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The Ink Blot Café

[ website | museum of tolerance ]
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А вы хотите зарабатывать с блога? [29 Mar 2010|10:09pm]

Всем привет!

Недавно заметил в блоге Игоря Бигдана рекламный баннер, где он предлагает рекламу в своем блоге. И тоже задумался над тем, как бы получить хотя бы небольшую копеечку со своего увлечения.

Наткнулся на форуме блоггеров http://www.bloggers.su/forum/ на раздел о монетизации блогов http://www.bloggers.su/forum/forumdisplay.php?f=29, там обсуждаются многие вопросы, смысл которых мне непонятен. Тем не менее, некоторые из участников озвучивали цифры, и у некоторых якобы доход с блога был такой, что с основной работы можно было уйти... я бы тоже так хотел...

Особенно заинтересовала тема: Как начать зарабатывать на блоге? В ней новичкам, в т.ч. и мне, объясняют как найти рекламодателей для блога, какими способами вообще можно заработать... короче интересно блин и перспективно, как мне кажется.

А вы что думаете об этом?
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i wrote a poem really late last night. [09 Mar 2009|06:20pm]

[ mood | depressed ]

My Room

if these walls could talk...
i'd hush them and cover their mouths
and scream for them.
i'd yell for them until my throat was raw
about how curiosity didn't kill this cat.
it was selflessness

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Songs for Christmas in Early November [27 Feb 2009|01:31am]

This is a song I haven't written the music for yet:

Cause I’m a skeleton walking you can see my bones
All the way down to the marrow
I’m a skeleton walking and the wind is blowing through me
You can see the vessels that harbor my blood

You can see the capillaries and the veins
And the strands of DNA in long deoxyribose chains
I’m a skeleton walking, see the fabric of my frame
I will jump if you say my name

And my small stubby hands like making things for you
Anyway, it gives me reason to come by your room
And I want to do, what I need, but you can tell
Right there in my heart and my head
It’s rapid and red

Cause you’re a skeleton walking I can see your smile
Grinning like Death in the doorway
You’re a skeleton walking and I know you don’t need me
Uninterested, you can see the channels that color my cheeks

And your pale lanky limbs stretch out like fine white bones
Anyway, and your hair is not too combed
And I want to say, what I think but you can see
Right through me to my ribs and my spine
I guess that’s fine

Cause I’m a skeleton walking you can see my bones
All the way down to the marrow
I’m a skeleton walking and my space and time
Is cozy and covered and narrow

We are skeletons walking
We are skeletons walking
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Deception [06 Feb 2009|11:12pm]

she tangled wibly warbly webs
white lies
dark manipulations
all to keep them out of her hair
a knot
a mess of rope and twine and threads and sheets
just so the tears wouldn't reach her grave
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Eros [20 Jan 2009|04:53pm]

Kill me, man.
Leave me stricken on an acid flame.
The ancient Greeks had it right:
Eros aiming at hearts
Little boy shooting
For years and years

We, here, whipped and beaten and pummeled
Fucked and fucked over
Bought and bitten and rolled
Crucified in the name of love
Pierced with arrows
Ripped by wild lions
Targets of his bow

And still, stricken, smitten,
Lips ground together,
Hands squeezed until they’d burst
Songs screamed to ancient zodiacs
Brains beaten and battered

Beggars and paupers and prostitutes
Paint on our faces,
Aerosol in our hair
Scratching at scalps and along spines
Neuroses in poems and pictures,
Frenetic and desperate verse –

Our hair torn and cut
Our bed sheets bleeding
Our thighs grown swollen

Making these beautiful crying things
Born covered in wet fluid
Red and raw like all our actions.
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Victim and Sympathizer [05 Oct 2008|03:19am]

Girl, I smell
your fear like rotten apples.

And your skin-deep concern
is dusted like talcum powder on your shoulders
and over your head. White, white.

I hear
the way you pronounce things.

Careful edges of words
like a cat on a tightrope.

Your shirt damns

I taste
your good intention 
like lemon on a cut tongue.

And your belt
your buttons
your braids
spell out slogans you paid for,

I feel
your sympathy like spit in my eye.

