Here is a web platform for the writings of Josephine Yanasak and her friends.
Who is this Josephine Character?

09/09/08 11:34 AM
I’m back on the train! I’m back on the train! I can write again!
(this is unfinished, however.)

1968

They came out of the screen,
blonde and cream,
sucking on sexuality
until their breath was seduction,
and hall of fame induction,
1 million dollars a potrait,
sold next to car crash scenes,
by victims of feminists,
with bullets that burn
in their chests
till hearts churn
together into words
that everyone understands
to be their very own mythology,
the cats on the street making a lobotomy
of color-by-numbers education,
turning the initial mummification
into riots and more gunfire,
flames, pain, and gain
in body counts for uncomfortable students
in four decade’s time,
after pigs fly for elephants,
and they put black plastic in Barbie’s pants.
Apples spin records,
and the new theater
bares all of its hair
God was so angry
Fire got shot
out of the Earth
and rained from the sky,
so we celebrated “One Life,”
with color T.V.,
and cirled the moon,
to see what there was to see,
and gave medals to men who
served and deserved
and sent them back for a second tour
while bugs wrote Revolution,
and across the sea,
Mao’s teaching children,
beand write LSD,
and everyone was trying so hard,
but no one really got it with anyone, anyhow.

This just rolled out of me, which is great, because I have been dry FOREVER. I hope to get up new recordings somehow, because I hate the one from NYM, but if you want to hear it, it’s still at http://speakingtruth.org/post/view/479 .
I was really nervous for that one, and I sound less nervous when I’m just performing, and not being asked to ‘speak to my experiences.’

08/03/08 6:00 PM

I’ve been going through hard times recently. Yes Indeedy, hard times in deed. The kind of times that make me wonder a lot of things, especially if those that claim to read this page do… I appreciate the support, but I prefer the claims to be truths!

I googled ‘bad day’ in image search, and found this on virtualtourist.com.

I think it may communicate the feeling of this poem better than I could writing it.

Bad Day

Your father tells you
that you need professional help
and you think about that
as you ask the 3rd person
where the tacks are
You struggle for that perfect park
and find your car askew:
1 foot in each direction from the
preferable 6 inches from the curb
Your number is called
and you think of ‘THX 1138′
and how happy your are
no one is saying your name
The scent of burger
makes you feel sick
You scrape the curb-
no, hit the curb-
as you park in front of your house
and think how thankful
you were you parked perfectly
when your grandmother was
in the passenger’s seat
The storm door slams behind you
and the fear comes back
as it often does
that he’ll ditch you
to play video games with her again
after you stayed up most the night
waiting for him to call
and he didn’t call you back in the
first place
It’s not like you don’t play
video games
And you chastise yourself
like a child
and are suddenly glad
you don’t play video games
in the basement for hours
and then grimace
as you remember
you do
and wonder why it never seems to make
you cooler with anyone-
that’s how it’s supposed to work
isn’t it?

07/20/08 2:34 PM

Guns. UCK.
(This one’s rather unpolished)

A Short History of Violence

The video store:
that mecca of pop culture-
where Michael Moore preaches
beside MTV-
and everyone’s packing something hot.
My male companion,
in his most stereotypical masculine of forms,
pauses to pick up a package picturing
a quadruple-armed goddess,
clothed in nothing
your mother would call clothes,
and a cross of ammo belts.
Packing the biggest bang
proves the biggest Package,
whose got the largest equipment.
[IMG][/IMG]
Walk softly, and carry a big stick:
Clint Eastwood coughing, all
that ice in his veins,
as he smoothly peels
back the leather of his
desert-dusted, night-cooled jacket,
to reveal a garden:
birds of paradise laced
in engraved silver,
sometimes engaging the Virgin Guadalupe
in her quietest of shrouds,
eyes closed by the artist
to the blooms and blossoms
of blood and steel seed,
planted in flesh and bone;
her holy hand under
a coward’s will beget
this garden.

