Week 5 Assignments

Paper #1
Due Thursday, October 1, 2009

Writing Exercise
Take an exercise you’ve written this semester that you’re not entirely happy with, or take something that you really like that you think could be explored more deeply. Change the voice, from first person to second or third person or from third person to first or second person. Then continue to revise the piece, making any other revisions the changes suggest. Make sure to include the original version along with your new piece.

Read for Next Week
Our Lady of 121st Street, Stephen Adly Guirgis

Blog
No blog posts this week – work on your paper!

In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried

This piece was very interesting to me.
I found it interesting that the voice of the piece would go in and out of the relationship with the other girl. One of the lines that caught my attention was on the first page, "Did you know when they taught the first chimp to talk, it lied?" The voice makes continuous remarks towards this chimp. I'm not quite sure how it relates to the patient that she talks about. I am also a little confused as to if the voice is a fellow patient or if she works in the facility. When she talks about being in the hospital and being self-conscious in front of the cameras that, "played us to the nurses down the hall in Intensive Care." On top of this the voice continues to give us all of this random information. I think that it is sweet that the voice of the piece is trying to make the patient feel more at ease when it is really the voice who is uncomfortable. When reading the piece i felt sympathy for the patient because it sounds like she does not have any true friends. I did not realize this until i re-read the piece and came across the part where she introduces the voice as the 'Best Friend' and claims that the 'impersonal article is more intimate.' There are many questions that I have on this piece but overall I enjoyed reading it. I enjoyed trying to become the voice and really get into the story.

The Day Lauren Died

After dinner, Jae and I get back home late. She invites to watch True Blood in her room, but instead I wander around the house, take secret slugs of wine, go into her roommate Lauren’s room. Lauren had the smallest room but the coolest stuff. Old Polaroid cameras, a Holga, comic books. I sat on her bed next to her cat Clementine. I sometimes think that I like her better than Jae.

I retire to Jae’s room late, we have sex, she falls asleep instantly. I stay awake and think.

A phone call wakes us up 7:00 am. It is Kat, Jae’s art department friend from Berkeley. Jae asks what?
“I’m calling about, Lauren,” Kat says, I can hear through the phone, listen irritatedly.
“What?” Jae says, sitting up in the bed. She looks at the clock, turns on the lamp.
“She was in a car accident,” Kat says. “Her and her family.”
“What?” Jae says.
“They were in an accident. They tried to call you but they couldn’t find Lauren’s phone, her dad had my number.”
“Why, what? What happened?”
“She didn’t make it, Jae. I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“She’s gone.”
Jae starts getting hysterical and hangs up the phone. She starts screaming and hugs me and cries. She lays down in the bed, coveres her head with the pillow, kicks, screams. She gets on the phone to call Ryane. I get up because I think I‘m going to vomit. But I don’t for some reason. I can hear Jae screaming into the phone, “Lauren’s dead! She’s dead!” and crying. I go into the living room. Clementine is sitting on the couch. I sit next to her and pull her onto my lap.

Musee...

Bus stops can seem so full of sad little stories,
being tight, efficient little microcosms of the
rest stops that line our interstates, and oh,
we know what goes on there: the tragedy,
the grasping, the stories we're told; mostly
cautionary. But bus stops, so nearer, so
much more accessible: the homeless sleeping
in filth, the fetal position, curled up at any hour,
the graffiti etched into plastic walls; perhaps
a faint claim to something proprietary and tangible
to those who may feel they possess too few solid things:
'possess' being, in this case, synonymous with control.
You can almost feel, in the cold stone of bench seats,
the same stories that have played out, again
and again, the push and pull of transitory living,
of going and wanting to stay,
of staying and wanting to go.
Take, for instance, the 60 out of Cloverdale:
a night like any other; rain falling in buckets,
or even not: you're dry enough to stand and watch.
The last bus out of town departs at ten.
It leaves a single strip of fluorescent on toward the back.
The sixty plods south along the boulevard,
it stops at points, a shiver and a hiss,
picks up fares, lurches on.
And it glows in the dark like a vigil.
Past the shuttered brake plant,
then a storage yard at a shoulder on the right,
a roar of the engine, it turns a bend,
and passes, then, out of view.

In the Cemetery

The first part of this story are random useless facts. I'm proficient in these, and I'm going to share some of my favorites with you. ENJOY!!!

Robert Downey Jr. (Love of my life!!!) once spent a night in jail with Tommy Lee.
Mark Wahlberg has a third nipple
Coffee drinkers have sex more frequently and enjoy it more than non- coffee drinkers
The hundred- billionth Crayola Crayon was Periwinkle blue
Michael Crichton handed in a paper written by George Orwell to see if his college professor had something against him. He got a B-.
The following people worked in the circus:
- Pierce Brosnan- Fire Eater
- Christopher Walken- Assistant lion tamer
- Harry Houdini- Escapologist
- Burt Lancster- Acrobat
China uses 45 billion chopsticks per year
The poorest country in the world is Mozambique
Switzerland is the richest country in the world
The People of Iceland read more books per capita than any other people in the world, and they were the first country to legalize abortion.
The first time men and women used separate toilets was in 1739 at a Paris ball.
The first couple to be shown in bed together on U.S. prime time TV was Fred and Wilma Flintstone
The word "sex" was coined in 1382
The first novel written on a typewriter was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
If your body's natural defenses failed, the bacteria in your gut would consume you within 48 hours, eating you from the inside out.
Women smile more than men do
14 million people were killed in WW1, turns out, 20 Million people died of the flue epidemic that followed it.
Between the ages of 20 and 70, the typical person spends about 600 hours aving sex
Men get hiccups more often than women do
Every year 100 people choke to death on ballpoint pens.
- "This book of more perfectly useless information" by Mitchell Symons

Imitation: The Language

I look for the
words some-
where on your

face, in your
eyes I want to
see what I

feel. Don’t force
it. Words ease
the heart.

I
Love you
always,

a response
that is
empty, like

all other words,
words that fill
silences and

uncertainties.
Words are
as wide and

as gaping as
the hole they
escape from.

The Rain

I woke up to the finger taps

of drops on your windows

quietly, persistent, polite

at first then louder and louder

until we were both awake

in the dark of the symphonic

tap tapping of the rain

who are you? In the dark

I can't recognize you

until I hear you breathing

and I am unlocked from

fear, from my uneasiness.

Sometimes I think I feel

you say "I love you" in the dark, or

with your eyes. Who are you?

Are you the rain?

Response: The Difference Between Pepsi and Coke

The first thing I noticed after reading David Lehman's The Difference Between Pepsi and Coke was its appearance. Its presence, and enjambment, is very apparent. It makes you think, why? Is there a specific reason Lehman took the time to create each line the way he did? Was it premeditated or did the pen lead the way?

The poem starts with a very depressing tone. A portrait of a man masked with failure. He feels inadequate, he looks fat in jeans, he cheats, he panics, and he fights. Yet, after the initial "this guy is a mess," reaction there is a ray of light. A sonnets volta, the whole voice of the poem is flip-flopped. While he may fall in certain ways, he gets back up. He compensates and makes up for his imperfections...like any human being. And that is what makes it such a powerful piece. It's real and it's raw. A man beneath his cover.

The line that really resonated with me was:

"give him
a minute with a road map
And he will solve the mystery of bloodshot eyes;"

I've been there, stuck in a car, wondering where to go. Battling the feisty itch of my bloodshot eyes. It was just a powerful line for me. Powerful poem.

Amy Hempel use of language...

...I found it really interesting. The story reminded me in a lot of ways of a Chuck Palahniuk piece, with a narrator who loves to start sentences with "That" and who loves to over use "and"s and who punctuates her narration with random, semi-factual pondering. In particular, it reminds me of a line from Invisible Monsters where the narrator says something along the lines of, "Game shows exist to make us feel good about the tiny tidbits of useless info that are all that remain of our educations," a line I've always liked.
One big difference is that Palahniuk always leaves you guessing as to whether the little tidbits he shares have any truth to them. With this story, Hempel makes it clear right away that her tidbits are not to be taken as facts. (By describing the moon as banana shaped). Other facts are absolutely absurd, but simultaneously strangely familiar and impossible-to-fact-check enough to actually be true (like Dylan's mom inventing white out, a monkey signing to its dead progeny, both have that certain sound... like something that could be true but likely isn't) but by including this fact about the moon, she removes all doubt from the situation. Everyone knows the moon's a sphere, period. I'm still puzzlng over the effect of this descision to use blatantly false trivia...
Another aspect of Hempel's use of language I wanted to draw attention to is its sound. Phrases like, "She yanked off her mask and threw it on the floor. She kicked at the blankets and moved to the door," are peppered throughout the story. They were a big part of what made the story enjoyable to me. And they're more than just ear-porn, too, the sound helps to influence meaning. I mean, maybe its a little obvious, what with the end rhyme and all, but these are two lines from a poem tactically transplanted into this shortstory. Realizing that draws the readers attention to the rhythm, and although I've already forgotten the names of the different metrical patterns we looked at in class, I'm pretty sure I recognize this as the one that gallups--a perfect match in language for the scene that the narrator would have witnessed: a patient who hasn't used her legs in a long time attempt to storm angrily out of a room.
There's plenty of other examples of her style matching her substance, and I'd love to talk about them, but I think this post is probably longwinded enough as it is.

