There must’ve been seven hundred people there
Mostly teenagers, mostly female, mostly weeping
I halfway listened to the sermon
Punctuated by sobs from the believers
The clouds painted on the ceiling spoke of wings
Did he wear them now?
The front pew was littered with used Kleenex
It stuck in small snotty clumps on my dress
My hand numb from being clutched by
Family members I hadn’t seen in years
I moved through them like fog
Could he see us now?
Grief etched indelibly on their contorted faces
My own thinly contained
The six boys wore white gloves
We rose to follow them out
And I noticed a tear in my tights
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
This Week's Readings...
were my favorites so far. The idea of defamiliarization hits on one of the key points that I had tried and failed to describe in the first writing assignment of the semester: where we were told to describe what "good writing" meant to us. I had tried to probe (among other things) why Chuck Palahniuk's writing worked so well for me. What was it about his style and themes that captured my attention so relentlessly and that always seemed capable of helping me understand the world in new ways? I couldn't name it.
Well, Baxter seems to put forth myriad ideas in this essay, but the one definition that stood out to me, the one representing an idea I want to include in my writing, describes the way clever use of language makes the familiar strange and the strange familiar. At the core, a book like Choke is about existentialism. It's the familiar story of Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill and learning to love the process, reinterpreted with a masturbation-addicted main character. The decidedly strange subject matter Palahniuk produces makes the story entertaining, and as a result the message is accesible to people who would not have otherwise been exposed to it (me).
Considering not everyone has read Choke, I'm not sure I'm doing the best job explaining myself, but the short stories we were assigned for this week did a great job illustrating the same point; that was the reason I enjoyed them so thoroughly: to slightly misuse political jargon, they were really on message this week.
Anyway.
The use of language in a Gentleman's Agreement had that character of being totally new but absolutely true. The author chose such uncommon words to describe the almost banal activities in the story. A child throwing rocks is receiving lessons in trajectory. A rock through a windshield is a broken-glass eye poke to the friendly family van. A kid's response to his father's chastising abuse is a covenant in his heart. The list goes on. The effect is that the banality vanishes. The use of unfamiliar adjectives and metaphors casts connotative, new light on everything described and the reader benefits by being entertained and experiencing the mundane world in new ways.
All in all, the effect was that I was inspired to try writing like this more. But I often find it hard to do things intentionally with my writing, so those experiments will be lucky to see light.
PS. I wanted to note the Axoltyl (sp?) story for its use of defamiliarization as well, but I'm well over the word count limit and I can't bring myself to cut anything. Maybe someone strapped to find something to comment on can flesh that out. Or not. You know, whatev.
Well, Baxter seems to put forth myriad ideas in this essay, but the one definition that stood out to me, the one representing an idea I want to include in my writing, describes the way clever use of language makes the familiar strange and the strange familiar. At the core, a book like Choke is about existentialism. It's the familiar story of Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill and learning to love the process, reinterpreted with a masturbation-addicted main character. The decidedly strange subject matter Palahniuk produces makes the story entertaining, and as a result the message is accesible to people who would not have otherwise been exposed to it (me).
Considering not everyone has read Choke, I'm not sure I'm doing the best job explaining myself, but the short stories we were assigned for this week did a great job illustrating the same point; that was the reason I enjoyed them so thoroughly: to slightly misuse political jargon, they were really on message this week.
Anyway.
The use of language in a Gentleman's Agreement had that character of being totally new but absolutely true. The author chose such uncommon words to describe the almost banal activities in the story. A child throwing rocks is receiving lessons in trajectory. A rock through a windshield is a broken-glass eye poke to the friendly family van. A kid's response to his father's chastising abuse is a covenant in his heart. The list goes on. The effect is that the banality vanishes. The use of unfamiliar adjectives and metaphors casts connotative, new light on everything described and the reader benefits by being entertained and experiencing the mundane world in new ways.
All in all, the effect was that I was inspired to try writing like this more. But I often find it hard to do things intentionally with my writing, so those experiments will be lucky to see light.
PS. I wanted to note the Axoltyl (sp?) story for its use of defamiliarization as well, but I'm well over the word count limit and I can't bring myself to cut anything. Maybe someone strapped to find something to comment on can flesh that out. Or not. You know, whatev.
Response to "Gentleman's Agreement"
He climbed the old oak tree
when no was home
and leapt onto the roof
of the sagging tool shed
He sat for hours
feet dangling off the edge
of the creaking structure
listening to the hardened
brown acorns
that came falling occasionally
like suicide jumpers
landing with a hollow
crack on the rippled
tin roof
He wanted so bad
to toss the acorns
in their tiny rugged caps
and send them sailing
off into the atmosphere
but he knew
there would never be
anyone to catch them
And so he sat instead
listening
as they fell to their deaths
through the gray morning air
landing with subtle clicks
on the roof
of the crippled shed
When he heard the thunder
of his fathers pickup truck
and saw the dust stirred up
from its roaring belly
he slid down from
the edge of the sloped
tin rooftop and
ran into the house
hoping he hadn't been noticed
and that the acorns
would forgive him
in the morning
when no was home
and leapt onto the roof
of the sagging tool shed
He sat for hours
feet dangling off the edge
of the creaking structure
listening to the hardened
brown acorns
that came falling occasionally
like suicide jumpers
landing with a hollow
crack on the rippled
tin roof
He wanted so bad
to toss the acorns
in their tiny rugged caps
and send them sailing
off into the atmosphere
but he knew
there would never be
anyone to catch them
And so he sat instead
listening
as they fell to their deaths
through the gray morning air
landing with subtle clicks
on the roof
of the crippled shed
When he heard the thunder
of his fathers pickup truck
and saw the dust stirred up
from its roaring belly
he slid down from
the edge of the sloped
tin rooftop and
ran into the house
hoping he hadn't been noticed
and that the acorns
would forgive him
in the morning
A Response to "Push Hands: Balancing Resistance and Revision"
This piece had a number of very pithy quotes that I found quite lucid. I think the most important of them all was the one that went: "...the aim of revision is to improve the poem, not to spare or enhance anyone's feelings." This is something I wish more writers would embrace. The poem is not you. A criticism of the poem is not a criticism of you. You and the Poem are quite separate. Moreover, criticism should be welcomed, and not taken with an air of tacit offense.
I think the worst thing about the creative writing process as I have experienced at this school, and the thing this piece and this quote address is that nobody seems willing to really pick apart anyone else's work. There is very little emotion that goes into any critique; in fact, most critiques come off like a perfunctory hug: superficially compassionate, but ultimately driven by an unwillingness to appear rude. This bothers me a lot. I criticize my own work a great deal because I feel that it is the only way for it to improve. I am rarely satisfied with my work to the extent that I feel that it should be displayed in public. Be this a quirk of my personality as it may, every writer should be pleased to receive criticism, not because their work is "bad," but because something which inspires comment of any kind is the only thing which deserves to continue being worked on.
I think the worst thing about the creative writing process as I have experienced at this school, and the thing this piece and this quote address is that nobody seems willing to really pick apart anyone else's work. There is very little emotion that goes into any critique; in fact, most critiques come off like a perfunctory hug: superficially compassionate, but ultimately driven by an unwillingness to appear rude. This bothers me a lot. I criticize my own work a great deal because I feel that it is the only way for it to improve. I am rarely satisfied with my work to the extent that I feel that it should be displayed in public. Be this a quirk of my personality as it may, every writer should be pleased to receive criticism, not because their work is "bad," but because something which inspires comment of any kind is the only thing which deserves to continue being worked on.
"On Defamiliarization"
I found that "On Defamiliarization" was especially helpful with characterization. Often times I find myself wanting to write about a character who is someone that I myself would like. I'll write about the girl who is beautiful, who is quiet and smart and good, but just can't find her way. I'll write about the bad-boy guy who comes along and rescues her (yes, I enjoy love stories). But after reading Baxter, I realized that nobody really cares about these characters. Okay, so that's not entirely true, people do care, but these types of characters aren't memorable. They're like every other character in every other love story. In order to write something that is memorable, you need to give characters shocking qualities, along with likeable qualities. That way, the contradictory characteristics send you into a turmoil of confusion, making the story one you won't be likely to forget anytime soon. Baxter was not only helpful with characterization but with plot as well. You can do the whole "boy meets girl, boy likes girl" thing, but it's overdone and we all know how it's going to end. Now, throw in controversy that ends in a way we wouldn't want real life to end, and you got yourself a good story. Albeit, a sad story (maybe), but a good one.
Pushing My Hands
I write poetry and I write prose. I use a lot of details and it's hard for me to get straight to the point, without over indulging in adjectives. I love writing, more and more. It's becoming a part of what I want to do with my life, which scares me. My mom told me to try and choose a career that helped me earn a reasonable income. Well I tried, it doesn't seem to be the direction that I am headed in. "The qualities most necessary to a teacher, if she is to help a student overcome resistance, are passion and an open mind" I have passion and an open mind. Neither are a problem for me. Yet acting on them sometimes gets quite challenging for me. I love constructive criticism, I value it. Sometimes I don't know how to use it, I struggle. Recently I had peer reviewers point out a topic in my piece that they found questionable. They suggested that I leave it out, that I banish the topic from my piece. But it was one of my crucial points. So, what then? I can't get rid of it. It is now a part of my piece, an entire leg and without it my piece will not stand up straight. The entire significance that IS my piece will be gone and will no longer matter. I suppose this is my resistance. I want to fix it, just as they suggest, I mean they speak for my readers right? But how do I fix it for them, but keep it the same for me, for what I want to say?
Important - Class Canceled Tomorrow, October 22!!
Unfortunately I have to cancel class tomorrow, Thursday, October 22. I came down with a nasty flu in Chicago and currently have a very high temperature. I'm sorry for any inconvenience, and I look forward to seeing you next week.
For homework:
For next week, please remember to bring in a piece of fiction for workshop the following week. You will need to bring 6 copies of your work, one for each person in your workshop group and one for me. You are not required to post to the blog next week (but please post as usual this week).
As always, please feel free to email me if you have any questions, though I may be a bit slower to respond in the next couple of days.
For homework:
For next week, please remember to bring in a piece of fiction for workshop the following week. You will need to bring 6 copies of your work, one for each person in your workshop group and one for me. You are not required to post to the blog next week (but please post as usual this week).
As always, please feel free to email me if you have any questions, though I may be a bit slower to respond in the next couple of days.
