Archive of Issue 3
thepaperbackwriter.com/79wpm
79*Words*Per*Minute
Contributors:
Art: Katy Brown: Katyb23
Writing:
Timothy M. Bruderek: willymiller02
Sumeer Chadha: scorpion_000
Echo Poetica: echo
Joann McKinney: terrordiva
Michael Wiles: michaelwiles
Box of Moonlight
by Timothy M. Bruderek
For seven days and fourteen nights
I bet on you
I risked for you
You ran circles around me
And my experience
I nodded for you
I waited for you to come around
In more than just circles
I created you through thin air and
long hair
It's not unlike you to make a sketch
Or to write me into your book
Of fresh ink and faded print
I'll unbind it
I long to be the guide that guides
you
With your feet slowly sinking
In sand grains and mud veins
You hulk and carry a box of moonlight
You refuse toit
Unwilling to share it
One Night Without You
by Timothy M. Bruderek
I don’t want to sleep for fear of what comes after it.
It’s funny
sleeping alone, looking over at a small pile of
clothes
that lay in your shape. So I turn
then toss then turn
on a light. Then off again. Which way to the door? Is
itng? Should I lock it all out? Previously, I
awaited that day or minute you turn around
so I could say all those things about you that I am
too afraid to share.
Or to do this or touch that or sit here alone, not
having to deal with my problems
that aren’t even my own.
Without shutting you out, I need to run away and
scream
at non-moveable objects for a short while. If you can
do it, then I should be able to.
I wonder if you mean to hurt me, to take on all the
anger you never release.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to cry again, for my own
sake.
I wonder if there will ever be someone else’s sake to
cry for.
And when she is so many miles down the road or across
the sea or down some long hallway, it only seems like
now that she decides to trick me, or to love me,
or to make me keep this secret. I need to shout it so
everyone but one can hear
and want to help me.
I want 4 months to become 4 days and a day to become
tonight, so I can hold you and understand all of these
things I’ve been writing about. This time it could be
different, if only I want it
and you want it. But days can see, and they will if I
hope they do.
So again I try to sleep with the faintest impression
that I will wake up again tomorrow. I wish for this
tomorrow to be different from all the others – for no
more days to repeat themselves.
You’re gone, but maybe it’s time for a change.
I Haven't Felt That Way
by Joann McKinney (or whoever you want to attribute it to)
I haven’t felt that way
Since you looked into my eyes
And made my heart stop
As I gave it over to you
Not noticing that I wasn’t getting yours
And now heartless
Still heartless
I try to go on
When all my love is yours
Because I couldn’t help myself
From falling for those brown eyes
And melting like a popsicle
I haven’t felt that way
Since you said yes to my love
For that brief moment
You were mine
And I thought I could make you happy
But now you’re happy
And without me
Where is my happiness
I haven’t felt that way
Since you didn’t know
And I couldn’t wait
For an answer I didn’t deserve
After having no heart
And nothing more to give
As you took it all away
Not realizing what I had given you
A piece of me
I haven’t felt that way
Since I watched my precious gift
Ripped in two
With it’s gushing blood
And the grimace on your face
As you walked away
Into the arms of another
The Baby
by Echo Poetica
I'm holding the sheet music this way
Because I miss you. Sometimes it's a
Challenge and makes me think. Other times,
I just drift to you, because the music
Stopped being a violent ocean minutes ago
(About the time I stopped wanting Chopin,
Catching up with the Horizon
by Sumeer Chadha
Time has lapsed into something quite serene
Ripples stretch out across an ocean scene
It's an enchanting moment that lasts for but a blink of the eye
The heavens sing harmoniously as angels dance across the sky
I gaze as far as my eyes will let me only wishing to see farther
A view this awesome happens only once a lifetime and makes the other days
seem harder
The azure sky is flecked with gold more effulgent than a diamond
A bird told me that this is nature's spectacular painting making up for a
time gone
For fossil ancestors and behemoths at one time shared a similar view
Yet they might not have appreciated what they saw, quite like you and I do
What I see---no what I feel, is too complex a sensation to accurately
describe
I can only begin to tell you how great I'm feeling deep way down inside
And you would too if you were in my shoes and seeing through my eyes
Transfixed you'd be, gazing by the sea, looking up into the sky.