The Day Lady died: Frank O'Hara

I was not expecting the ending to be so sudden and spontaneous and inclusive. He doesn't really set you up for the death, well, except in the title but not with the storyline. The subject in the story seems disassociated with society. Like, she never really had a relationship with her banker and only knew her name by over hearing it being said. Her interactions are routine for both her and the people she comes in contact with. Also, the person lady, reminds me of the mother from last weeks reading. How she used to have clout back in the day and expects people to address her the same way even though her time has passed in a sense. She seems a little delusional. I think that her delusion is added by the ending, "and everyone and I stopped breathing" without a grammatical closing. O'Hara, it seems, is asking for us to put our interpretations on the pieces and have our fun with her.

Response to: Musee Des Beaux Arts

Icarus

If you were in broad daylight,

And someone mugged you at gun point, took your things, and fled

Would you be saved?

If you were walking down the street,

And someone pushed you into a dark alley, proceeded to rape you, you screamed,

Would you be heard?

If you came home from work one day,

The door was broken, your house was robbed, everything stolen,

Would it be replaced?

If your child had just gotten off the bus,

Someone grabbed them, through them in a van, kidnapped them,

Would they be found?

If you were choking in a restaurant,

Your food was lodged, your face was pale, your heart was slowing,

Would someone help you?

If you were standing on a buildings edge,

Your heart racing, your mind spinning, your life flashing,

Would someone stop you?

If you were vomiting in your bathroom,

Body heaving, throat burning, head pounding,

Would someone intervene?

If you were sitting in your closet,

Blades cutting, blood running, skin tearing,

Would someone bandage you?

If you were crying on the street corner,

Make-up smeared, nose running, voice shaking

Would someone hold you?

If you were in a nursing home, dieing

Body withering, memory going, mobility frozen

Would someone remember you?

Introduction Response to Musee des Beaux Arts

Upon reading this poem by W.H. Auden, I found that the theme of apathy towards the suffering of others resonated for me, and I wanted to explore the concepts and details he presents in this piece to further my understanding.

I looked up the significance of the title, and it is taken from his visit to the Museum of Fine Arts in Brussels in 1938. Art is also explored within the poem itself, in the second line when he refers to "the Old Masters," or the Renaissance painters who often depicted human suffering in their works. During his visit to the museum, he viewed the painting "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" by Pieter Brueghel the Elder. He goes on to reference this painting in the fourteenth line of the poem.

The story of Icarus is a Greek cautionary tale, in which Icarus' father Daedalus, an Athenian craftsman, built a labrynth for King Minos to trap the Minotaur. Daedalus and Icarus were exiled by King Minos, and Daedalus made two sets of wings for himself and his son to escape the island. Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sun, as the wings were fashioned from feathers and wax and would melt if they got too hot, but Icarus got caught up in the exhilaration of flight and didn't heed his father's warning. His wings melted and he dropped from the sky into the sea.

The imagery of Brueghel's painting depicts Icarus falling into the sea as everyone else in the landscape goes on with their day to day business. This idea of nonchalance and ambivalence towards suffering and extraordinary events (like witnessing a person falling out of the sky) is the essence of the poem, and is illustrated in the careful images Auden chooses.

Fork

I found “Fork” to be rather dark and full of disturbing images. He compares a fork to a bird’s foot and his fist to a large, bald, beakless, blind bird. The opening lines “This strange thing must have crept right out of hell” curious. Has he never seen a fork? If he has, why perceive it so strangely evil? He compares the fork to a “birds foot worn around a cannibals neck” and later in the poem stabs a piece of meat. Is it human meat? I couldn’t get the image of a cannibal out of my head but as the poem continued the image of a bird reappears. “It is possible to imagine the rest of the bird: Its head which is like your fist, is large, bald, beakless, and blind.” Comparing his arm to the rest of a bird was fantastic and a curious way to see oneself. It left an interesting image in my mid. After reading the poem and doing some research on Simic I found an interesting quote where he says “Hitler and Stalin taught us the basics.” I wonder if that has anything to do with the tone of the poem. T. G.

Musée Des Beaux Arts

Auden makes note of the mundane nature of suffering in his poem Musée De Beaux Arts. "The Old Masters" he mentions must have lived in a world where suffering was more commonplace, and not so taboo. In our society, speaking of suffering that is not one's own is done in hushed tones, so as not to upset anyone who might be listening, or worse still, to pique their interest. We, with our modern medicine and the like are afraid of dying. Back in Breughel's day war was much more common. Disease, famine and pestilence were much more common. Did you know that bedbugs were virtually eliminated in North America by DDT in 1960? Our grandparents grew up in a world where bedbugs were a fact, and not just a cute sounding villain to spook children with.

Auden has an odd number of lines in this poem, and each of them has an end rhyme with another line somewhere, though the intervals are not regular, except for the third line, which ends in the word "place." It is difficult to imagine what, if any significance this decidedly ambiguous word has. Taken in context of the line, "About suffering they were never wrong, / The Old Masters: how well they understood / Its human position; how it takes place / While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along." Though the contextual meaning is not consistent with this reading of the word place, one can glean from it's solitary and plain nature that a place where suffering happens is not a Special Place, but merely an ordinary one.

Here is the painting, for those curious: http://img85.imageshack.us/i/icarus.jpg/

Response to Hempel's "In the Cemetery" and Poem

In California

When my father died

I thanked my lucky matchbox

That it wasn't past 2am

Amy Hempel's story of fear, diversion, and friendship has such sensitivity and craftsmanship that I nearly cried the three times I read the story. Her lack of easy metaphor, plot, and narrative give me the sense that she wants you to work some, because she understands that the experience of the piece is just as necessary as the form. A form that seems stripped of most contrivance, the piece speaks to the reader with a sincerity of a confession with all the self-centered necessity of the moment. The inability of the narrator to conform to a process (dealing with the inevitable) is an insight for everyone. Hospitals are dense places where the emotional, temporal, and sensual all collide in a mostly novel way. Hempel conveys the diligence of both characters; the one who seeks to avoid the issue and the other who has accepted its demands. The mask (Jolson) most of us hide behind is one of popular mythology and pretend, one that (I think) Hempel is attempting to say that will gnaw at one's sensibility and honesty. This piece of fiction was inspiring in its defiance of conventional story telling, and its brutal awareness of misgivings. I do think that it would take several readings to appreciate Hempel's craft and sensitivity of what is important in story, let alone life.

Playful little things, us humans

We like the swagger of momentary bliss

And the sparkle of the mule's eye we ride

Upward towards the orgasmic paramount

Dragging our madness and bum leg

Left to us by mutant of competition and machinery

mother and father, reason and spirit

Stumbling down Bourbon St. with a flower and pistol

It's paradox my friends, the endless seem of the devil's dress

Wiggling an evil tongue track of slippery toxic air

Which hangs on Los Angeles skyline

Like eulogy on grave stone

Psyche and certainty; the shallow boxing match

Between two brothers bound at the hip

Struggling to embrace each other

Living with fear; that mute ferocious mutt chained to your eyes

Tugging at your mind, pulling you back inside the cave

But biological and inert you go

Running wild for the womb and stumbling on the roses' scent

That withered its way up into your mother's soul

Those long years ago when dreams were her delicate dowry

And you the truth of us playful little things

Imitation: The Language

We were
mutant,
electric, and had

four arms, four
legs, pushing
each other, coming

back together. Every chance
I got close, the
smell brought

me closer. The
smell of deodorant
and the lotion

you had
on gave my
hands a

grasp of
your body. Hands
flowing around us.

Blatant Imitation/Poking Fun of "Fork" by Charles Simic

Spork

This outlandish object must have flown
Straight down from heaven.
It is similar to a king and his crown
Regal on top his sires skull.

As I clutch it in my fist
As I poke it into my KFC mashed potatoes,
It is feasible to visualize his majesty:
He rests atop his body, my enclosed hand
That is big, fat, and round.

