FALL 2011





Writing Workshop - Dear Blasphemy

Dear Blasphemy
Writing Workshop with Matt Guenette
Step 1: Everyone writes down some of their favorite words on a note card
Step 2: Everyone trades note cards and circles their favorite word
Step 3: Everyone reads of their favorite word; I write those words on the board
Step 4: I pick one of those words--a noun--at random. Say the word is 'platypus'. Then I ask everyone to write a postcard that begins, "Dear Platypus". The prose poem has to fit on one side of the note card and it has to use some of the other favorite words listed on the board. Then we read them out loud. They're often funny, irreverent, strange--always surprising. And that's the point--taking something we have an expectation of--the postcard--and making something of it. It's also an exercise that demonstrates (I think) how useful collaboration and community are, and how being creative is an act of will...

Dear Blasphemy,

I tried to be ubiquitous about the judgment of the melted butter cream. The squeak of the spatula necessitated the conflagration of this entry. While your necklace pearls are opalescent and you frolic about in frenzied manner, I can no longer abide. The macramé you do is just as torturous, I feel my entrails liquefy. Although you are indecent, at least you haven't developed rickets and for that I am quite thankful. The utter blasphemy of the butter cream has fused with my anguish.

-David Hunter

Dear Blasphemy,

I'm pissed at you! You melted the hearts of all my roommates, and their liquefied organs are now frolicking between 2 by 4 wood paneling. Don't try, as your spatula bearded friends often do, to frenzy your way over to my place an macramé your selves till opalescent moon becomes morning; how would you feel if my butter cream buddies and I took the L train down to your squeak-pad and drank all your beer? And brandy too?

-Ubiquitously, Dylan Zarett

Dear Blasphemy,

My mom was using a spatula when the butter cream caused my brother to squeak. We recently found out he has rickets. I frolicked in when the ice melted in my mom's drink. My father walked in his attire is very indecent. It's a little hectic here. I must go. I'll write when I get home.


Dear Blasphemy,

I find your ubiquitously spatula frenzy to be quite indecent. The way you liquefy the butter cream, leaves it melted with rickets. Frolic with macramé as I spy on this opalescent configuration.

-Sincerely, Beef Wellington

Dear Blasphemy,

Forgive my melted spatula, for in this frenzy of life, a life as liquid as butter cream and as complex as a macramé, I felt my spatula in the oven. The ooze, the rickety river of liquefied plastic ran ubiquitously.

-In frolics and squeaks, Alicia Hummel

Dear Blasphemy,

Your indecent frenzy of frolicking in butter cream has gone on for long enough. Your mind is clearly melted and though you fly to scoop it up with your opalescent spatula – I hope you realize it is a waste that will eventually lead you to a rickety, liquefied life.

-Love, Grandma

Dear Blasphemy,

Your melted macramé is indecent to say the least. You frolic around with your spatula shouting allegations like rickets on the skin of your moral code. You liquefy down to this butter cream substance not unlike springtime, a melted conflagration of squeaks and tears and bubbly frenzy. And I'm sure it tastes ubiquitously, not unlike pizza. But I'll pass today. Thanks for the offer though.

-Opalescently yours, Kimberly

Dear Blasphemy,

I've melted. My spatula has rickets. My macramé is nothing more than a ubiquitous conflagration liquefied to butter cream. Now I must frolic, lest I'm rendered symbolic. Know how to spell “opalescent”? No. I am indecent. I am irrelevant. Squeak!

-Dave Cummings

Dear Blasphemy,

The way your melted butter cream liquefies makes it difficult to use my spatula. There is a feeding frenzy on my hands and these creatures are frolicking all over the place. Their squeaks can be heard in the nocturnal darkness. So please hurry and help me out.

-Love, The Mousekateer