you,
keeping you transparent and a beautiful angel white,
and yet there is a breeze outside that window,
it keeps you dancing,
(it keeps you alive).
and without this breeze you would not move towards me until your fastenings began to strain the window frame.
this breeze is the last gasping breaths of the human soul, human "nature,"
the very same that sailed columbus' ships,
and now, with every breath, this nature chokes on the technology of an age it inspired.
but that's what makes it human, only human, only mortal, only dust in the
sands of divine time, but this is what dreamers do;
we play in the sand -- we weave our fantasies from poor thread.
we make mountains out of molehills,
pyramids out of princes.
poems, out of
breakbeat hearts? or was it broken heartbeats?
a pounding rhythm to keep the time:

we are lost in a moment.
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May 29th, 2006 • 8:23am
Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.
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May 28th, 2006 • 2:54am
add white to one part, and black to the other,
lay the lighter one against the darker;

I used to sit on my roof and drink whatever liquor I could find. Sometimes beer. Once a cigar from my best friend's sister. It was an escape, I guess. I felt so much closer to god up there. Sometimes I would laugh and giggle to myself about rearranging pylon cones with ben kippley, or getting lost in minneapolis with drew berg and his astro van, or shooting a samurai movie with drew steile and pat fair; my childhood joys. I'd listen to the night air and watch the strange cars driving by the high school in the wee morning hours. Sometimes I would cry, about how I didn't have anyone to share the roof with, or my dying grandpa and his sandpaper face, or about leaving the friends, the house, and the roof. But always, I knew it'd be okay: my bare feet would get rocks on them from the shingles and the rising sun would dry my tears away.

I am nearing a crossroads and I can feel the breeze of cars rushing past me. I am closing my eyes and stepping backwards. I put my complete trust in ___. I feel the muggy smog of car exhaust crawling over my shoulders and down the back of my shirt. I can feel a tingling on my forehead as drops of sweat begin to materialize. My shirt starts to cling to my back. My head starts to feel heavy -- I get dizzy, nauseous. My head begins to ache. I remember ___. My thoughts stumble for a moment -- I don't know what I'm asking him for. I start to cry. The headache fades away. I wipe the tears away and take off my

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May 27th, 2006 • 1:34pm
let's all find something beautiful.
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May 27th, 2006 • 11:24am
I worked a 12-hour shift yesterday.

It was odd, normally I hide in the back and read novels or write poetry on butcher paper (we don't get a lot of customers). But yesterday I just stood behind the counter with my arms folded and watched the people walk by.

I was thinking about how I used to envy Europeans because of their working day -- late to bed and late to rise. The night before, there was a show about Benjamin Franklin on the History channel. It said that when he had gone to France to negotiate the peace treaty he had been disgusted by the French aristocrats because they burned so many candles staying up and wasted the "free" light of the morning.
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A Letter [
May 27th, 2006 • 11:16am
"Adam field tonight fill the freeze Door with product in freeze, And put on Advertised sing card down tonight put the case with out Date out of the case them And Clean the floor good tonight please

Have A Nice Night

Thank you
See you

&I wouldn't mind if I
were just a kite;
strung to the ground by a thread.
every fall would be worth it
I'd just close my eyes,
and enjoy the breeze.
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May 26th, 2006 • 1:42am
Three men walk into a bar. The first man is wearing overalls and reeks of fish. He takes a seat at the bar. The second man is wearing a white-collared shirt and tie. He takes a seat at the bar. The third man, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, takes a seat between them. The bartender approaches the first man.

"How you doing today, sir?"
"Not too bad, I'll have a beer."

The bartender pours him a beer and approaches the second man.

"How you doing today, sir?"
"Not too good, I'll have a whiskey."

The bartender pours the man a whiskey and eyes the third man.

"You doing alright today, sir?"

The man smiles, nods, and says:

"I don't drink."

"That's nothing to be proud of," says the second man.
"I know."

Puzzled, then, the first man asks:

"So what do you do for a living?"

The man smiles again.

"I'm unemployed."

A pause.

"That's nothing to be pround of," says the bartender.
"I know, but it has always kept me from drinking."

The man smiles, but this time he is joined by the three other men.

"Then, let's drink to abstinence."
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May 25th, 2006 • 10:12pm
There is a regular at the seafood department I work in. I don't know his name, but he is probably one of the nicest men I've ever met; every time he comes in he leaves me smiling and humbled by his selflessness. I think it's the way he kind of talks to himself.

I remember the first time he came in: I had already closed most everything down and was kind of giving him a hard time. He got something like shrimp skewers that were easy enough to prepare. I remember thinking "this guy's wife cheats on him" -- something out of nowhere that presumed the world would walk all over this guy and his kindness.

Eventually we'd had some small talk and he'd asked about college and told me that he had a son a little bit older than me, also named Adam. Again I was just kind of humbled by his kindness. I'm too shy, maybe.