-Sarah Cook

A Response to Robert Creeley's "The Rain"

The Clock

It rings in my ears
The persistence is disheartening
And even when I lie down
To take sleep
It rings and rings
Like some hellish drone
In the depths of a cavernous dwelling

I wonder at times
If I will forever be reminded
When I lie down to take sleep
Of that ringing in my ears
Because I know
It will still be there
In 10 years
20 years
Lets hope I learn
To forget about it by then

But the persistence
The utter doggedness of this sound
As though the clicking of a clock hand
That ticks and tocks
And means only to be there
In that moment
While I lie in my bed
It’s cold caressing lullaby
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock

If only you were so sincere
As these demons
If only it was your heart beat
That lulled me to sleep this night


Why love?

Why so half-hearted?



-McCoy

Response to "Fork" by Charles Simic

Plastic Spork

This strange thing must have slide down
Heaven’s whip cream clouds.
It resembles a tulip
Gripped tightly in the fists of patrons.

As you hold it fondly in your hand,
As you stab the cheery on top of the ice cream,
It is not possible to imagine a more beautiful flower:
In a garden of fast foods
It comes wrapped in its own napkin.

- K. De Melo.
---

Response to “Fork” by Charles Simic

I found the poem "Fork" by Charles Simic a little hard to take seriously, even after I read it over and over again, and came to the conclusion that it contained a deeper commentary on Simic’s rather bleak views. I spent a lot of time wondering just why he chose the fork instead of another piece of flatware. Were the blunt tips of the fork more attractive than violent tip of the knife? Was the spoon too sensual? I'm kidding. However, I did come to appreciate the author's use of language. After the first few readings, I found that lines such as, "...It resembles a bird's foot...Worn around the cannibal's neck..." were very well chosen, very interesting, and vivid. I guess I just have never taken the time to consider using a description of the fork as a way to express myself.

Response to "In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried"

Jonathan Nelson

“You know, it’s not true that lethal injection needles are sterilized before they are administered. They come sterile, just like all needles do. It’s funny that people believe that.”

“I’ve actually never heard that before…”

“Really? It’s one of those ‘facts’ that you see on those lame internet humor pages. You know, those weird little things that seem ironic to people who aren’t really sure what the word ‘irony’ means. So they can blurt out ‘that’s ironic,’ and sound smart in front of their friends. You know what I mean.”

I’ve always had a tendency towards babbling on about nothing. I get nervous when no one is talking, so I recite these little routines I have memorized just to have something to talk about. And neither of us really wanted to talk about what had happened, so we nervously shot the shit, counting the seconds until he made the turn down my drive-way and dropped me off. At least then we could fill the silence with good-byes and promises to keep in touch.

“You mean like how the king of hearts is the only king on a deck of cards that doesn’t have a mustache?”

“Well that’s not really ironic or supposed to be ironic or anything.”

“But it’s the same sort of thing. I mean, the sort of thing you get in emails and stuff, right?”

“Yeah.”

In the Cemetery...

This piece captivated me deeply, not only because of the interesting subject matter, but because of the very natural, very human way in which Hempel writes. Her tone is conversational, and her dialogue is natural, yet she conveys a certain air of mystery and insight which is difficult to attain when using this tone. Part of what makes this tone so natural and human is the fact that she goes back and forth between trains of consciousness, as any natural human mind would do. Still, every paragraph flows without losing my attention. One section which specifically caught my attention is the paragraph that begins with "What seems dangerous often is not -- black snakes, for example, or clear-air turbulence. While things that just lie there, like this beach, are loaded with jeopardy..." It is the little details like these, and the random trivial facts which the narrator relays to her ill friend (hearing-ear dogs, sign language-speaking apes) which make this story seem so... real. The narrator's thoughts on danger are thoughts that most people can read and think; "Hey! Now that reminds me of something i've thought about plenty of times, but she says it in a way that sounds much better." This sort of reminds me of the chapter on "Details" in the Prose book. Although some of the information in this chapter was interpreted as BS, I think that the details in Hempel's story are the kind of details which Prose was really trying to describe to us.

FORKED

Critical Response to "Fork"

Charles Simic's "Fork" is a strange and comical ode to cutlery. In this poem he compares a fork to a bird's foot. Simic's diction is crude, raw, and cryptic, giving the reader the appearance of a dark, and ominous feast of animals, in a graveyard or at Edgar Allen Poe's house. He describes this "bird's foot being worn around a cannibal's neck, which lead me to belive that he doesn't think highly of the device (the fork). He is kind of belittling the masses of human population, whittling themdown, putting them down as if they were unevolved cavemen. The cleaverness of the personification of a bird's foot, and the human hand resembling the rest of the bird itself is rather brilliant, however. I don't appreciate his willingness to be so above the rest of humanity. After all, he is a sentiant being as well. Does he prefer chopsticks or a spoon?

Response to In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried- Amy Hempel

I loved the tone in Amy Hempel’s story, “In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried.” The sadness and denial of her friends illness is heard throughout in its entirety. What I liked the most was the stories she told to make the situation less emotional. It captured what any human being would do in such an honest manner. This affect made the story true and gave it a special connection to the reader. The metaphors she used as well gave this piece a very vivid visual, for example associating the earthquake with past memories.
A part that really stuck out in my mind was the “Fear of Flying” class. As I read this the only thing I could think about was a song with the same title. In the story the narrator speaks about her rituals before flying, how she dreams of serene things that calm. The song itself begins with a dream that takes place in a plane and deals with the fear of flying, I found this coincidence amusing and interesting. So I got the urge to listen to the song, and now I think of the story concurrently. For some reason having done so gave a satisfaction that I cannot describe, like it was the little things that are worth living, and then I looked at the top of the story pages and the book I believe is called Reasons to Live. I simply smiled at the coincidence; it was a great start to my day :)

"Fork" Critical Response

Charles Simic's "Fork," is a strange and comical ode to cutlery. `-++

In The Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried, Amy Hempel

I really enjoyed her story. Her word choices and usages really helped her to convey how close she was to her friend; in her friend’s final days. I think that is what makes her story so different. At least, from anything else I have read. The first six paragraphs of her story contained just a little over 200 words, and she managed to use the word “I,” a total of twelve times; “she” a total of ten times; “her” a total of six times, and then she mixes it in with the other words like “you,” “you’re,” “our,” “they,” “he” and “him” in lesser numbers. For me, the story really hits a high point, when a question is asked about how long is the drive to the hospital, and it seems the narrator changes to her friend, and her friend is now the “I.” Then, when her friend is done, she starts talking, now referring to her friend as “she.” There is the possibility, that throughout the story there really is no distinction between her and her friend, in her eyes, and perhaps her friend’s. To give just a couple of examples, when “the doctor” pays her a visit, he suggests that she spend an hour at the beach. Although her friend ends up going to the beach; in retrospect, the doctor could have been talking to either of them about going to the beach. And, if she and her friend had matching masks, who is to say who was who?

Story using the same style as "In The Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried"

Daniel Uchiyama

“Where are you asshole!!?” I shouted into my phone, thinking that maybe if I screamed loud enough he might have the decency to answer. He was always unreliable. Always. His friends had told me, his parents told me, and after three months of being with him I didn’t need to be told anymore. But at a moment like this? This was unforgivable.
Its funny how life can change so fast, and yet it’s really not funny at all. I wonder when it happens. When the childishness goes away, when the innocence dies. I suppose in school we are slowly being conditioned by our peers. We learn through everyday interaction how to act, how to smile at all the right times, how to think. Until we don’t know who we are anymore.
But he had been with me through the changes. Through the braces, the school dances, the triumphs, the tragedies, and the terrible realization that life was not going to slow down for anyone. No matter how much we tried.
The nurse hands me a clip board full of questions, and a series of pamphlets of information. It describes the process, the methods, and the potential side effects in an unbiased, unemotional fashion. It felt like reading and instruction manual. Only I wasn’t putting anything together I was taking it apart.
I called him again, and wondered if it still said “Cassandra GF” next to me name. It struck me how humans have devolved so many methods of communication, yet how hard it is just to talk to someone. I could feel myself beginning to cry, as the last shred of my composure was shattered.
Ring, Ring.
“Hey babe I’m on the wa…….”
“Don’t bother.” “I’m keeping it.


Comments by the author: I have attempted to emulate some key stylistic techniques used in the story “In the Cemetary where Al Jolson is Buried”. The main character jumps from one train of thought to another and through her perceptions and ideas the plot is furthered. Just as in the story. Additionally the story involves a conflict between two characters who share an intimate relationship. Yet it is the same feelings of intimacy and love that are the source of convolution and conflict. As in my story the girl is unsure as to what to do about her pregnancy because her boyfriend wants her to get an abortion. While she has her own moral qualms about such an undertaking.