The instrument and its implements are sexy.
In this world where a covered
woman cannot be respected,
is poked fun at,
this centuries-abused creature
must also strap it on,
and carry her equipment
male
to bear interest.
Every time I am told
by a boy that has not lived
where I have lived,
that he will be okay,
because he is male,
that I exaggerate,
have been in Milwaukee too long,
My existence is negated,-
my being, my childhood denied-
and every time that arrogance, that ignorance
ignites in me fury,
but mostly fear.
That point-blank shot that
killed cleanly,
and without remorse
in between popcorn and soda
is laughed at and remarked on
with a child’s wonder-
the stories of murder
and rape on the right side
of the street
are flocked to,
Media names are given,
and ratings follow,
and all the Jack the Rippers,
and Raping Foxes in the world
are reknowned for years after their death-
because it wasn’t ME.
It wasn’t my child,
my sister,
my brother.
The world has become
anonymous,
because the wizards of the world
can create whole servers
populated by thousands ready to be choked,
have their car stolen,
and be beaten.
If you do not feel ashamed yet-
you should.
I do.
Perhaps poetry is not your forte-
but shame is the only weapon there is
against this mixture of elements
that kills so many more
than the one downed by the bullet.
Shame is the one thing,-
that most primal thing-
which stopped me hurting
my brother,
because my mother,
the one woman I loved above all others,
told me it was wrong
at 2 years old.
I didn’t care he was hurt,
I had no point of
reference,
but for this woman,
telling me it was wrong.
So-
remember your mothers,
and remember your fathers:
Violence begets violence,
and though it may start with you,
there are those that cannot stop this disease
turning their limbs to leprosy,
their love into rage,
angry, violent, love.

These are guns that really enthralled me, and really got me thinking about this kind of stuff…
(The revolver from the move ‘The Mexican’ also enchanted me, but I can’t find a picture of it. The most interesting part about it was that the revolver looked like a heart. The 1st gun is from the more recent version of Romeo and Juliet.)

07/08/08 3:48 PM
I stand in the face of college, finding something to do with my life for the time being, and, scariest of all, a relationship that looks like it’s here to stay.
I’ve got feelings of guilt, shame, and anxiety about all of the things in my life right now, but at the same time, I’ve got incredible excitement about the possibilities in my future.
I’m frustrated. And I’m not sure what much of my poetry means right now.

Another Got-to-be-gone-song (#3)

I’m a travelin’ blues man,
I’m a wait-around-long-enough,
I’m-a-gone-man,
I’m a feet-itching-again-man.

I’m a’soon-to-be-gone, man.

I’m a’waitin around for the world to change,
the little revolutions to change their range-
ready to set the pitch,
pick up my hitch,
and circle my wagons elsewhere
when that time comes.
I’m a settlin-down-man,
puttin-myself-
stuck-into-one-place-
too-long-man.
I’m a man with a plan
set in stone,
pumice-in-the-ocean-
calligraphy-man,

I’ve got to be gone, man,

but I don’t know
where to.
Scratch me the wrong way,
scratch me the right,
scratch me one,
scratch me two

and I’m gone, man.

Outta your way,
nowhere to stay,
find someone else to play,
I’ve a’gotta be gone,
man.

Spiders

I’ve got a colony of spiders
growing behind my face,
and I learned that song
for you,
like you wanted me to,
but I don’t know why,
you’re not the one I’m lookin
for.
The one I’ve got I’ve drive
to telling half-truths,
and my picture on his wall,
has got a colony of spiders growing behind its face.

06/15/08 9:31 AM
I think it’s high time I put my poem “James Earl Jones” up here.
James Earl Jones is an actor, mostly filling the roles of father-types, and most famous, I think, for his voice-acting work in a very famous work of Sci-Fi, and a certain Disney film.

James Earl Jones

James Earl Jones Came down from the heavens
and said “I am your Father,”
to a farm boy,
in a galaxy far, far away.
And on a day that is not today,
James Earl Jones shook his mane,
and told a cub,
“Nobody messes with your dad,”
and the lady on the T.V. is tellin me,
“James Earl Jones can make anything sound good,”
but could he spin this?:
I didn’t have to come to America,
I was born here,
Land of Opportunity, and Importunity-
I’ve got two things most people lack:
I’ve got a mother, and I’ve got a father.
Right-wing republics cannot get past
the need for 2 parents-
their equation is simple:
1 male, 1 female,
but what their math lacks
is what most kids know for a fact:
Bring together the two,
and you’ve got a whole lot of sperm donors,
and one storage bay.
This is not the way I was taught to talk about parents,
but it’s true:
Crack Cocaine takes mothers away.
marijuana, alcohol,
the drugs of youth today,
take fathers’ minds.
Violence that isn’t theirs,
violence that is,
Poverty, Abortion, Loose Women,
Liberal Ideals,
whatever the cause, today’s children are robbed.
But it isn’t the Democrats,
the Republicans,
the kids of the 80s, 90s,
America, Asia,
or anybody in between that’s at a loss,
it’s all of us.
Let’s talk about the 9 to 5,
what we are taught is necessary to survive,
other things that suck the soul,
T.V., Hollywood,
sex, drugs, is Rock n’ Roll
a crime?
or something to fill the time
we aren’t getting from parents that aren’t there?
Whose fault is it?
Nobody’s:
Nobody that’s still alive,
it’s a vicious cycle that rips children from mother’s arms,
and puts dad’s kids in immediate harm.
Now, James Earl Jones says a lot of things on the T.V.,
when I’m all alone,
no one at home,
but what he misses is the fact that,-
Hakuna Mattata this,
Force that,-
it’s all just a method
to understand,
and buy time,
to find things that never made sense to our minds.

