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Parritz, R. H., & Troy, M.F. (2014) Disorders of childhood: Development and psychopathology (2nd ed.). Belmont, CA: Wadsworth.

Rochester Fringe//color schemes are found in nature

Rochester Fringe Festival was the goal, and we got caught up in typing. Well, yesterday, we did both.

A few friends and I drove to Rochester to support our college's super-secretive extra-extraordinary Guerrilla Poets. They call themselves guerrillas because they constant disseminate poetry throughout campus. Check the library bathroom; deepen your mind as you do your business.

Guerrilla's exhibit consisted of poetry, as always, and everywhere: as magnets attached to boards painted with magnetic paint and inviting you to manipulate them; as lines chalked on pavement and encouraging you to write each word then step back and read it all at once; and as pages on tables, offering a good read as you sit.

Here's the Guerrilla event page, and a few photos:

Guerrilla Art at Fringe

Okay, supportive post, we love Guerrilla at Geneseo. Without further adieu, get caught up in this typewriter. Filming him type was majestic. And look at how beautifully the colors complement one another! Color schemes just happen, I tell you:

For more videos like this (I am constantly making them I have no reason not to), check out my Instagram.

And to make videos like this, check out the video-making app Splice.

//mind the ñ

I am trying to arrive again.

Please allow my study material for a little while.

publicity//\\poems

I haven't been posting as regularly.

Let me see where we can start.

The year is starting up again, and as the publicist for my college's Poet's Society, I promote our organization cautiously. How does one publicize poetry? Isn't PR and poetry a laughable combination?

The best thing I could think of – to avoid boisterously advertising a sometimes quiet but chronically inspired group – was to present images in the backgrounds of our voices.

And I'll end this post with a favorite poem of mine:

Youth

Through all of youth I was looking for you

without knowing what I was looking for

or what to call you I think I did not

even know I was looking how would I 

have known you when I saw you as I did

time after time when you appeared to me

as you did naked offering yourself

entirely at that moment and you let

me breathe you touch you taste you knowing

no more than I did and only when I 

began to think of losing you did I 

recognize you when you were already 

part memory part distance remaining 

mine in the ways that I learn to miss you

from what we cannot hold the stars are made

P.S. This poem tends to be under the name of W.S. Merwin, but I first came across it under the name of Osip Mandelstam. Through all the midday afternoons this poem has followed me, through the nights I have followed it, I no longer wish to know the author.