Forgettable fictional characters
(A response to "On Defamiliarization")
1. The content, single, thirty year old woman
2. The well-adjusted teenager
3. The friendly, non-embarrassing, happily married parents
4. The likable bachelor (seen occasionally in fiction as the one "she doesn't choose")
5. The college student who doesn't have sexual thoughts about older men
6. The quiet grandfather who is not descending into dementia (he's not a veteran either)
7. The grandmother without a deep dark family secret (she really does like just baking cookies!)
8. The young man with nothing to prove
9. The young woman who knows exactly why she is in love with her boyfriend (and she doesn't find handsome foreigners the least bit attractive)
10. The older sibling with no psychopathic tendencies whatsoever (or the unself-centered younger sibling)
1. The content, single, thirty year old woman
2. The well-adjusted teenager
3. The friendly, non-embarrassing, happily married parents
4. The likable bachelor (seen occasionally in fiction as the one "she doesn't choose")
5. The college student who doesn't have sexual thoughts about older men
6. The quiet grandfather who is not descending into dementia (he's not a veteran either)
7. The grandmother without a deep dark family secret (she really does like just baking cookies!)
8. The young man with nothing to prove
9. The young woman who knows exactly why she is in love with her boyfriend (and she doesn't find handsome foreigners the least bit attractive)
10. The older sibling with no psychopathic tendencies whatsoever (or the unself-centered younger sibling)
Response to Axolotl by Julio Cortazar
Even after all the evidence presented to me, I still don’t believe that the primate species is the closest related to humans. It is remarkable that we share thumbs, and signs and what not, but I just don’t feel that connection. At least not that connection I share with my dog. Maybe it’s just that I’ve never met a primate before. Regardless of that fact, I can’t deny that affection I feel for my dog. He is more than a pet, or a companion. He’s become my friend, or my older protective brother. I know I can always count on him, no matter what. Yes you may say that he has no other choice since he is force to live with me, but I beg to differ. I am certain that if he could talk he’d agree with what I am saying. Every time I look into his dark brown pool of eyes, I know that he is listening. When he offers comfort in the way he leans on me or licks my tears away I know he cares. He can be more human that actual human beings. His heart filled with emotion and feeling towards me restores my faith in love, hope, happiness, joy…life. Even when we’re miles away I can feel him longing for my presence as I do for his. When I call home and am into the conversation with my mom and hear his famous, special, one of a kind bark, I know he knows I’m on the other end almost in tears from missing him. I believe he is shouting “Hi, I miss you too.” Once I called my mother to ask her how to get rid of some pain I was having, being her motherly self she worried but stayed calm. That night as she was folding away clothes from the dryer (where my dog sleeps at night) she noticed him being restless. She then looked at him and asked him “What’s wrong, you’re usually asleep by this time” she continued by saying “Oh I know, it’s your owner, don’t worry I’m sure she’ll be alright. Go to sleep now, I am sure she’ll call in the morning to let us know she is perfectly fine now.” It was then that my mom told me that my dog, looked at her straight in the eye with a reassuring look, and went back to bed. I know this isn’t just a coincidence, I know he cared and was worried; too bad he doesn’t have thumbs to call or text me…
Response to On Defamiliarization
I found Baxter's advice in "On Defamiliarization" to be very interesting and helpful. I agree with a lot of what Baxter thinks about what good writing is, and I respect how he phrases a lot of his advice. He seems simultaneously matter of fact and sincere about what he says. I have lately been trying to figure out what makes a reader to want to follow a character throughout a story. Baxter reminds us that in society, people try to be morally good or likable, but that when it comes to fiction a character just has to be interesting. He also discussed some other important story telling techniques to keep in mind, such as not having all the details of a story support one central theme, that writers should try bringing in details that "don't belong, that don't fit" and to not over-control your art with the specific details, and that "instead of making our narrative events and our characters more colorful, we might make them thicker, more undecidable, more contradictory and unrecognizable." Baxter's advice really helped me, especially because in my fundamentals of creative writing class (as those of you who are in it know) we have to write an ongoing project. I have been having trouble lately with my characters and the overall feel of the piece - so when I revise it this week I will definitely look through Baxter's essay for advice to improve my characters and the details of the story I want to focus on.
Push Hands: Balancing Resistance & Revision
I have never passed up the chance to re-vise anything I have written. I seldom turn things in that I feel are 100% done---no matter how long I spent writing it, or how good I felt turning the paper in. I always know, that on some level, it can either be revised, sometimes re-written, or in need of just a very few minor changes. The only time I felt completely great about a paper I had written, was when I actually had a friend edit it. But in most cases, I don't have that kind of time---though it would be great if I did! If I ever did feel weary taking someone else's advice, I'd be inclined to try it out anyway. I recently turned in an 8-page mid-term for one of my literature classes, and the teacher said she wanted me to make some revisions to it. In fact she said, she wrote what she wanted me to revise on the paper itself. All I had to do was type what was on the paper! I haven't gotten the paper back, but am I going to complain? No. I'm just going to make those revisions. She's probably read thousands if not more papers in her lifetime, so I think of it only as an opportunity to see how it is other people write---a chance to experience writing.
FUCKING ORIGINAL!!!
Setting: Small rural town
Characters: Daniel -a college student returning home for the weekend
Amanda- a former high school classmate of Daniels who never went to college.
Amanda-So how do you like living in San Francisco?
Daniel: ....(Silence)
( The question catches me off guard though I've heard it a hundred times before. My heart drops in my chest, as I try and recover. And pull together enough of myself to force out the semblance of a smile.)
Daniel-"Its great the cities real nice."
Inside my mind is a torrent of images. The city is "real nice" if you like fog! I'm not talking about a "cool Autumn mist" or "hazy dew' that hangs in the air.-I mean a debilitating fog; an unrelenting haze, the sight of which depresses me. So much so that days when I can see the sky feel like Christmas.
....Pull it together
Amanda: How are the people there?
Daniel: "The people there are really nice and open-minded"
(This is painful to say as well, but bears more semblance to the truth and is easier to say then my first response. I wonder if my smile is too big. My cheeks are pulled back pretty tight. Too tight. I never smile this much.-I remember something about smiling taking less effort then frowning, and think that is bullshit.)
(The people here are nice, true. But the people here are also homeless, destitute, disillusioned, and poor. The people here operate and think with a Liberal fervor that Asphyxiates my consciousness.-And I'm a Democrat.-For so long I've tried to silence the part of my brain that questions unfounded, overzealous Republican hatred. So I could fit in of course.-But to me the jump from, "I disagreeing with someones views" and "abhorring their very existence" is wide. For some the slippery slope proves too slick to take a stand.)
(I wonder if she can see right through me)
Amanda: "Also you guys have that bridge, its so beautiful. My parents and I drove up their on our way to Sonoma this one time. I really liked it.
Daniel: "Yeah, its a California landmark."
(I wonder if she would think it was so wonderful if she knew that the Golden Gate Bridge was the most popular landmark in America-to commit suicide.- Also the irony of a cities most treasured landmark being a bridge that leads out of the city possesses an irony I find amusing.-Though the bridge does lead in the city as well.)
Amanda: "Its also a good place for writing right? Isn't that what you want to do?...Write stuff?"
Daniel: (Pause) Yeah, actually there is a lot of independent magazines and small publishers which make it a good place for writing."
(This comment is the easiest to say because it rings with the resonance of truth that requires no practice. An event so rare in conversation that I revel in its relaxing effects.)
Amanda: "Maybe I'll come visit you sometime?"
Daniel: "Yeah, you should if get the chance."
(I doubt that she will ever visit)
Amanda: "I mean what do you guys do for fun?"
Daniel: ummmmmm
(Sit in coffee shops with our overpriced VENTE MACCHIATOS and lambast those DAMN DIRTY CONSERVATIVES for their ABOMINABLE CRIME OF EXISTENCE!!!!!)
(I think I"ll get the word "ORIGINALITY" tattooed on my lower back. But only after I get my lip pierced.)
Authors note: Words (in parenthesis) are supposed to be Daniel's thoughts. Where words "in quotation marks" are actually said out loud.
Characters: Daniel -a college student returning home for the weekend
Amanda- a former high school classmate of Daniels who never went to college.
Amanda-So how do you like living in San Francisco?
Daniel: ....(Silence)
( The question catches me off guard though I've heard it a hundred times before. My heart drops in my chest, as I try and recover. And pull together enough of myself to force out the semblance of a smile.)
Daniel-"Its great the cities real nice."
Inside my mind is a torrent of images. The city is "real nice" if you like fog! I'm not talking about a "cool Autumn mist" or "hazy dew' that hangs in the air.-I mean a debilitating fog; an unrelenting haze, the sight of which depresses me. So much so that days when I can see the sky feel like Christmas.
....Pull it together
Amanda: How are the people there?
Daniel: "The people there are really nice and open-minded"
(This is painful to say as well, but bears more semblance to the truth and is easier to say then my first response. I wonder if my smile is too big. My cheeks are pulled back pretty tight. Too tight. I never smile this much.-I remember something about smiling taking less effort then frowning, and think that is bullshit.)
(The people here are nice, true. But the people here are also homeless, destitute, disillusioned, and poor. The people here operate and think with a Liberal fervor that Asphyxiates my consciousness.-And I'm a Democrat.-For so long I've tried to silence the part of my brain that questions unfounded, overzealous Republican hatred. So I could fit in of course.-But to me the jump from, "I disagreeing with someones views" and "abhorring their very existence" is wide. For some the slippery slope proves too slick to take a stand.)
(I wonder if she can see right through me)
Amanda: "Also you guys have that bridge, its so beautiful. My parents and I drove up their on our way to Sonoma this one time. I really liked it.
Daniel: "Yeah, its a California landmark."
(I wonder if she would think it was so wonderful if she knew that the Golden Gate Bridge was the most popular landmark in America-to commit suicide.- Also the irony of a cities most treasured landmark being a bridge that leads out of the city possesses an irony I find amusing.-Though the bridge does lead in the city as well.)
Amanda: "Its also a good place for writing right? Isn't that what you want to do?...Write stuff?"
Daniel: (Pause) Yeah, actually there is a lot of independent magazines and small publishers which make it a good place for writing."
(This comment is the easiest to say because it rings with the resonance of truth that requires no practice. An event so rare in conversation that I revel in its relaxing effects.)
Amanda: "Maybe I'll come visit you sometime?"
Daniel: "Yeah, you should if get the chance."
(I doubt that she will ever visit)
Amanda: "I mean what do you guys do for fun?"
Daniel: ummmmmm
(Sit in coffee shops with our overpriced VENTE MACCHIATOS and lambast those DAMN DIRTY CONSERVATIVES for their ABOMINABLE CRIME OF EXISTENCE!!!!!)
(I think I"ll get the word "ORIGINALITY" tattooed on my lower back. But only after I get my lip pierced.)
Authors note: Words (in parenthesis) are supposed to be Daniel's thoughts. Where words "in quotation marks" are actually said out loud.
Respone to "Gentleman's Agreement"
“Just wait until your father gets home,” she said. It was what she always said, but this usually did not worry the child. In fact his father was far more lenient than his mother, and would usually sit down and talk with him about what he done wrong instead of yelling or handing out punishments. He always told himself that getting yelled at was worse, but his father's increasing weariness disturbed him. He seemed more and more tired every time the child's mother approached him, “Guess what your son did today.”
This time he got his new school clothes all muddy. It doesn't really matter what he did. It had just rained, and the creek was swollen. He had a good time playing in the mud with his friends, but delayed the trip home as long as possible, knowing his muddy clothes would get him into trouble. By the time he started to make his way home, it had started to rain again, and he was sopping wet and covered in mud by the time he got home.
His mother made him take off his clothes outside before letting him in the house. This time he didn't even listen to her; dreading his father's weary sigh instead.
