The prof wants to know how changing genres (tweets, microfiction, haiku, formal poem) impacted my "writing and meaning making."

I'll be honest: as a writer, none of these genres fell within my "happy zone." I'm not a poetry person, I don't think in terms of short stories, and tweeting my thoughts/status/whatever feels downright unnatural. Every one of these pieces has, in some way, been dedicated to obstructing meaning. I don't make a habit of baring my soul online, or in general; so no matter the veracity of the tweets, they rarely slip below surface level.

On the bright side, at least I know I'll be working with some sort of fiction for the idiot Twitterive.

Changing tweets to microfiction, I was just trying to make something vaguely entertaining, so I found the weirdest line I could and put it in a bizarre context. No real deep meaning intended.

The Anzaldúa-inspired microfiction was probably the closest I got to "feelings" with a slightly auto-biographical twinge of meaning; but this idea was also a small part of a multi-genre paper I did for Writer's Mind, so it's not like anything was a secret.

With the Anzaldúa exception, I don't think I really started anything with a plan. Yes, I was changing meaning, but there wasn't a clear "meaning" to start with, so that's no surprise. Planning-wise, especially on the poems, I picked lines as I came across them and figured out what they said as I put them together. One-step process. Yes, there were moments I wished I'd had other words to work with, but you work with what you have and don't dwell on it.

Wow, this really makes it sound like I just slapped everything together without any thought whatsoever. Ouch.

I honestly don't know if I'm trying to create or distort meaning with any of these pieces. Maybe a little of both. Oh well, hopefully I'll have a better idea of what I'm doing with the idiot Twitterive. :)

This post contains two haiku, composed of lines from the microfictions in my last post, and a "found poem" which is comprised of words/phrases/what-have-you from 10 of my tweets...which you'll see below at some point. Cheers. (And I swear, if this thing keeps messing up my formatting, there will be violence.)

Haiku #1:
Keeping her mouth shut
Sometimes she wishes she were
Down the silent hole


Haiku #2
We’re making progress
Masked in peeling charcoal paint
Down a narrow hall


Found Poem, created from the following tweets:
1. #twitterive #wrt1 This does not sound like a recipe I should have any part in cooking...food burns around me.
2. #twitterive Not claustrophobia, but stifling. Invisible weight. He tenido bastante. Por favor, no más. Headache.
3. #twitterive Watched a hilariously violent movie last night. Dreamed a psychotic (but non-violent) workplace job after. This scares me.
4. #twitterive Homework always inspires anxiety...and the sinking knowledge that I'll leave it til the last minute, increasing anxiety.
5. #twitterive Gray shapes materialize from within a milky land cloud, slowly becoming clearer, darker, more defined. It's pretty cool. :)
6. #twitterive House is quiet. Not the quiet of all asleep. The quiet of empty. Oppressive. Not silence, but nothing.
7. #twitterive Just read about a friend's trials and triumphs with tea, as well as a *gasp* guy who cooks and folds laundry!
8. #twitterive Estoy contenta; estoy en mi sótano con una taza de té (Inglés té del desayuno)...y con mucha tarea. Buen, nada es perfecto.
9. #twitterive Empty offices, silent but for the hum of heaters and tower fans. Warm enough to make you sleepy, cold enough to make you work.
10. #twitterive Rain pitter-patters down the chimney, dozens of pings and plonks against the metal, an onslaught of percussion and symphony.

The Actual Poem:

I should have watched.
Trials and triumphs,
Anxiety perfecto, invisible knowledge:
The quiet of empty.

I dreamed darker silence.
This scares me.
I watched  symphony materialize.
I’ll leave it.

An onslaught of cold,
Sound enough to burn,
The last minute defined,
But nothing.

This post contains two ~250-word microfictions. The first is inspired by and incorporates a line from Gloria Anzaldúa's "How to Tame a Wild Tongue." Anzaldúa's line is: "En boca cerrada no entran moscas (2947)." The second microfiction is inspired by and incorporates one of my tweets: "#twitterive Watched a hilariously violent movie last night. Dreamed a psychotic (but non-violent) workplace job after. This scares me" (Feb 3).


Anzaldúa-inspired microfiction:
She wanders the curved, uneven calles de Sevilla at lightspeed, a blur to the Spaniards she passes. They chuckle at the silly American, always in a hurry. Walking speed sets her apart, even moreso than the blanched skeleton skin and light hair; but at least she’s never late.

Sometimes she wishes she were. Late for dinner, that is.

The host mother sets the table the same way every night: a large bowl of viridian mush, a large plate of stiff meat and vegetables drowned in leafy specks and olive oil, and a large bowl of fruit (for dessert). And the host mother expects her to choke down every last dry bite.

And if she doesn’t… “Quieres fruta? Come más. Come la fruta. ¡No es suficiente!”

She doesn’t want to seem offensive or ungrateful, but she’s not that hungry. Her roommate eats it all. Her roommate also goes out drinking four or five times a week. It’s no wonder she looks “demasiada delgada” to the host mother with that for comparison.

But she’s still not that hungry. The host mother and roommate are on a diet, so why are they obsessed with forcing her to gain weight? Is she a nasty reminder of the creamy milk chocolate hearts with strawberry filling they couldn’t resist?

“En boca cerrada no entran moscas”(2947). She wants to seem grateful and polite, but keeping her mouth shut only works so well when the host mother is determined to pry it open and shove food down the silent hole.



Tweet-inspired microfiction:
“Ms. Adams, Dr. Gardner will see you now.”

Lisa snatched her purse off the yellow tiles, threw Arachnids Monthly at the haphazardly stacked magazines on the table, and leapt out of her seat. She followed the secretary through the waiting room door and down a narrow hallway, then descended a steep, dark staircase bare of banisters.

The secretary left Lisa standing before a large, metal interior submarine door, its porthole masked in peeling charcoal paint. Lisa heaved a gargantuan sigh, smiled, and knocked. The central wheel began to turn. Lisa stepped back and watched the door squeak against its hinges, swinging outward inch by inch.

Dr. Gardner, a short, thin, balding man in a burnt orange suit, bid Lisa enter and yanked the door back into place. He crossed the small, windowless room and sat in a flawless leather armchair while Lisa sat opposite on a motheaten, threadbare couch directly beneath a hanging flousecent bulb, the lone light source.

At a nod from the doctor, Lisa began. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I know your schedule’s packed.”

A fly buzzed on the far wall and Dr. Gardner steepled his fingers, bony knuckles stretching his tan skin taut.

Lisa laughed, a little. “Right then, how ‘bout I give you the short version? Good?”

Dr. Gardner closed his eyes.

“Wonderful!” Lisa exclaimed. “So, watched a hilariously violent movie last night, dreamed a psychotic (but non-violent) workplace job after. This scares me.”

Dr. Gardner opened his eyes. “We’re making progress.”