Philosophy of Psychoanalysis Terminable and Interminable: Dueling with Derrida and Lacan

image source: writer's block

the worse case of writer's block is to sit in front of a typewriter charged with a tabula rasa — must i force, jettison, project, something onto a page? 

i feel that i must write.

let's us say it is a conviction compulsion concentration—send it by e-mail but i rather write a letter kinda thing—type it out, resist the virtual void; let's play with the textual machine, the typewriter. maybe it will get us to write more   substance

what happened? did the letter not go through? not every letter is guaranteed to reach its destination.

f u c k

lacan: he structure of a letter is to always contain the possibility of return

derrida: a letter must contain the possibility of always not returning to its proper place

who is right?

it puts me in a bind: how to write a letter about a letter that contains / doesn't contain the possibility of return?

1. i have to write a letter ... or a paper ... or something ... not an e-mail, but a response, a missive, to respond.

2. it is for a class. psychoanalysis and deconstruction (part 2)

3. i took part one last semester.

4. i wrote about la différance

5. isn't once enough?

i do know lacan and derrida parted ways. well, they never were friends in the first place. 

elizabeth roudinesco tells a story in her mammoth history of lacanian psychoanalysis, lacan and co. (p. 418):

Upon his arrival, he was very surprised to learn from René Girard that Lacan had requested a deluxe hotel room for him. Exhausted from jet lag, he set down his bags and heard the old master say: "So, I had to come all the way here to finally meet you!" At dinner the next day, Derrida raised questions close to his heart, about the Cartesian subject, substance, and the signifier. While eating coleslaw, Lacan replied that his subject was the same as the one proposed by his interlocutor as an alternative to the theory of the subject. In itself, the remark was not false, but Lacan hastened to add: "You can't bear the fact that I have already said what you want to say." Derrida responded without missing a beat: "That is not my problem." So Lacan got nowhere. Later that evening, he approached the philosopher, putting a friendly hand on his shoulder: "Ah! Derrida, we have to talk, we have to talk!" But they were never to talk...(8)    A year later, at a dinner in Paris at Jean Piel's home, Lacan took warmly Derrida's hand in his smooth palms and asked what he was working on. Plato, Socrates, the pharmakon, the letter, the concepts of origin, logos, mythos: the philosopher was preparing a text for the journal Tel Quel. Under the talented leadership of Philippe Sollers, this journal had begun to include important topics of the older structuralism together with revisions in the light of "textuality." When Of Grammatology was being published, Derrida had joined the editorial board of the journal Critique. And since the publication of his Ecrits, Lacan has become director of a collection at the publisher Seuil. Once again, he mentioned how strange it was that he had already discussed the same topics as those preoccupying Derrida. One need only ask his students. To avoid a debate, Derrida told the psychoanalyst the following anecdote. One evening, as his son Pierre was falling asleep in the presence of his mother, he asked his father why he was looking at him:    "Because you are handsome."    The child reacted immediately by saying that the compliment made him want to die. A little uneasy, Derrida tried to find out what he meant:    "I don't like myself," the child said.    "Since when?"    "Since I learned to talk."    Marguerite took him in her arms:    "Don't worry. We love you."    At which point Pierre burst out laughing:    "No, it's not true at all. I am a born cheater for life."(9)    Lacan said nothing. Sometime later, Derrida was stupefied to find the anecdote penned by his interlocutor in a lecture given at the French Institute in Naples in December 1967.(10) Lacan told the story like this: "'I am a born cheater for life,' said a four-year old boy while curling up in the arms of his genitrix in the presence of his father, who had just answered 'You are handsome' to his question 'Why are you looking at me?' And the father didn't recognize (even when the child in the interim pretended to have lost all taste for himself the day he learned to speak) the obstacle that he himself was foisting on the Other by playing dead. It's up to the father, who told it to me, to hear me from where I speak or not."    After this second meeting, relations between Derrida and Lacan were never cordial.  