-Jonathan Nelson
Kafka's Bucket Rider
So I finally came up with what I feel is a reasonable analysis of Kafka's bucket rider. In class the question of wheter or not the man on the bucket was alive was brought up. At first this perplexed me too as it appeared that Kafka might be attempthing a sort of Sixth sense sort of idea. And then I figured it out. It is not important whether or not the character is alive. The character is merely a metaphor for the human condition. He is characterized by his empty bucket. Thus he is defined by the fact that he is in a perpetual state of need, a need which either can not or will not be sated. Being that he is a metaphor he was never really alive. I believe Kafka is commenting on the tragic nature of the human condition, specifically that to be alive is to exist in a perpetual state of want and need. Whether those needs be biological, as in the need to eat, sleep, drink ect. Or the the need for comforts and luxeries. By living as creatures who are in a sense destined to live a life of need, we are designed to almost never be satisfied. We are by our design never able to full fill our needs and thus never be happy. Even the man who has the coal is suffering from his excesses. Kafka is also commenting on the fact that in an effort to satisfy our own needs we often overlook the needs of others, as he does with the description of the coal owner and his wife
Friday, October 16, 2009
Week 8 Assignments
Note: If you did not turn in a mid-term portfolio, you may email it or place it in my box in the Creative Writing Office (Hum 380).
Writing Assignment
Choose One:
1) "Everything in life dreams. A bicycle dreams of becoming a boy, an umbrella dreams of becoming the rain, a pearl dreams of becoming a woman, and a chair dreams of becoming a gazelle and running back to the forest." ~ Marela, Scene 3 (from Anna in the Tropics)
Write about an object that dreams of becoming something else -- something more important, more alive, more animated with spirit.
2) Take your family story from last week. This time, expand and exaggerate the story, adding fantastical and elements that nevertheless make emotional sense within the story. Take risks, make the story so different that only a seed is still recognizable. This can be in the form of a story or a one-act play.
3) Write your own opening to a play that allows space for the fantastic or mythological to enter. Describe the setting, characters, and costumes in about one page.
Read for Next Week
Gentleman’s Agreement, Mark Richard
Axolotl, by Julio Cortázar
Push Hands: Balancing resistance and revision, Jeffrey Skinner
On Defamiliarization, Charles Baxter
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.
Writing Assignment
Choose One:
1) "Everything in life dreams. A bicycle dreams of becoming a boy, an umbrella dreams of becoming the rain, a pearl dreams of becoming a woman, and a chair dreams of becoming a gazelle and running back to the forest." ~ Marela, Scene 3 (from Anna in the Tropics)
Write about an object that dreams of becoming something else -- something more important, more alive, more animated with spirit.
2) Take your family story from last week. This time, expand and exaggerate the story, adding fantastical and elements that nevertheless make emotional sense within the story. Take risks, make the story so different that only a seed is still recognizable. This can be in the form of a story or a one-act play.
3) Write your own opening to a play that allows space for the fantastic or mythological to enter. Describe the setting, characters, and costumes in about one page.
Read for Next Week
Gentleman’s Agreement, Mark Richard
Axolotl, by Julio Cortázar
Push Hands: Balancing resistance and revision, Jeffrey Skinner
On Defamiliarization, Charles Baxter
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.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Bucket Rider
This story really resonated with me for a number of reasons. Right from the beginning Kafka had me entertained, especially when the narrator began explaining that "[his] mode of arrival must decide the matter, so [he] rode off on the bucket." I see many children today, at the beach or in a sandbox, sit upon a bucket and hold the handle like it is the reins of a horse. I even vaguely recall doing this myself back when I was small enough to sit upon a bucket. Secondly, I loved that the coaldealer was able to hear the narrator coming and shouting, even though his wife could not. He was willing to give some coal to whoever was in need of it, and this I liked. His wife threw me off, however. I did not understand why she was so greedy, and why she felt a need to commit such a rude act.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Jesus Hopped the A Train: Poem for Angel
Jesus Hopped the A train
Angel's hands are shaking,
the gaurd can smell his fear,
now that he's giving him
the body language that says:
I am afraid, I am obediant.
He does'nt go outside anymore,
He hates the sun, his body is
lacking the vitamin D that it craves
The gaurd offered him the sun,
Angel wants no part of charity
There are no lawyers in this
cell, no hope of escape, no chance
for tomorrow. No need for the
sun, when there is no tomorrow.
Angel's hands are shaking,
the gaurd can smell his fear,
now that he's giving him
the body language that says:
I am afraid, I am obediant.
He does'nt go outside anymore,
He hates the sun, his body is
lacking the vitamin D that it craves
The gaurd offered him the sun,
Angel wants no part of charity
There are no lawyers in this
cell, no hope of escape, no chance
for tomorrow. No need for the
sun, when there is no tomorrow.
Lightness- A Found Poem
I found many of the references and images in Calvino's lecture inspiring.
What is lightness?
uphold the values of lightness.
the adventurous, picaresque inner rhythm.
Peresus supports himself on the very lightest of things,
my own past... composed of images from mythology.
With myths one should not be in a hurry.
But the most unexpected thing is
the miracle that follows;
the fine grace of the coral touches the savage horror.
Those minute, luminous tracings...
But how can we save ourselves in that
which is most fragile? A profession of faith.
The weight of living consists chiefly
in constriction, everything we choose,
value, soon reveals its true, unbearable weight.
"The Unbearable Lightness of Being"
The world is supported by the most minute
entities, the impulses of neurons, quarks,
neutrinos wandering through space...
Even the poetry of nothingness,
the poetry of the invisible,
of infinite unexpected possibilities...
If stirred by a profound emotion,
a woman realizes that she is changing into a lotus tree,
"si come colui che leggerissimo era"
"...being very nimble, he leaped over it..."
The sudden agile leap of the poet-philosopher
showing that with all his gravity he has
the secret of lightness...
The dramatis personae are not so much human beings
as sighs
rays of light
optical images
the snow on windless days
light, silent movement...
Which thread should I pull on to find the end in my hand?
Inspired by “The Bucket Rider” by Franz Kafka
Inspired by “The Bucket Rider” by Franz Kafka
Frau Coaldealer,
I am
Before your open door
Cold,
Begging.
The heat of shame,
Has faded
From my bare face
And I am numb
At your feet.
Remember:
You knew me well, once
When my pockets were full
…Not so very long ago.
I was a customer,
Faithful and true.
It was really not so long ago.
Do you not remember,
When you last greeted me
With a warming smile,
Instead of a frown?
If I could feel my nose
I would blush
As if I were kneeling
Before you
Naked.
But to you I am invisible.
Your door slams.
My dry throat burns
As I shout,
“You bad woman!
I begged you
For a shovelful of your worse coal and
You would not
Give it
To me.”
Apathy’s icy hold is sweet,
Like my old mother’s arms,
Which once held me to her breast,
So could hear life pulsing,
And sooth my bad dream.
And as I lay against your shut door,
I welcome the pauses of my beating heart
And close my eyes,
Against the shy puffs of air.
But I am only human.
And so I hope you trip
On my frozen corpse
And sprain your ankle.
I’ll see you in Hell.
You bad woman!
- K. De Melo
Frau Coaldealer,
I am
Before your open door
Cold,
Begging.
The heat of shame,
Has faded
From my bare face
And I am numb
At your feet.
Remember:
You knew me well, once
When my pockets were full
…Not so very long ago.
I was a customer,
Faithful and true.
It was really not so long ago.
Do you not remember,
When you last greeted me
With a warming smile,
Instead of a frown?
If I could feel my nose
I would blush
As if I were kneeling
Before you
Naked.
But to you I am invisible.
Your door slams.
My dry throat burns
As I shout,
“You bad woman!
I begged you
For a shovelful of your worse coal and
You would not
Give it
To me.”
Apathy’s icy hold is sweet,
Like my old mother’s arms,
Which once held me to her breast,
So could hear life pulsing,
And sooth my bad dream.
And as I lay against your shut door,
I welcome the pauses of my beating heart
And close my eyes,
Against the shy puffs of air.
But I am only human.
And so I hope you trip
On my frozen corpse
And sprain your ankle.
I’ll see you in Hell.
You bad woman!
- K. De Melo
An Oldie but a goodie....(Anna in the Tropics)
Being some what of a romantic myself I always find myself being attracted to romantic themes. I am referring to romanticism as a genre of literature of course. And in Anna In the Tropics I am referring to the duality of humanity vs machines. This play is brilliant in its simplicity. The workers have a long history of tradition which they regard with pride. They take pride in their work and ensure that each cigar is rolled perfectly by hand. Yet, Chester wants to bring in a machine to increase production and also make the use of a lecteur pointless. As the machines would drown out the readings of the stories, but not the pain in his heart. Other examples of this play on nature as a representation of the organic and natural part of the human condition and industry as the corruption and need to dominate that exists in all men can be found throughout the play. A prime example is when Juan Julian is discussing how he feels suffocated in the city and it is only when he is out in the country that he feels free.
Bucket Rider
Okay, here goes. I am about to admit something terrible, something unimaginable to even the simplest of minds. I... I have never read Kafka. Not for any particular reason, I've just never had the need or the desire. That being said, I found The Bucket Rider to be quite surprising. It was not at all the unreadable, academic style that I had anticipated. Rather, I found the story to be quite enjoyable. One thing that struck me was the overall sense of distance that pervaded the peice, even though it's written in the first person. The reader is aware of the suffering of the narrator, but the surreal qualities of the action, setting, and dialogue leave the reader feeling somewhat detached. I was also struck by the coaldealer's wife. Why was she so opposed to giving the narrator a small amount of coal? The coaldealer himself did not seem at all bothered by the prospect.
A Response to "The Bucket Rider"
This story reminded me of the Baba Yaga, the Russian mythological witch that rides in a flying goblet. I found it interesting how Kafka has such precision in describing the poor man, who, even in his destitution, has time to plot and scheme as to how he will propagandize the coal-dealer into feeling sorry for him. That detail made the story very real for me, when I realized that a starving man is a desperate man, and desperate people try everything they can think of to get what they need; nothing is beyond their conscience. The poor man hopes to inspire pity in the coal-dealer, but at the same time is trading their mutual trust and respect for his pittance; these two things seemed irreconcilable to me upon first reading.
The bucket itself takes on a magical quality, sacred as it is, being the vessel for the poor man's salvation. The bucket carries him as a horse, "at a regular canter," but occasionally makes him "high as the first storey of a house" as if it were a flying carpet. Especially the coal-dealer and Frau Coal-dealer make this story feel as if it were a folk-tale. The poor man vanishes at the end of the story, "into the ice mountains" as if he were banished by their very forgetting.
The bucket itself takes on a magical quality, sacred as it is, being the vessel for the poor man's salvation. The bucket carries him as a horse, "at a regular canter," but occasionally makes him "high as the first storey of a house" as if it were a flying carpet. Especially the coal-dealer and Frau Coal-dealer make this story feel as if it were a folk-tale. The poor man vanishes at the end of the story, "into the ice mountains" as if he were banished by their very forgetting.
Inspiration Response to "The Colonel"
The first line of this prose poetry piece, "What you have heard is true. I was in his house" sets the tone for the rest of the poem. This first sentence gives the reader the impression that the Colonel is an infamous man, someone that people wouldn't believe that the author was dining with. The various themes explored in this first-person narrative are haunting - violence, wealth, power - and leave a lasting impression on the reader. I was struck by the straightforward writing, which is powerful in its simplistic telling. There is a certain cadence to it, even in the portions that are purely descriptive telling, and some of the images are rendered beautifully, such as "the moon swung bare on its black cord over the house." The way that the author creates the setting is vivid and clearly portray a foreigner taking in a new place, although almost in a detached tone at points. I felt an urgency in the telling, and read an interview with the author to see if this poem was an actual firsthand account, which it is. I was incredulous about the human ears, yet at the same time I entirely believed that it had happened because of their description as looking like dried peach halves. It was a horrifying image. The piece felt as though the author was writing down descriptions for the sake of remembering the incident, as opposed to crafting it in a way that would be considered poetic, and this came through as an honest and effective way to tell a story through poetry. I often get too caught up in the way that language sounds, and this reminded me that telling things in a straightforward manner can be very powerful.
