dr_portmanteau

We were asked to write an Artist's Statement in portfel-building.


Here is mine:

    I am not an artist. Do not allow yourself to get such an idea. Ever. I am merely a young man who has been fortunate enough to find paper, a pencil, and a decent computer with a downloaded word processor. I am not a poet, I am not a fiction writer. I am not an illustrator or a photographer. No matter what my most beloved mentor may say, I am neither a work of art, nor do I wear them. Now you know what I am not. What I am, however, is: a wannabe. I am just the same as any other person you'd find on the streets who would like to be creative. I am a person who greatly admires all others who have an inkling of talent, a spark of something higher than the regular functions of the medula oblongada. I am just breath and bone, basic human instincts and a rudimentary, near animal-level knowledge of the world's functions. That being said, do not expect creativity. Do not expect high-quality productions. Do not expect art. Flat out: do not expect anything.

The teacher's response: "It's an excellent piece of writing. You should attempt to publish it in the upcoming issue of Wurd (the Pratt literary magazine). I don't believe you when you say you can't write."

Alistaire's Mental Response: "FUCK. DID YOU NOT LISTEN TO IT AT ALL?! BALLS TESTICLES PISS BITCH SHIT TIRE-SWING PENIS. Wait. That is the exact opposite of what I was trying to convey... so I guess I really AM a bad writer! : )"

Alistaire's Actual Response: "Myehhhh. I like bones."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxNmeMklFk8

Okay, I hope you know what I mean here.

I had a sex-dream about you. You said I was beautiful, but you said it in French. I woke up before I even got my shirt off.

As much as I enjoy my vacation here in New Mexico, and as many times as I say, "No really, I don't want to ever go home," I find myself sort of missing my mother's house in the Midwest.

As much as I like having a purebred English Bulldog around, he typically smells quite overpoweringly of, well, dog. I miss my pointy-eared, ammonia-stinking, discrete, and aloof animals. I miss my cats.

As much as I enjoy having the option to sit around and do nothing but lurk around on the internet, I still sort of miss having a car, responsibilities, and a town that doesn't confound me more and more with each Mexi-American street name.

Most of all, however, I miss the possibility that it might rain. That's the real reason I can't stay here, Dad. It never rains. I'm sure NMSU is a wonderful school with a great literature/arts department, but what they don't have is variant weather patterns. As a man who relishes those overcast days, when the sky looks like the default background for a Junior High school photo, how can you expect me to live here? Where rain is comparable in rarity to the Aurora Australis? As I sit here in bed and see that West Point blue tint hitting my shades and curtains, my heart skips a little beat, making Pavlov's favourite section of my brain go, "Will it rain today?" No, it will not, Alistaire. What you're seeing is the subdued light of sunrise from behind the mountains. I just can't handle the meteorological monotony.



O, how I pine for thee!

o-guildenstern.livejournal.com/

Guildy has a LiveJournal, y'all.

It's all beard.

I do indeed love finding kindred souls, and the Wilde communities on LiveJournal have been excellent places to do so. I've found people who can tolerate my incessant blathering, mostly attributed to the fact they do it themselves. It's fantastic to make an obscure joke and have everybody in the room get it.

However, there exists an underlying tension: nearly everyone is female (and me) and nearly everybody has a crush on the same few guys. Ordinarily, I'm the one in a group of friends to say that gets to state I have a "thing" for Stephen Fry or Oscar Wilde. Now, I find myself standing in a hotel ballroom (or filthy Chinese/Mexican food buffet, am I right?) FILLED with people like that. I swear to God, it's like an episode of "The Bachelor" where I know I won't be getting a rose anytime soon.

So, I figure I need to have my crush to differentiate me from the rest of you. I present to you: Mathieu Chedid.



Heck yes.

Q: What's your favourite thing to show out-of-town guests when they come to visit?
A: The door. God, it's like you assume I'm actually FOND of the people who come calling.





(Okay, maybe I like to show them Truman.)

A different version of the one from CAPSWILDE.

Writer's Block Question: "What do you think is the worst job?"
Alistaire: "A footjob."

Shit.

He wore no shoes in summer
He was too tough for that
Although the chiggers chomped and bit
In the dirt on which he sat
For the pain of purple thistles
He didn't seem to care
He always claimed he felt no pain
They call him "Prickly Pear"

He sat laughing in the churchpews
At jokes most lewd and crass
For he was the life and lightening
Of sweltering Sunday mass
But confront him for irreverence
Nobody would dare
For they all loved him dearly
Cheerful "Prickly Pear"

At school he was quite choosy
Of the people he called "friends"
He said he'd like to hold their hands
When the world goes up and ends
When he talked about the Judgement
Although teachers would stare
They would grant him marks of flying colours
That keen, shrewd "Prickly Pear"

At night he was quite charming
In his pinstripes and his spats
In bottle-green immensikoffs
And beaver stovepipe hats
Ol' Prickly was a gentleman
No matter what he'd wear
Though he thought he looked best naked
How fancy, "Prickly Pear"

We were quite a twosome
As the year drew to a close
Bringing bodies close together
Like Jack Frost brought the snows
But he and I stayed naked
Bodies close and bare
Rolling in the outside frost
Me and "Prickly Pear"

Fuck Poetry.

I mean DS.

I'm the slightest bit apprehensive about playing my DS, as I have reason to believe it, either a) is possessed, or b) has been used for witchcraft. My meth-addicted uncle rolled over the thing with his truck, and it still works. After 2 years of assuming it didn't work and not playing it, the goddamn thing started up and greeted me with a cheerful, "Ding! Hey, Alistaire!" 

It still remembers my name.

I'm gonna' settle in and play Pearl until the codone* sets in and I fall asleep.

*self-medication: don't do it, kids

It'd been in the family for centuries
Pecked by lark and louse
As old as the very land itself
On which sat Bigsby's House

Bigsby was an old man
Who should never know a spouse
To tend the arbor and the garden
That grew 'round Bigsby's House

The walls were all a-speckled
By the work of many a mouse
Which skittered in the quiet night
On the floor of Bigsby's House

Visited by Miss Abigail Potts
In her starched white Nurse's blouse
Polishing brassy, glassy sconces
On the walls of Bigsby's House

The schoolkids came to laugh and play
Their siblings came to browse
All within the boughs of elm
That shaded Bigsby's House

Some ruffians hatched a ready plan
For a blaze to go undoused
They struck a match and said a prayer
At the base of Bigsby's House

So up into the night it burned
Not a fireman was roused
To quell a single tongue of flame
That burned down Bigsby's House

This was written (or not-written) forever ago. What a piece of crap.