06/15/08 9:16 AM

Zombie

A beatnik story

I’m going to scream-
it will be a scream for the ages,
one to launch 1,000 ships,
move 500 hips,
and give our hero that final push
to swallow his fear and go save
that person being eaten alive.
I am devoured-
man of the hour,
damsel in tower,
prince without power,
and out of control.

I’m going to scream-
and it will communicate
all you wish to negate,
break the silence,
seize the violence,
and turn the zombie to books,
worm to technological storyline hooks,
and cut my rhythm in half-
it’ll be acapella, staccata,
worth one hundred bravada,
and all the gold stars I never got.

I’m going to scream-
and if you want to know what it means
I’ll top your confusion 10-fold.
It’s got me in its hold,
its claws digging,
ripping my rigging,
tearing me apart-
lawful metaphor,
books of lists,
complexes,
and syndromes
sit on the top shelf
of my back burner
as I shove this driver over,
and turn this damn car around-
“I thought I told you kids to be quiet,”

I’m going to scream-
through the misunderstanding,
the last man standing,
will be pierced by my bullet of sound,
all will look around,
and in a minute,
be unsure it really happened-

I’m going to scream-
it’ll be so indirect
you’ll hear your mama’s
“Good Gracious!”
and papa’s punctuation,
Purgatory, Heaven, Hell, and Revelation,
the things I’ll never be,
and the things you try for:
your hopes and dreams
gone to stars,
and the last
vestiges of my gangrenous mind.
Hours of fights that weren’t mine,
lovers I struggled to find,
and then lost for one man-
the one that can’t understand,
who stands among many-

And I am going to scream
for the mutilated millions
of misunderstood.
I can’t understand any longer,
the more I do, I get further,
from who I once was-
who I wanted to be,-
and the less I understand,
the more terrible I feel,
I’m unsure who’s real,
and I’m losing my religion,
myself,
my art,
the love I have for life,
and those that I love.
I fear them slipping away
from my ever-bents borders of hands
with a paranoia
rivaled by none,

I’m going to scream-
and I will be mighty.
It’ll be the end-
my end,
so that others may live-
to know that someone can give
the Understanding.

06/09/08 10:28 AM
This is a song I wrote back in 2007 about Ontonagon, MI, on the shores of Lake Superior, and my search for what I was doing in my year after High School.

Gitchi Gumee

Image hosting courtesy of http://photobucket.com.

05/31/08 7:44 PM
This is an untitled poem I’ve been referring to as “The Work,”* though it should be, more accurately, titled “Untitled Plenary Work.”
I was asked to speak on a panel of 3 Quakers at this year’s Northern Yearly Meeting Gathering Plenary. I don’t know how many people were there, as I am bad at estimation, but it was upward of 50, and the vast majority were Friends 50 and above, all much more experienced and more practiced in Quakerism then my Catholic-born-and-raised self. So, scary, scary, thing of all scary things, I was supposed to discuss the theme, which was picked by last year’s Young Friends: “Here I am, Understanding and Shining my Inner Light.”
I came up with this poem, performing my poem on racism (Appearing in the entry from April 8th,) before.
A recording of me presenting appears here:
http://speakingtruth.org/post/view/479

