In Rapture

Now, we're supposed to make some sort of final post, yet I'm not quite sure what to post. Nothing seems final. We've really only finished the semester, That's it. In "reality", if we're all smart, we won't give up on studying Nabokov. We know more about Nabokov than most of the world at the moment, and we can continue our exploration of his style without the hindrance of grades and those people that John Shade disdains. We have the possibility of becoming distinguished because of how much we know about an eccentric Russian's word play. This is our moment to shine.

This isn't for the students that don't read, don't blog, and don't read others journals. This is for the Nabokovians. The Pica inflicted. This is for those of us that don't give a ____ about grades. Those of us that find writing to a teachers degree is ridiculous.

Write for yourselves.

For those of you that have yet to give up, those of you who haven't fallen into a rut of learning what the establishment throws at you, this is your chance to become writers. Do not give up on your Nabokovian Studies- his writing is what striving strives for. This man has mastered the ability to layer stories that I've only seen in Silent Will.

In Nabokov lies the power to make money writing (writing at a level that sells in a society that finds intelligence to be a hindrance) as well as layer in genius that will not hinder the unwashed masses understanding, while simultaneously opening millions of trails of thoughts for the eccentrics amongst us. Imagine being able to enjoy what you write as well as live off of it. This lies in Nabokov.

Now, I just turned 21 for the first (wait....) time and I went out in celebration of classes ending last night.......wow do I hurt. "I'm never drinking again" (Reality)

Thank you to everyone that has enabled me to learn throughout this class. Thank you Doug, Jennie Lynn, Zach of the Saving Bells, Helena of the 10,000 Lakes, Robert, John, Chris scribbles the scribe, Douglas, Sexson, and the many of you I have not mentioned.

I've lived Nabokov. He's in my dreams, my speech, my writing, and he's ventured into my poems. I will leave this class with a poem that wouldn't be without Nabokov, and without this class.


December 1st

As it was when i was once a dramatic piece,

Whence i was but a child, the season my innocence released.

The leaf of the tree that fell from an early snow,

Again am i the sun from which lunatics shadow the glow.?

OF MY LIFE TOLD

With a send, a buzz, a ring,

Of all the twitching thumbs

-And I know those thumbs the most-

When their owners eyes dissolve my repose.

Its tongue asking that which I’m yet to know

But

There is no emotion in its asking,

The clasp of my arm claims no comfort.

I was the Bowl that burned from green to black,

The Pyramids stacked on the Kitchen counter.

I was the Break for tired feet, Their bottoms in seats;

(The Shout that spilt Across the Blacklit Floors)

High heels and Slick shoes spelled my news.

I measured my night in Cabernet’s & Merlot’s.

My Tongue purpled, my cheeks a glow,

The sniffle of Abraham and fake Snow,

The Primes and Pinot Noir,

And still my eyes did not go Afar!

Dinner with Diva’s & wandering eyes

Still I kept Mine from becoming a lie!

I sat through burgers & fries,

Watched women spell out their desires

With a metal board and magnetic letters.

Mine was a bottle of Fetzer.

I am Prufrock etherized across a maple,

I am the conversation at the breakfast table:

“Is he Stable?”

“He didn’t care, not at all, not at all.”

I am the sheath, Hamlet.

I am the back the botkin met.

　

　

　

The Death of this ‘Ship is mine to keep.

The drool that drips

Between sharp teeth, thin lips

& then repeats

The spittle that forms puddles,

Is to long, to deep for me to leap.

(My place is next to your own seat

With feet away from feet,

My hands warming jeans)

　

From whence I was a Dramatic Piece,

This is Death in repeat.

I will not be the Wine I drink

I will not be the dead’s treat.

That night I played myself in Repeat,

The same murmur of friendly aggression

The same friend finding another’s attention,

Again I placed my emotion in the Lethe.

Again my skin felt a daggers teeth.

The pool of Shades tore at my thoughts

My news; The Romans cast lots.

A social berating upon/behind the back.

I am the color the Death Cab lacks.

OH My Lolita! I am Clearly Guilty,

You are My Virgin Mary wilting.

But Lo, you will never understand,

No never,

You will think this a note to dismember,

You will think again I’ve lost my temper.

　

　

OH Boscobel! OH Royal Oak!

My Pages! My Poems!

My Spiraling Tomb!

My Labyrinth to forever Rome!

Thank You