Anyways, today as I was checking dates I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He was with his son (I could just tell), who he had told me all about -- he went to Missisippi State, called his hair "the swoop," etc. He saw me, too. He smiled and called his son over. We smiled, and he seemed like a nice guy. They bought our last two tuna steaks and said goodbye.

I've never in my life felt so less than whom I wanted to be. I watched them laugh and talk to each other for a few more minutes before they disappeared into the crowds of Germantown fat cats.

and then something hit me: every time I had seen him he had been buying single-portions of groceries. He had brought his son with him grocery shopping and had bought two (not three) tuna steaks. Aside from today, he always shopped alone and late at night.

and then I was a little mad at the world.
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March 10th, 2006 • 6:42pm
UNDYING NIGHTMARE has asked me to play drums for them.
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March 9th, 2006 • 9:46am
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March 8th, 2006 • 8:09pm
one minute, you are out work early with a warm spring breeze blowing through your hair & not a care in the world. the next, you're cutting your finger on a coke can while desperately sifting through a garbage can.
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March 2nd, 2006 • 3:12am
i am retiring both my livejournal and myspace.

you have 48 hours to make your peace.

with love,

p.s. I'm probably also going to create a new screen name, so if you don't think that I like you but you'd like my screen name anyways, leave a comment.
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February 22nd, 2006 • 9:43pm


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January 18th, 2006 • 11:23pm
to my loved ones, I bequeath my madness
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cowboy boots [
December 29th, 2005 • 6:06pm
Image hosted by Photobucket.com
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Alas I am free from the shackles of self expression [
December 7th, 2005 • 1:49pm
Adam Field
English 1010
December 7th, 2005
Mr. Ivey

The Language of Poetry

More than likely, like many boisterous and youthful freshmen at the University of Memphis this year, when asked to write this reflective essay I stared blankly at my English teacher, appalled by his merciless loosening of ceaseless essay prompts. I think that if many of my peers were to write of the cancerous apathy contaminating their cerebral cortexes, they would indeed be faithfully pursuing the essay prompt: to compose a reflection upon your relationship to language. Amusingly enough to perhaps claim your attention, I have referenced this collapse to introduce my interpretation of the essence of the conflict.

Evidently, there is something strangely surprising about the energetic youth instantaneously reduced to a stupor by a creative writing assignment. The law of conservation of energy states that energy can be converted from one form to another, but that it cannot be created or destroyed. Were this well-established law of physics to hold any water, it would be both a valid and a worthwhile question to ask where this youthful animation went.

It is reasonable, I think, to assert that this problem is similar to a car crashing into a brick wall at some unspecific high speed. For example, let the high initial velocity of the car represent the brain activity and general spirit of an 18-year-old college freshmen pre-essay prompt. Let the brick wall represent the seemingly insurmountably vague essay prompt.

The car approaches the brick wall with its’ high initial brain activity and general spirit (fueled primarily by the sum of the following energy sources: Starbucks coffee, Kellogg’s pop-tarts, promiscuous sexual relations, casual drinking binges, procrastination-induced adrenaline, and Tetrahydrocannabinol). The car, realizing that it does not have the ability to leap the essay prompt, reasons that its’ only fighting chance is to ram and subsequently break-through the wall/prompt. To increase initial velocity, all energy sources increase: again, Starbucks coffee, Kellogg’s pop-tarts, promiscuous sexual relations, casual drinking binges, procrastination-induced adrenaline, and Tetrahydrocannabinol all surge. Provided that the car/freshman does not blow a tire or lose control, the car continues towards the brick wall.

Now, a physicist’s consultation is not required to speculate at what occurs next. In the best case scenario the car would effectively succeed in ramming through the wall, but to label this “success” would be a gross misnomer. For, any situation that results in the utter destruction of the car/freshman could never—by the intrinsic nature of destruction—be called a “gain.”

Certainly though, not all freshmen slam into these writing prompts like English department crash test dummies. Though this essay has thus far been long-winded, it has not been aimless. These freshmen, who through some means succeed in bounding over this alleged obstacle, also do not exist as red herrings to a syllogism that all freshmen are somehow driven to crash and burn. No, these freshmen have learned to scale the walls of the insurmountable. Also, though not always necessarily largely outnumbered, they do typically exist as a minority of the student populace.

What I propose to you, as some modernists have before me, is that these freshmen drew from a creative skill set that they somehow forged in spite of the American public education system. This creative skill set—I hypothesize—is also the direct result of an early emersion in creative writing assignments, namely the art of poetry. The language, claimed by our prompt as the making of meaning, of poetry is the quintessence of creativity. I steadfastly hold to “defining poetry not as a literary genre within a set of genres, but as THE very manifestation of human imagination, the substance which all creative acts derive from,” (Wikipedia).