Do something.

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Limit [23 Sep 2008|11:34pm]

Words will ruin me.
I don’t mean words typed on a old typewriter
Those are okay. Those are fine words
They never hurt anybody
I can hide them in filing cabinets or old atlases.

I mean the words I fling
Like tightrope string across trenches
I mean little webs of steel wool
Flushing my ears and cheeks with blood
Cement blocks in my stairwell.
Words that limit truth to what we say.

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i feel in bloom around you. [02 Sep 2008|10:13pm]

hey sunflower,
i was just writing
to let you know
i'll be here for you

hey sunflower,
i was just writing
to let you know
i miss you when you're not with me
but you're worth the wait

hey sunflower,
i was just writing
to let you know
i'll be your sidekick
or your savior

hey sunflower,
i was just writing
to let you know
i love you
in case you didn't know

hey sunflower,
i was just writing
to let you know
i'll be here for you

1 comment|post comment

The Pier [07 Aug 2008|12:58pm]

The sounds of the ocean were little lapping melodies, all laid over each other. And the many little sounds were set against a much steadier rumbling - the slow pound of the tide against the rocks and pier pilings, which beat and murmured like a pulse. A wind came off the sea and chilled the pier crowd, who sat on benches and leaned over railings casually, unhurriedly. The planet felt young today. The Earth was coming into its peak years, you could feel it, you could feel the pull of adulthood and the sweet aftertaste of an active and beautiful adolescence. Today the Earth was young and lean and powerful, like the gulls and cormorants freefalling to her turbulent water, the pelicans surfing boat wake, the fisherman leaning their poles against the cold metal rail, the little sailboats circling in the harbor.
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This poem did not end up being about what it was originially going to be about. [01 Jul 2008|01:27am]

It seems that all my poetry is written
At night.
Sometimes I feel poetic during the day
But not poetic enough to write it down
And it's never good.
What I write at night isn't good either
It's just emotion.
Maybe at night my feelings are closer to the surface
Maybe at night my heart speaks louder than my mind
Maybe not.

These days my emotions are closer to the surface
But my head still speaks louder
And won't let me do what I want.

Maybe that's good.
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mum, apparently, is no longer the word [26 Jun 2008|09:42pm]

[ mood | calm ]

well, um, chase liked it.
so here goes?


Yellow is my favorite color.
I hate it when it rains, and
money is important
Of course I think you're pretty. In fact,
I like everything you do.
I like it when you rub my back, or turn off your phone,
or wear your hair like that.
I love you.

I never miss a shot, and
if all the accordions in the world vanished,
never to be replaced,
I would be heartbroken.

The cat knocked over my mother's
clay owl, perched in pieces on the stairs,
and I've never opened a sand dollar
to find out what's inside.
I am allergic to chocolate.
I always clean up after myself;
Farewell to Arms is my favorite book
For all I know, denial
may very well be be a river in Egypt.

Ernest Hemingway dedicated his life
to the "true sentence,"
so I wrote these for spite.

I hope you don't mind.

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Kind of raw and definitely needs some work, but mostly I'm just venting in poem form [27 May 2008|12:02am]

Maybe Sometimes I Hate You

Maybe sometimes I hate you
but not really.
I just love you too much
and I wish you'd listen
and I wish you'd talk
and I wish you'd give me a hug.

Maybe sometimes I hate you
but not really.
I just love you too much
so I give you everything I can
and it still doesn't feel like enough
so I give you my happiness.

Maybe sometimes I hate you
but not really.
I just love you too much
and I want you to be happy
and I want you to have what you need
but I want you to notice me too.

Maybe tonight I hate you
but not really.
I just love you too much
and I wish that you loved me enough
to write me a poem too.
1 comment|post comment

[22 May 2008|08:13pm]

A Goodbye

talk to me, everything is
hesitation and hiccups around your vocal chords
watery red eyes
drowning dark pockets of coffee-brown.
look at me, Ophelia
i am a melancholy dane
and you could cling to my arm in death
you would sing the core of me
would murder and pillage and steal
even if someone scarred my cheekbones
tore my hair or cut off my lips.
god ... god...
standing on rocks in a cold, dark castle
is more than all lost heros of ancient troy.
1 comment|post comment

[17 May 2008|12:57am]

I just wrote this. Or... I just re-wrote it, really. It's based off of a story that I've been working on for over two years now (I started it in my IPAR notebook), and I thought I'd try doing something new with it. It might make more sense if you had the back story... I don't know how it is, I haven't even read it yet. Let me know.

