Messy Monday’s – 5/29/11

On a sunny Sunday, we met in the air conditioned enclosed confines of Panera Bread (Again.) We agreed collectively to start having our meetings the beach, at least for the summer.

Again, the Smocker’s individual adventures were productive. Blue has had some editing work to do that flourished this week. Jeff has been writing new poetry entries daily. Erica has been unusually productive, juggling multiple projects in poems, manuscripts and other things. I had a productive week myself. I wrote two chapters of my manuscript, as well as worked at my first ever book proposal.

We all read our works on last week’s topic, FEAR.

Jeff read a poem called “Inner Peace”.
Blue read a poem from one of her vintage notebooks entitled Pressure.
Erica wrote a piece called “Professorship Underground”.

I wrote a piece that tied into my punching bag post from last Thursday, entitled Fear – “A Slice of My Emotion”, inspired by seeing my punching bag (ironic right?) Here is the piece in it’s entirety:

“PINO!!!” She said, shouting with alacrity.

Ricardo alluded she was coming. Jeff wanted to know how I felt. I’m still trying to answer that question myself.

The uneasiness was evident. THE FEAR WAS CLEAR.

It went into my ear, resonating like never before. For it was after the fact, the fiction of us two being one. For fun, she was one that was in the business of finding pleasure in St. Elsewhere. But, it seems, no matter where they go, they always – I MEAN ALWAYS – come back.

That wasn’t always the case. In fact, before it was nothing more than back and forth. For the fear was unclear. I was going for broke, depleting my bank account, to watch Drake break a leg. That was never the case though; he broke it the concert before, and the after effects of that were insurmountable. The confidence evaporated into thin air. My rapport was no more. Now I had fear of losing her.

I did lose her, rather, she lost me. It was a reversal of fortune you see, a wheel that I kneeled before no longer. And the longer we parted, the more I realized she thwarted that path in which I once started.

She did me a favor, for the fear is nowhere near round these parts.

Next weeks topic is the taboo one, SEX.

Until Tomorrow.

Beached-out Smock, Ralph

The Punching Bag – A Writer’s Delight

Yesterday, I heard the indifferent news that Kris Humphries, pseudo-star of the New Jersey Nets has become engaged to his terse-time girlfriend the famous Kim Kardashian. Excellent news for the entire journalistic community that’s been stuck in her personal business, and of course, good news for her new fiancé Kris Humphries. But soon as I heard of the new found union, I immediately thought of the past failure, that is, the up and down relationship with Kim had with her now ex-boyfriend, the New Orleans running back Reggie Bush.

A personal pain is a writer’s delight, the same plight that Reggie Bush is in – knowing that someone will marry his ex – to him, the girl that got away. Every writer knows about this dynamic. You become infatuated with a person of the opposite sex, you write about the highs of a date that just commenced, the way they make you feel in their absence, and everything in between.

And when things don’t work out – forget about it. IT’S OPEN SEASON.

Although I’ve moved on, I think of one particular young lady that lives in my internal purgatory. I keep her there, in the depths of my soul, when I need to conjure up inspiration at a moment’s notice. I’ve written over 500 works of bad poetry, dozen’s of short stories of how I wanted things to end up between us (and subsequently how it ended up), and a book’s worth of text messages.

No, I’m not encouraging heartbreak, but damn it makes beautiful art. What’s your punching bag?!?

Until Next Time.

# 1 Smocker – Ralph “Pino”

The Beauty Of Repetition

Last week, newly acquired Azul Smocker provided the theme of “the joy of repetition”; so, my interpretation of the saying was formulated on my own recent experience.

Check it out below:

Months passed as spring had shown its bright and enthusiastic face over the course of May. I sit here, sprung off of the past that was once joyous between the fingerprints that have left evidence over the notes application of my IPhone 4 on the daily, never to be the same since. Mild negligence has left a mark on my weary fingertips that made continuous and consistent magic from blank to ink and emptiness to typewritten text. The question that I ask myself at this moment and a few days past, “Where did the love, inspiration and repetition go?”

It was only a year ago since I set my ultimate writing goal, to write until my thoughts and emotions were flushed from the eclectic colorful ink smeared elegantly on the manufactured white plane that understands the joy, frustration, anger and dismays of my day within three hundred sixty five mornings, afternoons and evenings.

Inspiration was and still ubiquitous to my senses. It was nowhere to be hidden from my line of sight. I could smell it in the air as a race of ideas rushed through my head, ready to burst like a starburst touching the tip of my tongue in excitement. It is only right that I share my sense of touch with my reliable electronic sidekick. Vicariously, I live through the formed sentences and fragments that read me like a hard covered book. Hence, I typed until I wrote in my hard covered marble notebook to transcribe what was conveyed before. And voila! Magic is born.

