Category: Creative Writing

I recently watched Ishirō Honda’s 1954 Gojira followed by Gareth Edwards’ 2014 Godzilla, however choosing the ‘best’ is problematic. I have always loved the original Gojira as it had depth to it, it reveals the worries of a generation in the most stunning and dramatic way possible, a Jurassic period creature reigning terror. Although I personally find the cinematography and character development much better in Honda’s I cannot say if it is overall better. Edwards’ Godzilla gives the monster an emotional depth as he is positioned as the destructive yet somewhat heroic king on the monster that has a moral compass. I found this portrayal to be so far from Honda’s touching anti-nuclear war message that the two films are barely recognisable.  I think perhaps the only thing in common is fear; Japan’s fear of nuclear weapons and perhaps America’s fear of terrorism. Godzilla symbolises a fear that all nations have over their own safety, it is perhaps much more palatable if instead of portraying the true fear to have it shown as something so fantastical that one can barely see the resemblance.

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Upon reading Andrew Wilson’s biography of Sylvia Plath Mad Girl’s Love Song I saw the importance of distancing a writers works from their supposed life. A biography is a tricky thing especially one written so far after the death of the subject. This biography is entertaining as reading extracts of letters associated with someone’s life does satisfy the voyeur in me. However from what I have learnt from Roland Barthes Death of The Author I know that it is all too easy to focus upon the life of the author too much when trying to interpret texts. Therefore when studying literature it can negatively effect your ability to analyse texts if you read up on the authors life too much, as you can end up making irrelevant connections.

When kicking dust into a cloud around my ankles I feel free.

When treading over crunching leaves in a forest I feel free.

When jumping off rocky heights into still waters below I feel free.

When hitching rides from county to county I feel free.

With just an old map and a few dollars crumpled in my pocket I feel free.

 

When the wind roars violently across the valley I feel free.

When the embers in the stove are the only light I feel free.

When words on the page of worn classics are all that matter I feel free.

When thick snow carpets the ground around me I feel free.

With just my own mind for company I feel free.

If I could write a letter to my former self,

I would tell myself to smile every single day.

If I could write a letter to my former self,

I would tell myself to stop always expecting the worst.

If I could write a letter to my former self,

I would tell myself that it’s okay to be yourself.

 

If I could write a letter to my future self,

I would tell myself that the past no longer matters;

But remember that at this time I was happy,

And I can always be happy again.

 

You stand among the stars,
Spluttering out a beam that guides me home,
You slowly begin to fade away.
Your flame decreasing, as if it gasps for air;
For centuries you have been cold,
A pulseless entity long gone.
But as I walk along the coast I admire your past light;
And you are no longer a distant or lifeless scar,
That blemishes the sky.
Instead you are the freckles on my skin,
That disappear in the winter.

Stumbling into the night with heavy eyes,

Blood shot and shot up.

Bumming cigarettes by the roadside,

As heeled hookers cat call towards beat up trucks.

With a cap for collecting rusted cents,

And a thin sleeping bag torn at the seams.

The street lights glare down upon my body,

And penance me for littering the pavement.

Buy me a beer and you’ll hear my story,

Of booze, pills, shooting up and losing everything.

It’s not an uncommon tale,

But it is mine to tell.

Vermilion scarf folded into an isosceles,

Bobbled and of cheap nylon blend.

Confined in squeaking draw,

So it won’t lose its flush.

 

No photographs or birthday cards,

Just a nicotine stained scrap that I cling onto.

For it is you woven into each strand,

Your defeat stained into its very fibres,

And hidden from me.

It’s louder than a beating heart,

What is in my mother’s wardrobe.

Louder than a battle cry or drum beat,

What is in my mother’s wardrobe.

Underneath the summer dresses and floral shirts catacomb,

It claws at sealed metal casket.

What is in my mother’s wardrobe is alive.

Surrounded by centuries old pine trees is Prox. A dull copper building that has already turned algae green from weathering. The structure seems at home amongst the trees other people’s ancestors would have walked by and perhaps they too gently caressed the flaking bark. Prox was built several years ago after many disputes, but here it stands in the clearing where my grandfather was lynched.

Glen was taken from our home in Wisconsin and placed in Prox. He was considered a suitable candidate for their schooling. My brother was twelve years old, athletic and innocent when he was taken, but now I think I would be incapable of recognising him. I hear stories on the local radio station about what past students go on to do. Billy Kendrick from Minneapolis shot his father. Suzie Prince from Utah killed herself. Norma Welch from Arizona drowned her baby sister. I know I should pray to God that it were me in his place but I can’t. It is a place no one wants to be sent to but we all know it’s a duty we have to our country.

Prox is a school where students and criminals live side by side. Where children become the stimuli for sexual offenders.

Elaborate Style: Passing ivy woven in between tree branches they clutch onto one another as bitter winds beat down upon them. The azure heavens now overcast with a thick canopy of cobwebs that cling lifelessly to the battered trunks. She reaches into her coats warm fur lined pockets to grasp at damp and crumbling bread. The crust flakes off and burrows under her fingernails.

Simplistic Style: Walking on a pathless route through the forest the wind picks up and gives them chills. She places her hand into her pocket to retrieve a piece of damp bread, then throws it onto the dirt behind her. The further north they trek the denser the forest becomes. It is not until nightfall that they reach a clearing where a yellow glow can be seen. The glow flickers.