ανησυχία

Poor writing inward fighting and hiding scripts.

From her friends, from the ones she loves, those that she hates.

Embarrassed but clear.

Spending time washing down the fence for which to white wash.

She falls in this way.

In regret and hope and dishonesty.

That what she’s written is not her best.

So she feels alone and without dignity.

Like a hand knitted night gown pleaded in a rival gang’s colors.

Like an atheist in a foxhole, her heart is filled with apprehension.

Without comfort and without companionship she is left to her work.

To continue to invest time in what she has burned away from.

Like a flame internally burning itself out

But its job is to be a flame.

So it spends its time burning.

Embarrassed she remains alone in her craft.

Spending countless hours to perfect what is widowed.

To invest in what is spent.

She writes for the pleasure of others, reads for herself, and shares it all with none.

- Nick Rotola

Piece for Final Portfolio

              

               “Come on Joe, sit him down”, says the shortstop to the pitcher as there are two outs and two strikes and I am looking like prey. Relax I say to myself as I lift my bat and find my focus point. I feel a lot of time now. As if the first part of the bat was just a dream and I now have the luxury of knowing what’s going on. The pitcher looks much shorter now, he kind of looks like my younger brother. That thought makes me smile and the pitchers attitude goes from a positive one to one of slight confusion and pompous curiosity. He steps off the rubber to gather himself and it makes me glad to have a few more seconds. 

                

               For the first time in the at bat the pitcher looks like just another guy having thoughts in his head. He steps back on the rubber and I plant my right foot in first, then my left. I take one deep breath swing my bat around and get set like I have since I was a little leaguer. Come on meat, I say towards the pitcher, positive that the catcher and the umpire heard me. Throw me something I can hit. At this point my mind is finally clear. It comforts me to think about my superiority to the pitcher, because the closest thing to thinking about nothing is one. He starts his wind up now, the count is 2-2; His wind-up taking much longer than before. His eyes are looking worn out above his sloppy frame. He plants his foot and delivers the ball. The pitch is a strike. The bat is still resting comfortably on my shoulder.

Flowing Through a Forest

Bootlegging as he legged out a triple could have rested on his double, strapped up his boots and went the extra ninety. Granite pressed firmly against the backsplash pushing and hoping to escape the never ending wash and dry cycle. Allergic to liquid the granite crumbles and cloaks itself in crumbs wishing to avoid the spill. The rag is bodysurfing on its face, dancing on its grave, and forcing soapy water into its once energetic pores.

The golden violin then comes in free and without wind protected by the glass and with the wit to find it’s purpose. You first propose, but then you see its prose, and are guided by the light shining down on its nose. It stands firmly on the stand, handed from man to man, dismissing any thoughts of harm finding the next comforting stand for which it lands. The violin is heavy in its ways, eating carrots and expressing its golden blooded charm with its rosie red cheeks. 

Fisher of Men

I                                                                            Love
             fish                                            and                              I        
                                     love                                                                  fishing.
I                  think                                 of                           the                
                                      grouchiest                                                   fish
hope-                                                        fully                                              wishing.
                        He'll                                                            open                  
his                                   big                     gossiping                                             mouth,          
                  and                       give                                   his       dirty looks.
       
While his grumpy lips,
                                                                                             Wrap around my hook.      
                                             

Grumpy Cat

Cat Friend: “Hey man, what are you doing later?”

Grumpy Cat: “K.”

Ten Ways of Looking at a Chicken Sandwich

10 Ways of Looking at a Chicken Sandwich

-1-

I am more hungry than she. The sandwich is hers.

-2-

My stomach is small,

The sandwich is large.

My peers are larger than I.

-3-

The sandwich is there.

I am not.

I am with the sandwiches

disappointing son… the salad.

-4-

I am 4^th in line,

The last sandwich is 3^rd.

-5-

The sandwich looks like my bride walking down the aisle.

It had mayonnaise on it though.

I hate it.

-6-

I am the 6^th youngest son

and the first hungriest.

Sandwiches are distributed.

That as a nice snack.

-7-

The number 7 is what I order at Wendy’s.

It’s a chicken sandwich.

-8-

The chicken sandwich has been sitting for a long while

I’m pretty poor and even more so, cheap.

Upset stomach for 3 days.

-9-

I am big the sandwich is small.

I finish and am still very empty.

Everything looks like a chicken sandwich now.

-10-

Ten years old and ordering off the adult menu.

I am so mature now but my sandwich is so not finished.

I hide my shame and half my sandwich under the napkin so my dad won’t see.

