Literature of all sorts including, stories, essays, novellas, and series.
Reflections On My Excusion to New York City
by Jeremy Munro
10:40 minutes (14.64 MB)
Recorded at 10:49 PM on 3/22/11 with my crappy laptop microphone (which isn't half bad apparently).
From the Rebellion Chapter of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky
I like Ivan. I don't know why. Probably due to some sort of laceration or hipsterness. I felt like I could take a lot of liberties with the presentation as Ivan is in delirium especially in the later stages of the novel. I had him shift rapidly from the dramatic, to the serious, sarcastic, witty, and delirium.
At first I just wanted to do the part about the child getting torn apart by hounds, but I started reading and didn't want to stop. I hit the end of the chapter. This was attempt four at recording. Might do another one more polished with a better microphone. Not sure.
March 17, 2011
he belonged in a book full of circular memoirs and told no other stories but the ones he wrote. he played up his game and relied on his senses, leaving no margin for the mistakes he made. his hands yearned for curves of women he left and his wife could not kiss him without knowing so.
he purposely kept himself on overdrive. he never let things slip. and he understood what it meant to be truly and pitifully lonely.
believe me when i
say i adore your French tongue
and your black peacoat.
secretly i used
to hope you would peek when i'd
change behind the door.
i fell in love with
my seventh grade teacher. i
believe he did too.
i nearly fell asleep in a bed that wasn’t mine tonight. i could hear the murmurs of crime shows and heartbeats and the swish swish of restless feet on sheets. i whined and dined on ice cream and feelings and actively fought the urge to stay back and secure the fastenings in my flimsy ol’ safety net–(just like suede shoelaces, those damn knots do not stay tied)-because that’s what she told me to do: fight and/to explore, fight and/to explore.
This artist's sketchbook is just lovely! Thought those who are trying their hand at drawing might enjoy.
it’s trying really hard to snow today but the sun is casting ivory reflections on my bed and my neck and i’m reminded that it’s the thirty degrees that binds the breathing and not the perception of missing what is missing.
i need to stretch myself but i need new methods of how. everything inside my head has been so stagnant. mosquitoes are breeding but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. they’re swarming in large clouds, the color similar to brain matter, searching searching searching for the right shade of rouge to slurp. don’t worry, they’re fastidious. it’s grotesque but it’s how nature works.
New Art Theatre in "Oedipus Rex"
New Art Theatre, a professional company dedicated to the performance of classical and innovative works, re-stages their critically acclaimed production of Oedipus Rex. The clarity and beauty of this contemporary translation by poet Stephen Berg and classicist Diskin Clay combines with New Art Theatre's dynamic array of visual and musical design techniques to capture the timeless power of Sophoclean drama for present day audiences in this greatest of all Greek tragedies, Oedipus the King.
Friday, October 29 · 3:00pm - 5:00pm
Discussion of Bram Stoker's Dracula.
'for the dead travel fast'
(originally it was a camping trip we had planned. she and i were both artists. we wanted to synthesize our work with what we came from. she set up a place to live in a tree nearby mine. she nailed planks to branches and constructed a house. i rested delightfully in my swing.
her long brown hair was also so interesting to recreate in an art piece. she showed me how to cut wood and sprint without tripping. running was our constant pace.)
it’s a challenge to find my words again these days. i’m choking on my own sentence structure and hoping to find some kind of catharsis in my functioning juxtaposition. it’s doubtful; i’m trying too hard.
it’s hard coming to terms with how willing and ready absence is to jump right in and make the gaping holes a little bigger. we both coughed up a little truth and a little resentment and what i interpreted as a whole lotta love and whole lotta pain. we kissed and oh yes, it was real. we waited until the sun rose and the alcohol slept and we drove home and ate steak cubes in bed. we rested the entire sunday away. i needed to be unconscious and hushed in your arms. that’s all i desperately needed.
The other day I found myself being asked in class “What was your most liberating experience?” I never got a chance to answer, though people in my class said a lot of good (if not cliché) things like graduating high school, getting a driver's license, or in one case starting kindergarten. I was hesitant to speak up because mine is so weird and so out there, I wasn't sure anyone would understand. My most liberating experience ever was when I played with my band in Rockport, MA over the summer.
A lesson on the dash. Enjoy
i hated it at the time because my feet were tired and my hips ached but every rushing moment of being lost in a city full of summer-time nightowls and inebriated twenty-somethings was soaked up like water in a sponge. we walked in a big circle around numerous universities that i was too exhausted to differentiate between. i smelled like sweat and the beer that the guy on E standing next to me sloshed down my arm. the two of them were ahead of us, love sick and walking fast. i was annoyed. i dragged myself along the uneven sidewalk; he slowed down to hold my hand. i kept my paranoid and sympathetic eye on the deeply shaded gardens to my right in case a woman needed help. we passed the same group of stoop-kids a few times. i recognized one from the show. i craved the taste of alcohol on my lips and in my blood stream and i could not wait until we got back to our house. i noticed the slight shift of my attitude matched with that of my urban surroundings.