To say the least!

anyway.

i am set with the task of writing about derrida's deconstruction of the Other in Lacan's purloined letter. i am sure to include the debacle recounted above.

the thesis of my rant is: Something like a Lacanian Other suppresses differance.

then i will do a close reading of derrida deconstructing lacan: the facteur and all that and the psychoanalysis that supposedly finds itself! how convenient.

in another essay, derrida wrote, called "for the love of lacan," he talks about the chance factor psychoanalysis leaves out. was it by chance that derrida met lacan several times?

but, i am not so sure how it all relates. or how it matters. who cares, i say? leave it to chance. i can agree to that. when i go to analysis, to a psychoanalyst, i free associate, i try to leave it to chance, but it seems no matter how "free" i am, there is a determinism -- call it psychological determinism -- setting in a mold what i say. or is it like alan bass said somewhere that the problem with analysis is free association is like translating without a good dictionary!

i need a good dictionary to figure this out. i feel so useless, as if i am left to figure out, to resolve a duel, between two great philosophers of psychoanalysis.

what would freud think? wo es war?

i read barbara jonson's critique of derrida on lacan. she says lacan and derrida are saying the same things but just quibbling over individual differences.

she also says it is difficult to write about three texts, the poe "purloined letter" text, the lacan "seminar" text, and the derrida "facteur" text. i should just copy and paste all three texts, lump them into one word processing document and turn that in as my paper.

but i shan't. or i won't.

the other won't let me.

neither one. the big "O" bastard and his little other mother fucker.

i think after i write this paper i am going to abandon lacan to derrida and derrida to lacan : forever.

i mean, i like this stuff; it is just difficult to hammer out something to say. so i am exorcising demons by writing this post.

PDF Copy for Printing

Online Citation Software: RefWorks or no Refworks?