Creative response to The Bucket Rider
Last breath. The union of tremors are marching in the streets of my soul, quaking my sweating landscape and reverberating my sense experience with more outward force than phenomena knows how to deal with. I need to tell you I love you. Fuck, I need more breaths and the band wasn't that good anyway. I have to tell you something of importance, shit, I need to convey what's happening to me so you can prepare for it when it comes your way. I'm hot and cold, kind of like Socrates before the hemlock; both pleasure and pain. It's not that bright. I think I feel lights shining and people, I can only feel, I mean I can sense everything but not like usual. I can smell the street, it smells like orange rinds, dirt, and paper bags, it's real strong. Shit, I just took the breath, but I'm not wearing the halo yet, maybe there's one more left.
I'm not sure how to explain this but I'm still not dead but I'm not very far away either. I think it's in between last breath and complete end. I need this time to tell you how much I love you. I need to speak. Why is electricity what I feel? Why do we need electricity to bring our hearts back. I should have studied more physiology. I don't care if I live, please let me tell her I love her.
I'm standing right beside you. I yelling "I love you" in your ear but all you are doing is staring at the fireman. Love, what about it? The last thing I wanted to feel was your breath and all I got was the concrete. Maybe you shouldn't love, suppose that the less love you have while you're taking you're last breath, the easier it is.
I smell your perfume, it's wrapped around me, with in me, I'm riding it away from you. I want to panic but I'm not sure how. No more sweat. Could you hear me? It's not bad, it's something in between all that. There are no more sides to choose, not even you. I can't say it anymore. Thoughts are disappearing and so are...
Ana Looses Him
“If there are as many minds as there are heads, then there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts.”
This quote really stuck out for me. Even though it’s a quote of a quote I loved it.
It seems to make sense to me that just as every person can have a different opinion about life and the world. They can also possess their own interpretation of love. I think often people tend forget that there are so many different variations of love and that each individual has an alternate view. I think Ana in the Tropics is a tragic affair in a way. No one is satisfied in their current relationships. It is as though each persons concept of love started in the same place, but grew into something different. It seems like this is extremely common is life. People come together because of mutual thoughts and feelings. These eventually develop into something different, and the two drift slowly apart. Though it is sad, this is called divorce. I’m curious how you stay on the same page as your partner. How do you keep on living, and properly develop into the same ideology about life. I guess that’s the difference between a failed marriage and a successful one.
Response to "The Colonel"
I enjoyed the way Forché sets up the scene of this story; the daughter filing her nails, the son gone out for the night, the pistol, and above it all-- the swinging moon on its black cord. The household, having this lazily wealthy feel about it, is suddenly contrasted by the broken bottles and grating that secure the walls and windows of the home.
The sentence structure is broken, but flows at the same time, does that make any sense? I get the sense while reading, that these are the narrators inner thoughts and they seem to walk from one to the next beautifully.
Forché paints the reader a picture of the colonel as a stern and intimidating figure when the narrator describes him telling the parrot to shut up. Her friend, giving her that "keep your mouth shut" look does much to help us understand the colonel's austere personality.
I would argue that the ears being compared to dried peach halves is the most powerful image in the story. It is here that I realized that this colonel doesn't give a fuck.
Finally, the ears-- some still catching the scraps of the colonel's voice while others lay facing the ground-- give this poem an errie resolve. We have these dried up body parts lying together on the ground, belittled by this merciless colonel raising his wine glass above them-- a powerful image that makes for a nice ending to the story.
The sentence structure is broken, but flows at the same time, does that make any sense? I get the sense while reading, that these are the narrators inner thoughts and they seem to walk from one to the next beautifully.
Forché paints the reader a picture of the colonel as a stern and intimidating figure when the narrator describes him telling the parrot to shut up. Her friend, giving her that "keep your mouth shut" look does much to help us understand the colonel's austere personality.
I would argue that the ears being compared to dried peach halves is the most powerful image in the story. It is here that I realized that this colonel doesn't give a fuck.
Finally, the ears-- some still catching the scraps of the colonel's voice while others lay facing the ground-- give this poem an errie resolve. We have these dried up body parts lying together on the ground, belittled by this merciless colonel raising his wine glass above them-- a powerful image that makes for a nice ending to the story.
The Colonel
I think the most striking part of this story is it's cadence. It's chopped up, given in almost a "military" jargon. It's always nice to see the theme of the story matching the way it is written. This story sounds like its being narrated by a Colonel, giving direction or dictating an event the way one would write a report if he or she were a cop. All facts.
The imagery is wonderful too. Its going on and on, and all of a sudden there's a gun on the chair, a bag of ears and a parrot. These are the elements that really do wonders for a creative story. It's too bad this wasn't any longer, i was expecting some kind of Lovecraft ending, but that's probably because it reminds me of Lovecraft.
The little bits of color are the meat of the story, and I have a feeling that's what Carolin was doing when she through in a body part- ears. It's just so apropos.
It would've been really funny if the parrot or the pet dogs snatched the ears and ate them.
The imagery is wonderful too. Its going on and on, and all of a sudden there's a gun on the chair, a bag of ears and a parrot. These are the elements that really do wonders for a creative story. It's too bad this wasn't any longer, i was expecting some kind of Lovecraft ending, but that's probably because it reminds me of Lovecraft.
The little bits of color are the meat of the story, and I have a feeling that's what Carolin was doing when she through in a body part- ears. It's just so apropos.
It would've been really funny if the parrot or the pet dogs snatched the ears and ate them.
The Colonel
The Colonel has been haunting me since I read it earlier this week. What has captured my mind most are the first and final lines. Carolyn Forche captured me with the honest simplicity of the first two lines: "What you have heard is true. I was in his house." She then goes into an abundance of short but sweet sentences describing the Colonel's household. Her statements are clear cut and easy to understand, but they convey so much imagery. She is really only describing everything going on in the house in the most simple manner, but every statement plays out a moving picture in front of my eyes. The broken bottles embedded in the walls, the sack of human ears like dried peaches laying on the wooden table. The expansion of the ear coming back to life in a jar of water, like a grow-your-own pet. When the Colonel becomes stern with the narrator and friend, accompanying his harsh words and actions with "Something for your poetry, no?" Everything becomes so much more vivid, and I believed every word as truth. Forche turns her story into a recollection, almost like a testament spoken and recorded on paper. Finally, the impact of the final two sentences which have stuck in my head all week. The Colonel swipes the ears from the table onto the floor, and "Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground." This is one of the more intense images I've felt and seen in the reader this semester. It creates a feeling of speechlessness among the three people who sit at the Colonel's table, forced by the intensity of his words and the fear of the two foreigners. Silence seems so much more profound after the bang of a shotgun, and the earth feels so much more still after a rattling storm.
things i'm going to steal: the colonel
These are the things I liked and plan on somehow stealing for my own writing. I'll also explain why I liked them and why I found them effective.
1. "Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs...": I think this works so well because it is dealing exactly with shape and size. The shape of a broken bottle and the shape and size of a knee cap fit together perfectly. Usually when I see the kind of wall that he is talking about I only imagine what it will do to the hands. The knee cap is much more effective (because of the size/shape relation) and I know that this image will stay with me for a long time. Scoop is also a word that produces a curved kneecap shape. I haven't actively thought about fitting the size and shape of objects together in my work, so I am going to steal this trick: Find two things that physically fit each other perfectly but don't actually go together and make them connect in a sentence.
2. "There is no other way to say this" This sentence stood out. It was a clear and defined statement and it was unlike all of it's fellow sentences to this point. It speaks directly to the reader and conveys a deep sense of shock and almost fear. Sometimes it can be easy to read through something that talks about ears like dried fruit or spilling them out on the table or whatever. Using this direct statement re-enforced the image in my mind. It was like the writer himself couldn't believe what he just wrote and makes the situation feel real, factual. I do think the only reason this works is because it was only used ONCE, and not throughout the entire piece. I'm also going to steal this: to break away once from the description and write a simple, direct sentence that does not involve any of the characters, plot, or description.
Bucket Rider Nightmare
I was walking through The Pines, my friend Daniel’s apartment complex in Santa Monica and I started to feel this incredible fear in my spine. I knew something terrible was going to happen. I knew when I arrived at Daniel’s doorstep He’d be there. But I continued on, between the rows of townhouses, past their wooden fence patios. I turned left into the very last apartment and He was there, waiting for me. It was Anton Chigur, with his long hair and his oxygen tank cattle prod and sawed off shotgun. He was just standing there, not looking angry or menacing or smiling even, just standing like he’d been waiting for not that long. I turned and ran back, back towards the entrance where I’d buzzed myself in. My feet pushed desperately into the concrete yet I barely moved, like pedaling on a bike whose chain had come off. I turned to look behind but he wasn’t following me. I got to the front gate and he was there again, only two steps below with his back towards me. I ran down another set of stairs into the subterranean parking lot but I knew there really wasn’t any point because no matter where I went, no matter what I did, that when I got there, He was going to be there.
The Colonel
I can vaguely recall having read this prose poem/prose piece out of "The Discovery of Poetry" last semester when I took CW301. Besides the fact that I'm personally a big fan of morbid entertainment/media, I found Carolyn Forche's matter of fact way of dealing with the subject matter of her poem very refreshing. When she writes, "There is no other way to say this" I was struck by how calm she/the narrator seemed to be. I had to beg the question of whether or not what she was writing about had actually occurred in reality because she eludes to a semi-biographical tone when she says, "Something for your poetry, no?" I have no doubt that it could have happened, but whether or not it did happen would add considerable weight to the poem. I am thoroughly impressed with how Forche deals with such a horrible experience in such a calm and collected tone. I wonder if her tone seemed more distraught whether or not the poem would have the same effect on me, which was one of horror, disgust, and quiet. I think the tone of the poem is born out of the line, "My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing." I believe this because the whole poem, although it is an afterthought, it is also a muted, muffled trauma. It is easy to see a young Carolyn Forche sitting at a large dinner table with a lot of guests, grinning through pain and discomfort, stirring in her chair and thinking to herself "my god, if there was only an easy way out of here" and The Colonel at the head of the table displaying his collection of human fetishes to the entire table.
Lightness
I found it really interesting that no one wrote about "Lightness." maybe because I did not read Greek mythology, but his comparison of Greek Mythology to lightness was really insightful. I did after about four pages find it kind of boring and repetitive but before that it was really quite thought provoking. His ideas of lightness has a direct application into everyday life; too many times we get caught up in the routine of our lives and the weight of our desires that we can forget the simplicity of life. The joy of being able to change whatever it is that we feel needs changing. Also, i think that too often we try to impose our ideas onto the people in our lives instead of just letting them live which, in some crazy selfish way pisses us off! Any way, i thought the piece was completely true to life and relevant.
Anna in the Tropics Epiphany
It finally clicked! I am starting to understand what the admonition "show, don't tell" really means. After reading Anna in the Tropics, I noticed how the dialogue was doing all the work. In the beginning of the play, Santiago describes what is going on at the cockfight. He says to Cheche, "I am writing a hundred". He is telling the audience that he is writing on the sole of cheche's shoe without really saying it. If this were a narractive the author could still use this dialoge to show the story.
