ALEXIS AULEPP

1/17/19

"my writing process"

I write in a flurry of activity, a series of stops and starts, like a new driver and new brakes. I write when inspiration strikes me -- I have a hard time writing if else. I write my best when my mind is a cluttered book -- all I-Spy and memory montage and feelings flowing hot and fast like blood. I usually write on a computer -- I find my hand has trouble keeping up with my brain, but two usually manage just fine. I write at the last minute. If inspiration hasn't struck by then, deadlines are often pseudo-inspiration enough. If it is an essay, I like to pause and think and re-word as I go. If it is a poem, I do no such thing. Writing poetry, for me, is a mind-space, not a mindset. I do not set my mind on anything. I do not try to catch the thoughts like butterflies, lest they fly away. Instead, I sit there calmly, focus in that strange sort of blank, and let my mind leap calmly from one thought to the next.

 

1/29/19

"my experience of workshop" - a shorter writing for homework

Workshop was, to me, a rapid-fire quiz show, a pack of snapping pirañas, a tennis match with twenty players, all vying for the ball. I felt kind of overwhelmed by the pace and the flood of information, but I also felt like I was picking up some tips through the observations of others -- both those that confirmed my thoughts and those that brought up new ones.

 

2/5/19

"dreams"

I know only that the sound was an annoyance that I hushed, finding myself a disgruntled theater-goer at the climax of the show. It was not until I leaped from bed, pleading with my annoyed memory, that vague sands of time rolled back -- just long enough to glimpse: an unlocked moment, a field of matted grass (too green and far too soft), a gathering of buffet tables arranged like children before a first communion table (silent and dressed all in white), a horde of bemused partygoers draped in finery (each one faceless but for the first, who tilts her dark-haired head at my mother and, with one strong shove, moves the table requested farther back along the grass, trampling the violet clovers in the exchange). That's all I see now, blinking at my green eyes in the mirror. A patch of matted clovers. And I know that in the scheme of things, they were not the most important, but -- like a child standing on the curb, clutching a stuffed bear and watching her house burn -- it's the only thing I have left.

 

2/5/19

"pig"

To call someone a pig seems to me not the least of all the insults, but certainly not the greatest. As such angry, rude designations go, "a pig" seems almost too gentle a metaphor. Picture Wilbur, squeaking with delight as Charlotte spins her web. Picture soft, pink fur, and little, cloven toes, and big eyes, entirely ignorant of their fate. No, a pig is not an animal worthy of mockery. For that, I much prefer a snake, or a spider. Unless, perhaps, by "pig" you meant to say "one who revels in filth." If that were the case, perhaps a line can be drawn between the teenage boy who makes a crass remark and the animal rolling in feces. Though, really, I can think of dirtier words.

 

2/19/19

"the sun"

I wonder if the sun is lonely, floating out there, alone in space, with millions of miles of room to think. Does it ever feel like its life is going nowhere? Does it ever feel stagnant? Do you think it will ever know how much life it is contributing, just by being there? Sometimes, I feel like I relate to the sun. I don't know whether or not the two of us are really that compatible, but I find solace in the metaphor that something else out there is at the center of its own universe, not realizing its own importance, while everything it knows seems to circle round -- never touching. It must be lonely work, being the hero of the story. There's so much expectation, not nearly enough thanks, and perhaps too much praise. But perhaps not. Maybe the sun could use a short-lived ego boost. Heaven knows we wouldn't want it sinking into a period of depression.

 

3/21/19

"whales"

I know someone who's obsessed with whales, and that's one of the few things anyone knows about him. We once played the "hot seat" game where anyone in the circle can ask the person in the "hot seat" anything they want, and, by the end of it, Conrad had used such nonsense and vague answers and deflected questions that someone remarked, as the timer expired, that that had been such a disappointing and useless round -- we knew nothing about Conrad! And yet, someone else piped up, we knew everything about Conrad... Except that he liked whales. Oddly enough, that never came up in his two minutes on the hot seat. We tried to ask him his favorite color, his favorite food, his favorite brand of clothing -- but never his favorite animal. And I'm not even sure his favorite animal is a whale. I just know he talks about them more than most people.

 

3/28/19

"hippos"

Did you know that hippos are one of the deadliest animals? To humans, I mean. I can't recall the statistic, but there's some obscene amount of humans that die at the hands of hippos every year -- or the jaws/feet of hippos, I guess. I, for one, never would have expected it. But apparently hippos are not as squishy and pink and wide-eyed as most people assume. I've heard that aggravating a hippo is a lot like pissing off a mama bear, and hippos don't give up 'til you're vanquished. People have tried to run -- there's pictures -- but for a 1,000-pound animal, hippos can move fast (faster, probably, than even most athletes). It doesn't sound fun, getting trampled or bitten by a hippo. Or drowned; I've heard of that, too. But what a way to go: death by hippo.