Response to Musée des Beaux Arts

This poem beautifully portrays the essence of humanity suffering as well as human nature to overlook suffering. The first lines talk about just how the "Old Masters" captured the reality of suffering and tragedy in beautiful art, yet how people continue to go about their daily lives in spite of these sad incidents that occur every day.

The reference to Icarus is a mythological one; Icarus was the son of Daedalus, who made wings for him out of wax and feathers so that he might fly. The boy grew too enamored of flying, and flew too close to the sun. The wax melted and he fell into the sea to his death. The poem illustrates the concept of such a devastating disaster happening, and the possible ploughmen and sailors who witnessed the fall of Icarus going on about their lives.

I find the notion of children in this poem to be interesting; Icarus was a child who was doomed by his own exuberance and curiosity, while the line, "Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating/On a pond at the edge of the wood:/They never forgot" seems to imply that there exists a natural understanding of this reality in children. Very interesting.

Response to In the Cemetery . .

I really enjoyed Amy Hempel's "In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried". I loved the mysterious ambiguity that matched the narrator's problem of facing the truth about her (I assumed the narrator was female) ill friend. The first time I read this, I was left a little confused, but after reading it a second time I realized how everything came together and connected at the end.
One continuing theme, or story was about the chimp that learned sign language. The narrator tells the first half of the story early on, avoids the second half in the middle, then after the friend has passed away she ends her story with the end of the story about the chimp, about how the mother would sign to her newborn, and even after the baby had died, the mother would still sign "Baby, come hug." The narrator says that the mother chimp is "fluent now in the language of grief". This relates to the main theme of the short story. Throughout her telling, the narrator has a hard time coming to terms with the fact that her friend has a fatal illness. Earlier she mentions a story about a man who got into a car accident, and how he didn't die from his injuries, but from looking at them. The narrator then says "So I hadn't dared to look any closer. But now I'm doing it - and hoping that I will live through it." Even after her friend has died, the narrator refers to her in a vague way, she says "On the morning she was moved to the cemetery," there is no mention of death, being put to rest, or being buried. Much like the chimp mother, the narrator has a hard time facing the truth about her deceased friend.

Musee des beaux arts Imitation

About joy they were always right,
The young: how they lived
Its innocent nature; how they play
While others work and stress on what life may bring.
How, when the son waits patiently
And is in awe as his father teachers him
To become a man.
That moment is never forgotten
That even relationships run its course
and bridges are burned on both sides.
But they never forgot.
Anyhow, in the middle of the room
Where furniture is laid to rest with the father,
as blinking lights distracts and retracts from time.
In Starry Night, for instance: how the sky moves
Quite quickly, as the town lays at rest,
not wanting to join in.
But the sky will continue to kiss the stars,
as the town is lost in slumber.
Something amazing, the town awakens at dawn,
And joins the sky as it moves quite quickly.

Paper #1

PAPER #1
Due October 1, 2009

GENERAL GUIDELINES
Select a poem or short story from our course reader, or a speech/monologue from either of the assigned plays. In a paper of approximately 1,000 words, respond to your chosen text using one of the options listed below. Although you may choose any creative piece from the reader, keep in mind that it should be something that you can respond to meaningfully, in the space of roughly 3-4 pages. Something very long or very short may be more difficult.

Papers must by typed and double spaced, and written in 12-point font (Times New Roman preferred) with one-inch margins. Attach a copy of the poem, story, or speech/monologue you are responding to. If you refer to outside sources, make sure to cite them using standard MLA style and include a works cited page. Here is a useful link for those who need a refresher: http://owl.english.purdue.edu/owl/resource/557/01/

RESPONSE TOPICS
Option 1 ~ Analyze a short story in terms of how it is constructed, paying close attention to plot structure, patterns, and momentum. For example: In what ways does the author set the scene? At what point and how is the central conflict introduced? What kinds of patterns or escalations does the author use to create a feeling of rising tension? How are the reader’s expectations thwarted or confirmed? What effects do structure and development have on the feeling, atmosphere, or tone of the story? How do the formal or structural elements of the story relate to the themes or ideas explored? What do the author’s techniques suggest to you for your own writing?

Option 2 ~ Scan a poem, monologue, or speech using the scansion techniques discussed in class. Analyze the piece word by word and line by line, identifying metrical pattern, line length, and variations. How does the writer use meter to control pace? How does the writer end each line, each stanza, the work itself? How does (s)he begin each line? What effect does the choice of metrical patterns have on the tone, feeling, or atmosphere of the poem or speech? How does meter support or counter the images and themes of the piece? What other techniques does the writer use to supplement the meter (rhyme, images, or themes)? What do the author’s techniques suggest to you for your own writing?

Option 3 ~ As Stephen Ratcliffe states in “MEMO / RE: Reading Stein,” Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons explores “the shape of sound in writing—how sound shapes and creates the meaning of a text in ways that go beyond the meaning of its words. Playing with language—grammar, syntax, sound, rhythm, word meaning—in order to ‘rewrite’ it, free it from its denotative and connotative responsibilities, she discovered the materiality of words as objects, things, physical and acoustic matter whose referential meaning—carafe, teacup, tumbler, feather—while still actively present, was not their only interest. . . . She began to see words not simply as a window opening on the world, signaling that world, inviting the reader to pass through them into it; rather, words happen here—on the page, in air—their particular atomic weights and textures, spin and counterspin, enacted first by the writer who composes a text, reenacted by the reader who reads it.”

Select and analyze in detail one piece from “Objects,” exploring the ways in which Stein uses grammar, syntax, sound, rhythm, rhyme and word meaning. Discuss the effect Stein’s choices have on your experience of reading the piece and think about how her work influences your thinking about the words you use when writing. Finally, draft a poem of no more than a page, chosen from the options below, and include it with your paper. The poem should not be part of the word count.

1. Write a poem in which the canvas of the poem is flattened, where the value or meaning is distributed across the entirety of the work, where each compositional element is of equal importance.
2. When subject matter is commonplace or ugly, as is often the case in “realism,” method itself is foregrounded. Write a poem about a mundane object or event, where the main interest lies in how it is rendered. The written “brushstrokes” may even render the original subject unrecognizable.

Week 4 Assignments

Writing Assignment

Choose One:
1) Go over your free-write from class and underline anything in iambic pentameter (we may or may not have gotten to this in class). Using the sections you underlined, write a poem or monologue in iambic pentameter. Feel free to cheat on the meter, as Shakespeare does. And don’t be afraid to write or revise as much as needed. Your free-write is just a starting point!

2) Write a poem or monologue of no more than a page in which the rhythm and sounds support the content in some way, as in The Dance and My Papa’s Waltz. Allow the language to support (or contradict!) what happens on the page.


Read for Next Week

IN THE COURSE READER
In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried, Amy Hempel
The Rain and The Language, Robert Creeley
The Day Lady Died, Frank O’Hara
Fork, Charles Simic
The Difference Between Pepsi and Coke, David Lehman
Musee des Beaux Arts, W.H. Auden


Blog

1. Post an entry about any one of the readings this week. This may be a critical or creative piece of about 200-300 words and must follow the blog response guidelines. It MUST respond to your chosen reading in some way, either by identifying and discussing craft elements, themes, or techniques or by using those elements in a creative response.

2. Post comments on at least three other entries. Remember, this is not a place for critiquing each other’s work. Instead, identify something from the piece that strikes or interests you, ask a neutral question about the work, or suggest ways the author could deepen or expand it.

My papa's waltz response

The main style or technique I gathered from this poem was the desire for simplicity. Roethke is talented, and as such could have really gone on about the descriptions, the settings, and his working class father. The way it was written reflects the man this story is about, his father. It is simple, to the point, a working poem for a working class guy. Roethke doesn't explain his father as the blue collar type, but shows us in the descriptions. The battered knuckle, the buckles, and his palm laced with dirt.
He describes his father simply, as I think the writer slowly reveals to us his father, description by description. The iambic rhythm also reflects his father, as the simple rhyming and lines explains to us the reader what is going on. I think the author wrote this poem very direct and simple so that his own father could read it and understand it with ease. I'm not sure the poem is in tact with the rhythm of the waltz, because a man dancing with a child is rarely in a flowing rhythm. I don't think the focus is on the waltz, but on the man, the father.

"A History of Violence" screenwriter comments on peer review

Maybe since the deadline for this week has passed this post will not be completely lost in the wave of posts that occurs each Wednesday.

Josh Olson has written a fairly scathing piece for the Village Voice called I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script. The attitude of a professional writer on peer review is of particular interest to anyone participating in such activity in pursuit of their writing degree, and highlights an inevitable dilemma of asking someone else to critique your work.

I found the piece an elucidating expose on the phenomenon of "brutal honesty" and it's place in polite society. Hopefully some of you will find it interesting.