I kept going like the Energizer bunny. Nothing could prevent the ideas that rushed through my pen. Now, I lost that same insatiable hunger of last year. I treated it like a job on the daily, to be unemployed with dissipating motivation. With that said, I have come back to my senses, to re-experience what once was, back to practice.

I learned as a kid that practice makes perfect. Now, that I am older, practice makes permanent. Repetition is the father of learning by which I learned in a documentary. It is my strongest source of improvement that I’ve let pass me by in recent time. I am going back to the past, to experience the joy of repetition, never to neglect the craft that made me the poet of today.

What was re-affirmed at Sunday’s meeting -> practice + repetition + consistency = PERMANENT. With that universal mathematical equation implanted within my medulla oblongata, I will retain that within the shelf of my memory and apply it daily to my poetry and writing.

Let the rigorous repetition begin!

Jeff L.

Smock Salute!

Messy Monday's - Full Force Smock

Well, the Smocker’s were out in full effect this week. We met at the crowded confines of Panera Bread this Sunday. We discussed our topic that we were responsible to scribe out, compliments of Blue, which was, “The Joy in Repetition.”

Everyone’s piece was quite insightful:

Jeff wrote about his repetition in writing poetry – his ambitious plan to write everyday of the year 365 or 366 in a leap year (not this year).

Erica wrote a poem, with dominating adjectives, images, and wordplay, that was all centering on the repetition of men who repetitively chases after the wrong women, the women that aren’t interested in him.

Blue the feelings of, the ins and outs, the sounds and words of when you’re falling in love.

Theirry wrote a short essay, concerning a man’s final night, in the midst of his bachelor party, only to look forward in the joys of reputation of a married man – you know, wife, kids, house, etc.

I whipped an old poem out the stash that I originally wrote inebriated, left-handed. It was my first full piece written unorthodox to me. The significance of the work was that it was the first time I’ve written southpaw, and the joys of repetition in the practice, has me writing left-handed permanently, and almost naturally. To read it, click here.

Next week’s topic: FEAR.

LET’S GET SHOOK SMOCKERS!

Until tomorrow.

Ralph, # 1 smocked.

Fragmented fridays with Azul: Nostalgia

“I’ve known Brittany for a long time. She used to be in a duo with her best friend & do spoken word. Can you say that your writing has changed from 5 years ago? If so, how has it changed?” –Ms. S. Siegel (my former HS English teacher)

Today I spoke with two A.P. English classes at my old alma mater. I looked into the faces of teenagers smug with senioritis & I told them the truth. I talked to them about life outside of those brightly colored hallways that seemed to mock the sunshine. I looked on at the teachers who beamed at their ‘star’ alumni. It was sometime in those moments that I wondered whether it was there that I found my voice; the very place where it felt most stifled.

“How do you pay rent as an artist?”

How does a writer with student loans answer that question?

“I make my words my employees”, I thought inside of my head but before I manifested that very thought with breath, I was cut off.

“Artists put buckets outside and work for stray dollars. You have to make it work!” said the girl in the front row. She was right, wasn’t she? Struggle is synonymous with the “you-owe-me-40-acres-and-a-mule” attitude. Writing is the same as a cop-out when asked what you do for a living.

I am a writer.

Five years ago my writing was such a selfish act. It was filled with teenage angst & the struggle against finding my voice. Being a writer now means speaking for more than just myself. We are the voices of the voiceless. No matter how challenging it becomes if there were no writers, there would be no life; no documentation of existence. We write our pains, legacies, mistakes and triumphs. That is bigger than a pension plan in this ever shifting plummeting economy.

“If you’ve set everything around you on fire and there is nothing left then set yourself ablaze. You have to have something you believe in” –Ms. Henry (A.P. English teacher)

I am proud to wear this smock of a purpose. No matter how messy it gets…

Nice to meet you

I’m honored to write with you.

Brittany
The AZUL smocker

Immersion.

I've got a secret.

It's something I divulged to a mentee today to help him get over his writer's block. After spilling the beans, I realized that it might just be the thing to place here on the Smock. So here I am.

There are situations that I've been in, fully aware that they were/are harmful to my emotional being. Situations that include heartbreak, the unknown, pointless reiteration and sometimes utter chaos. There is this little being, inside of me, that gnaws at me to go through with the turmoil. Why?

