Monthly Update

Posted: April 10, 2014 in Random Blogs
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I have been terribly busy!

1) I have a venue that’s interested in hosting a poetry/story reading, just have to work out the details and I believe I’ll make it a monthly event.

2) A couple weeks ago I got hit by a flu, it was very very strange. After that for some time I’ve been struggling to write (not sure why, too ADD?) but now I managed to write a couple of nonfiction essays and half of 2 different short stories. I believe I can soon return to poetry, very soon. 

3) I’ve made some facebook changes, mostly to make sure that I “own” what I can regarding Daedalus Chaos and InkandThink, just in case.

4) I’ll post one more essay by this weekend and then try my best to get a couple poems out there!

5) More everything in due time!

Finally able to finish something again!

“You got another detention?” One of my friends asks me.

“Yea, The Man picked me up. Said I’m doing up to three,” I respond.

“The hell did you do now?”

“Nothin’, man. Just stayin’ young, black, and free in Mr. Molina’s class,” I hesitate “and might’ve played with that stereo of his during a test,” my audience shake their heads and laugh.

“Got damnit, DJ,” they all pretty much sing this in unison, it’s a universal song by our sophomore year in high school.

A stroke of genius hit me the previous week during my Spanish II class. Mr. Molina and I happen to have the exact same type of stereo system.

It comes with a remote control.

During a particular nasty test, I decide to discreetly ease the tension by bringing my remote from home, all in order to help my brethren relax during such trying times. Everything goes well, Mr. Molina plays the CD and as we listen, I make the CD skip a few times, forcing the adversary to check it for scratches. After he replaces it in the player, I make it skip some more, then try my best to hide the remote as he seems to have caught on to my harmless prank. In the middle of moving the remote into my shorts’ leg, my hamstring betrays me and presses the radio button, turning the Spanish test into a ten-second night club with me fulfilling my name’s implication. I freak out, trying to change it, but Hawk-eye Molina spots me and the disciplinary execs decide that I have enjoyed far too many one-hour Thursday morning detentions. A three-hour Saturday morning session, they feel, is necessary to truly learn how to behave and live up to the Bishop Dunne standards they hold so dear to their hearts.

After dad gives me a long lecture detailing, his annoyance and disappointment in my actions1 and I kindly counter with “but dad, it was bound to happen, may as well get this out of the way, amirite?”, I venture through the opposite side of the entrance into the school cafeteria full of miscreants of all ages which makes me stop in my tracks. I recognize James the Senior (graduates that year, 2003) whom has gotten into a fight with Ryan in my grade at this huge party a few weeks prior. I have no idea why he’s in detention, the fight was off campus, but I figure it is much safer to stay ignorant, less to testify to. I see some students serving time for stealing then selling those items back to the same students they stole them from; a few are younger than I. I scan the room to see countless criminals who have committed other acts I have never thought of – nor have the guts to partake in even if I have thought of them – and my legs suddenly turn to jelly as I walk further into the cauldron and take my assigned seat, purposely placed in the middle of the dog pile. I am fully aware of how little my felony and subsequently, my imagination and willingness to punch above my weight truly is.

“Psst, what’s that yella nigga’s name? The soft one there,” I hear these whispers around me.

Some of them recognize me walking throughout the halls, others – those who live in detention – have never been allowed in the halls long enough to see the small blip on the radar.

“Oh, that’s just DJ,” someone answers.

An odd feeling of insignificance comes over me; just DJ. What the hell does that mean? I pretend to not hear their loud whispers2 and I close my eyes, lying my head down thinking.

“DJ, you’re not allowed to sleep. You know this,” a disgruntled teacher shouts across the room, looking up from her magazine.

“Sorry ma’am, I was praying though,” I respond as a sea of eyes burn my flesh with curiosity.

“Praying for what?” She unwittingly falls for it.

“’God helps those who help themselves’, right? We all helped get ourselves into detention, helping you earn a bonus. Maybe He will help you provide some food for us,” people laugh but our warden maintains her stoic face. “One more crack like that, Mr. Lawrence, and I’m cracking skulls,” she returns to her magazine. I shrug, feeling like I might have bought my survival and proceed to write down the next word in my dictionary.

