From 2764ce38ff89667fc4073fb66cdd634caaffd613 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Thu, 12 Mar 2015 13:01:16 -0700 Subject: Fix #9 - ekphrastisize some poems For ekphrastic articles, add `ekphrastic` node to YAML metadata. This node includes subnodes `image`, `title`, `alt`, `link`, and `class`. `image` provides a link to the local image--just include the file name with the extension, not the folder (all images should be in /img/.) `title` provides the title of the image, and the alt-text, if there is no `alt` node. `alt`, if it exists, provides the alt text for the image. `link`, if present, wraps the image in an `` tag--it should point to the source web page of the ekphrastic image. `class`, if present, sets the class(es) for the image, for styling. In this commit, I've set `ekphrastic` on the four articles that have them so far: 'The Death Zone,' 'AMBER alert,' 'The moon is gone,' and 'Man.' I've also updated .template.html with the changes, and updated README.md to reflect the changes in YAML structure. --- i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html | 17 ++++++++--------- 1 file changed, 8 insertions(+), 9 deletions(-) (limited to 'i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html') diff --git a/i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html b/i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html index 5d84882..6606d38 100644 --- a/i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html +++ b/i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html @@ -37,15 +37,14 @@ -
-

I wanted to tell you something in order to
explain the way I feel about the Universe,
its workings, etc. But I couldn’t yesterday
—I’m sorry—I wanted only to ball
myself up and cry all day. It was the sixteenth
day in a row this happened to me, and to be

-

more than two weeks waiting to cry is,
especially when, the whole time, I wasn’t able to,
absolutely horrible. It was no sweet sixteen,
I’ll tell you that much. Unless at yours, the Universe
kept telling you to quit having such a ball
and that you should have died, like, yesterday.

-

At first, it feels like you’re winning—that yesterday
you really were meant to die, but since you still are,
you beat the system somehow. But the Universe bawls,
“No, I meant you should’ve crawled into
a hole and fucking died!” And then the Universe
punches you right in the gut, something like sixteen

-

times, and all you can think is, “Some sixteenth
birthday! Maybe I will go die in a hole.” Yesterday,
at times like this, is a luxury the cruel Universe
refuses to give you. This is when it’s a pain just to be,
when that Marvell line about “rolling our stuff into one ball”
just seems glib, when you don’t want one body, let alone two.

-

Something else that may come as a surprise to
you: over the past more-than-a-fortnight, these sixteen
days, I’ve had nothing to eat but crackers and a cheese ball.
(That’s not entirely true—yesterday
I had some candy, peppermints and Jujubes.)
Maybe this is why I’m so mad at the Universe—

-

because all it has ever wanted, this Universe
that gave me life, fed me from its breast til I was two,
and even before that, made a place in which I could be—
all it’s wanted was for me to take the sixteen
steps to sobriety, fold the Eight-Fold Path over yesterday
and step around it lightly, as I would an exercise ball,

-

but the problem is, dear Universe, there’s no way I could be
something as hard as all that, to wake up yesterday
morning, stretch over my sixteen selves, bound out like a ball.

-
+ +

I wanted to tell you something in order to
explain the way I feel about the Universe,
its workings, etc. But I couldn’t yesterday
—I’m sorry—I wanted only to ball
myself up and cry all day. It was the sixteenth
day in a row this happened to me, and to be

+

more than two weeks waiting to cry is,
especially when, the whole time, I wasn’t able to,
absolutely horrible. It was no sweet sixteen,
I’ll tell you that much. Unless at yours, the Universe
kept telling you to quit having such a ball
and that you should have died, like, yesterday.

+

At first, it feels like you’re winning—that yesterday
you really were meant to die, but since you still are,
you beat the system somehow. But the Universe bawls,
“No, I meant you should’ve crawled into
a hole and fucking died!” And then the Universe
punches you right in the gut, something like sixteen

+

times, and all you can think is, “Some sixteenth
birthday! Maybe I will go die in a hole.” Yesterday,
at times like this, is a luxury the cruel Universe
refuses to give you. This is when it’s a pain just to be,
when that Marvell line about “rolling our stuff into one ball”
just seems glib, when you don’t want one body, let alone two.

+

Something else that may come as a surprise to
you: over the past more-than-a-fortnight, these sixteen
days, I’ve had nothing to eat but crackers and a cheese ball.
(That’s not entirely true—yesterday
I had some candy, peppermints and Jujubes.)
Maybe this is why I’m so mad at the Universe—

+

because all it has ever wanted, this Universe
that gave me life, fed me from its breast til I was two,
and even before that, made a place in which I could be—
all it’s wanted was for me to take the sixteen
steps to sobriety, fold the Eight-Fold Path over yesterday
and step around it lightly, as I would an exercise ball,

+

but the problem is, dear Universe, there’s no way I could be
something as hard as all that, to wake up yesterday
morning, stretch over my sixteen selves, bound out like a ball.