In a narrative I struggle with phrases like, So-in-so's eyes felt sandy. Anna in the tropics unlocked a door that was closed. I know it sounds ridiculous and you are all thinking, duh, Sarah, but now I get it. Now I can have so-in-so tell another character, My eyes feel sandy. I am wicked tired and not have the reader fall asleep.
-Sarah
In a narrative I struggle with phrases like, So-in-so's eyes felt sandy. Anna in the tropics unlocked a door that was closed. I know it sounds ridiculous and you are all thinking, duh, Sarah, but now I get it. Now I can have so-in-so tell another character, My eyes feel sandy. I am wicked tired and not have the reader fall asleep.
-Sarah
The Colonel
The imagery evoked in this poem is just fantastic. Forche really brings you into the scene, describing anything and everything. "There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him." There is a cop show on TV, it's as if you are viewing these images through the eyes of someone walking the world Forche has created. And a pistol on the cushion? You start to wonder what type of man this is.
"The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house." This is one of my favorite lines in the poem. It starts to set the dark tone for the rest of the piece. The two contrasting images, the bright moon and it's black cord. She is seemingly showing us a "normal" family, and then turning that ideal upside down.
Bottles embedded into the wall to scoop kneecaps. You can visualize the necessary shape for a broken bottle to scoop someones kneecaps. Haunting.
And then to end the poem with a grocery bag full of ears, spilling all over the place, looking like dried peaches. Just really sinister.
"The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house." This is one of my favorite lines in the poem. It starts to set the dark tone for the rest of the piece. The two contrasting images, the bright moon and it's black cord. She is seemingly showing us a "normal" family, and then turning that ideal upside down.
Bottles embedded into the wall to scoop kneecaps. You can visualize the necessary shape for a broken bottle to scoop someones kneecaps. Haunting.
And then to end the poem with a grocery bag full of ears, spilling all over the place, looking like dried peaches. Just really sinister.
Respone to "The Bucket Rider"
Spending my last ten dollars on a movie was probably not the best idea, but it felt good. I'd been holding onto that last ten-dollar bill for weeks now, my last harness holding me from the abyss. I promised myself I wouldn't spend it until I had gotten a job, or somehow gotten my hands on some money.
It was a bad movie, but I enjoyed it. I didn't think about the empty refrigerator, that my rent was passed due, or that I owed money far and wide. I didn't think about all the time I had to get an after school job, or that I never even applied. I didn't think of all the money I wasted with my friends. I didn't think about what'd feel like to beg my penniless, acrimonious parents for money, or what my roommates would say when it became obvious I was the one eating all their food. I just enjoyed sitting in the dark by myself.
-Jonathan Nelson
A Bucket Rider Inspired
A Blocked Writer
My ideas all spent; my mind empty; my pen useless in my cramped hand; the word count mocking me, pitiless. My head is vacant, but not empty. On some level I realize my poor cranial cavity is hot boxed with pot and that its the lingering, sweet smelling smoke that crowds out thoughts. In the midst of its mist, I can't hope to find words, and connections are plain impossible. I used to enjoy being lifted by the hot smoke in my head, lighter than air. I'd ride it high into the clouds and bask in every passing breeze. But I've become a slave to those passive winds and I've grown weary of wandering through clouds. I can't find ground beneath my feet.
With my head in the clouds so long, it's started to gather the detritus of dreams. Dreams my heart once passionately embraced like the two were junior high lovers, naively certain they'd stay together forever. All the useless skills I've half-learned to pursue my futile fancies remain as reminders of my failures. How to make a straight rip-cut across plywood, to wire a joystick to a mother board, read the notes off a bass staff or put some curve on a cross in soccer.
Tapping my pen against the paper, trying to will it to scribble down some meaningful shapes, I avoid the conclusion that my abilities to scan a line of poetry for its rhythm, to craft compelling rising action and to describe a character's internal state without outright stating it will soon be filed away with the rest of my pointless knowledge.
I can't reign in my vacant brain. It drags me higher still. I ascend into the regions above the clouds, icy and white, in no way unlike death.
My ideas all spent; my mind empty; my pen useless in my cramped hand; the word count mocking me, pitiless. My head is vacant, but not empty. On some level I realize my poor cranial cavity is hot boxed with pot and that its the lingering, sweet smelling smoke that crowds out thoughts. In the midst of its mist, I can't hope to find words, and connections are plain impossible. I used to enjoy being lifted by the hot smoke in my head, lighter than air. I'd ride it high into the clouds and bask in every passing breeze. But I've become a slave to those passive winds and I've grown weary of wandering through clouds. I can't find ground beneath my feet.
With my head in the clouds so long, it's started to gather the detritus of dreams. Dreams my heart once passionately embraced like the two were junior high lovers, naively certain they'd stay together forever. All the useless skills I've half-learned to pursue my futile fancies remain as reminders of my failures. How to make a straight rip-cut across plywood, to wire a joystick to a mother board, read the notes off a bass staff or put some curve on a cross in soccer.
Tapping my pen against the paper, trying to will it to scribble down some meaningful shapes, I avoid the conclusion that my abilities to scan a line of poetry for its rhythm, to craft compelling rising action and to describe a character's internal state without outright stating it will soon be filed away with the rest of my pointless knowledge.
I can't reign in my vacant brain. It drags me higher still. I ascend into the regions above the clouds, icy and white, in no way unlike death.
Response to Anna in the Tropics-Nilo Cruz
I very much enjoyed reading Anna in the Tropics. It was a quick easy read, mainly because the story line was incredibly written. I found myself engaged in the play, as if I was an on looker on stage, but I knew everything that was going on. At the same time I felt like the characters issues affected me as well. The weird thing about this play is that I felt pity for all the characters at some point, like there was no true villain (or hero) in this play. I found myself liking them in one scene and in the other hating their actions, very versatile. This stood out in my mind because I think this is the first piece of writing that has ever made me feel this way. I also thought that the existence of the Anna Karenina story within the play worked well. Other times this technique doesn’t seem to work too well, but without it this story couldn’t exist. I enjoyed how the story of Anna Karenina came to life within Anna in the Tropics, and how it influenced everybody in the factory, including the reader. Over all an amazing story, I enjoyed it.
Anna In the Tropics
I wouldn't have changed anything in, "Anna in The Tropics," but reading it, along with "Lightness" by Italo Cavino gave me this idea.
Scene: In the factory, less than one week since Juan Julian was gunned down.
PALOMO: This silence is not good. It’s heavy, like death.
MARCELA: Ever since Juan Julian passed, he has been in my dreams! His eyes are dark and frightening.
Ofelia begins to collect some candles, the book Anna Karenina, a bottle of mostly gone rum, a potted plant, and a cigar. On the unused portion of a long metal table, she builds a small memorial for Juan Julian.
SANTIAGO: We’ll light the cigar, like grandma did back on the island--in
remembrance of him.
Ofelia lights the cigar, burying the other end of it into the dirt of the small potted plant.
PALOMO: Look at the smoke! It just sits in the air.
SANTIAGO: Juan Julian once said that Indians used smoke to communicate with the gods.
OFELIA: His spirit is still heavy in this room. His spirit is not free.
And so, Santiago and his family light one cigar each evening on the small memorial—the same time he used to read Anna Karenina---until the day comes when the smoke begins to rise in lightness.
Scene: In the factory, less than one week since Juan Julian was gunned down.
PALOMO: This silence is not good. It’s heavy, like death.
MARCELA: Ever since Juan Julian passed, he has been in my dreams! His eyes are dark and frightening.
Ofelia begins to collect some candles, the book Anna Karenina, a bottle of mostly gone rum, a potted plant, and a cigar. On the unused portion of a long metal table, she builds a small memorial for Juan Julian.
SANTIAGO: We’ll light the cigar, like grandma did back on the island--in
remembrance of him.
Ofelia lights the cigar, burying the other end of it into the dirt of the small potted plant.
PALOMO: Look at the smoke! It just sits in the air.
SANTIAGO: Juan Julian once said that Indians used smoke to communicate with the gods.
OFELIA: His spirit is still heavy in this room. His spirit is not free.
And so, Santiago and his family light one cigar each evening on the small memorial—the same time he used to read Anna Karenina---until the day comes when the smoke begins to rise in lightness.
The Colonel
For such a mundane daily task of eatting dinner C. Forche makes it so fasicnating. The images she draws are epic, "the moon swung bare on its black cord over the house". Did the colonel do his ear gathering at night? The description of "broken bottles" made me want to stand room center. "My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing", that look that we are all familiar with. The one our parents may have shot us many times growing up. The drawing of the ears took me to a movie on Vietnam though I can't remember its exact name. Then when one is dropped in the water and it came alive like the pills you drop in and an animal slowly grows. I would love to go over to the colonel's house for dinner. WOW!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Response to Anna In the Tropics
I really enjoyed reading Anna In the Tropics. I especially liked how literary all the characters were, and how literature was such an important part of their lives. Hiring someone to read to them while they work, they would latch onto the stories they heard, and related them to their real lives. While feeling the story of Anna Karenina come alive for each of them personally, the storyline mirrored their lives and almost became their own story in its own way. I think I enjoyed seeing so many characters realize how important reading and books are, especially compared to today's society were a lot of people don't enjoy reading (obviously not anyone in our class, but I know I have many friends who don't enjoy reading books for various reasons). I also liked a lot of their theories about literature, such as when Palomo says "Alcohol is prohibited in this country because alcohol is like literature. Literature brings out the best and the worst part of ourselves. If you're angry it brings out your anger. If you are sad, it brings out your sadness." Or what Conchita says in the last scene, about whether or not they should finish reading Anna Karenina or read something else, “Stories should be finished or they suffer the same fate as those who die before their time.”
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Response to "The Colonel" by Carolyn Forche
I had the opportunity to read this piece over summer for another course I was taking, and so upon re-reading it recently I was impressed that a few phrases and images had stayed with me for all this time- "Broken bottles...to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs" and "ears" will haunt me forever.
Getting past the brutality and violence of these descriptions, one can see the poetry in these word choices; as discussed in that previous class, no other words could do the image justice as well as the word "scoop" does in this instance. For example, "scoop" is a word which one can usually associate with a pleasant and even tasty thought sensation- a "scoop" of ice cream, for instance, or to "scoop" up candy. Even the word itself sounds pleasant; say it now, "Scoop." See? Very purdy. Therefore, it comes off as somehow strangely poetic and sick to combine such a pleasant word with such an awful image as "scraping up kneecaps." It just doesn't sound so appetizing anymore, and yet, it clearly gets the point across. The Colonel is a sick, sick man, who collects ears and scoops out kneecaps.
What is so startling about that line is that it is cleverly placed amidst a very mundane narration of dining at someone's home. And yet immediately, the reader gets a clear sense of the alienation the Colonel's home has with the rest of the outside world. What are the broken bottles on the wall and fence trying to keep out, or even more befuddling, what are these broken bottles trying to keep in?
The ears summon up a nasty image and I could not shake the nasty image of floating ears from my mind for a long time after reading this. And yet, once again, the author has cleverly used a poetic choice of words to conjure up the most accurate picture of beastliness that she could possibly think of, in as subtle a way as possible. She didn't say, "The dining table was littered with big splatters of blood and the colonel carries around a big knife all the time to scare the people around him." And she didn't need to. The ears convey it all.
I am inspired by this reading to be more subtle in my own writing; this is the best example of "Show, not tell" that I have found in a long time.
