New poem I wrote up a short while ago. Definitely not my best piece, but I submitted a bunch to Stillwater, so I'd like them to get first publishing rights.
"Winter Waltz", an epic of personal conquest I crafted on a cold evening's walk
by Danny Gessner
The fields are locked,
they’ve chained the gates,
it doesn’t really feel right for play.
Things have changed,
the cars all go past,
although when i’m in them,
I’d prefer they go fast.
It makes more sense to live here now,
living in the winter's howl.
I don’t think less of the noise that pervades,
so much as the silence invades.
This is not my best poem of thought and time.
Rather, just some old silly rhyme
that i’ll bumble from time to time
and when i need to, make it rhyme.
The lamps grow wan,
disappear for eternity,
inducted into a dreamy fraternity.
I follow them along a path
maybe only God herself could have.
The towers loom, and horizons don’t get flatter
i march, and then again,
see myself in a reflection of hope and prayer.
Pray once again and I will.
Let me know what you think about it. I haven't even attempted rhyme in such a long time it feels so weird to work with all these slants.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Semester Excuse and Classroom Poetics
So I'm taking a lot of classes this semester. Like 7. That's 21 hours of class per week. Plus 10 hours of work at the Career Services office. Plus extra-curricular commitments. These include Assistant Directing for Ithapocalypse, a new zombie TV-show, General Manager/Treasurer for IC Players, an on-campus theatre group, and being a borderline member of Sigma Tau Delta, the English Honor Society. So I've been struggling to free write, except during my classes because I'm such a focused and attentive student. More stuff will follow shortly as this semester mercifully winds down, but in the meantime here's some of my random classroom poetry. It's unpolished, but that's what this blog is for.
***
I do not own a thought
nor an inkling of emotional significance.
I took the worn-out road,
but if hasn’t made much of a difference.
It’s easier to fade to that stale wallpaper
and blend with the punch and chips.
Cords do not bind my wrists or thoughts:
Just because I feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there.
Pathological rope marks won’t account for my grief.
The profit margin is just another lie;
Lies, damned lies, and statistics
There’s a systematic destruction of my self-esteem,
a veritable holocaust on positive thought and success.
The charred remains litter my mind;
the scar on the visage of the landscape
will only fade when the rest of me does too.
Is it wrong to shun the persistent pests
who actually have an honest desire
while I daydream about demi-gods
who wouldn’t answer my letters with a glance.
How broken do I have to be
to resign myself to mediocrity?
To ignore the pedestal champions
and focus in on the flyspecks--
never windshield wiped from the microscope glass
Maybe the residual bug juice can sustain
my stupid fucking wants
for longer than a visit from Dr. Feelgood
or rather Seabiscuit, always coming first.
Even the bad doctor’s still a distant second
to the gift of nocturnal submission to Morpheus
Whose chilled embrace comforts for a moment
before I become haunted with waking alone
cold. Scared -- clutching a pillow --
my desires don’t evaporate
they become transcendent
Until I walk the earth around me
zombified by what never was
Just because you feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there.
***
Please, anyone, I need your help!
To be specific, my head’s been growing too much.
I don’t have nearly enough thoughts to fill it.
If anyone knows how to stop my cranial swelling,
or could lend me an opinion or stance,
please, don’t hesitate to contact me!
Sincerely, Overly Inflated Head
***
Would you please help me ?
Would you please help ?
Would you please me ?
you help me ?
W u d you pl a e h lp ?
Would please me
you please me
Would you ?
Would you ?
you ?
me ?
Would you please help
me ?
?
please
?
***
I savor the dense silence
as it envelops the room in a fog
seeping through the windows
straining our thoughts with significance
or else ignorance -- It is
caressing our loneliness
with half a parsec of Kantian peace
while drones fly through the dense space
between our thoughts and forgets
What turquoise spire intrudes
upon my pondering for a different pander
to merely list our academic’s musings
and borrowed hackneyed opinions?