It's two weeks later now, and he still won't take your phone calls. You know he'll hate you for it, but there's nothing else to do.

You deliberately go to his house when you know his mom will answer the door, and she just smiles at you sadly, and says, "He's in the back."

And when you push the sliding screen door closed behind you, sure enough there he is, plucking on his unplugged guitar. And you see him tense up when you take a few steps toward him.

"I'm not hungry," he says, and you start to think that sad smile at the door wasn't just for you.

"It's me."

"Oh," is all he says, like you haven't been calling him four times a day for fifteen and a half days now.

"I'm worried about you," you say, and you are, but it's getting harder and harder lately. You're pretty sure everybody else has given up by now. He just makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat and goes back to ignoring you. "Your mom must have noticed by now."

"Maybe not," and you want to punch him, push him, break him, something, just so that he'll wake up and come back to you. To everybody. To himself. (Mostly you, though you feel selfish admitting it). But you know that won't help.

"Can we talk, maybe?"

You can barely breathe while you wait for his response, and when he finally says, "Okay," it still sounds like you haven't been calling him four times a day for fifteen and half straight days. Which you definitely have.

He doesn't move though, and you're about to ask him... well you don't know yet, but something, and then he says, "On the swing?"

So you nod and follow him to the swing, and your mind starts wandering to things other than what you came here for, because the swing is so romantic. Then again, depression isn't, and even if it was... you snap yourself out of it. More of that damned self-preservation.

He leans his guitar up against the oak tree, and you sit down on the end furthest from where he's sitting, just because the thoughts are still lingering in your mind, and your heartbeat is starting to quicken, despite your best efforts to stop it, and then you remember, this isn't about your stupid fantasies (even though if you're honest with yourself that is kind of why you're here), it's about him, so that's where you focus.

Then he speaks up without prompting, which you don't expect. "This used to be easier."

"When?" but you don't need to ask, because you know first hand.

"Before there was any sort of... romance. Back when we were naive. Kids."

"We kind of still are."

"Not the same though."

You don't need him to tell you. You said it more for yourself than him. In fact, you didn't say it for his sake at all.

In the silence, the thoughts start swirling through your head again, and you just want to... anything. Touch is hand or his shoulder even, just something so you can prove he's really there. You need him to be there, because maybe one day he'll... be there. You feel the tears welling up in your eyes, even though you promised you wouldn't cry, and say, "I just really wish..." even though you promised yourself you wouldn't bring it up, and then you don't even have the courage to finish the sentence, even though you promised yourself you would if it came up.

And suddenly his arm is over your shoulder, and your heart rate doubles, and you start crying even harder, because maybe he is there a little bit. Why that merits tears you couldn't say, but that's just how you feel right now.

"I'm going to be okay," he says, and you believe him, even though you shouldn't, and you shift a little bit so that you're a little bit more in his arms, which feels good, but weird. And then he says, "I really am," and you're falling under his spell, the one he's used to get everybody else to believe it, and you shift a little more and reach up and take his hand, and he lets his other hand settle on your stomach, and you don't mind that this isn't the right reaction in the circumstances.

And you have to focus to breathe properly.

But after an few minutes, just when you think it's too good to be true, it is. He pulls his hands away gently, and gives you a soft nudge to make you sit up. And you look at him, confused, and he just says, "I'll be okay, I promise." You're not under his spell anymore, so you don't quite believe it, but you want to, so you nod.

You start to leave, confused about everything (most prominently the things going on inside of you), and just as you reach the door he adds, "I'm sorry," almost an afterthought, and as you walk home you try to figure out which part it is that he's sorry for.
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i just rememberd i had this! [27 Apr 2008|02:40pm]

[ mood | bubbly ]

i have 2 starts to something. i'm not sure yet. still brewing and bubbling in my brain.