Rhyming Action- A response

I wasn’t quite sure how the four pages of generalizations regarding poets and fiction writers had anything to do with the subject of the piece. I believe Baxter does have some good things to say about narrative circling and symmetry, however this information took me a while to get to—and by the time I finally got to the goods of the essay, I had already become bored and irritated with the authors persistent praising of the poet, and subtle bashing of prose.

I consider myself a poet…more so I suppose than a fiction writer, but for Baxter to insist that somehow all poets are certainly not fiction writers, and all those who choose to write fiction are not poets, is too uniform a label to drape over the craft of writing. I get the sense that while every analogy and belief presented by Baxter may well pertain to his own view of writing, it is not convincing to suppose every other poet feels the same way about what they do. He is telling the reader what they are, as opposed to suggesting variations throughout the craft—this seems very arrogant and ineffectively addresses the topics of which he is attempting to discuss.

McCoy

A Response to Objects: A Petticoat

A light white.

Everything a person can aspire to, ultimate perfection. Societal ideals, governmental interjection. They all want to be you, they all want to have you. Everyone wants to destroy you, now you can’t see plain view. You were created to deliver a certain satisfaction. But now your on a pedestal, one fight after another. But now your on a pedestal, sister just killed baby brother. Over what? This? This small splatter mark, this disgrace you call an ink spot? I call it a piece of art. The void of flawless crept away, the ink it over bled. This monstourous monstrosity, had once again been fed.

I watched as the river poured, deep into the sea, I watched the red encompass, inside, out and everything. The color was uplifting like a newly founded team, the color was uplifting, it cut across the seem. Brother began to match the river that ran red, and as I watched his breath leave, his shirt now lain dead. I saw a disgraceful ink spot, it circumferenced everything, I saw a disgraceful ink spot, the strangest little thing. It was stunning just like magic when you have seen a transferred ring.

And it took me far away to a lost, forbidden land. It captured and misled me, a promise of pearled clams.

A light white was what it said, that reddening, threatening sea,

A tiny little rose charm, made with diligence for me.

Reading Like a Writer

Hello all,

Reading this chapter was really helpful for me both in terms of reading other writers' work and in the creation of my own. A lot of value is placed on the complexity of sentence structure, both in academic work and in the creative venue of writing. The more complex your writing than, the more power, the more intelligent discussions of your work and, lets face it as student the, the higher the grade. The idea that prose discussed about the simple sentences having power was great for me as a writer. I think that as writers, there is a notion that there is a need to prove how good of a writer you are and the best way to do that is by how complex our sentences are. And the power of a simple sentence is really overlooked both in writing and reading other writers' work. Just by reading the few lines in the example I was really able to see the commanding effect the words had on me as a reader and writer and thought it refreshing.

Response to "Rhyming Action"

The first thing that struck me about Charles Baxter's “Rhyming Action” was characterizations of poets and prose writers. He describes poets as being very alive and in-the-moment, and prose writers as being very distant and observant. I don't think these descriptions are necessarily accurate, though I do think they do a good job of describing the two literary genres themselves. I think it would be more accurate to describe prose as being distant and calculated whereas poetry is much more alive and exists in a specific movement.

Another thing that struck me was his idea that things that elicit a subconscious are those that recall some other element of the work. That in order for something to be “aesthetically correct and just,” it must “rhyme,” or create the same response in the reader that a good rhyme in a poem does.

I also like his ideas about elements of art echoing each other, and how that creates a satisfying effect. But what is found most interesting was his idea about consciously trying to make events in a work of fiction echo each other, or “rhyme,” causes it to feel hackneyed or corny. He touches on one of the most frustrating things about being a writer, that one's conscious mind is the biggest roadblock when it comes to writing something meaningful. Anything that is truly meaningful is usually something that came out accidentally without the writer consciously willing it into being.

-Jonathan Nelson

Rhyming Action (Poem attached by Thomas Hood)

I loved Baxter’s, Rhyming Action. I thought it was incredibly accurate and absolutely hysterical. The first part of the piece, distinguishing the characteristics between poets and prose fictionists was amazingly accurate and I completely agree with everything he said; mainly, because I’m a poet (or have always considered myself one) and everything he said about poets, at one time or another I can identify with. Especially at the end of his examples he says , “now the poets are probably falling asleep” and I totally was!
The bulk of the piece I thought was great too. I really understand where he’s coming from with Rhyming Action and Beautiful Action. There are always those moments in movies and books, those lines that just make the hair on the back of your neck stand up and the goose bumps rise on your arms. Just today, my room mate mentioned “the Mothman Prophesies” a very, very creepy movie, and just hearing those words every hair on my body stood on end and I got raging goose bumps. Now, I wasn’t thinking of the movie itself or anything specific about it, but the feeling I get from hearing that string of words- Mothman- Prophesy shoots me back in time to a conversation I had with my dad about the movie. The chain of events, just as he talked about the Déjà vu concept or the symmetry concepts is that moment when beautiful action takes place, and I think that a lot of what’s missing in literature is Beautiful Action.
A poem by Thomas Hood called The Bridge of Sighs, does the same thing. You’re going through the poem not really getting what’s going on, then halfway through BAM! The goosebumps. It’s perfect Beautiful Action because you get what the narrator has been talking about the entire time, and as horrifying as it is, it’s still a moment where you get your relief, the moment when you can sigh because it’s just that damn good.
I thought this piece was great. I love it and I thought Baxter made a lot of great points.


The Bridge of Sighs
Thomas Hood

One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family—
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd—
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly—
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran—
Over the brink of it,
Picture it—think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.—
Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!

RE: Objects

I sat down and began to read "Objects." I read "A Carafe, That is in a Blind Glass " then "Glazed Glitter" then "A Substance In A Cushion." I decided to stop. I realized I wasn't getting anywhere so I asked my girlfriend to read it aloud in order to hear it from a different perspective.
It was amazing. Immediately I figured it out. It all made sense now. When my girlfriend spoke she sounded like she had drank 6 bottles of wine. Unclear sentences, awkward pauses, and even a bit of slurring. I now had the key to the puzzle, I had to get into the same mindset as the text.
Two bottles of wine later I began to reread the text. It was amazing. I still didn't understand what I was reading.
All joking aside I did enjoy reading "Objects." I read it over a period of time because I found myself having to work in order to try and piece it all together. I ended up with a lot more questions than answers.
Now that I think about it there are probably better drugs to be taken before reading Gertrude Stein, anyone have any suggestions?

Imitation of "My Papa's Waltz"

I’d watch you with your bottle
Swaying to its tune
A song I couldn’t follow
Beginning every afternoon

I hoped that you would see me
Lift me up to your embrace
Co-conspirators in our revelry
While mother gave mock chase

Your laugh was rough and deep
Hands scarred with work and age
Around the room we’d twirl and leap
You’d forget your former rage

The moon high upon us
I’d clamor to protest
You’d warn me not to make a fuss
And send me up to rest

response to Baxter

I disagree with opinions Baxter poses in his piece "Rhyming Action." I think Baxter focuses too much on the differences between writers of different genres, instead of highlighting their similarities. They are all, in fact, writers by nature, which makes them essentially birds of a feather. It would seem more appropriate to group all writers together and give them the characteristics that Baxter gives poets, therefore leaving what he considers the characteristics of prose writers to describe the general population, or everyone that is not a writer. I think that most writers are sullen. Most writers are naturally indulgent and disorganized. How Baxter describes prose writers is how I would describe engineers or mathematicians, or some logic-based equivalent.

A commentary on "Rhyming Action"

Baxter seems to have some inkling of where he is going in this commentary ( I hesitate to call it criticism), but does not seem to have the conviction to actually get there. It is filled with so many I think’s and perhaps’ that I cannot allow myself to believe anything it is saying. Baxter’s vague points about memory and rhyming action, if studied, can seem to make some manner of sense, but his lack of sincerity puts the reader off from the very beginning.

Only one phrase in the entire piece rung true to me: “No technique can ever take precendence over vision. It must be its servant.” Baxter’s examples are well-taken, but his observations are bored and lack any cohesive point. Not only does he alienate the reader with his initial tirade against writers of all stripes, he voices so much internal dissonance that the reader is unsure if he making a parody of postmodern literary criticism. His vague ideas about memory and rhyme, consciousness and unconsciousness seem to have some overarching dynamic common to them all, but it is difficult to imagine and we are certainly never clued in. Ironically, Baxter seems to fall victim to his own accusation about Robert Creeley: “The immediate return of a story to its beginning would be like a rhyme that insists too quickly and bluntly on itself.” Baxter’s narration turns around and around but never gets anywhere, leaving the reader with a dizzy sensation.