Event Factory

Renee Gladman does a good job in a few passages of using language and metaphors; writing in a way which is furiously beautiful.

'The evening air is tender'

'The light is yellow'

The morning is a 'greener yellow at the start of the day but every moment growing golden'

This for me, portraying/relating things to color makes me appreciate the importance of experience. Almost as if we are born one way and slowly molded into our own color. Everything the narrative tries to do ends in failure, but still experience happens anyway. This is relatable fore me to times and failures where the important thing to do is to continue moving forward and learn from mistakes. It is like when something awful and constricting happens in your life and the only way to deal with it is to deal with it.

'Nothing happens, nothing happens, then everything is "said" to have happened...'

It's almost as if she is saying that structurally "eventually things happen suddenly". But pessimistically as well she could easily be saying that experiences are only so long, they come and go so quickly, stop giving them so much credit. It's almost as if she is discrediting memory as well. Like there is nothing we can do to stop time from clouding it. That we wait and wait for special moments only to be forgotten. This is quite a depressing concept. However, she may be saying enjoy life and let it happen rather than trying to force or recreate old happiness. Life will go its own way, you don't need a "map" or a guide, only instinct and an open mind.

Splice Poem

Hail the heav'n-born Prince of Peace

Upon becoming an Eastern Michigan University Baseball Player

Hail the Sun of Righteousness

To insure that you are representing in a positive manner

Light and life to all he brings

In determining your appearance, academic achievement, and performance.

Ris'n with heal-ing in his wings

to provide you with the confidence and mental toughness to succeed.

To write this poem I used random lines from 'Hark the Harald Angels Sing' and our Introduction to Becoming and EMU Baseball Player Handout.

Continuation of "Beauty Standing" from City Eclogue by Ed Robertson

Only eye lives in this
in this desolation from
friendship to rest on.

Binding bodies see what eye
cannot. proposing prose to cite
what is gnawing at friendship.

He talks and wonders who
is talking about? Eye
does not feel comfortable

in his own skin in a
room the silence flattens
the ice from the sigh.

People talking to pictures
not to me
for the eye in me cannot see.

Stress

Stress is not being busy

Stress is worry

It is falling into a trap

It is being scared

                                                      of the things that need to be done

                                                      of the stones that need be turned

                                                      of the person needed to be 

                                                      of the people needed to please

We must relax when worry strikes

Two deep breaths relieve the stress

But the stress is always fighting back

Resting their hands on our garnished palms

                                                      Predicting our future, depicting our happiness.

                                                      Falling for weakness, ailing to gossip.

                                                      Pumping our brakes, pompous and hung.

                                                      On the things that are to come, of the things that must be done.

How To Manage Small Prairie Fires

My N-7 Poem

Of Course we all know the 10-15 line prose that is the Pledge of Allegiance:

"I pledge allegiance 
to the flag 
of the United States of America, 
and to the republic 
for which it stands, 
one nation 
under God, 
indivisible, 
with liberty and justice 
for all."

And after the N-7 noun replacement surgery it reads:

"I plonk allocation 
to the flail 
of the United Statistics of America, 
and to the requisite 
for which it stands, 
one naturalist 
under Godson, 
indivisible, 
with license and kayak 
for all."

I leave you with 

one of the pictures 

that pops up 

when you google: 

'One Naturalist, under Godson'

Nick Rotola

Feb. 9th

Bruno Mars' Hair

While the Seahawks were liberating freedom from Broncos for all the birds in the world, one thing remained the same, Bruno's Mars' hair. Insofar as interceptions were black plaguing Payton Manning, and making him feel as flustered as a Toddlers and Tiara's mom that lost her makeup bag, one thing remained the same, Bruno's hair. His hair was so perfectly parted with just the right amount of divine sweat and devilish grease. It was reaching deep within the fiery chasms of the deepest ocean. It fell far beyond the tarnish of an internet predator that lost his computer. It defied gravity, and Obamacare. It stayed the night at Sandusky's house and didn't get diddled. It brought its sleeping bag, and roasted marshmallows. Investing in Bruno Mars' hair is like investing in Apple in its IPO stage. His part parted the Red Sea so that all the Seahawks could walk with their tiny legs in a smug way like they own the place. That's why the Seahawks won. That's why we watch. In hindsight we all thought we were watching the Super Bowl because of the game. This was because of Bruno Mars' hair's humility.  In contrast, Peyton's hair is slightly above average. Seriously, nothing to brag about, but not bad.