After years of organizing research in a Moleskine notebook, I have finally landed on an online bibliographic manager I can kinda live with . . .  
When writing papers, I have always managed my own citations and created bibliographies with the help of either a stylebook or books.google.com and worldcat.com). The frustration comes in getting the style format correct. Formatting a research paper in MLA or APA style is tedious work. Have you ever found yourself at your desk and not able to access the citation for a book you have already returned to the library? Have you ever wondered whether to use parenthetical citations or footnotes? How does one cite a web site? A movie? A sound recording? A librarian told me once that the easiest way to use a citation style is to not learn how to use it. He meant just refer to the stylebook for the rules. I am sure he would agree a citation manager is even better.
Libraries Often Give Their Patrons Tools to Create Citations and Bibliographies
     At my university, the library makes it incredibly easy for students to use bibliographic management software. RefWorks is not free but if you are a college student it is highly likely your institution subscribes to the service, but you can use Zotero or WorldCat if you don't have RefWorks (but their features are limited).
    When I research on the web or browse books and articles I can simply add references to my RefWorks account. Why didn't I do this before? Before the advent of online citation managers, I had to either carry a notebook with me to the library to record bibliographic data or I would key in the data into a word processing program but then I would be paralyzed by not knowing the proper citation format. Do I add the publisher and publication place? Do I need the ISBN? With RefWorks I have folders for the projects I am working on. I have a folder on Hobbes and folder on Kant; I even have a folder for the presentation I am supposed to give on Stanley Cavell's book Pursuits of Happiness. All my citations are there (whether they be a website or a film or a peer-reviewed article). I feel more organized and I feel like my research is all in one place. I think of RefWorks as my citation library, in the same way, I think of Evernote as my ideas library.
RefWorks Keeps Your Research Organized
    RefWorks keeps my projects organized. If I have already entered a citation in one folder on Kant I can easily put it into another folder I created on Kant and Arendt.
     I do have a gripe about the user design. The graphic interface is rather complicated so you have to have patience and persistence at first. There are several ways to add references to RefWorks. Searching a library catalog or an electronic database, RefWorks allows you to import citations directly from a subscribing school's online catalog or database to your RefWorks account. Look for the export to RefWorks option. I have not found this method to always be efficient. For example, I am a student at a school that shares its library with other consortia members. So if I am not in my home library, but in another library only affiliated with my school, the RefWorks login screen pops up demanding that I enter the group code. I don't know my school's group code. Or if I am at home I have to remember to log in to RefWorks through my school's page. I have to manually type in the information for the reference. The nice thing though is that RefWorks gives me a host of fields: I can enter in as little or as much information on a source as I want. An awesome feature is the attachment option. If I have a file of quotes from a particular source I can append it to the citation as an attachment.
RefWorks Stores Your Research in the Cloud
      The big plus for using RefWorks is the same reason why I use Google Docs or MobileMe or Carbonite. The service is web-based and I can work on a project no matter where I am. Either at home, at work, or at school I can add to my RefWorks account with references. The other big plus for me is that when I am ready to export a bibliography from the sources I intend to use for my paper I can export them into almost any available citation format (MLA, APA, Turabian, etc.). This feature saves me tons of time because some of my professors require different citation formats. It's a pain in the butt to have to re-format a paper. I did this once for my Master's Thesis. Not fun. Where was RefWorks then?
    I can actually create a document in Microsoft Word and install RefWorks plugin Write-N-Cite and practically write my paper and at the end of the day convert it into any citation style I may need. Unfortunately, you have to use Microsoft Word (on a Mac or PC) for this feature to work. I use Google Docs or iWork. What do I do? I have to use RefWork's CiteView option which allows me to manually insert citations I create into my documents without the advantage of instantaneously formatting allowed by Write-N-Cite. The CiteView option is tedious and not user-friendly. RefWorks forces you to insert clunky text chunks where your citation should go then when you are done writing your paper you upload the document to RefWorks and it correctly formats your paper. Personally I rather just do this myself and only use RefWorks for the organizational features which makes me second guess any reason why I would pay a premium to use the service when I can get the same functionality from other online venues. The huge improvement in services like RefWorks, however, which differs from EndNote, is the freedom to work on any platform and in any word processor. EndNote is a great application but I have to be sitting at a computer that has it installed with a compatible word processor. EndNote, in my opinion, is not worth the money. And to my knowledge, it is not cloud-based.
While RefWorks is Not 100% Perfect it Manages Fairly Well
    RefWorks is not intuitive. The graphic user interface is intimidating. There are way too many buttons and options. To do simple tasks like generate a bibliography or toggle between folders can become frustrating ordeals if the wrong button is pressed. I tried to import an existing bibliography I had created in WorldCat and I was not able to accomplish this feat. RefWorks is a powerful tool in assisting students in managing their research and citing sources but I recommend taking an hour introductory class before jumping into it. I took a class at my university and found it to be extremely helpful and I can see already that two things will increase my productivity: the universal access to my work and the ability to create bibliographies in tons of formats. If you are not affiliated with an institution that has a subscription then I suggest go with the free online services. Personally, I like WorldCat's List feature. I will write about it in a future post. It allows you to create folders as well and to create multiple bibliographies in various citation formats. Also, I should add, none of these services, WorldCat, Zotero, RefWorks, EndNote, will do your research for you; the programs will not magically provide an A+ paper but they will certainly (if used efficiently -- with a little bit of a learning curve) aid you in creating a polished, finished product.

What has been your experience with online bibliography and citation managers?

PDF Copy for Printing

The 215th Street IRT Elevated Subway Station in New York City

An Excerpt from my book of essays Things I Probably Shouldn't Have Said (And Other Faux Pas): 

Exploring the stations along the IRT Broadway line in the Northern tip of Manhattan and the Bronx, Greig Roselli's mind wanders.

