Checklisting

Mise En Abîme

Step. Click. Step. Click. Step. Click

Justin Midna’s toes have had a tendency to crack with every step of his right foot since he can remember. They makes a clicking sound that usually doesn’t go unnoticed by others, so it’s something he’s always been a little self-conscious about.

Step. Click. Step. Click. Step. Click.

He steps onto the elevator, and hundreds of right feet finish that step with him. The walls are lined with mirrors, and as he presses the number 17, his many reflections do the same with him.

He is the only one standing here and now, but as he looks at the infinite reflections of himself, and as these reflections stare back at him, a peculiar feeling comes upon him. His reflections seem to be getting smaller and smaller until they reach a point where his eyes can’t reach. What lies beyond there? Is there a point where it ends? And does it end with a man, just like me, standing and staring at his infinite reflections? Is he wondering about me? Or is he just looking at himself in the mirror?

The doors open, and he steps out of this trance.

Step. Click. Step. Click. Step. Click.   .kcilC . petS .kcilC .petS .kcilC .petS   Step. Click. Step. Click. Step. Click.   .kcilC . petS .kcilC .petS .kcilC .petS   Step. Click. Step. Click. Step. Click.   .kcilC . petS .kcilC .petS .kcilC .petS   Step. Click. Step. Click. Step. Click.   .kcilC . petS .kcilC .petS .kcilC .petS    Step. Click. Step. Click. Step. Click.   .kcilC . petS .kcilC .petS .kcilC .petS  

 Step. Click. Step. Click. Step. Click.   .kcilC . petS .kcilC .petS .kcilC .petS   Step. Click. Step. Click. Step. Click.   .kcilC . petS .kcilC .petS .kcilC .petS   Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.   

  

Notes

Character

He’s tall and lanky. Hispanic? No, that is too obvious, you’re Hispanic. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. Maybe they would. You could describe him as tall, and they could infer whatever they want.

That’s a horrible description. Let’s not think about this for now.

(He’s male)

Story

What to write?

Just think. It all starts with a room: The outward-est outward description of the character. If it’s clean, he’s clean, if it’s dirty, he’s dirty. And if the knives are all jammed up into the garbage disposal, that’s a Freudian slip right there.

 
Room. A room has four walls

Just think, for instance if the room is dirty. And tiny. If the room is dirty and tiny he would need to have a shitty salary.

He still needs money to pay the room. And what does he eat?

A little piece of chicken here and there. Perhaps canned tuna? It’s better than nothing… His salary!

He works as a waiter good, but not quite

in a diner                        good good

during night shift!      Ah, more dramatic

or late afternoon        that’s more sensible

If he’s a waiter.

Average waiter’s annual salary:

18,000. Then divide that by 12.

18,000 /12= 1,500. Then divide that by 4.

                         1, 500/4= 375  and then

                                             375/24= 15.6, so

                                                                15.6/60= .260 (should I round this number?), huh

                                                                              .260/60= .0043

I don’t know what this means. I hate math. Let’s forget about it. This person is of “low income”, no further explanations. Let’s forget about math.

 But imagine that…

                                    .260 cents per minute.

                                   .260 cents that buy (approximately) seven minutes in a shitty apartment. Imagine that

cents for a room

      and the room is important

                         extremely important.

Tuna is too.

Tuna.

Ramen too, actually. It contains all sort of things.   

Then again, let's better not include noodles.  Or eat them. Ever.      

Tuna.

                           By itself: what feeds this person.

 A room without food makes no sense. 

It needs a window also.

               With          a bathroom

                                  and  a view is

essential.

There should be mountains.

Then again .260 cents are, in all likeliness, not enough for that.

There could be a street. With a huge tree looming over

the neighbor’s house. He would look at it from

the window and wonder and measure in his head

the probabilities of it falling d

                                                        o

                                                        w

                                                        n

               top

on          of his room.

This is better. It is.

No mountains. Just a street. Houses lining both sides of it, each with two rooms and slightly different/same views.

.260 cents for seven minutes in a room

 15 times 365 and

.260 for five minutes? NO! wait. Not quite. Let’s forget about math.