 

4/2/19

"paper cut"

I've never been stung by a bee, but I imagine that's what it's like: a quick, sharp sting that leaves you throbbing after the initial peppermint jab is over. It can be enough to make your eyes water, like blizzard wind or a really strong cough drop. And I imagine that getting a  paper cut is also like it would feel to get stabbed -- albeit on a much smaller scale. If this tiny rending of flesh from flesh is enough to make my eyes water, I wonder what that must be like. The reaction is probably much the same, too: all the air hissing in or out from our lungs, as if either this is a punctured tire or a slamming door. In either case, my advice is the same: keep your fingers clear!

 

4/4/19

"pencils/pens/mechanical pencils" 

I was a staunch wooden pencil user growing up. Year after year, my friends and random classmates tried to convince me that mechanical was the way to go, but I liked old-school. I liked the idea of a visible marker of how much you had put in to crafting your words. I liked the sharpening and the dulling in endless, visible loops. I also liked the look on people's faces when they asked to borrow a pencil and I gave them three options -- all wooden, but in various stages of use. Their faces said it all. No one ever stole a wooden pencil.

​

4/9/19

"roommates"

My first roommate seemed like a bit of a nightmare. I should have known when she asked me if she could bring all of her plants to college in the very first messages she ever sent me. And the next clue should have been the giant harp she bought at an estate sale in the first month of school. And the third sign should have been when she taped all of her glass-inlaid picture frames to the wall with blue painter's tape instead of hooks/strips -- causing them to fall and shatter in the middle of the night. And the fourth sign should have been when her best friend from high school kept coming to visit for four-day weekends with little warning. And the fifth sign should have been when she didn't wash her sheets until Christmas Break, then maybe not again until move-out. And the sixth sign should have been when her ex-boyfriend, who went to college 8 hours north of here, knocked on our door with a birthday gift and she had to text me to tell him to get lost. And the seventh sign should have been when her entire family of five (including their dog) paraded into our dorm room unannounced one football morning while I was still dozing in bed. And the eighth sign should have been when she bought an armchair... and then an antique couch... and then about four more plants -- despite the fact that we had no floor space for any of those things. And she crowded me out of our shared spaces in a little under four months after move-in. And her too-big plans kept shedding dirt all over the floor. And when she went to bed at night, she did it by coming into the room, announcing "I'm going to bed," and crawling up into her lofted bunk without another word, leaving me to pack up my study materials and leave. But what really got me was the time I thought she had set our room on fire by burning incense to cover what was probably weed, then refusing to open the door or the window because the February humidity was "bad for the harp."  So, instead, we both spend the next six days breathing smokey dorm air and dryer-sheet-wiping the smoke smell from our clothes -- and I spent every second she wasn't around propping our window open. The next year, my biggest complaint about my new roommate was that she didn't always remember to tell me when her boyfriend was coming over to watch a movie and cuddle. In comparison to the previous nightmare, it was a dream.

​

4/11/19

"group photos"

I'm not sure that anyone in this class really enjoys group photos. I'm sure there's a mix of "c'mon guys! this isn't so bad" to "I've been dreading this moment since the day we got these shirts," but the general atmosphere as we filed out onto those stairs seemed to be one of shuffling. In fact, I found myself relating a lot to the guy who started to come up the stairs, took one look at all of us, and defeatedly turned around -- as if his whole day had been ruined, too. "Group photos," his posture said, "definitely don't want to walk in to that situation."

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4/23/19

"useless superpower"

I read a poem not too long ago, titled "The Quiet Boy," in which a group of high school boys -- Cheeto dust and all -- debate what super power is best -- each one claiming one as his own. The burliest of the group wants to fly, the lone smoker wants to control fire with his mind -- pyrokinesis, he purrs -- someone else argues no, hyrdrokinesis would be better (because humans are 80% water, anyway), which should be dark if you stop to think about it, but we don't, because the acne-scarred boy wishes for invisibility, and the whole group pauses to consider this -- guzzling their Mountain Dew -- while the Quiet Boy silently scoffs. Invisibility, he thinks, what a waste of a choice. Why would someone pick something they already have?

​

the following is a link to "The Quiet Boy" by Stephen Kampa, published by Birmingham Poetry Review in 2017

https://www.uab.edu/cas/englishpublications/bpr/archive/bpr-44-2017/the-quiet-boy

(of note: the actual poem differs somewhat from my remembrance of it and portrayal of it above)