Getting past the brutality and violence of these descriptions, one can see the poetry in these word choices; as discussed in that previous class, no other words could do the image justice as well as the word "scoop" does in this instance. For example, "scoop" is a word which one can usually associate with a pleasant and even tasty thought sensation- a "scoop" of ice cream, for instance, or to "scoop" up candy. Even the word itself sounds pleasant; say it now, "Scoop." See? Very purdy. Therefore, it comes off as somehow strangely poetic and sick to combine such a pleasant word with such an awful image as "scraping up kneecaps." It just doesn't sound so appetizing anymore, and yet, it clearly gets the point across. The Colonel is a sick, sick man, who collects ears and scoops out kneecaps.
What is so startling about that line is that it is cleverly placed amidst a very mundane narration of dining at someone's home. And yet immediately, the reader gets a clear sense of the alienation the Colonel's home has with the rest of the outside world. What are the broken bottles on the wall and fence trying to keep out, or even more befuddling, what are these broken bottles trying to keep in?
The ears summon up a nasty image and I could not shake the nasty image of floating ears from my mind for a long time after reading this. And yet, once again, the author has cleverly used a poetic choice of words to conjure up the most accurate picture of beastliness that she could possibly think of, in as subtle a way as possible. She didn't say, "The dining table was littered with big splatters of blood and the colonel carries around a big knife all the time to scare the people around him." And she didn't need to. The ears convey it all.
I am inspired by this reading to be more subtle in my own writing; this is the best example of "Show, not tell" that I have found in a long time.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Bucket Rider Poem
Not just now, not just now,
My tears frozen to my cheeks.
I rise from my empty throne and bow
As it fills with frost and leaks
The remaining black powder of
My forgotten kingdom of coal.
Not just now, not just now,
I will not die this night.
The woman ignores me, that cow
I swear as I feel the cold's bite
I will die this night.
Not just now, not just now,
The coal dealer cannot hear,
On my empty bucket is how
I will die in cold fear.
Not just now...just now.
My tears frozen to my cheeks.
I rise from my empty throne and bow
As it fills with frost and leaks
The remaining black powder of
My forgotten kingdom of coal.
Not just now, not just now,
I will not die this night.
The woman ignores me, that cow
I swear as I feel the cold's bite
I will die this night.
Not just now, not just now,
The coal dealer cannot hear,
On my empty bucket is how
I will die in cold fear.
Not just now...just now.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
SYLLABUS UPDATE: WORKSHOPS AND SECOND PAPER
OCTOBER 8, 2009
Workshops
We will meet three times in small groups to provide feedback to each other. In order for this feedback to be thoughtful and meaningful, we will read the work before groups meet, and we will provide written responses to each piece submitted to our group.
Workshop Dates:
o Fiction – November 5
o Poetry – November 12
o Playwriting – November 19
Work Due for Workshop:
o Fiction – October 29
o Poetry – November 5
o Playwriting – November 12
Bring 6 copies of your work on the day work in that genre is due. For instance, on October 29, bring 6 copies of a work of fiction that you would like to workshop on November 5. If you don’t turn in a piece on those days, we will not be able to talk about your work. Likewise, if your fellow classmates have gone to the effort of reading and commenting on your work, be respectful of them by showing up to class the day of the workshop.
Second Paper
Originally a second paper was due on November 12, 2009. Instead, you will be required to write a one-page response (I will provide a guide) to each piece presented to your workshop group. This means you will be writing 4-5 responses each week that we workshop, depending on the size of your group. Written responses to the work of your fellow students in your workshop group will replace the second paper. Bring your responses on the day you will be talking about that work. You must bring 2 copies of each response – one for the writer, and one for me.
Responses to Work Due:
o Fiction Responses – November 5
o Poetry Responses – November 12
o Playwriting Responses – November 19
Workshops
We will meet three times in small groups to provide feedback to each other. In order for this feedback to be thoughtful and meaningful, we will read the work before groups meet, and we will provide written responses to each piece submitted to our group.
Workshop Dates:
o Fiction – November 5
o Poetry – November 12
o Playwriting – November 19
Work Due for Workshop:
o Fiction – October 29
o Poetry – November 5
o Playwriting – November 12
Bring 6 copies of your work on the day work in that genre is due. For instance, on October 29, bring 6 copies of a work of fiction that you would like to workshop on November 5. If you don’t turn in a piece on those days, we will not be able to talk about your work. Likewise, if your fellow classmates have gone to the effort of reading and commenting on your work, be respectful of them by showing up to class the day of the workshop.
Second Paper
Originally a second paper was due on November 12, 2009. Instead, you will be required to write a one-page response (I will provide a guide) to each piece presented to your workshop group. This means you will be writing 4-5 responses each week that we workshop, depending on the size of your group. Written responses to the work of your fellow students in your workshop group will replace the second paper. Bring your responses on the day you will be talking about that work. You must bring 2 copies of each response – one for the writer, and one for me.
Responses to Work Due:
o Fiction Responses – November 5
o Poetry Responses – November 12
o Playwriting Responses – November 19
Week 7 Assignments
Writing Assignment
Choose One:
1) Imagine a moment where a character is speechless or at a loss for words. Write a scene of at least one page that expresses that moment.
2) Take the writing exercise from class and continue from there. What other experience, conclusion or idea does the story lead you to? Or maybe an experience or image leads to a memory. Make sure the relationship between the two isn’t too explicit. Take leaps! This could take the form or a story, poem, or one-act play.
3) Write a monologue that weaves together an artistic experience and larger historical or personal context, as Spalding Gray did in Swimming to Cambodia. You might respond to a painting or play you viewed, or something you wrote or performed in yourself. Try to explore the deeper and broader resonances of your experience.
Read for Next Week
Anna in the Tropics, Nilo Cruz
IN THE COURSE READER
Lightness, Italo Calvino from Six Memos for the Next Millennium
The Bucket Rider, Franz Kafka
The Colonel, Carolyn Forche
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. 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.
Choose One:
1) Imagine a moment where a character is speechless or at a loss for words. Write a scene of at least one page that expresses that moment.
2) Take the writing exercise from class and continue from there. What other experience, conclusion or idea does the story lead you to? Or maybe an experience or image leads to a memory. Make sure the relationship between the two isn’t too explicit. Take leaps! This could take the form or a story, poem, or one-act play.
3) Write a monologue that weaves together an artistic experience and larger historical or personal context, as Spalding Gray did in Swimming to Cambodia. You might respond to a painting or play you viewed, or something you wrote or performed in yourself. Try to explore the deeper and broader resonances of your experience.
Read for Next Week
Anna in the Tropics, Nilo Cruz
IN THE COURSE READER
Lightness, Italo Calvino from Six Memos for the Next Millennium
The Bucket Rider, Franz Kafka
The Colonel, Carolyn Forche
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. 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.
pet milk and our lady
I tried very new something this week, I read the stories extremely early on (like on friday day-day) and now I am going to pull five pieces or images that have stayed with me the most from each work.
As for Our Lady - 1. yodels, a smashed up yodel - leading me to remember about a mentally challenged little brother who got lost 2. the ham sandwiches and football game 3. the baby grasping for the wind 4. priest in a wheelchair coming to pray at a bar 5. finding half of Saint Rose (?) in the river.
As for Pet Milk - 1. the amber color of grandma's radio, 2. drinking champagne from oyster shells 3. the reflection of Kate's face in the framed poster 4. the waiter who said his name with the rolled "r" 5. the high school boy on the platform who waved as they went by on the train.
This week has been a wake-up call for me and my memory, and through certain events, I've been questioning the stability of, well, my mind. As much as I liked reading both of the pieces (almost a week ago) it has made me question how much I can actually retain from a story and how much I've actually retained from ANY of the books that I've read. In order for me to hold on to a piece in a story I have to do one of these things 1. read it a quadrillion times 2. take it with me outside of the book, outside of the story, and place it directly into a part of my life or a part of my day or 3. copy it, steal it, use it in something of mine.
I think this is an interesting way for us to look at our own writing - what parts of what we write will people remember (and let us be totally honest with ourselves). How can we write a story short enough as, say, Pet Milk, and still leave the reader with several distinct images?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Response to Lyn Hejinian
the night was freezing, much like the time we were stranded in a small town outside of sacramento. the eight hours we spent outside by the rusty, noisy, windy train tracks were elongated and felt like days instead of hours. “brrr stay warm” is what mike, a san diego native, who was clearly not used to the casual san francisco weather told us that windy december night. you and i simply laughed, and until this day say it to each other when we’re cold. cold like that icy water john threw into the crowd that hot august morning, it was already over 90 degrees and it wasn’t even noon. i’ve never been to disneyland, and im a california native. the first time i was remotely close to the land where dreams come true i had gone down for a concert (of an artist that has grown to hate me, maybe?) and you dragged me to a show i wasn’t really looking forward to, but i’m glad you did. because it was there we found our youth, our passion, are reason for living. though it took me almost a year to realize it. regardless, i guess you could say i found happiness in the happiest place on earth, and dreams do come true. and now we fantasize about having a large mansion on top of a hill fenced by the white picket fence, with a gator pond, while enjoying chips and guacamole from chipotle, or as we like to call it CHIP- OAT-LAY!
-bethsybobadilla
-bethsybobadilla
Why does everyone hate Our Lady???
I was surprised by the total lack of support for Our Lady of 121st Street. It seemed that everyone had their own set of problems with the play, and I actually started to feel bad for it. It's a tiny, little play- leave it alone! Sure, it uses some literary techniques that some people might find irritating or tedious, but, in the end, it works. Several people had a problem with the use of phonetic spelling. Someone even referenced Flannery O'Connel's distaste for the practice. Our Lady is a very short play, therefore the author has very little time to create full, complete characters. Actually hearing the characters' voices right off the bat is a very effective way to quickly bring them to life. Also, some people were unimpressed by Guirgis' use of stereotypes. Was I the only one that found those to be humorous? At the heart of the story, some very serious subjects are adressed. It only makes sense that some sort comic relief would be needed. I also considered the idea that 'times of grief bring everyone together' to be better illuminated through the use of stereotypes. It's not just a gathering of ghetto folks from the neighborhood, but also a gay couple, a drunken cop, and a conservative white woman from Connecticut, to name a few...
Pet Milk: A Poem
I think it’s important to note that Stuart Dybek’s Pet Milk isn’t necessarily a STORY-story in the strictest sense of the word. It’s not something you’d tell your friend in a loud bar or expect a caveman to understand. It feels to me much more like a poem or an essay in that it rambles, and moseys this way and that, following the flippant thoughts and emotions of the sentimental author. That isn’t to say that it isn’t legitimate in what it is or not entertaining.
On a literal structural note, it starts with the narrator looking at his pet milk in his coffee, which reminds him of his grandma and her pet milk and other memories of her. That reminds him of the cream liqueur drinks he’d get with an old girlfriend at a bar, which makes him think about his girlfriend and their relationship and it climaxes on one pleasant memory he had with her on a train.
These are very whimsical, loosely associated events but they do follow a logic: the author’s nostalgia. There is literally nothing happening in the present tense other than Stuart Dybek sitting, drinking coffee and thinking about his life. This isn’t arbitrary, however, because a theme of this piece is time and memory, the circularity of time – especially as he remembers the boy waving to him and, in effect, he is the boy standing “outside of time.”