Who cares

Who cares about a sofa, or a duvet, or a chaise lounge. 

There could be a bean bag. But no.

As long as there’s a chair and a table. A fully functioning chair to sit in. To think in. to cry in. Maybe jack off in. Who knows?

And the walls. There must be

                 Wallpaper too.

With stripes of different colors to make him feel like he’s inside a circus.

He likes the circus.

And kitchen tiles! With little roses on them. No wait, he wouldn’t like that. With bulls, and a swan, and an elephant somewhere.

Blue on white. It helps to soothe his soul. The blue elephant, especially.

                             He counts them everyday, when he’s bored.

                                                                                   And he’s bored everyday.

There are 24 blue elephants

in his dirty apartment with a window, and a view to the street. There are bugs too, crawling on the window glass. He hopes they’re outside. But then he sees one of them crawling worming it’s way on top of the blue (on white) elephant.

Must be July or August. Warm as hell. Perspiration sticking the clothes to his body.

                                                                                       Perspiration acting like glue.

And the bugs! They’re everywhere. Little wings fluttering in the stagnant air.     

                              He should not care about the bugs. In fact, what bugs?! But then a 

Logically             one flies too close for comfort and his body shakes like a leaf. He gets

                               caught up in thinking about insects and the way they crawl. It’s a

                              vicious circle.

That’s it that’s it. There will be an important scene with the insects and the tiles and the elephant that’s it.

                                                                               

And of course there’s no way out.

There is no door.

And nobody there to see it

Not a single one.

Just a chair and a table and the walls with wallpapers,

                    and the tiles with blue elephants.

                    And the .260 cents that buy him some minutes. Then seconds.

                                                                                                                Then nothing.     

A Cheap Guide to ________________: A Recipe By Ingredients

First, write down available items on a list titled "Ingredients At Hand".

Ingredients at hand

1 Last night’s dreams

1 full-functioning wi-fi connection

2 lemons

3 cups of flour

1 small onion (finely diced)

1 mixing bowl

2 febreze

3 pinch logic

1 Reality

8 oz random normative sentences to fill up space

3 oz recycled ideas from other works/conversations/movies/books

12 oz surreal/existential/hyperrealist images

3 scoops of anxiety

2 Holy Fathers

Wine (or alcohol in general)

1 clove minced Title

3 traumatizing moments buried in unconscious

1 lighter

11 dirty plates

NECESSARY INGREDIENTS

Salt/Pepper

1 Tomato sauce

1 handful of mushrooms

2 ungreased cookie sheets

1 working oven

 Make sure NOT to include

1)   Adverbs to the mix.

2)

3)

4)

5)

Second, replace blank spaces with the desired (more appropriate) ingredients. Engage in note-taking as you advance. Results will improve with time.

PREPARATIONS

Primer paso: Take Reality by its ends and wring it out. Make sure to be standing somewhere near a sink or bucket, as logic tends to leave stains. After reality has been sufficiently drained, hang it somewhere nearby. Wipe the residue off your hands. 

Segundo paso: take different hetero-, patriarchal-, religious-, logic-normative sentences in your hands and chop them up into little pieces. You don’t have a knife, so be ready for the upcoming carnage.

Tercer paso: Enjoy the carnage.  

Cuarto paso: Mix the dismembered words with tomato sauce and mushrooms. This way you can hide the stench emanating from the previous slaughter. Add salt and pepper (to taste).

Quinto paso: Wipe your hands with Reality. Cover mix and let it sit for about half an hour, or a day or two (it all depends on what you want the end result to be). You can use this time in whatever way you please. You can log in your different options here:

1)   Get drunk

2)   Procrastinate Research for whisking techniques online

3)   Buy stuff in the internet

4)   Regret having bought stuff on the internet

5)   Stand quietly (and creepily) in a corner until someone is scared shitless finds you.

6)   Panic

7)   Think about starting over and using a different approach.

8)   Call your mom for a simpler recipe.

9)   Write your mom’s simple recipe down.