“Today I wrote a poem,
and I called it ‘Confused,’
because I am confused,
but though I am angry,
there is love yet in this world,
and these hands know its feel;
know racism,
blindness,
I know the face of ism,
and unconditional kindness.
I am told daily,
these hands hold rings, kings,
and of all things,
these hands will fight wars,
shape religion,
and hold pores,
bones, flesh, and blood,
shaped into someone else’s metaphors,
and most important of all,
they are just like anyone else’s.
I have found the word,
and in this I am unified
with every teenager, in adolescent love,
who ever wrote,
“From my heart grew a red, red rose,”
or only recorded what made them turn their nose,
and though I can somnambulate
through this world of hate,
I cannot ignore
the kids shouting,
“How you gonna make me forgive,
how you gonna make me let live?”
And the voice in the very back of my head,
forever chiming in my conscience’s stead,
“Does it dry up…
or fester like a sore…
and then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—”
And sometimes I feel so helpless,
in this city of segregation,
this culture of inebriation;
this land of “shaking your money maker,”
and “time to meet your maker,”
the violence in the media
gets me excited,
and at the same time leaves me wonder,
“Maybe it just sags like a heavy load,
or does it explode?”
I can’t tell the good from the bad anymore,
though everyone is trying so hard
to paint it in black and white-
to line themselves in ink
with each dirty pair of jeans
they pull on after making themselves reasonably unclean
in someone else’s book.
I’ve been told I can change the world,
and I will try to make that so,
but
simple rhymes,
pretty words,
a mechanism here and there can only mask that,
I have no clue
what to do,
with the ideas,
plans and dreams.
And these hands hold
love, fears, and tears,
and I know them to be
the fuse, the muse, and the easily enthused,
the excitement in the infuriated mob,
the pull back and the draw,
still being there
when that slob
hits them again.
Anger is the walking,
Love is the talking,
living is doing what you say,
whether antonym,
or synonym.
Preaching “Jesus Loves,”
rather than damnation, and hate,
and living’s the gray space.
I don’t know what this light’s for,
or what it means to me,
or anyone else,
I don’t know what gifts I’ve been given,
or how to make myself clear, now,
or make myself known,
but today I wrote a poem.”

• “The Work” is a reference to the Science Fiction story “He’s a Good Little Boy,” by Mike Stackpole. In it, a sect of people called the Mechalus create their own domain/piece of art out of scrap pieces and trashed electronics. This is my default title for all composite works. As this is largely a composite work of poems on different topics/ rough drafts that differ vastly from the presented piece, I find it an accurate title, and worth adding to my collection of “Works.”

05/14/08 3:26 PM
We’re loud and we’re proud,
changing the world with our words,
making the tides turn,
the whole world churn,
in 3 minutes or under.

The server at my high school, where I am attempting to publish my poems upon this web page, will not allow me to upload many of those that I have spent long minutes typing, because they have words that begin in ‘b’ and end in ‘hit.’ Most grievous of all are the poems that hold the dirtiest word in this million-word language, which begins in S and ends in EX.
Mind you, I can still type merijuana, cannabis, dope, hash, crack, cocaine, freebase, heroine, vagina, clitoris, hymen, scrotum, testes, balls, semen, penis, blow job, sodomy, 69, 77, homoerotic, erotica, and many other terms involving the intake of harmful materials, and the dirtiest act a human can accomplish, allowing me to find any information they don’t want me to see, anyway.

04/08/08 12:36 PM
I grew up in the Milwaukee Public Schools system, which is 60–80% African American. Spending a few summers in the Summer School program put together for elementary school students at the closest school to my father’s house, I experienced more racism than I believe I ever have before in my life. The programs were small, 100–200 children per school, and lasted for half a day, with an after school program from 1–3 including crafts, movies, and snacks. During the morning, there was a period for recess, and one unit each of English and Science. My younger brother and I were the only white children in our local program, and it was observed cruelly by the other students in our classes. I had never before experienced fear or discomfort because of mine or even anyone else’s skin color.
For the first few days of these classes, I noticed nothing different or unusual in my classes, until one of the bullying ring leaders in the class decided I looked just like Britney Spears, who I imagine was the epitome of the white female for many of these students. I was picked on and harassed throughout my time there.
The next year, my mother would not let us go during her weeks of custody, and two years after we were pulled from the program altogether after begging this course of action from our father. He worked during the day, and was nervous about letting us stay at home, but finally conceded. I had just entered 6th grade.
My grandfather was a civil rights activist, and my father knew Father Groppi growing up. My mother attended public school in Milwaukee all her young life, and her and my grandmother’s medals are still on display at Pulaski Public High School here in the city. I was never raised around, or introduced to the idea of racism until after I had begun school. Civil Rights, hate crimes, segregation, and activism on the subjects were something I was taught about since entering school, and I learned recently that I learned a great deal more about it then the Quaker Peers I know today, but all of it was a very foreign concept until that summer. Before that, my best friends had been whatever color they were, I wished I had kinky hair for a while, or one of my friend’s hues in skin color, and my favorite books’ protaganists were either whatever color the author had pleased them to be, or a different color than me because I found it so interesting.
Now, I have witnessed many forms of racism, and it is a topic that haunts me. I wrote this piece after a year of reading and grading underclassmen’s poetry, much of it race-related, and discussing Feminist and Racial Activism literature. It was sparked specifically by a reading and discussion of the 1876 Declaration of Protest, recited by Susan B. Anthony, which was followed by a comparison to Frederick Douglass’ July 5th speech.

