Non-Linear

If you asked me the formula

to find the area of a circle

I could not tell you.

I could not tell you

it is πr² nor

could I tell you that the

equation

2πr,

would equal the circumference, 

and 

            πd

 would equal the same.

I could not

tell

you

of the speckled quality of

the afternoon’s light, or

of how the evening

fell,

cold, and

     welcoming.

I could not

tell you  exactly what

we spoke
or of the

beautiful,

comfortable, moments of

fleeting

Silence.

This was before and of the time of forgetting.

If you asked me to recite π

I could tell you

that 3.14 would do,

but that I could

(that I can)

recite it

to the 36^th place.

If you

reminded me,

of the speckled quality of

the afternoon’s light, and

of how the evening fell,

cold and welcoming

I could tell you

of how            

we spoke of

the beautiful, comfortable moments;

Of     fleeting    silence.

The cigarette

we shared

in the sun.

This was the time of yearning

for the grass

between

my toes;

Under my feet

Living, 

           cool and

                          refreshing.

I could tell you

this was before,

And of the time of

forgetting

Y=mx+b,

&           

life

was so

much more

than calculations.

The Alarm Clock

Here's the other story of Hugh's I said I'd post on Tuesday. It's a reworking of this one

---

The alarm blared for three apathy filled minutes before Hugh Manatee

reluctantly rolled over to look at his alarm clock (rolling over was one of the

few things his large aquatic mammalian body did well out of water), he saw it

was 5:33 in the morning.

“Fuck,” Hugh Manatee realized that today was Saturday. Usually people

looked forward to Saturdays and all that come with them, the weekend,

sleeping in, spending time with family and friends. But Hugh Manatee was not a

person, nor was he going to sleep in, or spend time with family or friends. All

of Hugh Manatee’s family still lived in a warm river in Florida (warm rivers are

excellent homes for manatees). Hugh Manatee was not fond of Florida, and, as

he came to realize, his family.

During the holidays Hugh Manatee’s mother would write him (and every

other relative) a letter. All the letters read the same, being very generically

written. Hugh Manatee’s mother seemingly had very little time on her hands

(or rather fins) and a large amount of people to write letters to.

Dear Hugh, (every letter started very formally)

I hope that his letter finds you well. The family has been quite busy but

all is well here. Jonathan (Hugh’s younger brother) graduated high school with

honours, we are all very proud. Cindy (Hugh’s older sister) has finally happiliy

adjusted in her new home down the way, her husband and the three children

are all very happy there. Unfortunately Glen (Hugh’s Father) was hit once again

by a recklessly driven motorboat, in his old age the wounds took longer to heal,

but he says he was given a new lease on life and finds him self in his best

health in years.

We all hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Margaret

Along enclosed in each letter was a picture of the family all floating

together with mangrove roots in the background. They all looked happy (or as

happy as a manatee could look seeing how they’re not very expressive

animals).

“Fuck,” thought Hugh Manatee, as he lay awake in the early morning (as

he so often did). “I’m not lonely”, he said, in a monotone voice devoid of any

emotion, “I am happy.”

“Who are you trying to convince?” nagged his inner voice.

“Shut up!” Hugh manatee yelled in a fuck-you-you’re-not-even-fucking-real

tone into the emptiness and darkness of his single resident apartment (which

unlike warm rivers in temperate climates was not an ideal home for a

manatee).

“No” his inner voice very plainly replied.

“Fuck,” Hugh said aloud as he rolled his aquatic mammalian body over

once more to face away from the glowing numbers 6:43, which mocked him

(much like his sub-conscious).

Trying to impress people on the internet you don't even know if they know you exist

Most of our page views come from the states, also we got the most page views this month than we ever have in the history of QLP.

I don't know anyone who reads this blog. Let alone anyone in the states. But I guess that's what the internet is.

I think internet ghosts are reading this. Please say hello if you're not an internet ghost (or if you are). It would be nice to know who's still reading this.

You can even do it anonymously on my tumblr, or just leave a comment here under the name Seymore Butts, or I. C. Wiener. Something like that.

I sound desperate. Maybe I am.

Wasted youth on apathy and internet

In class we were talking about 6 word memoirs.
I submitted mine to the SMITH magazine thing.

Go look  (click that link please, maybe like it so I can feel important)

Sometimes I like to put my self through the tortures of thinking I’m going to die a young and terrible death.

Going to watch the stress documentary by National Geographic.

I'm 1 minute in and already terrified. Apparently stress can kill your brain cells. Maybe that's why my memory is shot. Also it could possibly unravel chromosomes? What happens then? What happens when my DNA starts to fall apart at the seams?

where for art thou

the stats thing that blogger has now I guess it comes from google analyitics has got me thrown.

O mysterious page views, where are you coming from? In celebration of people enjoying Hugh's stories I shall be posting another one at some point today I guess. Who knows when though since I'm doing some design research, but we all know how terrible I am at keeping my attention on my work (or maybe we don't all know, but now you do. I'm quite terrible)

The class liked Hugh. They want to hear more about him.

My ears are burning as if I'm blushing. My heart is all a flutter with my love for Hugh.

Sky train

I'm sitting in one of the train stations. I only have to go one stop which would make me quite early for where I'm going so I though waiting here would be a good call.

It's kind of weird though sitting and doing nothing in a place where people are constantly in transit. Then I worry if I'm being judged by any of these people because I'm not doing what I should be here. But then I remember none of them are going to be here for more than 10 minutes and assume the same about me.

