The Song that doesn't End.

I tinker with words constantly. I concoct silly puns, contradictions, oxymorons, and homonym plays--usually while running or driving--and record them with no real intention of using them. The results might emerge in a Facebook update or an occasional blog post, but the products mostly just sit on the pages of a journal in my book bag.

When I was an undergraduate, these pedantic little word games got me through long classes and literature seminars. I would string sentences or phrases together and think, That would be a cool band name. Or an album title, even. The writing picked up when I lived at home while completing my credential. I had more time then, so the work grew into larger bodies that actually had some miles. I paired my scribbling with a beginner guitar my brother loaned me, strummed the eight or so chords that Justin showed me, and started building "songs."

I kept my cards close, then. I didn't even play the stuff for my on again/off again college girlfriend (partly because I hated the sound, partly because the songs were not-so-subtly coded angst). I ponied up for cheap recording software and a new guitar. I sent files to Jamie and Justin, and eventually posted some work on Myspace. I made booklets and track listings for little "albums" in the living room with a coffee mug of wine. I painted the covers, drew on the discs, and gave them to my mom and stepmom.

Then and now, I know the work was completely self-serving. I often explained it as such, and excused myself from sharing because I didn't want to expose what I considered my own self-involvement. I didn't want to admit to the fact that, even if the outcome didn't make sonic or intellectual sense, it made me feel good. It helped me make sense of my departure from life on the central coast, a friendless, post-graduate slump, and life back in Placerville. It was lyrical, musical diary, really. It was my Post Secret--but with Myspace, there was a dash identity, and the thrill of imaginary audience.

I never performed my music for an actual audience, though. I played some songs over a cuppa wine on a number of occasions, usually at the request of Brittany and Sol. In the last couple of years, I've been pretty dormant, musically speaking, and don't mind much. I'm losing anything I ever had, to be honest. Whatever skills I developed evaporated; now, I find it hard to play more than three or four covers without cramping in the wrist and wincing at the pain in my fingers.

I still love words, but I use what I create differently these days, if at all. The Myspace page remains largely untended. From time to time it gets a visitor (and from time to time it's me, I confess). Once, last year, my brother in-law called me by my musical pseudonym. I got embarrassed.

This week, a wonderful student named Ivan stopped me as I returned some graded work. He said, "Mr. Petty, I heard a cool song this weekend." My gut flared a bit, but I suppressed it with doubt.

"Oh really, Ivan? That's cool." I saw the bait and swam away, turning to continue dispersing papers.

"Yeah. It's called, 'Stalkings.'" It's one of my tracks about someone who is obsessed with a girlfriend and suspects her of cheating. The speaker is hopelessly dependent, and stalks about town to find proof of his suspicions. That's stalkings, not stockings.

Like I said, word play.

So, the cat has destroyed the bag. Ivan looked guiltless. "Kelsey showed me," he said.

Ivan submitted his essay Tuesday. His properly formatted MLA heading read,

Ivan P--------
Mr. Petty / Kid Grin
Senior Lit. and Comp.
15 February 2011

Turns out, a lot of students know about this side of me, and no one really cares for an explanation despite my internal compulsion to offer one. It is what it is: a kid trying to make sense of his world on his terms. He's still connected to society (albeit virtually), but he's chugging along at his own speed.

I guess I can see why a 17 year-old would appreciate that in a teacher.

My critical eye is closed, for now.

The two previous blogs were fairly ambitious. I engaged in some tertiary texts and made an argument or two--albeit creatively. I would likely classify those entries, if the necessity presented itself, as critical responses.

Enough of that, though.

While it has taken away the time and desire to build up the family blog in general, the writing I'm being asked to do in graduate classes is purely criticism. It is all argument, all the time. Thus far this semester, it has consisted of weekly prompt addresses (roughly three pages, on average), a response paper (nearly four), and the continual building of an MA thesis (stalling around page eight, currently).

Always, I am arguing.

Aside from the data spawning my thesis, my arguing is focused on the work of two distinctly prolific writers: Shakespeare and William Carlos Williams. Since enough has been said on the former--and since I'm slogging my way through an undergrad course to fulfill a requirement, let me address a few things about Mr. Williams.

The man is a machine (he often writes of cars and loved his typewriter, ironically). He wrote in all genres and forms throughout the span of his life, and did so while tending to and entertaining a family. Oh, and did I mention he was a full-time practicing pediatrician? He admits, in his quite funny and digestible autobiography, he'd typically come home late after work, head full of notes and thoughts, then bang out eight or ten pages before bed. It's somewhat frustrating to read of his nonchalance with this habit, actually.

If you're not familiar with Williams, as I wasn't upon registering for the course, you'll enjoy knowing he hung with a talented crowd. He did not leave with the other expats during the first War, though he visited them. He spent considerable time with Ezra Pound, Hilda Doolittle, E.E. Cummings, Gertrude Stein, and many others. He hated the fact that T.S. Eliot gave the poem "back to the academics," and considered his famous The Waste Land "[T]he great catastrophe to our letters."

If you do know Williams, hopefully you know more than the one about the wheel barrow, the one about the plums, or the one about the fire engine. If not, seek context. I beg you.

I enjoy where I find my head after reading his work, regardless of genre. There's play, humor, and ambition in the autobiography. The poetry and prose in his early books is a departure from the familiar. It's imaginative; his unabashed veracity, inspiring.

It's enough to be critical for the class. But here--here, there can be fun. Here's some of what I'm making from these thoughts.

River there placid,
friend to winter on
calm, clear, brisk
days of February--
Me here
on this levy
in jog, between
your stillness
and the workers flooding
the freeway, whose
rumble and
roll and
rhythm
have replaced you.

----

she has folded the magazine pages
back upon themselves to better
facilitate her reading--
the glossy stack curls from the
spine and creates
from this angle
the shape of a heart.
and the pages tell
the story of a
war.

----

in seeking the
poetics of the run i see
instead webs
fled by spiders
desiring simpler means
of survival. bound up
in rhythm too
s t e a d y
for word,
i submit

to be lost in breathing.

----

drowning steady hums
from fixtures in my kitchen
the teapot whistles