(Why did I accidently write my lover’s name
between literary criticism and T.S. Eliot?!?)
Whomever decided to intrude with a harsh
scarlet ink and brand me a witch can,
with the utmost sincerity,
go fornicate themselves elsewhere --
my notes are for me.
Daily requirements, measured in hows,
trickling down a sandglass, cannot
bind my thoughts into a marble composition --
their minimum is both insulting
and yet still a hurdle for my laze.
Could I take this class blind?
The sightsores wouldn’t distract
from my quality time within my shared imagination --
and I can shred myself, thank you.
***
Fin. Well, what does everyone think? Be as harsh as humanly possible.
***
I do not own a thought
nor an inkling of emotional significance.
I took the worn-out road,
but if hasn’t made much of a difference.
It’s easier to fade to that stale wallpaper
and blend with the punch and chips.
Cords do not bind my wrists or thoughts:
Just because I feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there.
Pathological rope marks won’t account for my grief.
The profit margin is just another lie;
Lies, damned lies, and statistics
There’s a systematic destruction of my self-esteem,
a veritable holocaust on positive thought and success.
The charred remains litter my mind;
the scar on the visage of the landscape
will only fade when the rest of me does too.
Is it wrong to shun the persistent pests
who actually have an honest desire
while I daydream about demi-gods
who wouldn’t answer my letters with a glance.
How broken do I have to be
to resign myself to mediocrity?
To ignore the pedestal champions
and focus in on the flyspecks--
never windshield wiped from the microscope glass
Maybe the residual bug juice can sustain
my stupid fucking wants
for longer than a visit from Dr. Feelgood
or rather Seabiscuit, always coming first.
Even the bad doctor’s still a distant second
to the gift of nocturnal submission to Morpheus
Whose chilled embrace comforts for a moment
before I become haunted with waking alone
cold. Scared -- clutching a pillow --
my desires don’t evaporate
they become transcendent
Until I walk the earth around me
zombified by what never was
Just because you feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there.
***
Please, anyone, I need your help!
To be specific, my head’s been growing too much.
I don’t have nearly enough thoughts to fill it.
If anyone knows how to stop my cranial swelling,
or could lend me an opinion or stance,
please, don’t hesitate to contact me!
Sincerely, Overly Inflated Head
***
Would you please help me ?
Would you please help ?
Would you please me ?
you help me ?
W u d you pl a e h lp ?
Would please me
you please me
Would you ?
Would you ?
you ?
me ?
Would you please help
me ?
?
please
?
***
I savor the dense silence
as it envelops the room in a fog
seeping through the windows
straining our thoughts with significance
or else ignorance -- It is
caressing our loneliness
with half a parsec of Kantian peace
while drones fly through the dense space
between our thoughts and forgets
What turquoise spire intrudes
upon my pondering for a different pander
to merely list our academic’s musings
and borrowed hackneyed opinions?
(Why did I accidently write my lover’s name
between literary criticism and T.S. Eliot?!?)
Whomever decided to intrude with a harsh
scarlet ink and brand me a witch can,
with the utmost sincerity,
go fornicate themselves elsewhere --
my notes are for me.
Daily requirements, measured in hows,
trickling down a sandglass, cannot
bind my thoughts into a marble composition --
their minimum is both insulting
and yet still a hurdle for my laze.
Could I take this class blind?
The sightsores wouldn’t distract
from my quality time within my shared imagination --
and I can shred myself, thank you.
***
Fin. Well, what does everyone think? Be as harsh as humanly possible.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
An Open Letter to Roger Ebert: The Graduate
In regards to: http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/19970328/REVIEWS/703280304
Dear Mr. Ebert,
I am fully aware that "gods do not answer letters" (Updike, 1960), so for the sake of my own expression I'm writing this more for other people than you.