Because deep down, that little being and I know that the madness will evolve into a flurry of amazing snowflake-method short stories/poems/journal entries. Yes, I let that damaging flame of a relationship burn out, I've taken the two train into the abyss beyond my stop and I've even sat in the middle of a random back and forth throttling between two strangers. 0_O

Because they make for damn good stories.

Crazy? No, not really. It's the journalist--being that I was one for my first two years of undergrad---inside of me. Just as the war reporter delves directly into the madness to gain a story, I've felt obligated to do the same.

This ploy is not for the faint of heart.

I repeat, this ploy is NOT for the faint of the heart.

The hurt I've gathered along my pathway to life is easily healed by placing it within the safe space of my journal. Knowing this, I've been able to recognize a good story as it plays out, step to the outside of it (while still being actually IN it) and formulate/speculate an ending before it happens. This helps me deem whether its worth going through with to actually write said story. Knowing that I could take this hurt and mold it into perfection on paper allowed me to push myself through many uneasy situations.

In no way is this recommendation. <-----In no way is that statement a deterrence either. If "immersion" is something you feel you can do without losing it, be my guest. If not, think again.

The second step is holding it all in until I reach the crevices of my lined sanctuary. I don't tell a soul. The words seem to bursts from my literary seams when I do this.

POTENT.

INTOXICATING.

Why not tell anyone, yet? Well, it's kind of like the game of telephone. A story diminishes its power a little bit, every time it's relayed. As a writer, its important for me to show my readers the madness firsthand, undiminished by retelling. That way, the reader leaves the page adrenaline rushing, wide eyed, dangling and strung along by the tale their heart feels they've actually just witnessed.

It is our unique experiences that make our individualistic tales so highly addictive. Every time I "immerse" myself into writing a story at my computer, I am entranced until I hit the very last letter of the last word. Writing it this way transfers my trance energy to the reader. Or so I hope.

I'm an addict for good literature and I'd want nothing less. So I try, whenever I open my ink veins and give prose hemoglobin, to give exactly that.........an addiction.

Get High.

-riv-
SMOCKER DEUCE 

Poetry In Motion: My First Poetry Jam

On Saturday, May 14^th, I attended my first poetry jam (Voices For The Voiceless Poetry) located in New Rochelle, NY, along with fellow Smock members, Numero Uno Mother-Smocker and Smoker Deuce, for a night of laughs, entertainment, and FRIED CHICKEN!

On my spare time, I have watched performers perform on stage with passion, enunciation, resound, and hand gestures to assimilate poetry with their body. Although, I have a long catalog of poems on deck, they are yet to be memorized within the memory bank of my head. So, considering that this was my first event, I went there with intent of listening and observation.

I watched each poet/singer with open ears and mind, and gained a lot of insight on what is needed to perform well at these events; for sure, it is going to take practice, dedication, diligence, and consistent memorization. Sounds like attributes needed for the school of theater and performing arts. But, while watching each performance with burning excitement, I told myself that I could definitely see myself performing and excelling on stage.

This summer, I’m going to get back into practice of writing a poem a day, effective today, and practice my cadence and performing, hopefully with the help of RIVAFLOWS.

With that being said, well, typewritten, I shall leave you with an uplifting and blissful piece, which seemed to be the theme of the night.

ENJOY

"Sky"

Feel free to touch the sky, as we all get high.
High off the life.
Life is strife.
A knife ready to strike.
An open wound to the soul.
Such a deep blow.
All wounds heal over time.
Don't let time pass you by.
The limit is the sky!
Among the clouds where we reside.
Rainy days always pass by.
The floods never last long.
When there is rain,
the sun will always shine.
It illuminates the sky
just like our smile.
No need to be sour like a lime.
Everything will be fine.
Reach for the heavens above.
Extend our hand to the one
that will never let go
as the almighty pulls us up
to the place where we belong.

Jeff L.

Smock Salute

Messsy Monday – 5.16.11

On a rainy, dreary Sunday, the Smocked avengers commenced at Moe’s Southwestern Grill.

DEBUTANTE ALERT:

Introducing the newest smocker who’s ready and willing to talk smock, Blue, the Azul Smocker, hailing from Brooklyn, NY, working as a writing teacher in Harlem, NY, and breathing NEW YORK. Welcome Blue!

We read our pieces on offline, compliments of my medulla oblongata. Everyone had their interpretation on the subject matter. Erica wrote about the dichotomy of her popping social networking life, and her real life. Jeff and Blue respectively read their poems. Great discussion! Here was my piece, inspired by my experience that Jeff and I encountered on a line at a New York Night Club:

Here I was in a time, on a street, walking into something I’ve been out of. I hate to be vague, but the precipitation didn’t help either. We were on, but what were we on? A cacophony of people that were online – Googling on smartphones with googly eyes, texting loved one that secured entrée, only fueled the disdain for those that were on line.

