[post (post post)]

Allow me to rescind my previous blog-title. But really, did anyone else expect that? The capacity of Boston teams to work themselves out of playoff deficits and win the largest comebacks in history never stops amazing me (i.e. Red Sox, what was it, three or four years ago?). I won't even ask if they deserved it.
Also, let me take a quick moment to deter anyone from believing I'm too much of a cynic (that is, for leaving the game early). No, it wasn't pessimism that drove me away, but my enthusiasm for POETRY (or in this case, playwriting) that brought me towards the blog. Any way, I'm late for my job.

For those of you Boston fans also too depressed to watch a twenty point spread after the first quarter...

I'm working on getting a pic of my desk. Not like it's anything you haven't seen before -- standard BC ignacio issue, I've fixed so many of these things on the job that I wake up and check my own drawers for loose screws. On an order in the mods today I found a digital camera (thanks again to hungover and exorbitantly wealthy seniors abandoning everything that's not in their pockets on graduation day). It doesn't have a wire, so as soon as I can buy one I'll post pictures (I know, I know, you're all waiting).
In the meantime, I'm offering a play. It's relatively short, a one-act. I wrote it in Scott Cummings' Playwriting II last semester, and I think Katie's the only one who may have seen it. Let me know what you think, I'd like to send it out to have it read sometime soon. It's a first draft, so I'm especially interested in hearing what needs teasing out.

Thanks,

Liam

[post post]

the draft will be on my google-doc thing (through theatticoffice) soon

River

...aka, What I Do Instead of Looking for a Job. Rain = Flooded Meremac. Usually, people live in that bus. And, I guess I found another desk option.

Also, Kyra: love the story ideas! Tom: really enjoyed the start of your story, I commented on it on docs. Can't wait to see more from everyone!

Desks

...aka, What I Do Instead of Writing.

I have three desk options. Some might call me an over-achiever, some might call me indecisive. I call me master procrastinator, and I will post the options here.

Secrets are Hard to Title

There’s this secret I have. It’s an ugly secret, an ugly black secret with yellow teeth and bloodstained claws. I would never dare speak it in a room filled with writers. They would gasp and faint, dig up the bones of Emily Dickenson and stab me with them.

You are all writers, but luckily you are also all at a safe distance. And I bet few of you know the location of Emily’s grave. That is why I feel safe in admitting: rhythm and meter are not my friends.

There now. The worst is over. Let me explain. Many sonnets ago, in an iambic pentameter far removed from my present ill-formed free verse, I was a student at Boston College. As such, I was required to take an art class. I chose music; I am a fool.

“Wait,” you say, “music class is the easy way out. Professor McGrann plays you some CDs, you tap your foot along to a couple of jazzy numbers, and you get an A.”

Wrong, my writer friends. When I tap my foot, I look like a lunatic. I can not find a beat to save my life or my GPA. I am deaf to rhythm and meter.

So there, now you know the whole unsanitary business. It will be no surprise, therefore, when you read my latest attempt at a poem. If it helps, picture me rapidly and randomly tapping my foot when you read it. Because I certainly did when I wrote it.

http://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=dc8dd77d_11gq3pk4gz&hl=en

P.S. Kim, I love everything I write and I am awesome. Yeah, I’m great at poems and making them sound good. I also play the piano well and am considering attending Julliard. [+10 writer points]

filling up blog space just to contribute

Hey everyone -

Sorry I'm dead weight. I've decided that the apropriate way to deal with my structure-less existance is to flee - to my friends' beach houses and then new york (tough life, I know). So I haven't been excessively productive.
However, something about the Amtrak route between Providence and New York (I dont even live in Providence. I don't get it either) made me feel very existential and literary, and so I wrote down story ideas (but then I took a nap before elaborating on any of these story ideas). I thought I'd share them with you, since I have no other content for a post, and I like the sound of my own typing:

1. (this is inspired by a sub-plot of atonement and is a little dark/twisted): A victim of sexual abuse from her southern neighborhood ends up growing up and marying the guy.

2. you know how the nephews of hitler all made that pact to never reproduce? Imagine the next hitler has a kid. He makes the same pact with himself. and then he falls for some chick he meets on a train.

(... ok theyre both a little weird so far, and, now that I look at it, are combining love and sex with something dark and sinister. Huh. Don't read into that).

So now that Im posting this, maybe I'll feel obligated to follow through. Good work, everyone!

PS. Im still trying to figure out how to access google docs. I'm easily baffled.

almost back in action

Hey y'all, figured out that you probably couldn't access the docs I had put up before so I have now glutted my folder on our shared Google Docs. Have to run right now, but I'll update soon. It's been a bit of a hostage situation over here (think: 95 degrees, no AC, no internet (at all), no phone, no alarm system, no mail service, and barred from physically leaving the house waiting for AC repairman...vicious cycle).