My creative portion for my Rise of Modernism final.
For info on "Steinian Portraits," click here and also click here.
I'm going to type this up on the typewriter tonight to give it more of a Modernist feel. But you lucky drips get to read it... NOW!
Faulkface
Jordan Scrivner
Rise of Modernism
4-23-05
Faulkface: A Steinian Portrait of Bill Faulkner
First there was nothing and then there was something and that something became totally everything when everything became someone. Nothing became someone only that which someone saw everything. Everything became nothing when everyone knew nothing. Everything was nothing when all anyone ever did was nothing totally something. Something became someone and nothing became no one. Take these $3. and 58 cents that these these. Those that anything when everything and nothing became something to fill a lack. Alas a lack of nothing could mean anything. A thing to earn an A that could stood for anything. Was there something that could mean anything anything? Two joints of marijuana and Time magazine. It was all for nothing, really.
The South became a desolate wasteland and it wasnt something that couldnt mean anything. It was anything that could have been something. It was like Ireland in a way that you could turn the corner of anything and it still would only be som'thn. It was a dream on a screen that could be anything anything. It wasnt a bear or a pear or a stick of something. It was only a face to place a vase in a red red space.
The kid kept quiet about the cupboards he couldnt reach. It shot from the arms that couldnt sit still. It broke from the bike and brought him up round a vast expanse of divorce.
He was a man of rakish qualities and a bold new directive. He was a thing of inanimate beauty. He was a blue-green man who had at least one blue and green daughter. He was 42, barrel-chested, and was a food-eater. He took a grain of salt when he could which was about every other everytime. He smoked cigarettes and fancied himself a ladies man. He had hair on his chest and hair in the shower. He couldnt find the right words to describe his lady-fare but she knew the right words to sing in battle sometimes.
In some ways the justice came brutally and in some ways the justice came beautifully. It was a thing that could have been anything, really. It could have been Addie Bundren in that freshly cut clean pinewood box chuck chuck chuck. It could be Addie Bundren in the freshly cut clean pinewood box chuck chuck chuck. Hows Addie?. It was something that my family knew from four generations ago. Maybe even a thousand. It could wait til tomorrow. Got no time no money no nothing. For as far back as I can remember hes seen me.
It aint no game. Could that mean it was a game?
Take me as I am and leave me no leave me no leave me no.
In the afternoon when school was out and the last one had left with his little dirty snuffling nose, instead of going home I would go down the hill to the spring where I could be quiet and hate them. It would be quiet there then, with the water bubbling away and the sun slanting quiet in the trees and the quiet smelling of damp and rotting leaves and new earth; especially in the early spring for it was worse then.
Here was something that became nothing.
It took form and shape and became something dark and plastic. Something that got buried under the tip of the tounge. One couldn't wait for such inevitable destruction; it was simply too much to bear. It was simply too much for all of us to bear. And when that something becomes too grave to be, you take it by the horns and deliver it onto a shanty-town. It was all just a void to fill a lack anyway. Alas, alack, and Addie all in one. It wasnt until one day when everything fell into place that I knew that this thing could for work.
He was a man from the mountain. He was 42. A food eater. He smoked cigarettes and fancied himself a ladies man. On the road to a strange port in town until everything came right into place. He knew where to put his things when he went to bed at night. But he still woke up with the ache, not knowing where he had placed them.
In this spare time he made movies. The film was shown on a cinema-complex. Too tawny tee and a two tawny tie. He rolled off onto the curb off onto the concrete above us. He waited with a smoking hand and a squint to the eye. He waited for a waist away.
The lady with a chip in her heart loved a boy with a box for a brain. She was a liar and a thief or so she claimed. She was a brilliant thing, chockfull of cheer. Sometimes her heart hurt over the world and in her closet there would be monsters. There was nothing the boy could do because he was clumsy. He merely stumbled around and bumped into things, sometimes got it right but inevitably got it all wrong. And it was enough for the boy to come to class on time and learn about the people that came before him. The dead dead giants that were once sniffling, sneezing, drooling babies. The box in his brain was chipped away to reveal a diamond inside.