Entrance to the 215th Street Elevated IRT Station in New York

     The Harlem River swallows five Manhattan city blocks. The streets are numbered up to 220th on the mainland of Manhattan, but in Marble Hill, across the Broadway Bridge, the numbers begin at 225th street, as if the river itself is a five block wide gape. I like to think of it that way, anyway; on a map, the river looks like a bluish slab of concrete anyway; or maybe there was a 222nd street in Manhattan - if there was, I wonder what it was like? Did they have bodegas and subway stations? As for 221st, 223rd, and 224th, they are gone too - kinda repositioned into some region of the Bronx or even Queens, but here in Inwood, peering over the expanse, the blocks have vanished. Maybe the civic designers marked the streets this way to note the transient nature of the island's geography. Streets that are marked now may not exist in the future, the shift of the river, or global warming climate changes, change the nature of the landscape. New York City will not be the same geographically in 2100, as it is today. Lower Manhattan, according to an exhibit, Rising Currents, currently on display at MoMA this summer, will be akin to Venice, sans the gondolas.
    My mind is on permanence and transience, as I wander the northern part of Inwood.
    The local 1 train veers off of Broadway and follows 10th avenue in Inwood.
    The els are menacingly loud. New Yorkers travel these rumbling god-trains; their appearance is a swift apparition of noise and wind. A South Ferry Bound train rumbles above of me as I walk along the tenth avenue to get a clandestine peek at the Transit Authority train yards that lie to the East of Inwood. Condominium towers lie in the Distant Bronx. From here, you can see how thin the northern tip of Manhattan island really is.

Subway Train Yard in Manhattan

  A buxom blonde woman guards the train yard gate. She catches me snapping pictures. I am surprised how politely she asks me to stop. "Sir, you can't take pictures of the trains. It's illegal." I am - for a moment - afraid a more buxom employee will appear from behind the grill and confiscate my camera, so I tuck it neatly into my pants pocket and walk on, disappointed that I cannot continue to peer into the sinuous rills of the train yard. Sometimes when I am among the tracks of mass transit, I become giddy. I am not the only one. Just last night, I was riding the Pelham Bay local towards my Queens-bound transfer on the R train. A man and his son were sitting near me and I was amused by the son, who was obviously visiting New York, because in the midst of their conversation he cries, "I love the subway." He got up from his seat and started to almost skip down the train aisle, but his father grabbed him and told him to sit down. He was greatly amused by the mechanics of the journey, repeating the words of the conductor to his father, and lovingly looking out the window into the subterranean blackness of the underground.
    The train system is infinitely fascinating (which is why I write about it). I am interested in the intersection of people and movement. The way the system moves people around; how we move around in the system; how we interact and how we are engaged. Some of us are docile travelers, hardly noticing the whir that surrounds us, but others are like the boy on the Pelham Bay local, gesticulating with the gesture of energy along with the movement of the train. He understood the mystery of the system, how it is like a cipher, something mysterious, yet so full in the midst of millions of people. The subway city as a cipher is akin to the ancient image of the labyrinth, with its routes and tunnels overlapping and turning, but never getting anywhere, only presenting choice decisions along the way.

Would you like to read more? Fetch Greig Roselli's book of essays, Things I Shouldn't Have Said (And Other Faux Pas) for more good writing, dammit.  

Image Source: © 2010 Greig Roselli

PDF Copy for Printing

Subscribe to the RSS Feed of Stones of Erasmus

New York City Subway Stories: 231 Street Station

Previous

A Stopover in Kingsbridge
The Broadway local stations in the northern Bronx between Westchester County and Manhattan are elevated, reminiscent of the old els that populated most of the city before the inception of the subways at the turn of the century. Here in Kingsbridge, I can sort of get the feel of how the city used to be — sort of — I can imagine none of these buildings around me exist and instead there are rolling fields and hills that punctuate the countryside when this line was originally built. For my subway car reading, I've been diving into New York City Subway history. In one book, The City Beneath Us: Building the New York Subway, I recently checked out from the Mid-Manhattan Branch library, depicts the 238 and 231 street stations. The pictures are eerie snapshots from the past. The difference in setting is striking. But the elevated train remains the same. I am on a time machine. The structure of the stations are unchanged. The same Swiss Chalet façade adorns the front (here it is inviting white!) and the steel infrastructure is unchanged in appearance. The difference is the emptiness that surrounds the Broadway local train. I can close my eyes and return to this spot a hundred years ago. Perhaps I am a Manhattan father with two children and a wife. We move north to escape the chaos of downtown and the typhoid and tuberulosis of lower Manhattan tenement living. Here, it must have felt like a spacious Western dream. "Don't fence me in!" The first train passengers more than a hundred years ago probably did not imagine the extent of urbanization New York would undergo. Or maybe they did. Because it did not take long for this area to rapidly acquire buildings and concrete. At one time, though, a cow could have taken a dump right here on the extent of concrete below me. A horse could have been crushed by a drunken driver in a Ford — right here. I take a swig from my Orangina and a tiny Dominican woman offers me a smile.

