Literature of all sorts including, stories, essays, novellas, and series.
Great Books Society: Baudelaire Poetry Reading and Discussion
Friday, April 30, 2010
3:00pm - 4:30pm
Bradley House Lounge
it’s the miniscule moments that stay in my head like the time when we laid on the couch and talked about what we meant by philosophy; and the time we sat on a couched sill in starbucks and argued about narrative content; and the time when we sat in my hot tub, completely naked buzzing from birthdays. and remember the time when we smoked and went to the movie premiere and had exactly no idea what we were in for? that wasn’t a security guard, that was a man in a white shirt.
hay fields and street walks and the satisfying fizz of water and carbonated drinks.
i looked for something and all i saw was mars; (she blushed elegantly). i don’t think i was aware that i was actually awake. any other day i would have pulled an all-nighter looking for the firey, green debris but i could not stay conscious. the air was so cold but the stars were so bright and the lights from alumni hall did nothing to help (nor interfere) with the night’s progress. the cold jabbed at my face and the spaces between my neck and jacket, wrists and gloves until i finally gave in and retreated to my space-heater-heated room. sleep spent.
Learning Liberty: Education in Liberty and the Liberal Arts
in conjunction with the Alva deMars Megan Chapel Art Center
“This is Liberty”
Wednesday, April 28, 2:30 pm
Dr. Meoghan Cronin, Associate Professor, English Department
for her lecture
"'Grant me at least a new servitude'! This is Liberty for the Brontë Sisters"
He walked into the large dark room containing an even darker stage. Everyone crowded as close as possible. He could smell all kinds of scents, ranging from perfumes to body odor. Around him people were decked in the regalia that they thought defined them as people. Then, They came out. They picked up their tools of creating magic and began to play.
He looked and more importantly, he heard. What sounded like cries of noise was his salvation. It was the beginning of redemption for anyone who had ever been alienated, who had ever been hurt.
No one else understood, except the people in the crowd.
When the breakdown happened he jumped onto stage and jumped. Time slowed. A second felt like a lifetime. In that jump he saw the faces as they chanted the anthem of their kind: "Never, Give Up." Climbing onto others they swarmed the stage and yelled into the lone microphone that was the focus of all people in that room.
she never once winced while i spoke to her about finances and my desire to be lovely. she never took my crap either. no matter what we both thought, the ideas were put out there, left in the open, painted messily on a grid-lined paper. she would mark the progress of my literary expedition with stickers of pencils on a poster stuck to the wall. she spoke in accents. she let me use the wrong words to describe myself and my grown-up mind. she laughed when i dyed the ends of my hair black in a night of fourteen year-old beer quests and retaliation at wellesley college, but she told me it looked good. which it didn’t.
we were the last to see her that afternoon. she talked about sailboats and doctors. we listened and glanced at each other.
she smelled like intelligence and french vanilla coffee. she smiled like bermuda breeze.
she died on that day in february. i couldn't go to the funeral.
Mary McGarry Morris and Andre Dubus III, two of the country’s leading writers of fiction, will offer readings and observations about the craft of writing during separate events at Saint Anselm College later this month. Morris will appear Thursday, April 8, courtesy of a grant from the Norwin S. and Elizabeth N. Bean Foundation. Dubus will speak Friday, April 9. Both events will occur at 7 p.m. in the New Hampshire Institute of Politics at Saint Anselm. The talks are free and open to the public.
Mary McGarry Morris and Andre Dubus III, two of the country’s leading writers of fiction, will offer readings and observations about the craft of writing during separate events at Saint Anselm College later this month.
Morris will appear Thursday, April 8, courtesy of a grant from the Norwin S. and Elizabeth N. Bean Foundation. Dubus will speak Friday, April 9. Both events will occur at 7 p.m. in the New Hampshire Institute of Politics at Saint Anselm. The talks are free and open to the public.
Poll: "Do they exile people anymore?"
Pause no answer.
Well Wishes, I love you,
You said to me three things, that I cannot pick and choose what you tell me, that I am assuming that what is in me is stirring in you, and, finally, that I must accept and understand that our realities are different.