Ism
The crimes of my fathers,
thieves all,
hang over my head,
and the crimes of my mothers,
murderers, crazed by slavery,
haunt my bed.
The crimes of my white neighbors
color my skin.
The crimes of my white ancestors,
for being poor,
for fighting the Right Fight,
and most grievous of all,
for being White,
haunts me in my childhood,
tells me what I should
be,
what I could,
be,
what I will be.
All through the halls of my youth,
I was called Britney Spears,
and under her name,
my blonde hair was abused,
my blue eyes contused,
and I became White Girl:
Liberal, Environmentalist, Feminist,
Straight-Edged, Good Student,
and through the shadows of my isms,
my mental schisms,
and lack of clear thought,
I can finally see,
I have become the stereotype,
you wanted me to be.

03/03/08 2:16 PM
Without Hope, Milwaukee

Image hosting courtesy of http://photobucket.com.

I was in a lot of pain when I wrote this, and very angry. I think it is helping me find my footing again. In my city, and more specifically my school environment, fights are a part of normal life. No one stops them (aside from authority figures), rather they are seen as prime entertainment. Many of the skirmishes are recorded via cell phone cameras (cell phones are illegal within Milwaukee Public Schools), or digital cameras, and posted online. I find the irony of this form of sick entertainment within an Arts school sickening.
This poem was in response to an attack made on a friend of mine. It was right outside of my school, he was not able to defend himself, and there was a crowd of people. Also, it was filmed, and put online. My lust for vengeance after hearing of it was sickening and ridiculous, but I felt it very strongly.
This poem is actually an edited version so that my aggressive tone is not considered a threat. This work is not a threat, only an expression of the emotions I felt hours after hearing about the incident.
The state of mind I find in my peers terrifies me. I have been losing sleep over it in recent days.

03/03/08 1:07 PM
This poem was written by my younger brother, Nicholas. He is 16. I’m pretty proud of him. Boy’s got writing possibilities! This is an especially touching piece, not only because of its quality, but also because Nick has struggled with writing and language in general. He is one of the most intelligent people I know, and I hope to see his expression and passion grow, in whatever form. I know that he has the ability, it’s just harder for him, sometimes.
Well, congratulations, Nick: you’re a published author!!
(Edited by I, Josephine)
Ode to the Pen
Plastic tube filled with ink,
makes me ponder,
makes me think.
What could I write that would be new,
with colors of black, red, and blue?

I think back to the things you’ve done,
the people you’ve seen,
the ideas you shun
and the revolutions you have won,
all the arguments you close
and all the debates you have arose.
Now I come back to my desk,
trying to find the concepts to protest.

You’re a small thing
that’s had a great significance,
we look at you an
are filled with diligence
‘cause when in a war,
I am sure,
that the victor will have looked up
to the lord,
and he will have said,
that you must shed
your ideals and instead
realize
that the pen is mightier
than the sword.

You inspire such confidence
but hesitate with incompetence,
and here I am
speaking of you as a muse,
but you come to people
in many hues.

People die in the blink of an eye,
as reporters run out of ink.
So the world goes blind,
and I must give it a kick in the behind,
‘cause ignorance is not my bliss.
So here, make a list
of the people’s grievances.

I may get a video up later of him reading it- Nick’s really into this piece, and seeing/hearing it read is quite moving. He really believes what he wrote, which is amazing, because it was one of those English assignments that most of us hate as arbitrary, constrictive, or just plain dumb.
I hope he doesn’t mind my editing.
Righteous, brother!!