10) Throw it in the garbage

11) Panic

12) Go dumpster diving for it the next day.

13) Finding it amongst all the other trash.

14) Throwing it back again.

15) Repeat numbers one and two.

16)                  

17)                  

18)                  

19)                  

20)                  

INSTRUCTIONS

Uno: After you’re done with preparations. Take the gooey, end-result of your mixing process, and smell it. Weight it in your hand. Stare at it for a while.

Depending on how long you’ve let it sit, you’ll notice differences in texture/smell/edibility. Try not worrying about the mess you’re holding in your hands, and continue on to the next step.

Dos: Preheat oven to 200 degrees (C). Look for Fahrenheit conversion tables on the internet. Mess them up out of confusion.

Tres: Roll out mass on floured surface. Once its sufficiently thin, cut in different amorphous shapes. Since you don’t have cookie cutters, put your whole mind into this task. Place the end results (one inch apart from each other) on ungreased cookie sheets.

Tres y medio: Wonder (once again) whether this will really work.

Cuatro: Place the sheets inside the oven and let them bake for a while.

Note: Length of time varies with person, day, time, location, height, amount of letters used, whether or not adverbs where really used, whisking method, mental disposition, and the amount of pets trying to hump your legs at the moment.

Cinco: Once you’re adequately, and abundantly (but really, doubtfully) ready, take the sheets out of the oven.

Cinco y Medio: Eat the whole thing. Somehow, the whole process has made you hungry.

Seis: Clean the mess with Reality and bring it to class the next day.  Make sure to use a complex/ambiguous title to hide the mediocre catch their attention.

Siete: Lie and talk about the process. Make them see how capable you are. Remember, this raggedly, unshapely, lovely scrap of deformed twist of reality was your intention all along.

Note: If all fails, forget about recipes. Use thE lighter and set Reality on fire from the start. Watch it spark and crumble as you wait for the “ooohhhss” and “aaahhhss”. Results might not be what you expect the first couple of times.

While You Sleep

For this week’s experimental fiction assignment, we were asked to do a piece on anything we wanted, no restrictions. Based on something I’d seen a while ago, I took a magazine article and morphed it into my own.  This was the result:

Translation:

While You Dream

Psychologists uncovered rain.

Smart Solution

By Any

Your new up is better than awake. Why?

The mind leads down, explains Deirdre Barret, author, “conform rules. Inside the box now.”

Think about the night and the rain, your rain, as you dream vivid words that get yourself to step here.

STEP 1

You climb between the sheets. Say “you are an object, reminds of a photo”. This technique works best when you’re emotionally ahead as you sleep.

STEP 2

Keep your pen so you can take notes. As dreams say “be sure to use body”

STEP 3

Lie in bed and go down. Soon rain becomes flooded.

Last, the rain was turned off, so your actions are successful in the waking world.

Computers Have Feelings Too

Oulipian technique: Computer generation.

The Me Runs Like A Filthy Note

Small, grimy authors buy a noisy cooler

and eat calmly like a dusty parent.

Numbers shrink like old windows

while the car talks like an old slum.

Why does the corner shrink?

Cars run like misty smoke.

Hope is a lively lie.

its light eats while a grimy flower

never fights a window

never loves a street.

When does the Hitchcock stop?

All days catch rain.

Small, dead coolers roughly gnaw a grimy, dead me.

It cracks quickly like a sidewalk.

Why does she stop?

All stories unwind misty negatives.

Accordions talk!

Rums crack!

Doors move like big words.

Drink roughly like a faceless girl

and never unwind a dog.

You should stop the words.

Where is the embroidered rain?

Coolers dance with fast music

the Hitchcock stops like a grimy picture.

Process:

For this experiment I used this particular software. The program generates random sentences by using certain patterns of the writer's choosing. The person then places random nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs in separate columns, and the computer processes and arranges the words according to these patterns/constraints that are written down at the bottom. The words I chose for this exercise were primarily taken from past blog posts.