Northern Manhattan and north of the Harlem river still retain vestiges of the old that most of lower Manhattan has buried. The trains are still elevated, not below the ground; and the streets beckon an old-world feel. Even the name of this neighborhood, Kingsbridge, is antiquated, not Dutch obviously, but a New England name that fits comfortably alongside New York. Kingsbridge, New York. The name is lyrical. The space begs people to notice its own origins. Banners affixed to poles in the street cry out, visit Kingsbridge, "It's all under the bridge!" Instead of cows and horses, the sound of ladies softly alighting their feet on grass, I hear the rush of cars emanating from the Major Deegan Expressway, not far from where I stand, which snakes through the Bronx north-south. I am not really sure what Kingsbridge refers to, perhaps a bridge that once existed here but no longer stands. A quick Wikipedia search concludes that a bridge did stand here but it was covered up and replaced by the Duivet-Spuivel canal. For some reason I think of Neil Gaiman’s novel Neverwhere, of an alternate universe in the London Underground and imagine if Gaiman had written the novel here, Kingsbridge would have to serve as some magical portal to New York’s own Neverwhere. Maybe Van Cortlandt Park to the north would be a faun's playground. I think for a second how fun it would be to write a novel about the subways of New York as a fantasy. Gaiman might sue though. I put my idea on a cupboard in my brain. I can figure out my own creative slant. I'm sure of it.

Interacting with Locals and an Encounter with the Police
After asking her a few questions, which at first startles her, a middle-aged black woman carrying a leather satchel and an umbrella tells me Kingsbridge is a nice place. She points in the direction of Broadway and says something to me about the canal that was dug that replaced the original Kingsbridge. I tell her thank you and walk along Broadway. The heat creeps through the streets. The pizza I ate at Mario's still feels heavy in my stomach. I climb the stairs of the elevated platform and find a quite place to jot down notes in my moleskine.

A policeman from the 50th district stops me and asks me not to loiter. Either get on a train or keep moving. He’s polite enough, but there is an unnecessary heightened sense of authority in his voice so I board the Manhattan-bound Broaway local as quickly as possible. Seated on the train again, I remember just yesterday a New York Public Library security guard had asked me in not so kind words to not sit in the stacks to read a book. “Tables are for reading. Get up.”

Next

Read more stories just like this one in my book of essays "Things I Probably Shouldn't Have Said (And Other Faux Pas)"

PDF Copy for Printing

Short Story: "Secret Incognito" (A Piece of Stones of Erasmus Juvenilia)

"Secret Incognito" is a short story by Greig Roselli (© 1996)

A YOUNG BOY DECIDED TO ENTER A FIELD.

Stone monoliths soared into the sky with shards of rusty metal and broken glass beneath.  The enigmatic structures beckoned the lad; the eight slabs of concrete called to him.  Stains of derision from his family clung.  He climbed the fence (which had a clearly visible sign stenciled in red: “NO TRESPASSING!”) to escape for a while. He penetrated quickly to elude the threatening noise of the close traffic. With quick steps, he had already entered the depths, but he wasn’t afraid. Rusted metal, a browned apple core, and aluminum scraps riddled the bare, gaseous earth. Thorn laden brambles engulfed the concrete slabs. A can of Moxie lay entrapped in one of its clutches. Concealed in the twisting vine one could find secrets and lost memories. All of a sudden it seemed an adventure to explore this vast void, to maybe find a truth. A way to prove to himself there was more to life than bitterness and homework. The collected, curly-headed youth looked upward: tall monuments to fallen bridges that once traversed mighty waters stood before him. Huge pieces of masonry, stacked one on top of another, looked enticingly climbable. He scaled it with much agility, using the large rusty appendages as an aid. A bead of sweat etched its way across the boy’s face: the first sign of effort, true gusto, true vigor.