On a personal note, I found reading this piece to be an abhorrent waste of time and am now much more annoyed than informed. There is no real information to be found, only navel-gazing observations whose meaning and direction is obvious to their author only, if anyone. Nietsche’s Eternal Return is a quaint, if poignant aphorism, and nothing more. To base an entire aesthetic solely on such vagaries takes a person so simple it is a wonder they managed to stumble across it between reading their horoscopes.

My Papa's Waltz

The format of this poem makes me think of a lind of uncordinated, drunken dance. I like the rhyming words that the author chose: breath, death, knickle, buckle. You get the impression that this child has formative memories of his father coming home, drunk and causing a scene in the house. There is something very sad, as if the author's warmest memories of his father come from when he wwas silly and drink; as if he was aching for warmth and humand contact, reaal emotion from his father but it could only be translated through an alcoholic blurb of affection.
The last staza: "you beat on my head with a palm caked with dirt, then waltzed me off to bed still clinging to your shirt" the author shows that he loved his father. It was like he wanted to stay in the moment, clinging to his father, waltzing in the kitchen.

Parody of "Objects"

THE SMELL IN MY COUCH

-Foreign, unknown in origin. Fishy, yet strangely does not evoke hunger. Accusations abound. Anchovies from your pizza....Unlikely. The dog? Perhaps. Wooden tiddly winks believe that Sunday is the best day of the week not ending in "Y". Yet my avocado is growing suspicious. Perhaps yellow is the bravest color, and neon is just showing off.

SHOE BOX

It is a circle with corners that don't not bend inside of the outside. Its intellect is dwindling yet its contents amuse me. Jingle bells batman smells, Robin laid an egg. Babies smell funny.... So do old people. Mmmmmm......curious.

MOUTH WASH

-Effervescent liquid cleansing. The purging of gingivitis. O save the queen from the uprising. Revolution is evolution with an "R". The 28 is always late. The bus not the number, that usually comes after 27, except when it doesn't

CALENDER
-Counter of days. The paper hour glass. Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock. An apple ate another animal ain't alliteration. Irony has little to do with metallurgy and more to do with surprise.

GUITAR
-Strung strings ring true the tunes of our generation. Go break a leg but not your neck because you don't want a reason to fret. Good boys do fine always. I suppose thats why they are good. I need a music stand, but only if I can find a place for it to sit. Practice makes perfect, unless you are practicing wrong. Maniac street preachers and sunny disco biscuits make toxic mountain goats very confused.

GERTRUDE STEIN
-Look how easy it is to not not write nonsensical gibberish and pass it off as poetry...

Daniel Uchiyama

Response to "My Papa's Waltz"

Untitled poem inspired by “My Papa’s Waltz”

The first sadness begins to flicker
As your eyes gleam
And you quietly snicker
Delighted by your own scheme.

I wonder which of us is mad
As you word bends
What’s good to bad
‘Til my peaceful reality ends.

I waited for you to grow up
To meet me with the truth
But you sip from your cup
And arrogantly sit in your booth.

Already you begin to forget what I said,
So there is nothing left to fix,
And I stand away from you,
Wondering how I ever got caught in your conflicts.

You’re so cruel,
That to feel the way I do
I realize I must have been a fool
To have ever believed in you.

- K De Melo.

Response to "Rhyming Action"

When God dreamed for seven days before sculpting man
Drawing a diagram in the constellations
To cut the cleft of the chin
In line with the lines of the chest
two legs, and arms...
Did He mean to carve him so symmetrically?
To curve the clay of the earth
in such a perfect cyclical form?
Spinning the universe like pottery
until it could fold in half any direction
and remain true.
Or was it Darwin's evolution theory
echoing His subconscious?
And as every human has two eyes
If I walk around the symmetrical world
will I come back to stand in the same spot tomorrow?

Response to My Papa's Waltz

When I first read this poem I thought that it may have to do with some sort of violent behavior but then I read it again. This poem is actually the opposite of violent its actually very sweet.
In the first stanza it talks about the father dancing a waltz with what seems to be his child. The father smells of whiskey, so he's obviously had a drink, but the child still hangs on and is still dancing with the father. In the second stanza it talks about how they 'romped,' which is another term for dance, and the mother is frowning but it's not in disapproval. The frown is more like a playful type as in 'it's getting late, you should go to bed.' In the third stanza it goes more in depth about the father and how his wrist is battered on one knuckle. Most likely from a rough job that he has, perhaps he is a construction worker. Then it continues by saying that the child's right ear scraped on the father's buckle. It scrapes because the child is hanging on to the father. Then the father pats the child on the head and the hand is caked with dirt. The dirt could be residue from the father's job. Then they waltz off to bed. It is very sweet because although the father is tired from a long day at work and getting a drink at the bar he still makes time to waltz with his child.

Response to Rhyming Action

I enjoyed reading Charles Baxter’s “Rhyming Action.” In the beginning I thought it was interesting how he categorized poets and prose writers so easily. I am a prose writer and I personally related more to the personalities he expressed of the prose writers; however, I also felt that it would be much harder to categorize people’s personalities based on what they write. (Though I know it was also kind of a generalization and not meant to be taken too seriously).

I also thought it was interesting when he talked about repetition in a story, and about how obvious to make it (or not make it.) Charles Baxter does mention, “using echo effects or rhyming action can feel contrived and corny . . . because in life we are seldom conscious of the way things come back to themselves.” He also says that “when we see two similar events separated by time . . . it’s often more effective if the echo effects, the rhyming action, are allowed to happen without the reader being quite aware of them.” His talk of repetition made me think of The Kite Runner and how the ending (or at least the second half of the novel through the climax) comes back to the beginning. After finishing the novel I first thought that the repetition of events felt very cheesy, but after thinking about it, I realized it was a perfect ending. Even though everything coming full circle felt too obvious, it was necessary in that story for the main character to redeem himself for past events. I think The Kite Runner is a good example of obvious repetition working, but I also think that a subtler hint at everything coming back to the beginning would work well in other stories.

-Beth Bauler

Inspired by Williams' The Dance

And as the Train Sang our Last Song in C#

This song lived is a train in the key of me

Flattened under a fifth of whisky sound

That falls in an ascending scale of tiny fists

On the slattern land whale we rode into night

A young girl bent path in violin wooziness so deep

Inside her pedals roots danced against hell

Between steel crossties and shrinking Pocatello

She was a Viennese waltz and a red carpet too

The conductor asleep drank with mermaids

Who played broken ukuleles on shipwrecked coats

And as the train sang our last nightmare in C#

Darkness bowed an invisible cello strung to the moon

The chandelier hadn’t any will power left

Swinging a ticklish light on the denizen song

Us, the orchestra unable to hold the splintering baton

Was all smokeless air turned time signature by seat ticket

An aged pinup girl longed for a life sized martini glass

The walrus sucked vermouth with salted olive eyes

Toothpick teeth and a top hat large as a circus tent

Both wondering like I if the brakeman truly loves his lever

Guides Should Be Taken With A Handfull of Salt

I'm really thrown by Prose's comment: "Part of a reader's job is to find out why certain writers endure" (15). In any linguistics class you learn that speech is preserved by the powerful for their ends. Look at the changes in language in comparison to the geopolitical history. Anyway, I enjoy some of the classics as well, but could it not be equally said that "you are doing yourself a disservice if you confine your reading to the rising star..." as if you confined yourself to the classics or anything else for that matter? But what if you just really liked whatever you were confining yourself to? Is that a disservice or a great passion? If you really liked a particular sport and some sports announcer said you were doing yourself a disservice by confining viewing to that sport, (but in reality there's only so much time for things and... you get it)- would you not think that guy was a total deuch-bag for telling you what to do?!

Appearance: My Papa's Waltz

At first glance, the poem has an appearance of simplicity, giving the reader permission to feel some ease that the poem itself will follow this manner. The actual stanzas themselves are each short, going up to four lines at max and never breaking this pattern. Pattern is what this poem follows, much like part of the title of the poem: waltz. A regular waltz follows a certain structure and has to be followed in order for it to work, a certain circular movement much like what the poem is displaying with the use of repetitive looking stanzas.

This doesn't exactly compliment the actual content of the poem itself as there is chaos ensuing within: the narrator of the poem "hung on like death", the partner in the poem "roamed until the pans/Slid from the kitchen shelf"; and how every mistake that occurred "The hand that held [his/her] wrist/Was battered on one knuckle". By the end of the poem, some order is returned as the narrator is "waltzed...off to bed", but there's confusion at the end where the narrator is still "clinging" to the shirt of their partner. It leaves an open-ended conclusion of whether the narrator was hanging on because the partner was their father or if it was out of fear. The poem's circular manner of it's form to its content has managed to spin both the reader and the narrator to the point of disorder.