Because instead I wanted you).
I won't disclose
Midterm Sleeping
By Michael Wiles
This is you,
And this is your life.
This your bed,
And you have already spent too much,
Time and energy,
Here.
There are your clothes,
Which you have only again,
Begun to understand,
Because honesty is hard,
And exposure even worse.
This is the product,
Of your addiction,
If only because it is better,
To live passionate,
Than to die apathetic.
This is the life you live,
The time you waste,
The paper you stole,
To write it all down.
This is you,
Again up too late,
Tired too early,
This is you living
Between the lines.
This is you,
Only existing in,
The off hours,
The down time,
The past time.
This is the phone,
That does not wake you,
When your sister calls,
In an attempt to help you.
This is you,
Running to catch up,
Walking through jogging class,
And the vitamins you take with,
A shot of whiskey.
These are your boots,
Which you bought for nothing,
But which you deem priceless,
Because they make you a little
Bigger.
This is your face,
Young under the stupid goatee,
You won’t shave,
Because you started this thing,
And now you want to see,
Where you can take it.
This is the head of hair,
You used to dye and cut,
And which sorely now needs,
One or the other.
But not both.
Not ready to be that honest.
These are your writings,
Your memories,
And your affection for girls,
Who are either horribly wrong,
Or painfully quiet.
These are the remnants,
Of all those alt-rock girls,
Some of which never existed,
But enough of whom,
Put you in your place.
This is all that is left,
Of the black dress,
The cigarette she smoked,
The song she sang with you,
The song you hope,
She was singing to you.
This is the mental image,
Of her,
Freshly awake,
The first drag of the morning,
Welcoming you to her,
And inviting you to learn all you can.
This is you,
Waking up too late,
And now she is far away.
These are the thoughts you told her,
The words you wished meant,
Something,
Anything,
Maybe even what she needed,
To hear.
This is your desk,
Covered by bad jokes,
Dry ideas,
And a list of things,
Never to be done.
These are the reminders to stay,
In motion,
And take no time for granted.
This is your one-track mind,
Locked in to preoccupation,
And basic criticized employment.
These are the things you do,
The courage you have.
This is you,
This is you tired,
This is who you are,
This is you heading for sleep.
This is you,
And this is,
Without mistake,
Proudly,
Your life.
The True Meaning of MJ and Other Such Bumper Stickers
by Echo Poetica
Bumper stickers were sacred to me when I was little. My first one read "I Brake For Brontosauri." Eventually, this, along with other gathered stickers, made its way onto my expressive guitar case. Each sticker on the case says something about me: "I participated in the 30th Star Trek Anniversary" (i.e., I'm a dork), "Don't Let Friends Vote Republican" (I'm a liberal), "I Love Irish Music" (I'm a music minor). Similarly, I've always smiled in support of those who have displayed their ideals via bumper stickers on cars: "Meat Is Murder," or the ever-popular, ironic, well-intended environmental slogan stickers that suburban activists happily place just above their exhaust systems. I'm always impressed by "Child Free" Beamers and "Right To Life" vans. Anyone expressing his or her beliefs, outright, graphically, and unadulterated via bumper sticker is obviously committed to them.
Recently, two new classes of bumper stickers have developed. The first includes patriotic American flag or God Bless America stickers, prevalent since September 11th, is a constant reminder of the rather human nature that Americans have seemed to develop post-tragedy. These stickers express pride and support the freedom of expression that America's supposed to be about.
The second breed of stickers, most often sported on SUVs, can be categorized by their circular nature. They are usually in black and white, and have capital letters that stand for something only a small percentage of the general population understands.
Sitting in traffic one day, I finally realized that most of these stickers represented country names: GB was Great Britain, etc. Henceforth, I was able to decipher the stickers that I encountered. I was and still remain in support of these-these stickers are simply displaying pride in one's heritage. As Americans, I think it's important that we retain some aspect of our ancestry, and displaying these stickers is a great way to do it. Furthermore, most people can figure out that IREL is an abbreviation for Ireland.