Notes from a High School English Teacher: Letter to my Students

Copy of a high school teacher's letter to his students about their final freshman year writing project with an addendum of quotes:

Valediction

    IT IS OFTEN said, "words are like bullets."

    While, this may not sound true - how can a word be like a bullet? - it is VERY true.

    Our words matter. Like a bullet, words can DO something. Cause destruction. Words can cause a revolution. Words can shatter. Words rock.

    Here we have a collection of your words, strung together to make a PORTFOLIO.

Words matter.

    Writing has not yet deserved a funeral. But a resurgence.

    SO

    It has been a quirky, productive year. Even Susie Q agrees. Bon Qui Qui also concurs. Even, Mr. Roselli, that unkempt teacher, who barely gets his grades in on time and wears mixed-match clothes, seldom shaves, and looks like he is married to a coffee cup, agrees - words matter. Keep writing.

    I remember all of you:

    Especially these random things:

    1. Raised hands; 2. fixing my hair; 3. plushy fish dolls; 4. Au Revoir Les Enfants; 5. Oedipus at the Museum; 6. Mr. Hebert's benign interruptions; 7. Mr. Stabiler's talk on Greek Mythology; 8. big words; 9. "imitation is the best form of flattery"; 10. "familiarity breeds contempt"; 11. Google Hacks; smartboard mishaps; 12. "Y'all are hot (higher order thinkers)"; 13. "A MANNNNN?"; 14. literary rally champs; 15. "Hey, I know what hyperbole means!"; 16. "Thunk is my word!"; 17. "Does reading about Lady Gaga count?"; 18. "You're making us read this .... sophisticated newspaper ...?"; 19. "Can we read the Inferno? I like hell"; 20. "How can a guy survive on a lifeboat with a tiger? I mean come on."; 21. "Mr. Roselli, you need a hug?"; 22. "You know you love us."; 23. "OMG! I love that book!"; 24. "This may sound funny, but I wrote this paper last night. But, it's brilliant."; 25. "You guys are sick!"; 26. "You know, it reminds me of an episode from Sponge Bob ..."; 27. "Give me back the pen, buster."; 28. A severe whooshing sound; 29. pile of sweaters; 30. Free Writes!; 31. interactive notebooks; 32. scotch tape; 33. indecipherable handwriting; 34. chronic sleepers; 35. overachievers; 36. underachievers; 37. "Hitch your wagon to a star! Or, what's a heaven for?"; "Can you exterminate the lights, please? Or is it terminate? I can't remember." 38. There's a difference: To be is to do (Socrates); Yabba dabba doo (Fred Flintstone)
G. Roselli

New Orleans, LA

PDF Copy for Printing

Poetry: Gone with the Wind, among others — Leuven, Belgium

In this poem, which I wrote when I was a college student at the Catholic University of Leuven (K.U.L.), and living as a seminarian at the American College, I tap into feelings of aesthetic taste, sharing intimacy — and I used the phrase "stones of erasmus" for the first time! 

     Erasmus was a student in Leuven during the counter-reformation. One can still see the dormitory house where he supposedly lived and studied. There is a saying among students that only if the stones of Erasmus could speak! What would they say?  

photo credit: spirit of paris

After a film,
poster and reflections
neatly crisp

Intently, furtive glances, to the right, then gone …
left man passes, consume in a bite, then a girl
with glasses, lashes and a bic light
smokes.
Curly Q’s and then somberness of night.
But, still the poster glows … the Trocadero, a movie
de l’amour and Vertigo, a fright:
An image of a man, a stale lacuna, a ghost of film noir
gazing, not apart, partly connected.  Dreams and visions
speak aloud to wet, litter caked streets.