This last observation of his, remembering the boy he saw wave to him and his girlfriend, is indicative of something I think a lot of writers do for a story’s climax, which is to dwell on one minute detail, one lost moment, some passing nuance that now, because of the journey we’ve taken to lead us here, has some incredibly profound significance.
On a literal structural note, it starts with the narrator looking at his pet milk in his coffee, which reminds him of his grandma and her pet milk and other memories of her. That reminds him of the cream liqueur drinks he’d get with an old girlfriend at a bar, which makes him think about his girlfriend and their relationship and it climaxes on one pleasant memory he had with her on a train.
These are very whimsical, loosely associated events but they do follow a logic: the author’s nostalgia. There is literally nothing happening in the present tense other than Stuart Dybek sitting, drinking coffee and thinking about his life. This isn’t arbitrary, however, because a theme of this piece is time and memory, the circularity of time – especially as he remembers the boy waving to him and, in effect, he is the boy standing “outside of time.”
This last observation of his, remembering the boy he saw wave to him and his girlfriend, is indicative of something I think a lot of writers do for a story’s climax, which is to dwell on one minute detail, one lost moment, some passing nuance that now, because of the journey we’ve taken to lead us here, has some incredibly profound significance.
Our Lady of 121st: SVU
Our Lady of 121st is a very captivating and creative take on a tragedy. It's filled with voilence, street diction, and catholocism. It reminds me of an episode of Law and order, but more realistic, and without the obvious and cleiche dialogue, and predictable storylines. Guirgus trul is one of the best playwrights i've ever read. The story mmoves along nicely, switching between different characters, giving the reader multiple perspectives, and gret detail; in plot and in dialogue. There is also bits of comedy thrown into the grim, darkness of the story, giving the reader some stress relief. It's kind of a, I'm laughing, because I need to laugh in the face of traged in despair, rather than it's just outright funny. I just wish Guirgus would rewrite all the Law and Order episodes, so I could actually tolerate them.
inspired by "a pause, something on paper"
I can’t get my head around my own mind most of the time. Americans are made out of the most synthetic ingredients, and only tribes in the jungle could recognize that through alien eyes. Humans grow bored too easily. You never see rabbits going through ritual genital mutilation. When did an elephant ever name the cost of the universe? If the universe is the ultimate cell, where is the nucleus? In our solar system, the sun is the nucleus. In our world, molten lava rests at the core. Or so we’ve been told. I learned that in 6th grade earth science. Maybe even earlier. Its all implanted someplace in history. His story becomes myth becomes truth becomes natural scientific fact. And relaxation isn’t the antidote cure anymore. Guitar riffs can’t save me, and Bono knows this too. Big Brother’s hand is on my being. The fruit of knowledge is in my hand, only its been blended into a smoothie from Jamba Juice and it tastes pretty good except that you have to deal with the Styrofoam cup when you’re done. And it feels like cotton balls between my teeth when I crunch down. But softness reminds me of laughing gas when I got my wisdom teeth removed, which was only a metaphor for the future.
The government stole my virginity a long time ago and they’ve been trying to replace it through the Patriot Act ever since. But even Roosevelt’s plan couldn’t pass for a savior. And even Jesus is a myth upon Mount Olympus. And even my body and soul is not greater than that of trees, which will take over when we destroy our consciousness.
I’m trying to find truth between the lines, but I’m really distracted by the silence of my phone not ringing with the sound of your call.
Will the sun and moon still rise once the earth is barren? How would Mercury persist without it? Nobody looks outside of the box anymore because everyone is too afraid to find the windows in their own houses. And too brainwashed to know what windows are in the first place.
The government stole my virginity a long time ago and they’ve been trying to replace it through the Patriot Act ever since. But even Roosevelt’s plan couldn’t pass for a savior. And even Jesus is a myth upon Mount Olympus. And even my body and soul is not greater than that of trees, which will take over when we destroy our consciousness.
I’m trying to find truth between the lines, but I’m really distracted by the silence of my phone not ringing with the sound of your call.
Will the sun and moon still rise once the earth is barren? How would Mercury persist without it? Nobody looks outside of the box anymore because everyone is too afraid to find the windows in their own houses. And too brainwashed to know what windows are in the first place.
Response to: love to be astonished
You spill the sugar when you lift the spoon.
You can’t have your cake and eat it too.
All the things you wish to do are the things we want you to,
But you cannot do the things you wish to do.
As is life,
As is you.
My life has been turned upside down.
My life hit running, out of control, my feet hit ground.
Why do you do the things you do.
Why do you make me fall for you,
Twisted world,
Life runs away.
Twisted mind,
Please love, wont you stay?
You yearn for me, I yearn for you.
Why do you make me do these things
I do for you?
I want you all,
I want you more.
Give me everything I adore..
I need it, want it,
Feed for it, flaunt it.
Response to "Pet Milk"
I find it incredibly interesting how Stuart Dybek constructs the narration of "Pet Milk." In this short story, Dybek begins with a reminiscent recollection of his grandmother, her kitchen, and her fake milk drinking habits. He then moves on to construct a vivid memory in which the first person narrator is back with an old girlfriend of his, directly after college. He takes us into this special nostalgic world in which the narrator is happily dating this girl, and their time as regulars in this Czechoslovakian restaurant, with a favorite waiter and usual post-meal drink favorite.
By the time this brief short story reaches even the middle, I feel quite cozily nestled in the corner of this restaurant, as though watching the happy nights unfold with Rudi serving up King Alphonses to this young couple. I understand the message the narrator is getting at- the fleetingness of this moment, the painful awareness of the fleetingness of it all. Life is brief; life is quick; and often, we can feel so clearly the moments slipping past us, even as we are still enjoying dinner at a restaurant together.
The grand finale to this reminiscent tale seems like a very climatic ending (no pun intended) to the passage, and a symbolic metaphor for the implied ending of the relationship. The hot and steamy train ride does not come off as sleazy and as exhibitionist as sex in a public train might, but instead almost touching and, dare I say it, romantic?
Overall, a heartfelt tale of a remembered moment in time, nestled with a nice anecdote of remembrance through the opening grandmother scene.
By the time this brief short story reaches even the middle, I feel quite cozily nestled in the corner of this restaurant, as though watching the happy nights unfold with Rudi serving up King Alphonses to this young couple. I understand the message the narrator is getting at- the fleetingness of this moment, the painful awareness of the fleetingness of it all. Life is brief; life is quick; and often, we can feel so clearly the moments slipping past us, even as we are still enjoying dinner at a restaurant together.
The grand finale to this reminiscent tale seems like a very climatic ending (no pun intended) to the passage, and a symbolic metaphor for the implied ending of the relationship. The hot and steamy train ride does not come off as sleazy and as exhibitionist as sex in a public train might, but instead almost touching and, dare I say it, romantic?
Overall, a heartfelt tale of a remembered moment in time, nestled with a nice anecdote of remembrance through the opening grandmother scene.
Conversation with Our Lady of 121st St.
Our Lady of 121st St:
After going through your characters from the more ghetto sides of New York as well as your little Catholic community that you may or may not be commenting on, I'll admit, I was a little confused with where you were going with your story. I see people who have all been cared for by Sister Rose and why they would be upset over the fact that her body was stolen as well as everything else at her wake, but what was up with some of the arguments going on in there, such as the big fight between Norca and Inez during the first act? It confused me as well as the fact that many of the characters in the story have a weird way of going along a lot of stereotypes, and I think you know that I'm referring to the two gay characters in the play that portray the long lived tale of the gay couple where one of them is afraid to be open while the more openly gay one provokes the other. Is there something I'm supposed to be learning from these stereotypes or was that something you thought I wouldn't notice? Shame on you Our Lady.
-Adan Falcon
After going through your characters from the more ghetto sides of New York as well as your little Catholic community that you may or may not be commenting on, I'll admit, I was a little confused with where you were going with your story. I see people who have all been cared for by Sister Rose and why they would be upset over the fact that her body was stolen as well as everything else at her wake, but what was up with some of the arguments going on in there, such as the big fight between Norca and Inez during the first act? It confused me as well as the fact that many of the characters in the story have a weird way of going along a lot of stereotypes, and I think you know that I'm referring to the two gay characters in the play that portray the long lived tale of the gay couple where one of them is afraid to be open while the more openly gay one provokes the other. Is there something I'm supposed to be learning from these stereotypes or was that something you thought I wouldn't notice? Shame on you Our Lady.
-Adan Falcon
Inspired by "A pause, a rose, something on paper"
Time crawls slowly when you are in a rush to get out of work or away from dumb questions. A shiny black cockroach crawls too and rushes under the refrigerator when the light is turned on. Insects can make a grown person scream and itch and stay awake. Insomnia affects the memory. I have an old memory of standing in the kitchen, watching dust particles dance in beams of sunlight. It was oddly beautiful. A black pearl shines in the light of the day and is beautiful in its uniqueness. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And all clichés have a ring of truth. Diamonds are not this girl’s best friend, though. They are as unappealing as the twitching form of a crushed roach left on the sidewalk. Water is clear, transparent, unless it is flowing down the street drains carrying dead insects and dirt or swelling in rivers. Blood runs thick and red. Roses are fragrant. My grandmother wore the subtle fragrance of roses for all the years I knew her. Time expired on her life and the years I thought we still had together jetted away from me, like a roach escaping a stomping boot.
- K. De Melo.
- K. De Melo.
Fun Puke-- A Response to Lyn Hejinian
The funny thing about reading Hejinian is that literally any sentence in her "stories" could be the ending-- and it would hold, for me, the same meaning for the piece as a whole. However, the way the author crafts these extended, moving paragraphs is still kind of fun to read. It's nice not to have to think so hard about what I'm reading, but instead to just let the sentences carry me spontaneously from one idea to the next, which is how this style of writing seems to work; one sentence, sparking the authors intent for the next sentence, and again the next, repeatedly-- over and over again into one long running paragraph.
Here's a little something I wrote with this approach in mind-- the absence of forethought or revision, it's kind of like word puke.
enjoy?...
Like my contact lenses, the windows are clear. People come from everywhere to see the translucent jellyfish, or more truthfully, to not see them. The ocean tends to drag such things around, whirlpools spiraling out of control in the North Pacific. Trash heaps that sit outside my door will end up in the ground, or maybe in space, someday. While some astronaut is lost, floating in matter, some mother is tired and churning at batter. I went sleepless on the night before last, just to watch the sunset. Like pale children who burn and pick at their skin, we went to the beach in the winter. Like the sand that dances by the hand of the wind, I found myself taken by time and led to my death. His wife sleeps in all black, and this every night, because he smokes cigarettes. Where plantations once were now sits a supermarket with choice meats and cheeses. When sandwiches made my mouth hurt all I ate was the zip lock. And plumbers went to houses just to fixe a clogged up toilet. And at the bottom of everything was a pair of contact lenses, moistly translucent, inside a plastic baggie.
Here's a little something I wrote with this approach in mind-- the absence of forethought or revision, it's kind of like word puke.
enjoy?...
Like my contact lenses, the windows are clear. People come from everywhere to see the translucent jellyfish, or more truthfully, to not see them. The ocean tends to drag such things around, whirlpools spiraling out of control in the North Pacific. Trash heaps that sit outside my door will end up in the ground, or maybe in space, someday. While some astronaut is lost, floating in matter, some mother is tired and churning at batter. I went sleepless on the night before last, just to watch the sunset. Like pale children who burn and pick at their skin, we went to the beach in the winter. Like the sand that dances by the hand of the wind, I found myself taken by time and led to my death. His wife sleeps in all black, and this every night, because he smokes cigarettes. Where plantations once were now sits a supermarket with choice meats and cheeses. When sandwiches made my mouth hurt all I ate was the zip lock. And plumbers went to houses just to fixe a clogged up toilet. And at the bottom of everything was a pair of contact lenses, moistly translucent, inside a plastic baggie.