This has just been another overstated though I'm sure

we have 1000 views on our blog.

only took what, 3 years? also I'm pretty sure that 80-90% of those views are from ourselves.

We did black out poetry in creative writing class. Seem fitting for art school no? 

In any cause I've found that creative writing class is currently my creative outlet. When all I do is work with images taking a break from the visual world and working with words (which I find I'm far much more comfortable with) is a welcome break. It's weird to think that I need a creative outlet as I work  and learn in a creative world, with the title of a "creative". Fuck that shit though, I hate giving myself a title other than student right now (or ever, in the lame "you're never finished learning) way.

Tuesday mornings are fabulous because all we do is write and listen to other people read their writing. It makes my long day at school that much more bearable.

I hate it when instructors/professors show examples of other student's work as if you were still in elementary school. 

Sure it helps every now and then, it's good to get perspective on other peoples' work but I feel like instead of a source of inspiration it just leads to the temptation of plagiarism. We all know nothing is new, nothing will ever be new again it's all built upon other things. Maybe when something is new we'll truly escape post-modernism.

These are the things that I think of when I can't do my work because I'm too distracted. Can I just go back to not caring? I'm incredibly frustrated by this substitute we have today, because I'm not going to get the critique I need today because she's spending time talking to people who don't have to go to workshops today.

I'm incredibly frustrated by everything though.

Late night love pack

Hugh Manatee was the most depressed he had ever been. But since he was manatee he did not know what this felt like so he mistook depression as his left fin falling asleep.

Inbox (too many) - that's what happens when you don't check your blog in a long time, mind you we really didn't have any notifications.

I'm so stuck on Hugh Manatee. I'm not sure what it is about him but I always end up wanting to work more with him.

In any case I brought him back for my second year art and design university creative writing class. I say that to feel fancy, but then I feel like I'm being pretentious.

I digress once more. I reworked a couple of stories from old QLP to submit for my personal writing critique this week. I get my critiques on Tuesday and was going to wait until then to post the reworked stories, but I couldn't wait.

Here is the reworking of this story from January 2009. If any of you are still out there reading QLP let me know what you think.

---

Inbox (2)

Hugh Manatee got out of his bed. Unlike the majority of the population this was no small feat. To get out of bed Hugh Manatee had to wake up, which he was always unsure would happen, this was due to his sleep apnea, which, was caused by his large barrel like aquatic mammalian body living out of water.

Hugh had not moved since 5:33 this morning when he rolled over after turning off his alarm clock, which awoke him at 5:30, he had spent the three minutes thinking of how miserable the early morning was. It was now slightly past two in the afternoon. As he squinted like a mole just emerging from it’s burrow, Hugh begrudgingly rolled out of bed and closed the blinds with contempt. Hugh thought of how wondrous it would be to be an owl, for no reason other than “they don’t have to deal with this shit”. Hugh didn’t move until hours later, due to being crippled by his self-loathing and not having enough energy to exert the effort it takes to move his large aquatic mammalian body from his bed; but e-mails had to be checked.

It was 9:34 pm. Hugh Manatee left his room, He walked (or what would be considered walking as a manatee) over to his computer (it sat in the corner of his living room on a small metal desk he had purchased from Ikea), he turned on his computer (and then checked his e-mail). Inbox (2), Hugh looked at the subjects and determined that these two e-mails were insignificant to his day. Hugh decided that he would leave the e-mails until Monday when he could check them at work and perhaps feel as if they were more significant.

Hugh Manatee moved from his metal desk (which he had purchased from Ikea), to his couch (which was not purchased from Ikea). The couch was light blue, with a large white floral print on it. This was not a very manatee-esque couch, but Hugh was non-concerned with this fact as he flopped over onto the couch and turned on his television.

“I should buy something,” though Hugh Manatee as he watched the happy people on the television try to sell him some new fangled worthless contraption for three easy payments of $19.99. “Maybe I’m depressed?”

“Maybe you are,” nagged his inner voice.

“Shut up!” Hugh shouted into his single residence apartment. There was no reply.

“Fuck,” Hugh Manatee realized that the only company he kept was the company of him, and even his own company did not want to keep his company.

“Maybe I am depressed,” Hugh Manatee said aloud. There was still no reply.

The smiling faces, laughter and looks of pleasant surprise and awe of the people selling a product they had probably never used before, and never intended on buying for three easy payments of $19.99 continued on the television; Hugh Manatee laid alone on his couch. For a split second Hugh Manatee felt something that could have, maybe been identified as real emotion. Hugh being a manatee, and being void of much emotion did not know what this feeling was and mistook sadness for an itch on a rash he had acquired from the cubicle at work.

“Fuck,” Hugh manatee thought, now devoid of emotion as the television continued to flicker. 

Do I want to try and bring back QLP from the dead?

I'm not sure. I'm still so fixated on it, I check it every couple months even though I know there's nothing new.

We'll see I suppose. I slept all day and last night I didn't do my creative writing assignment. I guess I should work on that, but I'm hungry because there is no food in the house, because we haven't had time to go grocery shopping together. We have milk and cereal and I think that is it.

I feel as if I missed most of high school being caught up on the internet, self angst and QLP.

I'm sitting in a second year creative writing class at my fancy arts university. Missing most of this class because I'm caught up in the same things.

...fuck.