1. to teach, perchance to scream

2. no dates friday nights,
'cept for stadium lights


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[27 Apr 2008|01:27pm]

[ mood | amused ]

something i wroteCollapse )

3 comments|post comment

Light [09 Feb 2008|10:35am]

Chase the light that calls for you,
Chase the light you know.
And if that light is right for you,
Soon that light will show.

You'll glow in morning jumblejacks,
Rad'ate in the noon,
Be luminous at nighttime snacks.
No brill'ance comes too soon.

Chase the light that calls for you,
Chase the light you know.
And if that light is right for you,
Soon that light will show.

So stop fighting this battle,
the day's just begun.
Don't be a cow in cattle,
just become a sun.

So chase the light
it calls your name
Chase the light
it's yours to tame
Chase the light
don't be still
Chase the light
you can you will

Chase the light that calls for you,
Chase the light you know.
And if that light is right for you,
Soon that light will show.
3 comments|post comment

I wrote this in my journal. It's being a poem was an accident. [03 Feb 2008|12:30pm]

Some poem ideas:
An orange poem.
A poem about the cnotents of my bag.
A poem using just one sencse.
A color poem using just one sense.
An in 10 years poem.
An in 25, 50, or 100 years poem.
An I am poem.
An I was or I wll be poem.
A love story poem.
A recipe poem.
A poem in somebody else's voice.
A poem about a poetry reading.
A poem about poetry writing.
A poem about the bear blanket.
A poem about things that are familiar.
A poem written while sitting outside.
A poem about my friends.
A poem about who I love and why.
A poem about my journal.
A poem that is a letter to somebody famous.
A poem that is a letter to anybody.
A poem that is a letter to everybody.
A poem about how scared I am.
A found poem from an advertisement.
A found poem from t-shirts sayings.
A poem about my pen.
A poem summerizing somebody else's fiction.
A poem about rain.
A poem about windows.
A poem about how I have no more poem ideas.
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Penis Envy [31 Jan 2008|08:43pm]

If I were a boy I’d walk with a swagger
And have a collection of baseball cards
And shelves stacked with Marvel Comics
Legion of ten thousand supermen
I’d have a box full of bottlecaps
And another full of tin cans
Won as trophies when I was twelve
And we kicked those Cokes all through alleyways
I’d know a million Facts You Didn’t Know
I’d whistle through my teeth and fingers
I’d worship Lincoln. If I were a boy
I’d carve wood on my porch step
During the sluggish summer dusk
Carry a penknife – my grandpa’s
Build model airplanes and know
How to skip a stone across a glass lake.
If I were a boy, you’d know me
By the smack of my gum
Or the sound my double-laced sneakers
Made on the pavement.
If I were a boy my skateboard wheels
Would never catch on the asphalt
I’d have a grin like lightning –
Flash so fast strangers would stare –
I’d have a clubhouse. A treehouse
And I’d sleep there on cold nights
With a flashlight and some shabby
Provisions: cards, a thermos, socks.
If I were a boy I’d catch lizards
On rocks in the hot sun, and the traps
I made would work, always.
I’d have a pet dog or maybe a rat
If I were a boy, I’d know the words
To every Clash song and all the
Constellations and every poem
By Langston Hughes.
If I were a boy I’d ditch.
I’d take the bus down to MOCA
I’d have dirty fingernails and quick eyes
If I were a boy I’d be honest
And famous for quipping off in class.
If I were a boy I’d cuss all the time
Whatever I want at everyone. I’d play
Guitar and drums and harmonica
I’d climb rocks and throw dirt
I’d kick walls and hum riffs
I’d breathe more and I’d never have to
Do any of this.
5 comments|post comment

thoughts, ink drinkers? [29 Dec 2007|06:26pm]

Good lines in a song ("Foreigner Suite," by Cat Stevens):

Without you around / my life / would be without sound

Love love love / Love must have made you on a Sunday / cause you taste to me as good as God / made honey taste / babe
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