Lobbyist vs. Liberalatarian

This idea comes back to me every time I encounter a difficult apple and his unconditional positive regard for whatever he feels strongly about. This guy is easy to point out because he is always the one with really strong points of view and a stiff knowledge of his favored side of an argument. He is always right, the other person is always right. This is due to his problematic cause of action, and a lack of respect for both sides of an argument.

This is a great illustration of a lot of the people that argue with me over things I don't care about. They feel like they are this girl trapped under the bag and laying on the couch of society; the government, or big business, and I'm just a cat on the arm rest wondering why you're laying under that plastic. You're making your own self inflicted prison and laying in it. It's not that I don't understand you its just that I don't care to entertain your argument. Why? Because you are not arguing in the right way.

The reason a Lobbyist is able to distract attention from whom he is defending is because he doesn't waste time trying to prove the other persons' argument wrong. In contrast, he finds a way to make the other person agree with him about something. If the other person is wrong, then he has to be right. this makes it so that no matter what the conflict, he is arguing in a calming way that encourages you to let down your guard put down your sword and agree. Why? Because he found a way to agree, so you can too. Think about this next time you're on one of your rants in class about what is wrong with the world and no one seems to be listening. If you want to be heard, be appealing. If you want to be respected, be respectful.

Poetry Loves Density

There is something to be said about great poetry. Understandably poetry is not favored by all kinds of people. Whether or not a great poem is to be understood is usually dependent on the reader. A poem can mean a different thing to every reader. Because of this, a great poem adapts. But what makes the complexity of a poem different from a poem that just doesn't make sense; Or one that doesn't make sense to you.

Maybe Authors are sometimes mistaking difficult reading for literary genius. Poetry readers are looking for depth but are they not looking to draw something from a poem? For a great poem is like a stream of water which each reader can draw his own interpretive water reward.

This is one of my favorite poems, because it's a six word poem with a life size message, appreciation. This makes me think of the things in life that I take for granted. It makes me sad and thinking about parents dealing with things like this. I also find myself growing optimistic about the things God has given. To me one of the most influential things standing between a parent and child is appreciation. 

When you appreciate another,

there is always 

love.

Post 1 Jan 8th

A little bit to get you started.

My Name is Nick Rotola, I play baseball at Eastern Michigan University and was born and happily raised in a little town called Wichita, Kansas. Wichita is actually a very big city in Kansas, but by saying "little town" I successfully am able to feed stereotypes of a name like Wichita and a state like Kansas.Although I did take and love Introduction to Creative Writing with Joseph Sacksteder here at the University, I will still admit that most of my writings stem from rapid consumption of comedy sitcoms as a young child, and by the things that I have always read and find interesting. Above other objectives in writing and rhetoric, I find the ability to produce interesting creative writing to be most important. Having said that, Im sure where there is a plethora of good writing on topics like zombies, vampires, twitter, writers block, and depression, there is always a man like me on the other side with an objective to make things more creatively interesting to the reader. For as much as it is portrayed as a back seat goal, no one wants to write something that no one wants to read.

Genre seems to be, at its roots, more easily broken down. Sacrificing density of writing for structural writing. Because of this structure we are able to define and divide these writings/stories into different "genres". We use these genres to organize and use our understanding and opinion to successfully apprehend bad writing in comparison with the good "praised" writings/stories. It is like the additive "the customer is always right"; and in this example the consumer is not only the reader, but the readers who will grow up to be writers.

Like the article said, everything used to just be literature. Good literature and bad literature quickly weeded out by the reader. But what about the differences in these readers? What about each reader and his own wants. This kind of adaptive writing is something that is hopefully achieved in Literary writing. A writer sacrificing structure to be able to write something of more depth and potential. Letting the reader decide for himself what the morals of the writings are. In exchange for a genre writing commonly loved by the public, there is much the same to be appreciated and respected by a reader challenged and excited about the density of an intellectually challenging piece of literature. So although structure may be as popular as ever, literary writing is still very necessary. If Twilight was the only book in the world to read right now then all readers would grow up to produce twilight like genre writing as writers.

There is also something to be said to me about something that can be read to elevate interpretation in reading and density of writing. This can be said about genre such as poetry. Poetry to me is an organization of writing designed to truly express how one feels. Being able to communicate indirectly. This is an essential part of my process in writing poetry. I prefer this genre because I am able to squeeze a life size message into as few words as I can. I also love to write short fiction. This to me is the easiest way to write simple, easy to understand, fun writing. It's a sad attention span reducing social-networking world we live in as writers but the point is that short and to the point writing is enjoyed more than ever.  Especially, in my opinion, if you can produce true and effective underlying meaning; or just write something funny.


Nick Rotola