Been awhile
Well my last entry was the beginning of october. Tell you the truth, I had completely forgotten about livejournal and its addictive ways.
My last entry was about a wedding I went to and how it made me lonely and how I was going to the Co&Ca show. Well, I'm no longer lonely AND the Co&Ca show was amazing. What else? I got fired from my RA position for being at a supposed party. That kinda blew, but in the long run, I'm happy I'm outta there. Met a girl named Katy and we've been dating for almost three months. That's pretty cool considering its my first official relationship since Kelsey. Well, unless you count Natalie. I wish I could count Natalie, but I was a chicken shit and couldn't get the guts to follow up.
No longer do I live in the dorms. I live in Student/Family housing with my friend Emily. Living with a girl is alright...just remember to put the toilet seat down...
I write for the weekly SOU newspaper, the Siskiyou. It's a serial fiction column that I started last term. This term is a completely different story than last terms and perhaps better. I have officially become a Media Arts major. I just filmed some skits tonight that will be shown during a variety show on our cable access network, RVTV. That's right, CABLE ACCESS. It's the big time baby. It's cool because I've finally found something that I'm passionate about and that makes going to school 10 times better even if I have to stay an extra year...yikes....
So, in this weeks issue of the Siskiyou, a man by the name of Christopher St. Louis sent in a Letter To the Editor about my writing. Here it is:
To whom it may concern,
I was dismayed today when I picked up the latest issue of the Siskiyou.
Thumbing through the pages, I noticed the beginning of another piece of
serial fiction by Mr. Staack Christensen. I had hoped that "The Roller
God of Suburbia" might be the last of its kind; I apparently hoped for
too much. I found "Roller God" to be trite, preachy, and all too
heavy-handed in its none-too-subtle jabs at the suburban middle-class. It
read like a piece written by an inexperienced writer who has just
discovered the conventions of social commentary and satire but has yet to
learn that With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility.
The Siskiyou is, to my understanding, a student-run newspaper whose
publication is paid for by student fees. I was also under the impression
that a newspaper--true to its name--participated in the dissemination
of news and relevant information among its readership. I frankly cannot
see how Mr. Staack Chritensen's work fits this idea. Though many will
doubtless disagree with my opinion on the quality of the work published
under the "Serial Writer" column in the Siskiyou, I'm sure that a
-portion of the student body will agree that our student fees should go
towards the accurate reporting of news from the campus community, not the
publication of irrelevant fiction.
SOU has many opportunities for burgeoning writers to publish their
work; the yearly West Wind Review is a high-profile mark to aim for, while
the English department's S.P.E.W.S. (http://www.englishnewsletter.org)
online newsletter is always looking for new work--and its publication
doesn't come out of my tuition.
Let's axe "Serial Writer" and make room for information that's relevant
and applicable to student lives, and that lends a bit more prestige to
the Siskiyou!
Unless, of course, you're now accepting submissions from other
students...
Sincerely,
Christopher St.Louis
I thought it was funny because I had no idea I was even writing a column on "social commentary" or a satire about the suburban middle-class.
Meh. There's no such thing as bad publicity, right? If you're interested, Here's the first part in my newest story:
The Snowball Jury Part I:
The Glen
“You seem to be improving, Mr. Burke,” said Dr. Robinson with that smile he always wears. He puts it on to help place patients at ease, but it just made me nervous.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“You’ve been with us at the Glen for a year now. You haven’t had an episode in over six months.”
“I’ve noticed. Thank you very much, doctor,” I said in attempt to end the conversation and resume my novel. Dr. Robinson didn’t budge. Instead, he stood over me like a vulture, his nose whistled with each exhale.
“As you know,” he interrupted once more. “The Glen has been in over-occupancy for a month--”
I stopped listening to him for a moment and admired my standard issue fuzzy slippers and terry cloth bathrobe. Spying each fiber, I smiled and appreciated how clean I kept my personal items. Then my mind wandered. If each fiber were a human being, what story would he or she tell? I imagined most of their stories would be about crumbs, stains and snags, but before my mind turned over, I was brought back to Dr. Robinson’s ramblings.