 Although the idea/possibility of computers overtaking the literature/journalistic  world is not my favorite, I do appreciate this technique's more experimental, Oulipian point of view: that it is always possible to create something new. In this case, by deconstructing past works and recombining it in certain patterns, a somewhat existential poem was created. 

For Rent

You start by going inside your head.

  

It’s a very small room. Four walls, a bed, and a desk. The curtains are drawn and the table seems like its seen better days. A thick layer of dust settles on top of it, and as your fingers swipe across its length, little flakes wake in astonishment at having somebody else there. You start making your way to the bed, but someone knocks at the door. 

 

 “Are you the writer?” the man has a patch covering his left eye. His angular face is strained with worry. A small hound sits by his side. 

 

 “I’m the landlord. Did you come to see the room?” the dog starts sniffing at your bare feet. Its presence makes you nervous; you didn’t have something like this in mind. 

 

 A slight movement draws your attention. There are words hanging in the air somewhere to his right, but every time your eyes move in their direction, the words shift and slip to the periphery. The man cracks a smile at your predicament. 

 

 “The words are on the loose,” he says, “you do need to lease this room.” 

You step back and let them inside. The man carries a small compass, and begins to wander around. Trails of words follow him, but you can’t make them out.  

 

 “The more you look, the less you see.” He stops and checks his compass. Then he bends down and crawls under the bed. The dog barks, but it seems to come from far away. A loud noise is heard. Then silence. Now the sound of water begins building up until it comes pouring out of the floor. In this moment, a stream of words comes rushing out in your direction.

 “Stop!!! Stop!!”

 

 The door is kicked open, and three policemen enter the room. They run in while blowing their whistles and dive under the bed. 

 

 “Catch it!!! Now!” the explorer gives you a net, and begins to swipe his in the air. The dog barks and bites at some of the words, changing their meanings as his fangs tear the letters here and there. The words slap you in the face; they cut and slice your flesh. They fly and hop around with no care.

 

 The three policemen try to grab at some of them. The short one tries to use his whistle, while the burly one swings his club around. The third, lanky one, writes his report down.

 

 Three hours later and the room is upside down. The desk has fallen over with the weight of so many abstract words. Beside it, the explorer and his dog lie exhausted on the floor. He grabs the letter “I” and gives it to the dog as a chewing bone.

 “Did you get to catch the story?” the explorer asks. The three policemen sit in a row, as they check for reason within all this smog. You start to smoke.

 “It must have flown past us”, you take a drag and hold it down, then glance around at all the unconscious letters lying around. The explorer checks his compass as the white noise fills your lungs.

 “I’ll take the room”, he says.

 The dog gnaws a shapeless bone.

Amazon Review: Remote Control Cooler

Author's Note

Judith Corro was born in Panama City, Florida. At the age of seven, Corro was introduced to her first button accordion. Her godfather had thought it would make a great present, however, after several nights of Judith replacing sleep for music, her parents came to the opposite conclusion. One week later, Corro’s dreams of becoming the next big name in the accordion-playing world were snuffed by her parents. They had planned everything in order to ensure the travel of Corro’s accordion while she’d been at school: from her hands in Panama City, to another’s in Marfa, TX. A place where at this very moment, Corro imagines, someone lies suspended on a hammock while enjoying the rambunctious notes coming out of the instrument.

After this incident, Corro drove her bicycle to the nearest gas station and bought a packet of Marlboro Reds with her fake I.D. It had a particularly mature and effective picture of her. Coming out of the store, however, she realized someone had taken the training wheels from her bike. She noticed an elderly couple standing nearby and asked them to give her a ride. When they asked her destination, Corro answered with an “As far as you are willing to go.”

Corro hitchhiked across the U.S during the next five years. She was twelve when she came back to her parent’s home: An embroidered bag on one hand and an accordion on her back. She was barefoot.

Judith Corro is currently a student at Loyola University New Orleans and will hopefully graduate as a Psychology and English Writing double major. A feat that supposedly means she will now be certified to be a professional adult. On the other hand, a survey study based on the votes from Corro’s roommates, parents, and relatives says otherwise. She spends her afternoons alternating between reading books and playing her accordion.