Stacy Wyatt 1-27-04 Creative Non-Fiction Fact and fiction are often presented as clear opposites. They are, however, far more complicated than black and white defining either end of a spectrum. More often they are a matter of degree, a way of showing comparison, as one might see a gray, a gray lighter than that gray, and darker than a third gray. Upon further inspection, taking the palette of grays into another room with a brighter, more revealing light source it may be found that one of the grays is vaguely yellow, another—barely, but most definitely—pink tinted, and the third is in fact a pale mint green. If you present these newly revealed colors to a colorblind friend they will see it in their own way. They may be able to tell the difference in colors. Depending on the severity of their colorblindness may be able to tell you what the colors are, though you will remain uncertain of what the difference between your green and theirs is. (Although, if you think about it, there is no guarantee that green or any other color is processed the same way by any two brains… You get the idea.) But back to the supposed grays: these vaguely related shades could continue to reveal even more deviation from each other as they are more closely examined, a process that, with a growing collection of technologies for magnification, separation, and revision, could continue indefinitely. This continual branching out of the “known” is the elusive reality behind the terms of “fact” and “fiction.” Having at this point basically devalued the fore-mentioned terms in the realm of theory, I’d like to point out that that there is still an area of conflict within my own mind and beliefs based on the question of what constitutes fact, as I’ve stated this isn’t necessarily the sort of title of judgment that has a clear, sharp border or exact guidelines for either distinction. Through this crucible items have been judged on either side that may seem in general appearance to have been misjudged. I think fact has more to do with the kind of truth you can put a capital “t” in front of; it’s a kind of truth I’m not even sure I believe in. I do believe in relative truths, that they may in fact even point at a Truth. Regardless of any other person’s values and judgments, I have tried to weigh truths of my own. A mixture of fact and fiction can at times fulfill the necessities of pursuing truths far more than bare facts alone. Fiction allows for examinations of points of view and reasons behind events that we cannot know absolutely, but that may allow us to understand events and actions in a new light, which regardless of weather or not they are True, do allow for an expansion of possibility within our perspective of what the facts may be. If Truth cannot be known the next best thing may be expanding the possibilities we allow ourselves to entertain. With the expansion of possibilities we allow ourselves, comes a secondary function: the necessity of reevaluation items we had previously judged as true or false, tucked comfortably away in cubbies of fact and fiction. Therefore with constantly expanding possibilities there comes a need for constant reevaluation of what we believe we know, and so even our truths are only possibilities. Hence there is no Truth and truths are never left unquestioned, at least not in an ideal state (an ideal state which by definition is not the standard reality for the mass of humanity.) Definitions of fact, fiction, and truth are games intellectuals play while the rest of the world lives. They are questions for everybody; we write and live as if we were sure of our half-answers.

Leaving is better than staying if you know you're miserable where you are. Staying out of cowardice is no good. Fear that there's nothing better is cowardice. Seek improvement for yourself. It's not as if you were leaving so much behind anyway.

I am at work, a student is explaining exactly why this isn't working and I want to tell him I know exactly what he means. They aren't going to help him. He wants to like what he's learning. I don't think that should be so hard. Have to remember why movement is nessesary and it will keep me looking for possiblity of something better. There aren't easy answers just possiblity and the choices we make.

mypetskeleton.com This website is the online portfolio of visual artist Vincent Marcone. The abiance created by the visuals and soundtrack is intriguing spooky. I found it last year and it reminded me of when I first started wandering around the internet and how exciting and interesting, nearly magical it seemed at first. Even before I saw Marcone’s artwork his site’s styles and intuitive ease had impressed me. Also his artwork’s detail and intensity is entirely captivating. bartleby.com This website is a pretty decent collection of classic texts (literature, poetry, reference). It has been very useful to me in allowing me to access texts like Gray's Anatomy and selected Hans Christian Anderson tales as well as versatile Oxford Anthologies. It doesn't have everything but it has more than enough to be of use. altx.com/thebody/ This site is Shelley Jackson's collection of short written pieces on her memories and relationship with her body. It is often touching and sometimes darkly amusing. It entertains me when I have time to wander.

"'God knows, lady,' said Owein, 'it can no more be opened to thee from here than thou canst deliver me from there.' 'God knows,' said the maiden, ''twere great pity thou mightst not be delivered. And it were only right for a woman to do thee a good turn. God knows I never saw a better young man for a woman than thou. Hadst thou a woman friend, best of woman's friends wouldst thou be. And so,' said she, 'what deliverance I can for thee, that I will do.'" -from 'The Lady of the Fountain' in the Mabinogion

Blood Sonnets

The droplets of blood have welled again-- bursts of veined pink blossoms suspended invisibly against necessarily porcelain white-- for this sight a sigh is permissible, the aesthetic moment an oasis amidst the usual anticipation, then gore. This is assurance that only I dwell here, that 'we' still means two of us, not three, that your ample palm cradling my belly as if it were a vessel contents precious, is instead prizing of the whole, of only myself, not what I carry within. But watching the webbing of red spread and change I want to freeze the beauty and claim it. Waking I feel the pooling above my pelvis, an internal puddling of blood, a vaguely nauseating fullness, reason to move slowly, fearing waves, splashing--though not to the sheets this morning. As if living a war since childhood I have learned tricks against my own bloody stains: a bar of white soap and my own spit the mixture rubbed into the cloth pushing out globules of life-stained mucus red of a fresh wound, baby shit brown, and wet charcoal black; the compound reeking of too-natural salt, of our very pulse made gruesome only in parting from the whole.

Found a box of nail polishes from junior high this morning. I remember picking colors that were good for day dreaming in class. Dark blue for the ocean, lighter for blue skies, pale nearly white blue for clouds. A deep violet or green for changes and secrets. Sparkly things to put on my toes when I was teaching preschoolers' level one, to give them an incentive to put their faces in the water and open their eyes. It worked too. I remember sleepovers. How many times can Fifth Element be seen before it stops seeming so damn good? Painting each other's nails. M chose purples and blues. K, princessy pinks, or reds that implied things we didn't know a damn thing about. Fluffy choosing blue, green, purple, sparkles. Later Smack, I can't remember what she chose, maybe she didn't. I remember when M grew away when she and James were dating. The shock of sex and people we knew. I remember when some boy asked me to varify a rumor and I told him it was none of his buisness and to fuck off. He looked so shocked. I never swore then. If he'd pressed it I thought I would hit him and I think he knew it. I never told M about it, she would have been just as indignet that anyone thought they had a right to ask, or maybe she would have just said, 'yeah. so?' I wonder how she's doing these days. M and I used to tell each other dirty jokes in 5th & 6th when we were at different elementries and had sources besides each other. They didn't mean anything it was just the pleasure of the forbidden, talking about thing we weren't supposed to talk about, or know about, not that we did really. I hope she is well. I painted my nails today. Green on my toes and a fleshy metallic pink on my fingers. Glad that nail polish remover is still under the sink.