having achieved cheeseballness I'll now return to work, or something

You are Form 3, Unicorn: The Innocent. "And The Unicorn knew she wasn't meant to
go into the Dark Wood. Disregarding the advice
given to her by the spirits, Unicorn went
inside and bled silver blood.. For her
misdeed, the world knew evil." Some examples of the Unicorn Form are Eve
(Christian) and Pandora (Greek). The Unicorn is associated with the concept of
innocence, the number 3, and the element of
water. Her sign is the twilight sun. As a member of Form 3, you are a curious
individual. You are drawn to new things and
become fascinated with ideas you've never come
in contact with before. Some people may say
you are too nosey, but it's only because you
like getting to the bottom of things and
solving them. Unicorns are the best friends to
have because they are inquisitive.

Which Mythological Form Are You?
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which reminds me I should get back to the poetry revisions

You are naturally born with a gift, whether it be
poetry, writing or song. You love beauty and
creativity, and usually are highly intelligent.
Others view you as mysterious and dreamy, yet
also bold since you hold firm in your beliefs.

What Type of Soul Do You Have ?
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I suppose this sort of thing only happens because WA wasn't an option *sigh*

Oregon is a nice place, isn't it? Yes, it is. You
should live there. So should I. As of now
it's not crowded, but you never know. So
ummmm, ok...Oregon....yeah.

What State Is Perfect For You?
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'Home..., or something like it' revised

a house built into the side of the top of a hill outside the city limits of a fairly average town with a Norwegian name barking of a dog who fell asleep two summers ago with a needle in his vein and never woke up again a graveyard on a hill by the Pacific where the sun sets like a postcard picture and the stars looks like pin pricks where magic leaks into a world that needs more the town that curls around Liberty Bay and the coffeehouse that hangs over the boardwalk; the comfortable, maddening trap of town and coffeehouse soccer-mom mini-van breaking speed limits and blasting Brit-Indian techno entering the homes of my friends without knocking because to do otherwise would be unnecessary two girls with the same name, Sara(h), one the mother of hearts, one a reader of souls a girl who is my opposite, "Jazz," my negative reflection, Lilith to my Mary, of Janus because we are cannabis in the backyard with sweet peas, lilies, dahlias, and climbing roses, mosaic goddess dances motionless in the center, fresh eggs from nagging chickens crumpets from scratch, acid coffee, French onion soup by the light of saint candles (I cut all the onions without shedding a tear, she did everything else, and looked like the Madonna) clouds of brightly-colored paper cranes, a yellow submarine, huge finger-painting, and sunset, all floating overhead two bookshelves of fiction and poetry, alphabetized by author, or editor, if it's an anthology an easel, made of scrap wood by my father when he was an art student, too large and awkward to accompany my own scholastic voyage blanket of pin-pricked night sky beneath five bright Tibetan prayer flags when my roommate is silent, by which I mean, when she is absent the smell left in a clay-colored sweatshirt that I wore to sleep every night when I slept in my own bed for a change big hands, big enough for mine to disappear inside a bed that smells the way we do, not just as I do

'Cemetery & Beach' (revised)

night dancing didn’t end until the sun was rising didn’t rise until midday squirmed under the sheets until I woke you took subway lines I’d never taken before N R W names at either end of the lines chimed in my ears unfamiliar and off-tune Greenwood Cemetery seems like it should be closer to Coney Island the neighborhoods are of the same mold should have known the cemetery from all the trees in cities there aren’t room for trees among the living the catacombs will remain unopened despite plans they would have been opened for the first time in 165 years stay on the paved roads mostly avoiding the attention of security guards clearing overgrowth from low set stones when they aren’t looking watch you take pictures of stone shapes and carved records names cut in stone have outlasted the minds and hearts they signified will outlast you and me when you return to the earth and I to the ocean more graves to clear then I can manage feeling like a lost child I try to take your hand rebuked for offensive action: disrespecting the dead it isn’t hard to understand but I hope that when my body is cold I would not begrudge another some human warmth it takes so long to reach the gates my heart aches by the time we reach the street travel on to Coney Island trying to remember how to breathe without thinking about it you bought me ice cream walked barefoot to the water tried to convince me to touch dead undersea creatures it seems so much worse to me than holding hands in a graveyard ran into the waves until you stopped chasing me came back though let you take pictures of me until I was red and bashful walked on the boardwalk carrying our shoes could feel every board and nail but didn’t get splinters ate a large order of fries from Nathan’s I always forget how large a large serving is on this coast but half of a large is fine you tell me that Nathan’s is famous for hotdogs I’ve never heard of them both vegetarians anyway the only meats I missed were Polish hot dogs and pastrami smells of cooking meat make me nauseous now waiting in the train station you tickled me until I shrieked went home the way we had come

panel response

Stacy Wyatt December 2, 2003 Friday Forum Response “You really can put the cattle prod to the butt of the muse.” –David Groff The discussion panel, ‘Publishing Your First Book (and Staging a One-Person Show)’ primary point seemed to be to emphasize the value of having a community of fellow artist—particularly other writers—and the necessity of perseverance in order to succeed. These points were repeated many times and through various examples that were sometimes reassuring and sometimes somewhat gut-wrenching. One instance they spoke of that fulfilled both was of an author (I can’t recall her name) who sent out the same book for some seventeen years, while continuing to write. It is an instance that I think will stick with me for some time. It forced me as a writer to think about if I can develop enough confidence in a piece to continue to send it out after it has been rejected time and again, and also if I have enough confidence in myself to continue to produce work while a piece I believe in is being so constnatly rejected over a period of many years. The gravity of the situation is only escalated by my youth. I’m nineteen years old, seventeen years is more of my life than I can consciously remember. I only have one or two ideas that have stayed with me and that I still hold to be true to me over the last ten years, and none of those are personal creations of my own. To someone older, seventeen years, although still a long time, is not a lifetime. The idea of a writing community was an idea that seemed to have most of it’s support with the moderator, Elaine Sexton, with some back-up from David Groff. Sexton talked about her group of poet friends meeting together roughly monthly to read their poems to each other. Groff admitted to having friends read his work and the nessesity of getting honest, possibly harsh feedback. The latter seemed more to my taste, rather than having a large set of people as an audience. The audience-reader setting doesn’t appeal to me as a way to get feedback on an unfinished piece if I do not know the audience, all of it’s members, reasonably well, well enough that is to know what I think of their own writing, personality, and thought process. It comes down to this: it makes no sense to me to take advice from someone who you feel is unqualified to give it. I have a hard time accepting advice on my writing from people whose writing I don’t like, even more so if I dislike the writers they admire, while on the other hand I am always willing to listen to, and give thought to, critisism from persons who do not consider themselves to be writers if they have a literary taste that I agree with or at least have respect for. For the most part I found the panel interesting and informative. It was particularly intriguing to hear the different opinions of various author when faced with a given topic and also to see how those authors interacted with each other.

keep the stars in my ears so I can always wish if I feel like it

*cough*cough* that is all.