Being bad feels pretty good.

1Only he can make 30 minutes last an eternity, he did this every time he heard I acquired a detention. I’d like to think he didn’t know how many detentions I’ve really earned because I’m a clever teenager who can hide things from my parents!

2I feel there’s a connection between the ability to whisper and detention

A rough draft of my latest short story (668 words)! Working on the ending.

“Look Matt, I gotta be honest here. You ready? Good. This is amazing. No, that’s an understatement, it’s spectacular. Where did you get these characters from?” She looks at Matt sitting at the other side of the desk.

“Well….I do a lot of people watching…,” he answers with a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“Love them. The plot, the settings. We’ve gotta publish this quick then shop around for movie deals.”

“What? Really?” Matt’s surprise encourages his agent to smile and pick up her phone.

“Jack, I’m going to send you a manuscript, you’ll love it,” she hangs up and addresses her client. “You may relax now, everything else I can take care of. Get some sleep or talk to those you’ve neglected. Whatever you do have fun, bye,” the sudden dismissal surprises Matt.

He pushes his chair back – climbing out of it – and exits the agent’s office when a voice calls to him.

“Satisfied?” Matt does not look for the source.

“Yea, that was…wow!”

“Excellent, now for payment. Where is it?”

“Its in the usual place,” he answers as quietly while walking down the hall passing several curious agents.

A small squeal of excitement reaches Matt’s ears with a popping sound following. Being familiar with these sounds, Matt takes this as his cue to begin jogging out of the building before he breaks into a full run down the busy street. He weaves between the pedestrians (“Excuse me! Sorry!”), then turns down the second alleyway he sees. Approaching a dumpster in this -otherwise empty- alley when he hears another popping sound.

“Did you forget something, Matthew?” The voice returns, although it is less squeaky than before. This new tone makes Matt’s hair stand on the back of his neck.

“N-no, I just-,” he starts, but words suddenly fail to leave his throat.

He struggles to talk as air begins to evacuate his body slowly.

“Were you about to lie to me, Matthew? Oh dear,” the voice grows louder as Matt is able to identify the source is behind him.

The air leaves his lungs, Matt falls to all fours, gasping and struggling as his vision begins to blur and the sound of feet approach him.

“Let’s try this again; did you forget something?” Matt can only manage to shake his head as he tries to crawl towards the dumpster. “Oh? Are you hiding something? The rest of my payment, perhaps?”

Matt’s blurred vision turns white, the figure walks into his view but he’s only able to see the outline of a green curly-toed shoe as it swings into his face.

A numb sensation envelopes every inch of Matt’s being, the feeling of floating in an eternal abyss draws Matt’s consciousness to a state of awareness. While in this suspended state, his mind begins to recollect recent memory. A series of quick flashes remind him of his predicament. When he recalls the alley and the menacing voice, Matt begins to mumble. The pressure builds in his lungs when the short man in green approaches him and kicks his face causing Matt to jerk awake – sweating and breathing heavily.

He looks around and realizes he’s in his room. A calming contrast to his dreams, he slows his breathing then inspects his face in the mirror. Not entirely sure what to expect, a sign of relief escapes him upon realizing he’s suffering no physical blemishes. He splashes water on his face and looks at the mirror again. He checks the bags under his eyes then a flash of green catches his attention, but when he turns around, it’s not there.

No, he isn’t here. I paid him…? He says out loud.

He searches the apartment waiting for that green-threaded bastard to jump out and scare him. A few minutes pass, his search fruitless, Matt resolves to believe he’s alone and he walks back to his mirror and finds a note stuck to it. His hand shakes and he reads it: I hope you’ve learned from this.

Well, I found out Friday but I feel like I should finally mention it:

 

I’M PUBLISHED!

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It’s amazing! I’m glad that I don’t have a picture, I can remain relatively anonymous just a little while longer while I continue to move behind the scenes and do what I need to do for the next steps. This should open up more doors for me!

The poems published are Panic Attack and Crippling Insecurity. I have Panic Attack posted and will post Crippling later this week. I also decided to create videos here and here.