I was on but now I was off, for Riva flowed out the race. “I left my ID” she said, a statement that I’ve been married to in the past. But the present is now, and here we were unwilling to buy at a 2,000% mark-up.

Enter Ross – we’ve been down this road – rather down this line before. I’ve consumed nearly 7 hours of my life trading life stories on scenarios like this. “I told Fran, we’re too old for this shit,” he said, showing his age.

He was on his Storm, online, telling those that were in that he was getting off. He trooped it, after forking $45, frustrated with the ills of city-life parallel parking. Before he said, “I’m out” I was in his personal life, grieving vicariously the loss of his domestic partner, and celebrating his one year anniversary of employment. This is his updated slice of life, surely to be updated, once again, on a line, down the line.

Five minutes was too precious for him, he took it to walk back to the parking garage. And as it elapsed we were still off line, never to be online again.

And then I threw up.

Next week we have a concept, in a phrase brought to us by Blue. “THERE IS JOY IN REPETITION” Interesting.

Until tomorrow.

Ralph, Numero Uno Mother Smocker

Gettin' Out Our Dreams

"Where ya been?". That's been the question I've heard most from most people I know lately. I've missed blog posts and meetings lately mainly due to one thing. Life. Moving is a hell of an adventure and adjusting too it takes up a lot of time. This begs the question of how to make time to do what you want to do and still do what you HAVE to do.

The main thing that one must do given the circumstances is to first decide what's most important to you. For my part, I had to make the decision that this group and this blog is something worthwhile enough to lose some sleep over. Staying up a little past my bedtime and thinking of a topic to discuss is worth it to me.

I write this particular addition for my fellow nine to fivers who also want to establish something outside of our usual means of obtaining our funds. It is completely possible to do this and have a regular job....for a while. Eventually, we must all make a choice about which one we want to do. Do we want to continue down the path of comfortability or do we want to chase our dreams? Each of us have to make that choice for ourselves. My fellow smockers and my closest friends inspire me to abandon my fear and chase mine. To be continued....

Thierry

Poetry In Motion: Spring Season And The Environmental Effect

As a poet, I find inspiration in everything that I see or feel, whether from the emotions and moods of my day or the enlightenment that my current environment provides.

Thinking and searching through a couple of past type written poems, I came to the realization that a few of them have been based on the climatic effect of my atmosphere, some personified feelings and others, reflected natural realism.

Spring happens to be my favorite season for its moderate temperature and bloom of life. Like a flower, the weather revamps back to new life in the form of a vegetated growth period that happens to respond to changes when nature calls. It’s very interesting, to me at least.

Considering that we are in the season, I thought that I would share a poem that was written a long time ago dedicated to the beautiful climate that we have been experiencing as of late:

"Springtime Bloom"

A flower grows in the month of April.

The roots grow like fruit in the month of March.

Your sweetest scent marches on to gravitate my senses like cupid's arrow from above.

You bloom like a tree.

You expand in freedom amongst the rest.

I love the way you stand stern with sensitivity in your stem.

You branch out like love amongst friends.

Your nectar tastes like honey.

You let me "bee" because you love me.

That's why I am the humming bird to your springtime bloom.

Continuously, I nip at you because I can't stop saying I love you...

over and over again.

Jeff L.

Smock Salute!

Messy Monday’s – Mother’s Day: The Bye Week

This Sunday, our hero’s didn’t meet due to the ever-popular holiday, Mother’s Day. However, I did want to take the time to thank one of my biggest inspirations as a writer – my mother.

She was never a writer – only for shopping lists, and taking meticulous notes about information, and self-improvement. However, she was a voracious reader – thus influencing me in the long term to be a voracious reader – in turn, making me a seamless fit to write.

And my Mom is an inspiration to me – for this is the first time I’ve spent Mother’s Day without her alive, and since her passing has been an endless source of inspiration when I have writer’s block. I just think of her and remember how upset she’d be if I didn’t live to my fullest potential. Therefore, I like keeping my pen kinetic.

In a sense, I’m sad that she’ll never see her son be a published, successful author. But at the same time, I know that if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be this far.

So I write this to my Mom – I love you Mom, if it wasn’t for you, there would be no Writer’s Smock. If it weren’t for you, there wouldn’t be a writer in me. And of course, if it wasn’t you, there wouldn’t be a me.

And after that sentiment, we will be back to our regularly scheduled smock posts.

Until next time!

Ralph, Numero Uno Smocker.