Regarding your 1997 re-review of The Graduate, I strongly disagree with almost all of what you say about the film. Not necessarily the impression it leaves you with, but how it represents a generation. Of course Benjamin Braddock is not a hero. He's not the heroic counter-culture revolutionary of the late 60's, but then again who was? There were 100,000 in San Francisco's "Summer of Love" in 1967; there were 500,000 people at Woodstock in 1969. What percentage of the actual youth population was that? Not every child in the 1960's was a hippie, a radical, an activist, socially-conscious, or otherwise political. There was plenty of ambivalence among the youth of America, and I'd argue that Benjamin Braddock fits that "silent majority" that Nixon was so fond of as perfectly as possible.
The brilliance of the ending lies in how uncertain they are about their future, and I think that unsatisfying ending is the pinnacle of the movie. The climax is not when he rescues Elaine (who is not dopey, just going with the most idealistic idea she can think of, as is Benjamin) from the Church; it is when their faces turn to blank on that bus ride.
Benjamin doesn't rebel against his parents with drugs, politics, demonstrations, crime, or anything else for that matter. He becomes them in a sense--he is a predictor for what actually happened to his generation. The hippies changed the world for a while, but eventually became a part of it. Benjamin just sped up the process. He drinks, like all generations of Americans have done, and has sex, as all humans have done so for years. Just because his biggest vice is idleness doesn't mean that he missed out on his generation; he just became a yuppie a little bit earlier than the rest of his peers.
The best scene for this is probably the drive-through he goes to with Elaine. All the other kids are talking loudly, partying, debauching as would be expected. Instead, he sits in his fancy car and stays silently bored with his similarly bored counterpart. Just because he doesn't become the zeitgeist of his time doesn't make him wrongly-placed in the film; like others in his generation, he was born to a more turbulent time than he could think of.
Your interpretation of Mrs. Robinson is definitely a sympathetic one, and I agree that she is a rather unfortunate character, but she is still the seducer of the film. Benjamin may not be self-aware enough to refuse her advances, but that doesn't make her a hero for just doing what she wants at the cost of someone else.
Mr. Ebert, just because your first impression of the movie isn't equal to your lasting impression doesn't diminish the value of the film. At some level it spoke to a younger you as a "4-star film" and degrading it as your perspective shifts does a disservice to yourself, your readers, and the film itself.
Also, how on Earth did you ever think that Mrs. Robinson wouldn't catch on?
Sincerely,
Danny Gessner
Film Aficionado
Dear Mr. Ebert,
I am fully aware that "gods do not answer letters" (Updike, 1960), so for the sake of my own expression I'm writing this more for other people than you.
Regarding your 1997 re-review of The Graduate, I strongly disagree with almost all of what you say about the film. Not necessarily the impression it leaves you with, but how it represents a generation. Of course Benjamin Braddock is not a hero. He's not the heroic counter-culture revolutionary of the late 60's, but then again who was? There were 100,000 in San Francisco's "Summer of Love" in 1967; there were 500,000 people at Woodstock in 1969. What percentage of the actual youth population was that? Not every child in the 1960's was a hippie, a radical, an activist, socially-conscious, or otherwise political. There was plenty of ambivalence among the youth of America, and I'd argue that Benjamin Braddock fits that "silent majority" that Nixon was so fond of as perfectly as possible.
The brilliance of the ending lies in how uncertain they are about their future, and I think that unsatisfying ending is the pinnacle of the movie. The climax is not when he rescues Elaine (who is not dopey, just going with the most idealistic idea she can think of, as is Benjamin) from the Church; it is when their faces turn to blank on that bus ride.
Benjamin doesn't rebel against his parents with drugs, politics, demonstrations, crime, or anything else for that matter. He becomes them in a sense--he is a predictor for what actually happened to his generation. The hippies changed the world for a while, but eventually became a part of it. Benjamin just sped up the process. He drinks, like all generations of Americans have done, and has sex, as all humans have done so for years. Just because his biggest vice is idleness doesn't mean that he missed out on his generation; he just became a yuppie a little bit earlier than the rest of his peers.
