For some reason (the day is DULL), I'm watching Tyra Banks. It caught my attention as I surfed--she was telling the media off for the way they make women feel about their body image; told them to kiss her fat ass. So I stopped. . .and then dealt with her self lovefest over her recent photoshoot, pointing out how imperfect she is. . .though she, to her credit, did spend the rest of the time defending heavier as healthier than too-thin. Bleh. It was a bit vapid; not my thing.
My vapidity: I'm hating on my profile photo, but have no good self-pics (no one uses my camera but me, so few shots of me...). I'd love to replace it with a photo headshot of me any of you might have, or even an artistic rendering. Help me out. E-mail me a new profile pic and we'll get a new me on.
Yesterday we had to write a ten minute Cento in my poetry class (I'll be evil and make you look up a definition of the form). It was more fun than I expected.
This Is The End Of Them
(a Cento)
by D. Evan Peterson
The sea was a botch of red and whites,
the heavy surf still breaking violently,
spouting out blood and water as it rolls
where mariners had fabled news of its corruption,
stretching beyond us to the blue beard of God.
With you, my cousin, guns cradled on the tide,
this is the end of bilge and backwash,
hurdling muscles heavy with sand,
of the red flag hammered in the mast-head.
Cry out in the long night: "If God Himself had been by our side."
This is the end of running to these Atlantic shoals
the entangled, screeching mainsheet,
sailors who pitch its hell-bent deity
if God Himself had been on our side.
So, it's a first draft, and Denise doesn't get it.
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