Response to The Dance- William Carlos Williams

The fans align across the cold, deformed, metal barricade,
one by one, every inch is covered.
(everyone is packed in like a can of sardines)
The lights dim until it gets pitched black-
the fans ramble, scream, roar, chant!
The band stumbles on stage, the sound of
the guitar, bass, drums and vocals
all harmonized to create a sound sweeter than cotton candy.
Emotions fill the air both from the ones on stage and the ones watching below-
a sight worth tears.
The floor shakes as the fans all jump up and down as though they had planned it ahead of time.
The people in the back push, but no one feels it as much as the ones on the barricade.
Their ribs crushed, their breath shortened but they continue to sing their hearts out.
The closing song, is a definite hit, it is their last chance to let loose, and dispose of
rage & joy- - -
until next time…

-bethsybobadilla

response to everything

i must admit that i had a really hard time with the reading this week. i think my first mistake was starting off with "rhyming action". Charles Baxter's heeby jeeby love of poets and general disdain of prose writers made me upset, annoyed, and then uninterested in what else he had to say. i didn't entirely finish this work, because after i read the paragraph on comparing prose writers to the money hungry middle class, and poets to gods, i let out a giant mental "pshhh" and went and bought some beer. then i rewarded myself by reading a paragraph and having a drink, which didn't entirely work.

then i decided to read "objects", and after two objects i switched to "my papa's waltz" (which i accidentally enjoyed) and lastly "the dance" which i will also admit was fun. the problem was, after reading about the total pompousness of poets, i started every poem with a scowl. i am not a poet, i do not particularly enjoy poetry, and i see the poet's reputation of being endlessly romantic and dreamy nothing more than its own illusion.

what baxter considered to be poets greatest feature (being generally better than everyone else) i consider to be their worst (thinking that they are generally better than everyone else). in my opinion, to be a great writer, of any kind, you must understand what it means to be human. prose writers and poets both must observe their communities, connect with their peers and hear the stories of the working man. i feel like baxter was writing as if poets collected their lines out of air, or simply of their pure genius, while prose writers "sat in dark corners... with sullen faces... you can tell they don't like what they do". these are images that i'm just going to refuse to take.

the easiest comparison for me here is to compare poetry with post-modern art. i'm talking white canvas at the moma art, or a dot painted on a wall art. a feel like any person with big enough balls can slap down a jumble of letters, maybe add the word "vagina" in there and call it poetry. for those of us bold enough to say that we don't get it, the poet then can point out the reason we don't understand it is because we are not poets, we are not as smart, and we have not been touched by gods like they have. i feel like poetry, like some modern art, can be anything, because no one wants to be considered "conservative" by defining "art". and i think that's fine, but it's also a trick.

basically, and ending here soon before i make myself sick, i feel that a good writer is a good writer, they both have a process to go through in creating their art. the idea that an ex-poet turned prose writer is going to tell us otherwise is absolutely absurd.

For those of you who were in class last week

What were some of the lines she wrote on the board?

I couldn't make it to class last week and apparently one of the assignments is based off of something she wrote during that time period.

If you could help me out with this, I'd really appreciate it.

My Papa's Waltz

“My Papa’s Waltz” by Theodore Roethke, brings to mind a certain time period in America, roughly around the 1870’s to 1920’s , when America was made up of underpaid & overworked (mainly white) laborers, when American was still struggling to develop economically, and domestic violence was more common (even rampant) in American society than we might think. (See the documentary Violence: An American Tradition (1995)). The first hint is the mention of “waltz” in the title. Reading the first and second lines of the second section, which says “We romped until the pans slid from the kitchen shelf,” I envision the small square-like houses of this time period amongst the lower and/or underpaid working class families. I see the dad romping clumsily around the house, knocking over the pans which hung on the walls after having a few shots of whisky, perhaps coming homing home from a hard day’s work. The first and second sentence of the fourth verse says, “You beat time on my head with a palm caked hard by dirt,” which furthers my belief that this poem takes place during this timeframe. I thought it was interesting that the narrator was a male. (Out of habit), I mainly think of females as victims of domestic violence. (In this poem, though, the mother had also been a victim of domestic violence). Most of all, I’m amused at how poetry can play around, or make innuendoes (which I guess is what poetry does), at certain time periods in history.

My Papa’s Waltz, Theodore Roethke

I read the obituary
With a clenched jaw
In hopes that I can forget about she
My nostalgic lover’s law

Coffee, paper,
Strangling both
Every morning without her
Mourning I loath

Word plus word
Equal sentence
Looking for murd-
er, ghost hunting her presence

no plane crashes
still alive
last sip of coffee dashes
my smile takes a dive

Imitation of "My Papa's Waltz"

The venom of your lyrics
Could make a girl’s heart crumble;
But I held onto fallacy:
Music isn’t always affable.

You shrieked at my every wound
Until the locks slid into place;
The allowance of my heart
Could not itself deliver.

The chord that played my heart
Was frayed at the soul;
At every insult you bestowed
My fortitude went down an octave.

You screamed insults at my core
With lips lacking tune,
Then sang at me my lullaby
In a voice nearly a whisper.

Week 3 Assignments

Writing Assignment: You will do two writing exercises this week

Everyone does this:
Write your “chapter” of the collaborative story. Take the one line story you copied from the board in class this week. This will be the “seed” for a story of one paragraph (no more than 300 words). Craft a story around your line, making sure you have conflict, rising action, a crisis, and a resolution. Your “seed” line must appear somewhere in the story. Make and bring enough copies for everyone. Do not put your name on your story, but label it with the group name (Exposition, Crisis, etc.)

AND

Choose one:
1) Finish the repetition poem you started in class today (or write a new one). Really try to push the poem in as many directions as possible, relying on the repeated phrase to ground the poem. Try out the skills we’ve talked about in class, especially the different kinds of patterns.
CORRECTION: We didn't get to this in class today, however you can create a poem using any of the forms of patterning we talked about in class, including assonance, consonants, alliteration, rhyme, repetition, etc.

2) Write a poem, story, or monologue that follows the logic of language as in "A Mown Lawn," by Lydia Davis. Allow assonance, consonance, alliteration, and rhyme to lead the development of the piece and create the forward momentum. Surprise the reader and yourself with linguistic playfulness.

Reading for Next Week

IN READING LIKE A WRITER:
Words, pp. 13-33

IN THE COURSE READER:
Rhyming Action, Charles Baxter
Objects, Gertrude Stein, from Tender Buttons
My Papa’s Waltz, Theodore Roethke
The Dance, William Carlos Williams

Blog
1. Post an entry about any one of the readings this week. This may be a critical or creative piece of about 200-300 words. It MUST respond to your chosen reading in some way, either by identifying and discussing craft elements, themes, or techniques or by using those elements in a creative response.

2. Post comments on at least three other entries. Remember, this is not a place for critiquing each other’s work. Instead, identify something from the piece that strikes or interests you, ask a neutral question about the work, or suggest ways the author could deepen or expand it.

Response to Everything That Rises Must Converge

This piece really touched me. The characters- both the mother and son, that is-
caused me to feel genuinely torn between being irritated and angry with their short-sightedness on the one hand, and on the other hand sympathetic to the insecurities of their flaws. I agree with what most of the other classmates are saying- the son seems unnecessarily angry, and he does seem to have a pedestal complex about his education. Not only this, but the sacrifices the mother has allegedly made on behalf of her son are to be commended. I understand that her ignorance, intolerance, snobbery, and resistance to change are all negative qualities- and surely character traits which I take very personally- however, the author seems to have created this mother figure in a what I must critique as a cliche character type. She is domineering and bossy and manipulative and weak and judgmental and all of those annoying things which make the mother on "Everybody Loves Raymond" so absolutely irritating. Her having a heart attack or cardiac arrest or stroke or whatever is implied in the story does not entirely make up for her character flaws, in my opinion (though the ending did make me pause and feel a little remorseful for her fate).

Re: A Mown Lawn

I found this piece extremely dull. Her criticisms of "America" do not come through coherently other than to voice tedious platitudes about war and superficiality being bad. While I appreciate her idea that life is a dirty business and some things can't be smoothed over, it seems to contradict her objection to "law" and "war." The speaker seems to have a very one-dimensional concept of morality, and can therefore contribute very little to the greater discussion she seems to want to be a part of. I will say that the image of the discarded grass blades fluttering away into the wind made me feel better about commentary like this; at least it will be forgotten easily.