The best scene for this is probably the drive-through he goes to with Elaine. All the other kids are talking loudly, partying, debauching as would be expected. Instead, he sits in his fancy car and stays silently bored with his similarly bored counterpart. Just because he doesn't become the zeitgeist of his time doesn't make him wrongly-placed in the film; like others in his generation, he was born to a more turbulent time than he could think of.
Your interpretation of Mrs. Robinson is definitely a sympathetic one, and I agree that she is a rather unfortunate character, but she is still the seducer of the film. Benjamin may not be self-aware enough to refuse her advances, but that doesn't make her a hero for just doing what she wants at the cost of someone else.
Mr. Ebert, just because your first impression of the movie isn't equal to your lasting impression doesn't diminish the value of the film. At some level it spoke to a younger you as a "4-star film" and degrading it as your perspective shifts does a disservice to yourself, your readers, and the film itself.
Also, how on Earth did you ever think that Mrs. Robinson wouldn't catch on?
Sincerely,
Danny Gessner
Film Aficionado
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
On the Aurora Tragedy
Andy Richter of late-night-with-Conan fame had a wonderful article on Huffington Post this morning. His views are a bit more moderate than my own on gun control but it's a wonderfully thoughtful piece to consider in the wake of such a devastating and senseless tragedy that has spurred another debate on gun-control.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-richter/aurora-shooting-gun-rights_b_1696455.html
Some poignant excepts:
"And yes, I know it jammed; how many more would have died if it hadn't?"
"[Assault weapons] are allowing madmen to efficiently murder much larger numbers of innocent people than they would be able to with more conventional guns. Doesn't that matter? Doesn't that trump our desire to destroy a paper target with hundreds of rounds per minute?"
"The Bill of Rights is basically a list of things that we, as citizens of this new experimental nation, as Americans, NEEDED. Nothing covered by the Bill of Rights is unneeded."
And my thoughts on the article, and more specifically the issue of gun control at large:
Of the Aurora tragedy, simply imagine if the gun hadn't jammed. That is scary enough in my opinion that would necessitate abolishing these crazy assault weapons. I have yet to understand a rational reason that one would need a machine gun to protect oneself and Andy Richter states that magnificently. Rights are meant to protect needs, and no one honestly needs 100 bullets in a target in one instant unless they are trying to murder a LOT of innocent people.
I will never own a gun and most probably will never shoot one. My late grandfather owned a number of rifles and was an avid hunter; I do not share that passion one bit. But given hunting as a sport with regulations and permits, I fully endorse the idea of living in a country with reasonable gun control. Even as one who has never had any interest in guns at all, I respect the rights of people who do and allow rifles and handguns for sport or self-defense. It's when excessive violence is so publicly accessible that it both becomes needless and only serves to frighten an American culture that is based on fear already.
We seem to have this same gun debate every time there's a horrific shooting, but nothing seems to be done. So do something. I urge anyone who feels the same to write, to talk with friends and family, and probably most important: contact their politicians. If they won't listen, vote them out. If that won't work, run for office. Democracy is only as dead as the citizens allow it to be.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Childish Whimsy
We all need that escape, that something special to get us through the workday of sitting in a dark cubicle and staring at a computer screen from 9-5 Monday through Friday.
I'm dying to return to the childish exuberance that happened in grade school at 3:01pm on a sunny Spring afternoon. That moment where you bolt out the school doors the second the bell rings and head for home, or the playground, or the park, or a friend's house, or wherever. Just that sudden jolt of electricity from being free to do whatever you wanted.
Maybe it's the hour long commute to work, on a dingy old train through a putrid old city (I love New York, but you need a bath!) to get home and do what? Nap? Watch the Mets game? Eat salad? Get to sleep early for tomorrow?