I look back to my 12th grade English class with Mrs. Williams at Cordova High School, where we had but two poetry assignments for the entire senior academic year. Maniacally, the two assignments were “I am” poems, poems that contradict the entire nature of poetry: for breaking the strict rules regarding the form, meter, and composition of an orthodox “I am” poem, my grade was penalized and I was asked to make another attempt.

I write this essay not to parade my own arrogant overconfidence, or to raise myself to some revered pedestal of creative ability. Instead, I contest that I was actually corrupted by my education to not think creatively, and thus when I hear an English teacher—or rather any teacher actually, because of the overabundance of writing opportunities in college—whine about the near complete lack of imagination from their pupils, I decidedly pass the buck right back to those who deprived me of further creative thought: my educators.

In closing, allow me to illuminate two potential counter-points. Firstly, the affordance of creative opportunities to honors or otherwise advanced students is not always positive, and certainly not a universal band-aid. The pace of an advanced placement or honors course is such that the primary motivation of the enrolled class is not creative expression, or necessarily assimilation of the curriculum, but academic excellence for better post-secondary enrollment opportunities. This faster paced, wider-encompassing scholastic atmosphere is incontestably not conducive to a creative mindset. Creative ground, again, is in my observation won with no aid from the educational climate.

Secondly, this paper is not intended to act as a faucet of blame for those who’ve nobly dedicated themselves to nothing other than the advancement of our opportunity. Let this essay serve merely as a reminder that when playing with a well–established institution (like that of this education system) there is no harm in hearing the devil’s advocate.

Works Cited

“Poetry” Article from Wikipedia.com, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry, the free
encyclopedia, accessed December 7th, 2005, article licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License.
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December 4th, 2005 • 4:48am
I sprinkled catnip over the christmas tree in hopes of ruining christmas.
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November 27th, 2005 • 10:00pm

dear incoming freshmen/class of 2006,

in a university with an approximate total student enrollment of 20,000 persons, your academic adviser is your worst enemy. a big, state-run school does not give a shit whether or not you maintain your academic standing or whether you make progress towards a degree. statistically, a higher graduation rate would be advantageous to a school seeking more prospective students, but the notion that they'll assume the role of your big brother or some other guardian-figure to attend to this is completely ridiculous.

at my university, during our registration visits in the spring/summer before our actual enrollment we met with an overworked guidance counselor-esque figure who basically translated our act scores into the gen ed requirements that the board of education says we have to take. then, they basically throw the pen and a phonebook-sized course directory at you and move on. the responsibility of researching your classes' descriptions, difficulty, and prerequisites rests solely with you. my objection to the system rests not in this responsibility--I think it's absurd not to expect independence from us at this age--but with the inherent catch-22s.

par example, before you're eligible to register for the next semester, you must meet with your "advisor" and have them greenlight your tentative schedule. this "advisor" must be the same "advisor" you met with in the fall. in order to find out whom my advisor was, I had to check tigerweb, call 3 people, leave two messages, and visit the college of arts & sciences. to my orgasmic delight, I found that this effort was completely in vain because my previous academic advisor had quit. coyly, the student helper there handed me a phonebook of other advisors and instructed me to pick one. keep in mind that our registration date was fast coming upon me and that the chances of me getting in the door on these small classes were evaporating. so, I proceeded to call and leave messages on every one of the advisors in the book's answering machines. eventually a couple of them called me back and told me that I should "have an interview" to see if their department was right for me.

this goes on and on, so I'm going to stop here; eventually, I made an appointment, showed up early with pages of classes I was interested in and the requirements for my degree--I'm a declared english major--and sat out her door. the dark haired ogre-bitch soon comes wandering out of her door with an empty pot of coffee in her left hand and a stupid expression on her face. she looks at me and then tells me to come in quickly so that she can squeeze me in early and have an extra long lunch break. I pile my papers on her desk and accidently knock over her stupid business cards on the floor. she stares at me. I open my mouth. she goes "so, you've got some classes you're interested in," and takes the top paper from me. I bend down and start picking the stupid business stupid cards up and before I get HALF DONE she's finished planning my spring out and spits me out of her office.

my english teacher, a graduate teacher, said it was the same at his school--a prestigious private college somewhere in the midwest--and that the runaround especially becomes fun when you're trying to drop a class at the last minute and you need their signature.

our hero, me, solved the situation by joining the honors program. benefits include early registration, private computer labs & study lounges, personal counseling, and daily new york times-es.

here is my schedule for the spring:


egg nog and coffee are a horrible, disgusting combination.
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November 8th, 2005 • 10:39pm
my lust for adventure is out of control
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October 19th, 2005 • 2:30am
This smartass essay probably isn't going to seem so funny in the morning, when I'm smashing apart my alarm clock.
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