For info on "Steinian Portraits," click here and also click here.
I'm going to type this up on the typewriter tonight to give it more of a Modernist feel. But you lucky drips get to read it... NOW!
Faulkface
Jordan Scrivner
Rise of Modernism
4-23-05
Faulkface: A Steinian Portrait of Bill Faulkner
First there was nothing and then there was something and that something became totally everything when everything became someone. Nothing became someone only that which someone saw everything. Everything became nothing when everyone knew nothing. Everything was nothing when all anyone ever did was nothing totally something. Something became someone and nothing became no one. Take these $3. and 58 cents that these these. Those that anything when everything and nothing became something to fill a lack. Alas a lack of nothing could mean anything. A thing to earn an A that could stood for anything. Was there something that could mean anything anything? Two joints of marijuana and Time magazine. It was all for nothing, really.
The South became a desolate wasteland and it wasnt something that couldnt mean anything. It was anything that could have been something. It was like Ireland in a way that you could turn the corner of anything and it still would only be som'thn. It was a dream on a screen that could be anything anything. It wasnt a bear or a pear or a stick of something. It was only a face to place a vase in a red red space.
The kid kept quiet about the cupboards he couldnt reach. It shot from the arms that couldnt sit still. It broke from the bike and brought him up round a vast expanse of divorce.
He was a man of rakish qualities and a bold new directive. He was a thing of inanimate beauty. He was a blue-green man who had at least one blue and green daughter. He was 42, barrel-chested, and was a food-eater. He took a grain of salt when he could which was about every other everytime. He smoked cigarettes and fancied himself a ladies man. He had hair on his chest and hair in the shower. He couldnt find the right words to describe his lady-fare but she knew the right words to sing in battle sometimes.
In some ways the justice came brutally and in some ways the justice came beautifully. It was a thing that could have been anything, really. It could have been Addie Bundren in that freshly cut clean pinewood box chuck chuck chuck. It could be Addie Bundren in the freshly cut clean pinewood box chuck chuck chuck. Hows Addie?. It was something that my family knew from four generations ago. Maybe even a thousand. It could wait til tomorrow. Got no time no money no nothing. For as far back as I can remember hes seen me.
It aint no game. Could that mean it was a game?
Take me as I am and leave me no leave me no leave me no.
In the afternoon when school was out and the last one had left with his little dirty snuffling nose, instead of going home I would go down the hill to the spring where I could be quiet and hate them. It would be quiet there then, with the water bubbling away and the sun slanting quiet in the trees and the quiet smelling of damp and rotting leaves and new earth; especially in the early spring for it was worse then.
Here was something that became nothing.
It took form and shape and became something dark and plastic. Something that got buried under the tip of the tounge. One couldn't wait for such inevitable destruction; it was simply too much to bear. It was simply too much for all of us to bear. And when that something becomes too grave to be, you take it by the horns and deliver it onto a shanty-town. It was all just a void to fill a lack anyway. Alas, alack, and Addie all in one. It wasnt until one day when everything fell into place that I knew that this thing could for work.
He was a man from the mountain. He was 42. A food eater. He smoked cigarettes and fancied himself a ladies man. On the road to a strange port in town until everything came right into place. He knew where to put his things when he went to bed at night. But he still woke up with the ache, not knowing where he had placed them.
In this spare time he made movies. The film was shown on a cinema-complex. Too tawny tee and a two tawny tie. He rolled off onto the curb off onto the concrete above us. He waited with a smoking hand and a squint to the eye. He waited for a waist away.
The lady with a chip in her heart loved a boy with a box for a brain. She was a liar and a thief or so she claimed. She was a brilliant thing, chockfull of cheer. Sometimes her heart hurt over the world and in her closet there would be monsters. There was nothing the boy could do because he was clumsy. He merely stumbled around and bumped into things, sometimes got it right but inevitably got it all wrong. And it was enough for the boy to come to class on time and learn about the people that came before him. The dead dead giants that were once sniffling, sneezing, drooling babies. The box in his brain was chipped away to reveal a diamond inside.
baise:
"Faulkface" is the best word EVER! 