I'm not sure how to remedy this problem, but I promise I have been making steps. I try and keep in touch with my friends from school who are in the city this summer and usually do dinner with someone a couple times a week. I try and stay in touch with other friends who I'm not around as much right now, despite my penchant for making friends with people who have the communication skills of a comatose sloth.
I still play catch and basketball with my friend Michael fairly often, but I don't think it's quite the same as the aimlessness of being a kid and just going out and riding bikes (or scooter in my case) into a park or some other mysterious wilderness that only gets more and more tame as you grow.
One of my childhood passions that I never hope to give up is video games. Now bear with me world, I do not mean hardcore MMORPG (still don't know what this stands for) games like Warcraft and all that; never was my scene. I mean everything trivial from Pokemon to Mario to Madden and back. The same sort of trivial, pick-it-up-whenever game that is our generation's equivalent to a deck of cards (another passion of mine, but perhaps that will be a different post).
I still have my original Pokemon Blue Version with my most consistent team (Charizard, Vaporeon, Raichu, Pidgeot, Mewtwo, and Marowak); I still remember how to play the middle versions between Blue and FireRed, my last. I loved those games, and back in elementary school about 10-15 kids in every class would bring their GameBoy to play together at recess.
Madden christened me into the world of sports: I liked football before, but having that kind of access to all the player details and history made the game something special. I haven't bought a Madden in two years, due to keeping focused at school, but my love of football has stayed. Meanwhile, I haven't missed a baseball video game in eight years and still thoroughly enjoy it; I think this enhanced a love of pitching, I'll give the 2006 Mets team credit for my general love of baseball as it stands now. A few basketball games helped me understand Garnett's jump shot a little bit more, and without Michael forcing me to play NHL games I don't think I would know a single player on the Devils (Off the top of my head right now I can name seven).
So there's sports and games? But there's more to it. There's definitely a social aspect, and as many of you will come to find out, I'm not the world's most fluttering social butterfly. Perhaps it's just the isolation of summer, or working in a small office with little to talk about, but this lackluster bit of summer is bringing me down.
As a kid I used to go to day camp in the summer, which at times was tedious, but always more welcome than school. Still, there was something special about just seeing an open field and running until you couldn't any more, making up games to play even if there was no one around. Was I just a strange child? Does it make me a strange young adult to want that again?
What happened to the excitement of living? I know I'm not the only one who's hit a boring rut, but sometimes I feel like I'm the only one in Grand Central Terminal who remembers to look up at the ceiling once in a while.
So that's where I'm beginning. I'm enjoying the aesthetics of being in Manhattan and trying to find my second wind to go out and have an adventure. Any suggestions on what to do next?
I'm dying to return to the childish exuberance that happened in grade school at 3:01pm on a sunny Spring afternoon. That moment where you bolt out the school doors the second the bell rings and head for home, or the playground, or the park, or a friend's house, or wherever. Just that sudden jolt of electricity from being free to do whatever you wanted.
Maybe it's the hour long commute to work, on a dingy old train through a putrid old city (I love New York, but you need a bath!) to get home and do what? Nap? Watch the Mets game? Eat salad? Get to sleep early for tomorrow?
 |
| If I ever have kids, I'm telling them never to grow up: their playground is far superior. |
I'm not sure how to remedy this problem, but I promise I have been making steps. I try and keep in touch with my friends from school who are in the city this summer and usually do dinner with someone a couple times a week. I try and stay in touch with other friends who I'm not around as much right now, despite my penchant for making friends with people who have the communication skills of a comatose sloth.
I still play catch and basketball with my friend Michael fairly often, but I don't think it's quite the same as the aimlessness of being a kid and just going out and riding bikes (or scooter in my case) into a park or some other mysterious wilderness that only gets more and more tame as you grow.
One of my childhood passions that I never hope to give up is video games. Now bear with me world, I do not mean hardcore MMORPG (still don't know what this stands for) games like Warcraft and all that; never was my scene. I mean everything trivial from Pokemon to Mario to Madden and back. The same sort of trivial, pick-it-up-whenever game that is our generation's equivalent to a deck of cards (another passion of mine, but perhaps that will be a different post).