01/29/08 5:05 PM
Minnesota

Image hosting courtesy of http://photobucket.com.

01/26/08 9:39 AM
It may take me a while to get back into the swing of writing to be published where people may actually see it, so bear with me.

The Devil and Daniel Johnston
The Oriental Theater, Milwaukee’s East Side. I bumped the car behind us while I was parallel parking, but they seemed fine. Of course, we were parked under a tree, and it was 7 at night, which means it was pitch outside. So, what I really mean is that no one else was around, and the car’s license plate and bumper looked like the general shape you’d expect.
It was January 14th, a Monday. I had found out about the free show after being alerted to Daniel Johnston’s upcoming concert at the Pabst Theater by a very passionate friend of my boyfriend’s up in Steven’s Point. To be honest, I knew nothing about Johnston before this. I had heard his name in connection with Kurt Cobain somehow, and had seen an advertisement for the film I was now sitting down to watch in one of the Oriental’s plush theaters, but I knew nothing about his music, his influence, or even what era he was from. The young man that told me about him, however, was so excited about the man, I had to find out more.
I sat two seats away from directly behind Paul Cebar, who introduced the show. That got me pretty excited. Plus, two of the theater’s employees were handing out posters for the show, February 7th at Turner Hall. I’m always on the outlook for things to put on my wall. I was amused to see the manager that had refunded my ticket once standing stoically to one side, in the middle of his employees, who were rushing between the crowd of young Milwaukee hipsters, indie rockers, and middle aged movie and music lovers. This is the crowd the Oriental usually gets.
We,- my older brother, and I,- got a seat fine, and after an intro that had been printed all over the web, already, and a call to raffle winners, Paul Cebar sat down, the room went dark, and the movie began.
I’m not sure if it was a great film. It wasn’t bad, because I can’t think of anything wrong with it. I just can’t seem to get past the amazing man that is Daniel Johnston. I suppose that means the movie did its job. It presented necessary information in an entertaining format, which is the heart of documentary. Or, it should be. My first thought on seeing the movie is one I often get when viewing other artists: I will never be anything like them, and I want to be so bad. Johnston’s perfect: he’s angry, heartbroken, did his own thing, always, and is steadfast in his beliefs. He’s one of those artists I think it’s a crime to put into a box. People call his music “indie rock,” and maybe that’s okay by someone’s standard, and I must admit I’m proud to have some good music inside of that genre, but his art isn’t something you can put next to all of the bands and solo artists that are making music to make the scene, and not for expression of some impulse. Daniel Johnston’s music is Daniel Johnston’s music, and that is enough.
All that stuff about the art of it all is past my feelings of envy, and disgust at myself for never having the courage, the soul, and, perhaps, the stupidity to do what Daniel Johnston, and so many others I admire, have done. My open envy has passed, but when it was still there I thought about how Bohemian he is. I like to talk about my Gypsy roots, and think I have free expression in a house that has instruments and Macintosh computers bursting with software laying all over, but it is doesn’t come free if they give it to you. Johnston made insane music in his brother’s garage, on top of his weight set. He freakin ran away and joined the carnival, for heaven’s sake!
I’d like to think this movie changed my life in some way, but, even more than that, I think Daniel Johnston changed my life in some way. How, we’ll just have to find out as my own music and writing progresses. I can say that nothing resonated with me more than seeing Daniel Johnston lead a crowd in singing “Devil Town.”

We’ll start with an on-line interview of Josephine, if she is up for it!

Godsil. Might you share the story of your becoming the second high school student in Milwaukee to consider becoming a contributor to the Milwaukee Renaissance “Movement Magazine?”

Josephine Yanasak. I’ve always enjoyed writing- it helps to get my scattered thoughts a little organized, or in a form I can rip apart, and then organize outside of my murky head! My mother found this opportunity on a blog somewhere, and forwarded the information to me, so, here I am!

Godsil. What kind of writing is your favorite these days…poetry, prose, plays? Short stories? Might you have a novel in progress?

Josephine Yanasak. These days I’ve taken to playing guitar, and so I write lyrics the most, I think. I wouldn’t know how to classify my music, but I my writing is constantly evolving. I’m only just learning to break away from the music that I hear everyday. I’ve also been into writing poetry that rhymes, recently. I acquired a type-writer this Holiday, so I’ve been rediscovering my classic favorite- the observative essay.