Rotted lemon luminaries haze a path,
dulling humid low land streets, scarcity curtains pulled upwards,
A Peugeot passes, the stones of erasmus clamor to get out.
The posters gleam yet; characters speak and a stomach,
somewhere thirsty growls — it is filled and then …
in upward windows aching, she dresses for a silent figure fantasy.

A flicker, then bed, holding a teapot, languidly.
Une regard to a postcard, to consume.
Speeches to please, to sugar, then the tongue licks,
alors, madame …
then laugh,
like a box of potpourri; charming
half-dead, withered, enchanting

PDF Copy for Printing

Why David Remnick is My Hero (But I Don't Want to Emulate Him)

David Remnick, the editor for the New Yorker, and latest biographer of the 44th president, gets up at 5:30 AM to write, goes to work at one of the most eloquent magazines in the country, and still has a few minutes to spend time with family, go back to work, look good, be friends with Malcolm Gladwell - and he commutes by subway. I wish I could be him - but then, I think, maybe not. I don't desire editorial glamour (I'm not a Tina Brown wannabe) but, at least God, please give me a Remnick brain! I wanna write 2,000 words effortlessly.

PDF Copy for Printing

Infographic: How to Write a Research Paper

You'd think that a mural by Dom Gregory DeWitt of Christ (painted in the Abbey Church in Saint Benedict, Louisiana) would be a strange visual to teach students how to write a research paper — but sometimes the weirdest ideas are best!

Use this simple hand out to teach students how to form an argument for a research paper.

PDF Copy for Printing

Poem: "Weight Problem"

photo credit: transiacc

I was shaving, showing my tummy in the mirror

A plump pudge gathered round
my navel,
a pink mound
peering and chuckling
over my pyjamas.
I poked my pinky into my flesh
a skin landscape, a planet of hair
laughing back at me
as I glided my razor across my
smooth gillette face.

PDF Copy for Printing

Flash Fiction: In the Pitcher's Box

"So, I turned to her and said, "Lawd. You got them cockroaches out of the kitchen zink? Them roaches be as old as a dinosaur; I ain't your momma. Clean that shit up before I go all stegosaurus on your ass."

image credit: © Greig Roselli

Ginny was acting like an overblown blow-up doll. She had strapped over her shoulder a Ziploc bag of ice. She was so animated she was cartoonish. Her shoulder had been in pain since she'd pulled a muscle at last week's game. She squinted her face like one of those black and white Laurel and Hardy pictures. She was imitating a character on a television commercial. "Yeah, baby. We love you hard, hard, swear to God." She had pulled up her boxer shorts out to show the rest of the girls her Bugs Bunny drawers. "She was standing next to the macaroni. I'm not your momma. But, at this diner, we fill up your coffee cup without draining your wallet." The boys were all dressed in white tees and nylon running pants. The girls wore helmets. "But, I could give a rat's ass to what she thought. I told her to get away from the macaroni and cleaning the fucking zink." Zack got up to bat next. At the end of the box was a digital rendition of a pitcher. He would virtually throw the ball over his shoulder which would cue one of the boys to throw a hard, unofficial baseball into the throwing machine. "Swing. Bat. Bunt. Cunts." They would say.