“-Which is why we feel you’re ready to leave whenever you feel most comfortable,” he finished sternly. A patient passed and Dr. Robinson flashed his insincere, white-capped teeth.
“Leave?” I questioned. “As far as I am concerned, you get paid whether I am sick or healthy, Dr. Robinson.”
“And as far as I am concerned, Mr. Burke, our beds are for real patients and not those looking for a holiday.”
That night, wearily making my way to bed, I thought of my current living arrangement and how much longer I could prolong my stay, but life has the most peculiar methods of interruption. Before I could remove my robe and slippers, five men in white uniforms burst into my room. Binding my arms and legs down with Velcro straps, the men shoved a needle into my thigh and injected however-many milligrams of anesthetic. My vision blurred as the five men separated and Dr. Robinson entered the room. He checked my pulse and scribbled something on a clipboard.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Burke,” he whispered in my ear. “You’ve just been decommissioned.” The men left and my blurry gaze faded to black.
I don’t recall how I ended up outside the front gate, but I woke in wet grass, soaked by the morning sprinkler cycle. My books, clothes, and shoes were scattered in the waterlogged lawn. Collecting my things in a black duffel bag, I made my way to the front office.
“Hello, sir. How may I help you?” Asked the front desk receptionist.
“I’m Mr. Burke. I need to get back to my room. I’m a patient.” I replied.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I am not allowed to let anyone enter without an I.D. bracelet,” the receptionist said.
I looked down to my wrist. No sign of a bracelet showed. Simply the white outline of where a bracelet once was. It must have been ripped off during the struggle with the orderlies, I thought to myself.
“Certainly there is a mix-up,” I insisted. “I must be in the hospital’s records. I live in room 2D” The receptionist pressed a couple keys on the computer that brought up a series of windows. She adjusted her glasses and scanned through various lines of text.
“We have no record or your admittance into this hospital. I’m going to have to ask you to leave or I’ll be forced to phone security,” she said sternly.
I felt breathless. From either side of the room, two security officers stepped forward. Slowly backing up, I exited the hospital lost and confused. Was all of this a show, a delusion of my own mind? Was I ever admitted?
cheers.
erik.
My last entry was about a wedding I went to and how it made me lonely and how I was going to the Co&Ca show. Well, I'm no longer lonely AND the Co&Ca show was amazing. What else? I got fired from my RA position for being at a supposed party. That kinda blew, but in the long run, I'm happy I'm outta there. Met a girl named Katy and we've been dating for almost three months. That's pretty cool considering its my first official relationship since Kelsey. Well, unless you count Natalie. I wish I could count Natalie, but I was a chicken shit and couldn't get the guts to follow up.
No longer do I live in the dorms. I live in Student/Family housing with my friend Emily. Living with a girl is alright...just remember to put the toilet seat down...
I write for the weekly SOU newspaper, the Siskiyou. It's a serial fiction column that I started last term. This term is a completely different story than last terms and perhaps better. I have officially become a Media Arts major. I just filmed some skits tonight that will be shown during a variety show on our cable access network, RVTV. That's right, CABLE ACCESS. It's the big time baby. It's cool because I've finally found something that I'm passionate about and that makes going to school 10 times better even if I have to stay an extra year...yikes....
So, in this weeks issue of the Siskiyou, a man by the name of Christopher St. Louis sent in a Letter To the Editor about my writing. Here it is:
To whom it may concern,
I was dismayed today when I picked up the latest issue of the Siskiyou.
Thumbing through the pages, I noticed the beginning of another piece of
serial fiction by Mr. Staack Christensen. I had hoped that "The Roller
God of Suburbia" might be the last of its kind; I apparently hoped for
too much. I found "Roller God" to be trite, preachy, and all too
heavy-handed in its none-too-subtle jabs at the suburban middle-class. It
read like a piece written by an inexperienced writer who has just
discovered the conventions of social commentary and satire but has yet to
learn that With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility.
