So last night was the latino culture show and, of course, Vania and Carlos won big time in the bachata contest, even though they selflessly decided to take the less-sexy song. There was a piece where they took these poems [some of the best from the nuyorican poets, TRUST ME] and blended them all together. I think my ears had a soundgasm.
Piñero’s “Lower East Side” rips my insides up every time I read it, especially when I hear it. I’ve seen one of the kids perform spoken word before—you can feel the beat of the words when he speaks and you get so into it. he dresses the part with that hat, I don’t know which kind of hat it is, what it’s called, but it’s the perfect I Do Spoken Word So Well I’ll Rock Your World kind of hat.
They also took poems from Esteves, Baez, and Piedras. All the biggies—but Baez, I don’t know well, but she was there last night.
To me, good literature is like nuyorican poetry. It’s raw and real—it talks about the things that we’re overlooking. The city is such a dynamic place, as is the country, but the country has had its time. I like writing driven by thoughts, not so much narrative and description. It’s nice when you read a sentence that forces you to audibly respond: shit, fuuuuck, oooowwwuuuch.
[I heard some of the saddest words last night from my AIESEC twin, but I can’t say I wasn’t thinking the same thing. So it’s sad because the words are sad, but comforting that someone else is actually thinking the same thing that I am at the same time, you dig? I’m glad I’ll get to see her shortly—we’ve been apart for far too long.]
I’m torn with what should be the next step in my life. I’m trying so hardly to figure out what I want the end point to be—what would be the ideal? Obviously, making a living [and a nice one at that] off of writing, but what kind of writing? Do I want to do the whole travel writer thing? A novel? Short stories are the love of my life, but they don’t take short story writers seriously.
And how do you get to that point? All the time I was doing AIESEC, I probably should have been working with student publications and trying to get something published—but I wouldn’t take that time back for anything, I promise that.
So it hit me on perhaps Monday that I should be doing something to reach this goal, right? You don’t become recognized overnight because someone likes a story you wrote in about three hours because you couldn’t get it out of your head. That’s not the way that this fabulous world works.
My mom surprised me back in February or some such—she told me that neither she nor my brother are expecting me to do something outright fabulous immediately, since it’s harder to get your feet under you when you’re pursuing something like this. that his route may have been easier since being an engineer—you kind of know what the hell you want to do.
I think I’d fall out from shock if those words ever came out of the mouth of my dad, the one who kept trying to get me to change my majors back in the day. He would go, well, I don’t know why you’re majoring in those, what are you going to do with them?
Secretly, I know they all hope I do the whole law thing—one way or another. That wouldn’t be horrible either, you know? Law is something that gets my blood pumping in a nerdy sort of way, but I’m not sure. There are a few years to go yet—decades.
I love talking about writing because it’s like talking about breathing. You know what I mean?
This is a terribly disjointed entry and I’m just going to slap it up there. I moved paragraphs around [because I learned that whole highlight and drag trick a few months ago and the novelty has yet to wear off], but I still think it’s as disorganized as it was before, if not moreso.
I have an advising appointment next week for a few different purposes: to make sure I’m all set to graduate, to see if I can take spring courses if I do graduate [I really really want to take another sociology class and am DYING to take a creative writing workshop—like holy shit dying] and then to see what the hell there is to do—what’s the next step? What’s the point of an MFA? Will it cost more money than it’s really worth? Ug. Futures. Bills. Tuition. Bullshit.
You know that poet in Before Sunrise? Do you think it’s possible to live like that? Perhaps if I spoke French…
Piñero’s “Lower East Side” rips my insides up every time I read it, especially when I hear it. I’ve seen one of the kids perform spoken word before—you can feel the beat of the words when he speaks and you get so into it. he dresses the part with that hat, I don’t know which kind of hat it is, what it’s called, but it’s the perfect I Do Spoken Word So Well I’ll Rock Your World kind of hat.
They also took poems from Esteves, Baez, and Piedras. All the biggies—but Baez, I don’t know well, but she was there last night.
To me, good literature is like nuyorican poetry. It’s raw and real—it talks about the things that we’re overlooking. The city is such a dynamic place, as is the country, but the country has had its time. I like writing driven by thoughts, not so much narrative and description. It’s nice when you read a sentence that forces you to audibly respond: shit, fuuuuck, oooowwwuuuch.
[I heard some of the saddest words last night from my AIESEC twin, but I can’t say I wasn’t thinking the same thing. So it’s sad because the words are sad, but comforting that someone else is actually thinking the same thing that I am at the same time, you dig? I’m glad I’ll get to see her shortly—we’ve been apart for far too long.]
I’m torn with what should be the next step in my life. I’m trying so hardly to figure out what I want the end point to be—what would be the ideal? Obviously, making a living [and a nice one at that] off of writing, but what kind of writing? Do I want to do the whole travel writer thing? A novel? Short stories are the love of my life, but they don’t take short story writers seriously.
And how do you get to that point? All the time I was doing AIESEC, I probably should have been working with student publications and trying to get something published—but I wouldn’t take that time back for anything, I promise that.
So it hit me on perhaps Monday that I should be doing something to reach this goal, right? You don’t become recognized overnight because someone likes a story you wrote in about three hours because you couldn’t get it out of your head. That’s not the way that this fabulous world works.
My mom surprised me back in February or some such—she told me that neither she nor my brother are expecting me to do something outright fabulous immediately, since it’s harder to get your feet under you when you’re pursuing something like this. that his route may have been easier since being an engineer—you kind of know what the hell you want to do.
I think I’d fall out from shock if those words ever came out of the mouth of my dad, the one who kept trying to get me to change my majors back in the day. He would go, well, I don’t know why you’re majoring in those, what are you going to do with them?
Secretly, I know they all hope I do the whole law thing—one way or another. That wouldn’t be horrible either, you know? Law is something that gets my blood pumping in a nerdy sort of way, but I’m not sure. There are a few years to go yet—decades.
I love talking about writing because it’s like talking about breathing. You know what I mean?
This is a terribly disjointed entry and I’m just going to slap it up there. I moved paragraphs around [because I learned that whole highlight and drag trick a few months ago and the novelty has yet to wear off], but I still think it’s as disorganized as it was before, if not moreso.
I have an advising appointment next week for a few different purposes: to make sure I’m all set to graduate, to see if I can take spring courses if I do graduate [I really really want to take another sociology class and am DYING to take a creative writing workshop—like holy shit dying] and then to see what the hell there is to do—what’s the next step? What’s the point of an MFA? Will it cost more money than it’s really worth? Ug. Futures. Bills. Tuition. Bullshit.
You know that poet in Before Sunrise? Do you think it’s possible to live like that? Perhaps if I spoke French…
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home