The conversation that I began in bed that day, you ended. My tears were real and asking to be dried, yet I feel that you may have thought them to be accusing you of some offense, as if I were a victim, and at that moment I felt alone. I wasn't accusing you, darling, I was just crying- tears are a sign of vitality.
Eyes still thick with sleep, the students of the college come forth from their holes with new dreams of eggs on toast and flavored coffee, better than home. Cigarettes and friends are now the pillows upon which their heavy heads rest and thus begins the battle of attentiveness! Some are ripe with blue and red pills, some with parental fear. Whatever be their impetus the campus comes alive. But what they know not is that during night it thrives. They don’t notice the shine on the floors and tables. They don’t wonder where their trash went, but gladly they walk and think of the days tasks. Preparing for life!
There is a precise method concerning snowflake observation by which an one may bestow due honor upon the winter sprites. When night bears its ferocious sky, those beasts of starry joints, the chin must be brought high towards the scene. It will not be visible if the flurry is thick which is the most profitable condition. Keeping this posture walk against the wind. The body should not be visible to its inhabitant.
Having done all this, one may expect to forget one's limbs and the limbs of all others. As a sailor is borne by his ship and does nothing, one will be content in a vessel. Here can be seen the spiral descent of the white bits, yet it seems they do not fall at all, but swim like an astronaut free from his mass. This image is furthered by the likeness of that vista to the idea of dashing stars as if they were white specks in outer space too. And so the dream lifts the soul into the mind and the mind into the snow. For that moment there is peace.
Cecilia: "I was there not long ago. Everyone who loved me, whom I loved begged me to transcend. It was so dark. I don't know what has changed. I don't know if this light is light or simply a less painful disturbance. I've plunged into energy and yet every so often I think of death and my command over it."
She sits low in an arm chair almost falling off, but supported by her legs spread wide and her elbows. She shifts erect and crosses one leg over another, ankle-to-knee. Her head rests heavily on a closed hand.
Cecilia: "I don't know. I want what I hate."
Simone, a small and tender woman, though who still holds herself with modest command, never betrayed her mind on her face. Cecilia wanted that transparency in her lover, hoping that it would remedy her torment. For now she learned to wait, to avoid searching that bland countenance for anything.
Arthur’s brain secreted a few lines in meter and rhyme as it was wont to do. His vista like the moon, set ‘gainst the dusk, this dim room…. “The shame I’d feel if my head were a pen!” thought he. The two lovers sat in the attic which years have fashioned crudely like a library. Arthur’s dream of titanic leather chairs, a furnace, and high shelves endlessly laden with bound eloquence had come true in a curious but blessed way.
just this moment, i noticed that i never squeeze out my tea bags anymore. i used to do that, a habit i picked up from my mother, before i would take the sachet out and throw it away. i don’t know when and why i stopped but tonight i was really fascinated with the recoiling effect of the boiling water on my fingers.
do you remember when we met up with them for lunch during our layover in atlanta? we ate at that diner on the that side street. i was sixteen and young and budding. i took photographs of the fork and the spoon and the ring of coffee around that chunky white mug. the waiter was brash and mean but somehow incredibly endearing seeing as he knew we were outsiders and he was a native. he poked fun at us for that entire hour. i remember the how the sun looked that day. georgian sun is radically different compared to rhode island sun. it slows things down. it slows things down.
when i was young, my Grandmother would to bring me to her friend’s house down the street for a banana. i don’t remember the Woman’s name but i remember she looked like my Aunt Bea. i used to think she was my Aunt Bea. my Grandmother would hold my hand as we walked down the road. it was the summer. my hair was blonde and wet from the pool and my boyish sneakers would softly pad against the scorching pavement. we would sit in the Woman’s kitchen with the lights turned off. i was happily occupied with my banana, mushing the sweet and bitter substance against my unevenly spaced teeth. my Grandmother and the Woman would talk about their putting swings. they would laugh like women would laugh. i would smile too, just to be included.
it was the way the corner of lips curled so slightly at the ingestion of my words. it was the way you hugged my waist from behind. it was the way you opened your snowy circle in the woods for a fledgeling like myself.
remember hiking in the desert woods of texas? i regret not caring so much about the natural value of that place. i was mainly focused on my love life and the alkaline trio album that was playing on my ipod mini.