"My Name"

“My Name” by R. Brautigan
Brautigan’s “My Name” reminded me of a Bob Dylan song. The voice was distant with lines that one could relate to but overall meaning left to the readers/listener’s interpretation. Each description could be summarized into a few words whose words would vary amongst the observer. Leaving the observer curious to what the actual name is. I took it as the end to a relationship. The helLA journey on a freeway of emotions that leaves one abandoned. An Indian food dinner of gratefulness, regret, hatred, love, memories, and numbness. The ups and downs and ever so cliché terms we’ve all heard and read I dare not place here. Concluding in solitude with heartburn and a burning esophagus.


Lochlan

Inspiration: Everything That Rises Must Converge

Outside were a mother and son; the mother holding on to her son
Giving her a chance to embrace a moment of it and for him to have
the ugliest scowl.

They walked down the hill, with the thoughts,
"Those damn shoes
She first had on heels...
Then to be sensible she put on flip flops...with heels."

She walked in the neighborhood, looking, analyzing, using
that wonderous gaze she perfected
filled with what was wrong with everything.
He hated it and got her down to the market.

Inside she bought what they needed:
Beans, rice, the type of cheese he had forgotten about
(queso fresco, the only good kind),
and chorizo for nostalgia reasons.
He hated it, but she wanted it.

She knew a little bit of English
He knew a little bit of Spanish
They walked, with words that were
Deeply distorted.
It annoyed him that she never learned
anymore English.
She was concerned he never had
enough Spanish.

It was a wall they had between them.
Everytime they hopped up to look
to see what the other had,
It was never anything they really liked.
Yet they kept hopping.

She'd stop sooner then him.

Translation to Margaret

After much deliberation, I decided to write my blog in response to Brautigan's "Margaret." I chose this peice because it grabbed me more than any of the other writtings. I think it's because I am often drawn to mysterious and the absurd writers. The author creates an intensley creepy setting by leaving the reader in the dark, ony leaving a small, meager trail of hints in the form of metaphor. The style in this peice is remenaiscent of Poe, in that it, gradually escalates past the exposition, building into the climax, and then stopping with an abrupt and bizarre, kind of resolution. The reader is still left puzzled, and wondering why. The author intends for the reader to feel uncomfortable at times. There is a srtanger knocking at your door, purposefully stepping on a patricuklarly squeecky floorboard, and then leaving when there is no answer, without a word. You are left unresolves, as if the aparation of margarette may come back.

Conversation with Reading (Everything That Rises Must Converge)

Daniel: Hello Reading, If you don't mind I thought I might ask you some questions about yourself.

Reading: Go right ahead, I live for these sort of intellectual conversations. Being that I am an actual piece of writing you can imagine the appeal of literature.

Daniel: Um yeah, ........Whatever. So in the story, "Everything That Rises Must Converge", why is it that Julian is so angry with his mother?

Reading: That answer to that question has multiple components. For starters Julian is obvioulsy disillusioned and disappointed with the way his life turned out. Though he had aspirations of being a writer, he now finds himself a typewriter salesman living with his mother. The fact that he is a typewriter salesman is an example of a pathetic attempt to involve writing into his profession in some way.
Julian's mother further exacerbates the her sons disposition because he finds her personality incredibly disagreeable. His mother is a snobby racist, who considers herself to be of a higher class than those around her, despite glaring evidence to the contrary. This pomp combined with the fact that she sees no problem with her ways is a source of great agitation.


Daniel: Fascinating, one more question. Undoubtidly, the proper characterization of your characters was key for creating your effect. How was the purple hat used to characterize Julian's mother, and reinforce the theme?

Reading: The hat is described many times as a banner, a desperate plea for attention. The hat is an attempt for Julian's mother to distinguish herself; in appearence from those around her, as she distinguishes herself in her mind.
The irony of this is that further in the story an African American woman comes onto the bus wearing the same hat. This is glaring evidence that she is no different from anyone else on the bus. Additionally the image of the two women sitting across from one another, in the purple hat, provides a perfect contrast of the two characters. Though the women are total opposites in many regards, race, the age of their sons ect. They are similar, though Julian's mother could never admit it, in their socioeconomic class.

Daniel: Thanks for your time reader that was very imformative.

Daniel Uchiyama

in response to; My Name- Richard Brautigan

the question has come up hundreds of times before and will probably come up hundred times more. who am I daunts me at school, at work (if I had one), before I fall asleep, even in my dreams. The answer to the question is not a simple one. After all I know I am more than a body with a complex.
That line in the song that makes your heart skip a beat-
That’s who I am.
A moment caught in semi-gloss paper.
That’s who I am.
A drawing you drew in astronomy.
That’s who I am.
That time you tripped in front of your celebrity crush.
That’s who I am.
The awkward tan lines that cover my body that I wear as a souvenir from standing all day in the sun; waiting for live music to shoot through my veins.
That’s who I am.
My dog’s hair I find in random articles of clothing when I’m rushing to class.
That’s who I am.
The gossip that travels through my family, faster than a car in a freeway-
That’s who I am.
The overly priced plane tickets to see our favorite band together in their hometown-
That’s who I am.
Random stories I would make up on the spot I sent to you through text-
That’s who I am.
Our lyrical hero doing the Ashlee Simpson dance at 1145 pm on April Fool’s Day-
That’s who I am.
Almost getting killed crossing the street, because I trusted you looked both ways-
That’s who I am.
The band t-shirt collection hanging in my closet-
That’s who I am.
The soccer game my father watches religiously-
That’s who I am.
My mother’s finger-licking-good authentic Mexican food-
That’s who I am.
The stupid fights my brother and sister have with or without me-
That’s who I am.
The dreams I have at night that seems too real-
That’s who I am.
My life motto; we only breathe for so long-
That’s who I am.
…I am nothing but my memories, experiences, and thoughts

-bethsy bobadilla

Reading Flannery O'Connor

Reading "Everything that Rises Must Converge," by Flannery O'Connor was like reading a lesson of what religious writing should be. O'Connor is this devout catholic, and uses her writing to explore her beliefs and morals. But she does it in a way where the writing is neither preachy or pushy, but fascinating. O'Connor weaves this tale of a troubled mother-son relationship, telling a true story that without the religious symbols and metaphors, is still just as powerful. The author writes what interests her, but fuses a "moral of the story" so seamlessly, I became lost in the writing and forgot the point of the story. That is what is so great about Flannery O'Connor, her ability in a story like this to infuse her christian beliefs without being preachy or self-righteous. It is who she is, and she doesn't have to push her writing to show how much of a "good christian" she in fact was.

EVERYTHING THAT RISES MUST CONVERGE

I was reading this story, at least halfway trying to come up with something relevant and useful and smart-sounding to say about the story besides: It's awesome. I got to thinking about the writers relationship to (her) characters. My favorite scene (and what I feel might be the most instructive or stealable one for a creative writing class): Julian's whole interaction with the 'well dressed negro.' Throughout the sequence of Julian sitting next to the man, bumming a smoke, and ultimately failing to accomplish what he wanted to do, we are given a subtle opening up of his character. He becomes vulnerable, and from that vulnerability, something extremely human and relatable emerges. O'Connor likes to make characters who, at the surface, are jerks and idiots. She mocks them, but gently, lovingly. Julian is a prototypical jerk. He went out and got an education and has put himself on a pedestal. He is easy to dislike: a smug, pretentious kid who wants to teach his mother a lesson, but in that one vulnerable moment on the bus, the author has set us up to have no other feeling but empathy for his "entry into the world of guilt and shame."
She does this in at least one way I can identify, and enthusiastically hope to steal one day: she makes us, as readers, become judgmental, and then shows us that not only our specific judgments were wrong, but having judgments is wrong as well. And then--that same self-referendum--that is the same process Julian goes through.

Reading like a Writer...

Every time someone recommends a book on writing to me I cringe a little inside. I know they often mean well, my mom, a friend, a teacher, they all want to help me with my writing aspirations. Yet, more often then not books on writing make me feel like I a) have no idea what I am doing and b) that I haven't read a single important influential book. I start to wonder to myself... will I ever be a good writer if I don't like Tolstoy or Jane Austen (two authors who, honestly, I've never been able to finish one of their books)? So far I am on the fence about Prose's book. I like her style, her writing is clear and it's not too preachy or feel good. She is direct and to the point without being touchy-feely. I also like that she actually quotes the books she is talking about, giving concrete examples to convey her point, helps me see what she is talking about and doesn't make me feel immediately guilty that I've read next to nothing by Chekov.

On the flip side, reading the quote from Kafka's Metamorphosis reminded me of why I love reading. The details really are what make a story and what make a writer worth reading. So... if I haven't read all the classics that's okay because reading isn't about checking off books on a list it's about finding inspiration for my own writing and for the pure pleasure of picking up a book and escaping into a different world for just a little while.

-Allison Lee