 

P.S. I went ahead and typed the Polish and a Google-translated version of my biography right here.

 

 

The rattle echoes.

With each step I take

I drown in the thump thump

of the machine.

My heart will stop

if the percussion should suddenly shift.

 

The intense twinkle of blue, red and

other colors bounce from wall to wall.

They are almost in sync with the noise,

combining into a blinding heart attack.

The masses bob up and down, to and fro,

to the banal beat.

 

The reverberating mix of light and sound

pierce the walls I’ve built. The

swamp grabs me, pulls me, confuses

me. I struggle, finding myself drained.

Cloudy. Dazzled. I can’t

tell one way from another.

 

My weak legs go back to…instinct..?

Carrying my smoky mind through the crowd,

the awful mix of spray-on chemicals

slowly lets go of my tongue. I sense…something

cold, fresh? No, no, refreshing.

My mouth, it…moistens.

 

The chill. My flesh. The words!

I soak in the brisk draft.

It washes, better yet, cleanses me!

I have emerged unscathed, out of

the quagmire. Back and

forth, the rattle, merely a hum now, beckons.

 

I collect and store the freshness into

a cache, then venture back inside. The

low buzz of music, the gentle

flash of lights and the overpopulated floor?

Tolerable. I see some females and wander to them.

“I’m going to dance here, feel free to think I’m dancing with you.”

I recently had a crazy experience where, according to someone I’ll refer to as my “spiritual coach”, has said that I am finally waking up.

My experience is me lying on my bed and I watched my chakrahs ..open(?) up and the colors got brighter and brighter with each breath, starting from the forehead which was a bright white light that soon manifested the other chakrahs (I won’t give you the details on what was the catalyst for this experience :) ).

With that being said, I feel like I’ve been far more productive than usual:

1) I’ve gotten back into this slightly abandoned script and wrote two more scenes which has changed my whole idea about how to approach this little film project (I basically added more layers).

2) I’m still writing short stories, just can’t take the time to sit down and type them (short attention span, I suspect).

3) Still writing nonfiction essays and have a slightly new approach to the entire concept/theme of it (look up my previously posted essay, There’s a Group for That found here) which has always emphasized how TV/Media acted as a third parent.

4) I found potential poetry translators and am waiting on their submissions (this week!) to see how I should delegate Embracing The Poet.

5) I’m still going to post Embracing The Poet and Escape Artist poems!

6) I wrote an article for my Improv.pl team on our brand new wordpress site! I’m not sure if it’s live, yet but here are the list of games we at Improv.pl play regularly during our Improv Sundays performances (every Sunday!)

7) I have, pretty much, two weeks off from teaching this week, so there are LOOOOOOOOOOOOOADS of work I’m going to do such as editting, typing, etc etc.

8) I’m very excited!!

(there’s a possibility I’m going to fuse this with another essay)

 

My name is DJ Lawrence, and I’m a Webaholic.

I imagine my readers responding kindly with a simple “Hi DJ,” or “Welcome, brother”.

Like with any condition, mine starts off small, very simple. I’d tell myself that “I can quit any time” and “I don’t need help, I got this”; completely unaware of the same traps numerous people have fallen and will fall through.

My first experience with the internet is just me simply looking up TV schedules for Rugrats and Hey Arnold! A mere ten-twenty minute1 mission about once a week at home slowly paves the way for my descent into anonymous jokes and experiments.

My first interaction with porn happens two years later in 2000. As I log on, I decide to look up information about two rap artists who are representing Texas during a time that is overrun by Jay-Z and 2pac’s ghost. The problem is, I’m not aware of things called ‘search engines’ and my twelve-year-old self wants everything immediately. I decide that typing “www.rappers.com” into the address bar is my best option.

Five minutes pass when I realize my error. The images slowly reveal multigendered and multiracial groups of people with various tools at their disposal in a kitchen, at a public pool, really anywhere but a bedroom. This is why a lesson about “spell check” is crucial, however it’s too late for me. My search for two black men bragging about being big pimps who spend cheese has led me to the dark side; maybe this is part of some master plan?

 

1Because dial-up