I still have my original Pokemon Blue Version with my most consistent team (Charizard, Vaporeon, Raichu, Pidgeot, Mewtwo, and Marowak); I still remember how to play the middle versions between Blue and FireRed, my last. I loved those games, and back in elementary school about 10-15 kids in every class would bring their GameBoy to play together at recess.
 |
| Yeah I still remember this collection of awesomeness! |
Madden christened me into the world of sports: I liked football before, but having that kind of access to all the player details and history made the game something special. I haven't bought a Madden in two years, due to keeping focused at school, but my love of football has stayed. Meanwhile, I haven't missed a baseball video game in eight years and still thoroughly enjoy it; I think this enhanced a love of pitching, I'll give the 2006 Mets team credit for my general love of baseball as it stands now. A few basketball games helped me understand Garnett's jump shot a little bit more, and without Michael forcing me to play NHL games I don't think I would know a single player on the Devils (Off the top of my head right now I can name seven).
So there's sports and games? But there's more to it. There's definitely a social aspect, and as many of you will come to find out, I'm not the world's most fluttering social butterfly. Perhaps it's just the isolation of summer, or working in a small office with little to talk about, but this lackluster bit of summer is bringing me down.
As a kid I used to go to day camp in the summer, which at times was tedious, but always more welcome than school. Still, there was something special about just seeing an open field and running until you couldn't any more, making up games to play even if there was no one around. Was I just a strange child? Does it make me a strange young adult to want that again?
What happened to the excitement of living? I know I'm not the only one who's hit a boring rut, but sometimes I feel like I'm the only one in Grand Central Terminal who remembers to look up at the ceiling once in a while.
 |
| Not in the middle of the concourse though; that's for dumb tourists, and this photographer apparently |
So that's where I'm beginning. I'm enjoying the aesthetics of being in Manhattan and trying to find my second wind to go out and have an adventure. Any suggestions on what to do next?
Starting Things Off
Well as far as introductions go I suck and loathe them and think they are just another part of small-talk, another social norm I loathe with a passion.
Not all of this blog will be me spouting off my hatreds about life/society/people. In fact most of it will be about my passion in life, sports and covering it. Occasionally I will talk about other more pressing matters or whatever I feel like saying. If you want to read, that's great. If not, that's fine as well.
Some background info I suppose is necessary, so here goes:
Danny Gessner. Ithaca College 2014. Sport Media major, English & Honors minor. Currently interning with The Argus Group (marketing firm). Lives in Port Chester, NY. Fan of the New York Mets, Jacksonville Jaguars, Boston Celtics, and kinda/sorta New York Islanders.
Not all of this blog will be me spouting off my hatreds about life/society/people. In fact most of it will be about my passion in life, sports and covering it. Occasionally I will talk about other more pressing matters or whatever I feel like saying. If you want to read, that's great. If not, that's fine as well.
Some background info I suppose is necessary, so here goes:
Danny Gessner. Ithaca College 2014. Sport Media major, English & Honors minor. Currently interning with The Argus Group (marketing firm). Lives in Port Chester, NY. Fan of the New York Mets, Jacksonville Jaguars, Boston Celtics, and kinda/sorta New York Islanders.
 |
| Zoey |
 |
| Maggie |
My two beloved animals
Oh, and the blogs that inspired me to write this:
http://freecabinporn.com/ - just pictures of cabins, for that special little place to go and hide
http://dottoregianni.blogspot.com - a professor of mine (well chaperon in London) as he explores Europe
http://zenhabits.net - relaxing habits that keep me sane at work/school/life
http://howdoiputthisgently.tumblr.com/ - stupid gif's that make me laugh
http://www.interrobangstudios.com/potluck/index.php?strip_id=941 - the second best online comic
http://threewordphrase.com/ - the best online comic
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)