Sacrevoir, Untitled

    Stopher was acting like a gentleman. He crossed his legs like Abraham Lincoln. "Now, you see, the problem with our team is one of emotion." Coach Liniski paid Taylor no mind. He felt for his chest, passed his hand through the unbuttoned part of his lapel. "Where is your tie, Coach Lineski?" He pulled it out of his coat pocket. He was making a dozen of the softball players laugh their asses off. "So, you see, here, this is what I don't understand girls. Why do the girls? See them over there? Why do they use softballs, but the boys use hardballs? I don't get it." Nora laughed. "He said, 'hard balls.' Oh my god. He said 'hard'." Nora was on the turf. She clutched her tummy as if she were in pain. Her laughter was unnoticed by the boys, who batted in the box without helmets. The girls were dutiful. They wore plastic helmets; they never argued about whose turn was next. The boys were quieter, only talking if conversation necessitated speech. Jackson was the leader of the boys. He had a suave gentleness that calmed the kids, unlike Ginny's rude brouhaha. "We don't talk to Freshman. They practice with us, but we don't talk to them. That's Jackson going to bat. He hits pretty good." The ball would have been a home run, for sure. Jackson was cool about accomplishment. He didn't demand adulation. He seemed to attract it like Michelangelo's David attracts admirers of beauty. The swerve of the body. Crack. Ginny laughed; she basically chortled. "Pull your pants up Ginny. There are boys in the batter's box." "Yeah, I'm showing them my bruise. Looks like the Milky Way." Houston incredulously stooped to look at Ginny's bruise. The other boys froze. Coach Lineski stopped chewing his dip. We thought he would swallow it. Houston brought his finger closer to touch Ginny's darkened bruise. It was easy to tell a ball had hit her over the weekend. The otherwise dark markings had begun to soften and lighten. Houston's touch hadn't hurt like the initial punch to the gut. Nora still laughed. The quiet baseball drone droned. Mr. Lineski pulled Houston away. The girls were engaged in a maniacal giggle. The boys seemed scandalized. One young boy without a name, short, lithe, stood up with his "pimp stick" and swung the bat, blissfully unaware, almost hitting little Le Roy. Mr. Lineski spun around, conflicted at the chaos that had ensued. The unnamed boy swung again; not intending to hit anyone, the polychrome bat stunned Coach Lineski. Blood poured relentlessly. Coach Lineski lunged for the unnamed boy but the pain of the hit pummeled him and he fled to the hard astroturf. Blood stained the ground. Someone called 911. Nora was to the left of the crowd; she tugged Jackson close to her body. He had tears in his eyes. The head baseball coach barged in the doors. "Everyone outside now." The boy with no name did not show emotion. He had dropped his bat to the ground and dutifully waited outside for Coach Lineski to be born again.

PDF Copy for Printing

Poem: "je t'aime"

he wants it all in a large package,

as if love can be given in one moment,
but I am not angry
at his infantile gestures,
rather
amused
that he could believe that love could be
so whole.
yet,
i believe in his tenacity,
somewhat envious, actually
of his certitude
so
i am able to say back to him,
without too much guilt and
little temptation to retract my words,

i love you too

PDF Copy for Printing

Six words memoirs about personally influential people (without names)

I teach high school level English classes at a private school in New Orleans. I often use "six-word memoirs" in the classroom. The idea is simple. Ask your students to describe themselves in six words. It has to be six! Articles count. You can extend it to include a six-word description of a person, an object, a place (really, anything) only using six words. Here are some model six-word "stories" I made about people I know.

A prose roster of influential people using the seven-word memoir concept:

He is my occasional problem solver.	She teaches me Library Science know-how.	Unfortunately, he is the secret keeper.
A woman to a special man.	In desire, I play dead! Sucks!	A child-man with a new soul.
A gentle giant whom I love.	A spit of French and red.	This guy is no longer haunted.
A sweet soul soon to blossom.	A caustic soul: will he bloom?	Brother for true to each other.
We would have babies together but...	His crushes are epic and sudden.	Taught the wonders of boolean operators.
Amazing: different paths but still friends.	Have never met: only in dreams.	The best lunches ever: learned tons.
Your name was Bunch: hah hah.	Seriously: we ate ants together once.	I asked you a thousand questions.
She ate salad, cleanly, without dressing.	You skated out of my life.	I cannot believe it was ten.
The humor is always the best.	It was unwittingly a group project.	First loves are not always sweet.
Philosophy had never been so intense.