Months later, I found myself browsing band merchandise at a Sister Hazel concert. There I found SH bumper stickers. Even though I was at a Sister Hazel concert, it took me a moment to realize that SH stood for Sister Hazel, and not an obscure country somewhere in the world. If it took me a bit to realize what the SH stood for at the concert, and I was a fan of the band, then would non-fans understand what the SH stood for? Soon, I began noticing STP and DMB initials popping up in the standard black and white circle format. Sports, such as the frequently abbreviated LAX (lacrosse) and NHL (National Hockey League) began appearing in stickers on Jeeps and other such vehicles. Before long, I was unable to distinguish between bands, states, countries, and sports because there were so many stickers that looked the same.
After asking around campus for a month, I finally realized that all of the OBX stickers around stand for Outer Banks. (If you get closer to the sticker than you ever could get while driving a car behind it at a safe distance, the true meaning of OBX is revealed underneath). OBX-will someone in upstate New York know what OBX means? Is it some exclusive place; a private club? Since noticing OBX, I've come across other such black and white circular stickers: LBI (Long Beach Island), REM (presumably the band), and XXX (presumably the car of either a stripper, pimp, or simply a pornographic approach to sticker cynicism).
And there it was: SH. "That one's Sister Hazel," I announced to myself, proud that I could decipher another sticker. Upon closer observation on foot, I noticed that this SH, according to the caption beneath, was promoting the pride of someone who has been to not a Sister Hazel concert, but to Stone Harbor, NJ.
There you have it-now all you people with those bumper stickers-either get clever, cynical bumper stickers (like XXX or HTML, the more clever ones I've seen) or make sure you don't give out the wrong idea. I mean, what if you have MJ on your car? Someone could assume it's Michael Jackson you're a fan of, and come up to you with a masturbating monkey and a single glove. Or, a cop might pull you over on the assumption that MJ is for marijuana. In reality, you might smoke pot, but you're really just digging Mick Jagger.
Chocolat: A New Release Review
by Echo Poetica
Chocolat is a charming film about a young girl Anouk (Victoire Thivisol) and her mother Vianne (Juliet Binoche). The film with cinematic majesty as the red-hooded pair enters a small French town during the season of Lent. Vianne rents a room and a shop, and to the dismay of the Comte de Reynaud (Alfred Molina), a chocolaterie. Vianne and Anouk manage to charm much of the town, but encounter opposition from the Comte, who insists that chocolate is sinful. This film centers on the curiosity of strangers that become the familiarity of home.
The overarching themes of Chocolat are relatively simple: Vianne and Anouk, as well as a few outsider friends they make during the film, are outsiders. They do not attend church, and appear to have wandering spirits. Vianne enjoys helping others and fixing familial issues among the villagers, providing remedies from aphrodisiac nuts to a long talk over hot chocolate. Other themes include passion, health, life, death, religion, and family.
The most symbolic object in the movie, other than the healing chocolate itself, is Vianne's clothing. She always wears the color red, which at first contributes to the cautious nature of the villagers. Vianne's shop manages to convey the feeling of both new and old with her vivid clothing and exotic South American décor.
The acting in Chocolat is incredible-while it is clear from the beginning that the Comte is trying to stifle the passions of his villagers (symbolized by their want for chocolate), it is also clear that he is evil. However, instead of typifying this role, Alfred Molina presents his character as a complex man of many facets and inner conflicts, even though most of those complexities are not revealed until the conclusion of the film.
Juliet Binoche carries the film well, leading and charming the audience as easily as her character leads the film. Any woman and/or individualist can easily relate to Binoche's edge on the character: a woman going against the standard, needing to make a positive impact on the world.
While Chocolat is only about two hours long, it does seem longer. The plot is predictable, but the film concentrates more on grander concepts and themes. If you're in a meditative mood, or desire incredible artistry in film making, Chocolat is an ideal movie for you.
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