The Siskiyou is, to my understanding, a student-run newspaper whose
publication is paid for by student fees. I was also under the impression
that a newspaper--true to its name--participated in the dissemination
of news and relevant information among its readership. I frankly cannot
see how Mr. Staack Chritensen's work fits this idea. Though many will
doubtless disagree with my opinion on the quality of the work published
under the "Serial Writer" column in the Siskiyou, I'm sure that a
-portion of the student body will agree that our student fees should go
towards the accurate reporting of news from the campus community, not the
publication of irrelevant fiction.
SOU has many opportunities for burgeoning writers to publish their
work; the yearly West Wind Review is a high-profile mark to aim for, while
the English department's S.P.E.W.S. (http://www.englishnewsletter.org)
online newsletter is always looking for new work--and its publication
doesn't come out of my tuition.
Let's axe "Serial Writer" and make room for information that's relevant
and applicable to student lives, and that lends a bit more prestige to
the Siskiyou!
Unless, of course, you're now accepting submissions from other
students...
Sincerely,
Christopher St.Louis
I thought it was funny because I had no idea I was even writing a column on "social commentary" or a satire about the suburban middle-class.
Meh. There's no such thing as bad publicity, right? If you're interested, Here's the first part in my newest story:
The Snowball Jury Part I:
The Glen
“You seem to be improving, Mr. Burke,” said Dr. Robinson with that smile he always wears. He puts it on to help place patients at ease, but it just made me nervous.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“You’ve been with us at the Glen for a year now. You haven’t had an episode in over six months.”
“I’ve noticed. Thank you very much, doctor,” I said in attempt to end the conversation and resume my novel. Dr. Robinson didn’t budge. Instead, he stood over me like a vulture, his nose whistled with each exhale.
“As you know,” he interrupted once more. “The Glen has been in over-occupancy for a month--”
I stopped listening to him for a moment and admired my standard issue fuzzy slippers and terry cloth bathrobe. Spying each fiber, I smiled and appreciated how clean I kept my personal items. Then my mind wandered. If each fiber were a human being, what story would he or she tell? I imagined most of their stories would be about crumbs, stains and snags, but before my mind turned over, I was brought back to Dr. Robinson’s ramblings.
“-Which is why we feel you’re ready to leave whenever you feel most comfortable,” he finished sternly. A patient passed and Dr. Robinson flashed his insincere, white-capped teeth.
“Leave?” I questioned. “As far as I am concerned, you get paid whether I am sick or healthy, Dr. Robinson.”
“And as far as I am concerned, Mr. Burke, our beds are for real patients and not those looking for a holiday.”
That night, wearily making my way to bed, I thought of my current living arrangement and how much longer I could prolong my stay, but life has the most peculiar methods of interruption. Before I could remove my robe and slippers, five men in white uniforms burst into my room. Binding my arms and legs down with Velcro straps, the men shoved a needle into my thigh and injected however-many milligrams of anesthetic. My vision blurred as the five men separated and Dr. Robinson entered the room. He checked my pulse and scribbled something on a clipboard.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Burke,” he whispered in my ear. “You’ve just been decommissioned.” The men left and my blurry gaze faded to black.
I don’t recall how I ended up outside the front gate, but I woke in wet grass, soaked by the morning sprinkler cycle. My books, clothes, and shoes were scattered in the waterlogged lawn. Collecting my things in a black duffel bag, I made my way to the front office.
“Hello, sir. How may I help you?” Asked the front desk receptionist.
“I’m Mr. Burke. I need to get back to my room. I’m a patient.” I replied.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I am not allowed to let anyone enter without an I.D. bracelet,” the receptionist said.
I looked down to my wrist. No sign of a bracelet showed. Simply the white outline of where a bracelet once was. It must have been ripped off during the struggle with the orderlies, I thought to myself.
“Certainly there is a mix-up,” I insisted. “I must be in the hospital’s records. I live in room 2D” The receptionist pressed a couple keys on the computer that brought up a series of windows. She adjusted her glasses and scanned through various lines of text.
“We have no record or your admittance into this hospital. I’m going to have to ask you to leave or I’ll be forced to phone security,” she said sternly.
I felt breathless. From either side of the room, two security officers stepped forward. Slowly backing up, I exited the hospital lost and confused. Was all of this a show, a delusion of my own mind? Was I ever admitted?
cheers.
erik.