Respone to "Pet Milk"
Tim said that it was a part of the experience of being new to the city. Going to see a movie late a night, not realizing the buses stop running at midnight. We weren't freshmen, but it was our first year here. Well Laura was. All of our friends are freshmen for some reason. Tim said he walked all the way back to campus, but the three of us got a cab and split the fare. At first we tried to hitch-hike, drunkenly screaming obscenities at the cars that would not stop for us. We brought a bottle of cheap wine and some jager into the theater and left the empty bottles behind us. It was foggy at two o'clock in the morning and I was wearing my favorite sweatshirt. I just wanted to walk home to make the night last as long as possible. The taxi ride was quiet. The presence of the taxi driver made us feel a little less boisterous.
-Jonathan Nelson
In Response to Our Lady...
The opening line, "What kinda fuckin world is this?" is a set up to the driving theme of the play: inner city madness. The voices seem to be caricatures of people in a world of insanity; quick, sly, impulsive tones spring back and forth in Harlem colloquialism. At first I felt the caricatures to be inauthentic, somewhat demeaning, and stereotypical. But as the play unfolded, I started to sense the symmetry, the necessity in design of the voices, and the playfulness of truth. I've spent time on the streets, in jails, and with the jesters of the mad hustle. While always bordering on fantastic, the play reads off in a heavy exchange of anxiety, from the detective to the radio personality, from the homosexual actor to the caretaker of the mentally disabled brother, all in precipitous predicaments that fit the context and rhythm. It's a concentrated effort of stereotypes and truths working in and around a singular context; the dead nun. Everyone has their issues and some deep seeded relation to their current predicament (except maybe Sonia who appears to be the straight woman). The syntax fits the chaos and the humor fits well with the juxtaposition of the absurd theft of Sister Rose's carcass. The play succeeds at its best with the misguiding surface level slang overlying the issue of chaos in a deteriorating world and fails slightly with his attempt at finishing off the reader with a last dash of sentimentality which could have been exposed through out (though he does offer some resolve) in some form of resolution (good or bad) between these characters and their pasts. Overall, the play succeeds in tricking the reader into believing the fantasy that is in many ways all too true.
Pet Milk = Ham Sandwiches
At the start of the story, I thought I was going to read a piece about Stuart Dybek's grandmother and was disappointed when the story took the turn toward a romantic involvement with Kate. The memories of his grandmother stirred my own memories. My grandmother would listen to her radio too. I remember she listened to a cheesy easy listening station that played Celion Dion 24/7, but occasionally snuck in Madonna’s Like A Virgin. She would make me the simplest most delicious boiled ham and mayo sandwich on soft sourdough bread that was served on recycled Styrofoam plates. When Dybek talked about his grandmother I envisioned myself in my grandmother’s kitchen. The countertop an olive green linoleum and the radio. I was inspired by Dybek’s perfect imagery and attention to detail. His ability to transport me to his memory while making it my own is a skill I work toward.
-Sarah
"Pet Milk" by Stuart Dybeck
The vivid train scene in "Pet Milk" inspired my poem below. Too bad our train rides aren't as scenic. I wrote it in 7 stanzas containing 3 lines each---just in case it doesn't come out that way-- when I press the "publish post" button!)
Twin light beams approach from the unlit tunnels,
One horn blows long followed by four short ones.
The digital board tells us this is the eight-car train to SFO.
I listen to thirty-ton metallic gray boxes traveling atop rusty
Oiled tracks traveling at fifty miles per hour, then slow, then halt.
My girlfriend’s image is reflected on the windows of the automatic double-doors.
By now, I know what to look for, and she’s still beautiful to me.
Funny, how I have missed her though we have seen each other
Every day for the past year, after work---me in a suit, she in a skirt.
Just before this, we walked along Pier 39, along the water,
Clouds bright pink, against a dusty purple and gray sky.
Kate wanted oysters, but I refused, too sad to see her go, tonight.
My dreams of joining the Peace Corps, found me enlisted in the army;
My personal contribution to world peace, though I did not
Tell Kate---not wanting to worry her while away at Graduate school.
We reach the town of Colma, speeding by cemeteries.
I cannot help but think about my deceased grandma,
How she would drink instant coffee, with Pet Milk.
We make love anyway, on seaquist-colored chairs with matching carpets,
Not caring about the people on the other end of our three-ton metallic car,
The steady rocking of metal on rusted oiled tracks is invigorating.
Twin light beams approach from the unlit tunnels,
One horn blows long followed by four short ones.
The digital board tells us this is the eight-car train to SFO.
I listen to thirty-ton metallic gray boxes traveling atop rusty
Oiled tracks traveling at fifty miles per hour, then slow, then halt.
My girlfriend’s image is reflected on the windows of the automatic double-doors.
By now, I know what to look for, and she’s still beautiful to me.
Funny, how I have missed her though we have seen each other
Every day for the past year, after work---me in a suit, she in a skirt.
Just before this, we walked along Pier 39, along the water,
Clouds bright pink, against a dusty purple and gray sky.
Kate wanted oysters, but I refused, too sad to see her go, tonight.
My dreams of joining the Peace Corps, found me enlisted in the army;
My personal contribution to world peace, though I did not
Tell Kate---not wanting to worry her while away at Graduate school.
We reach the town of Colma, speeding by cemeteries.
I cannot help but think about my deceased grandma,
How she would drink instant coffee, with Pet Milk.
We make love anyway, on seaquist-colored chairs with matching carpets,
Not caring about the people on the other end of our three-ton metallic car,
The steady rocking of metal on rusted oiled tracks is invigorating.
“Our Lady of 121st Street” was very enjoyable to read. It got me thinking about dialogue and how it can be used to bring a character to life. We had a brief discussion in class last week about the use of accents. Typically I find the overuse of dropping letters (i.e. takin') tiresome, but in the case of “Our Lady” I actually enjoyed it. I think the reason for this is I had no other information about the characters and it enabled me to get a better idea of the people in the play. In the scene involving Inez, Norca, and Sonia in the bar you can make a distinction between the characters personalities and the differences between them. Without the use of prose how else can the writer create the scene she has in mind? I found the play to be quite hilarious at times and sad at others. I also liked how Guirgis balanced such a heavy subject with the use of comedy. It made it a much more enjoyable to read.
Too much time on his hands - pet milk
Reading the story pet milk, I noticed at first it was hard to read through and then as the girlfriend became involved, I was more interested. The author's use of time drags on, and I'm just not interested in all the quirky little descriptions he has for explaining the setting. The author writes a bare minimum on Kate, who is the most interesting part of the story. Even as he kisses her and writes on her, he throws in descriptions about his setting I as the reader do not care about. The author explores everything in this story, except what is meaningful: the dynamic of him and Kate. When he does explore it I am ensnared by the reading, and am interested in finishing. The title, "pet milk" and his describing of his coffee is the typical "let me show you how clever and deep a writer I am, as I talk about nothing." But Kate saves the story, something I wonder why it wasn't explored earlier.
I think they're supposed to be from the ghetto...
Reading Our Lady of 121st, I got to thinking about the widely disdained Francine Prose, and one of the things she mentioned about taking care when writing dialogue. In pointing out some good craft element we could learn from Flannery O' Connor, she talked about the dropped g's and other such devices as being hacky, lazy, overly easy, and amateurish. I agreed with her very much and I think that's one of the problems I had with Guirgis.
He goes way over the top with it when some restraint, or a bit more consideration would have been appropriate. For instance: does using 'to' instead of 'ta' really indicate too little about your character? Especially since this was written for the stage, for actors. The point of a good script is for the actor to be able to develop a characer, create nuance, bring it to life. Basically, the text should provide the actor with the raw materials to work with. In that sense, this script is kind of a failure.
Example:
Act 1, scene 2
ROOFTOP. I'm sayin', if the man's dead, juss say he dead.
...really?
I had trouble reading the thing because it became very tedious.
He goes way over the top with it when some restraint, or a bit more consideration would have been appropriate. For instance: does using 'to' instead of 'ta' really indicate too little about your character? Especially since this was written for the stage, for actors. The point of a good script is for the actor to be able to develop a characer, create nuance, bring it to life. Basically, the text should provide the actor with the raw materials to work with. In that sense, this script is kind of a failure.
Example:
Act 1, scene 2
ROOFTOP. I'm sayin', if the man's dead, juss say he dead.
...really?
I had trouble reading the thing because it became very tedious.
Sequins: Immitation of "Pet Milk"
Sequins
I shimmy out of the dress and let the heavy fabric slide over my hips and form a puddle at my feet. I lift the dress by the delicate straps that are supposed to support the entire dress as it hangs from my body and place each of them carefully onto a hanger; I place the hanger in my closet and shut the door gently. I lean back against the door and breathe a heavy sigh. I don’t know what I was thinking, buying a sequined dress.
My sister and I used to make fun of sequins, back when we were in grade school. We thought that they were wretched looking and concluded that only old people must wear them. After all, every Christmas our grandmother would arrive in a shiny dress loaded down in the tiny, colorful discs. She would announce her entrance by sashaying her hips, producing a sound similar to that of a wave breaking on the sand. All the adults in the room would laugh as if that was the first time Grandma had done this, and Ellie and I would roll our eyes and giggle to ourselves about how funny Grandma’s shoulder pads looked.
Years later, sequins became stylish. It took Ellie and me awhile to jump onboard with this latest fashion. We couldn’t get over the fact that Grandma had been ahead of us on a style trend. But eventually we caved and went out and bought ourselves each a slinky, shimmery dress. It was New Year’s Eve, and instead of waiting for night to fall to put them on and doll ourselves up, we ripped the price-tags off in the parking lot of Macy’s and put them on then and there. We sashayed our hips just as we had seen our grandma do every year at Christmas, and when we heard that swishing sound, we collapsed into a fit of laughter. Shoppers passing by gave us reproaching looks, but we didn’t care. We felt pretty in our sequins and no one was going to take that from us. It was probably the exact way that Grandma felt every year at Christmas.
We went down to a little café on the beach in our sequined dresses and our flip-flops. The Robin’s Egg was a café we visited regularly, not for the food so much as for the entertainment it provided us. What first attracted us to the place was a sign in the window that read “World’s Best Chili Dog.” We wanted to see what made this chili dog the world’s best, so we had waltzed in there and ordered it before even taking a seat at one of the many vacant tables. The chili dog lived up to its name (although Ellie and I weren’t true connoisseurs of the chili dog), and we had been going back to that café ever since. The waiters there liked us, partially because, after eating there a couple of times, we would always prelude our order with “The World’s Best,” and partially because we were almost always the only customers in there. When we walked in with our sequined dresses that day the waiters had ooh-d and ahh-d and told us right off that whatever we ordered was on the house. We clapped in joy and looked over the menu, Ellie really contemplating her options while I already knew what I was going to get— “The World’s Best Chili Dog.” Before the waiter left after taking our orders she asked if we’d like to try their latte. “Is it the world’s best?” I asked. “You know it,” she said, and laughed as she wrote something down on her pad and walked back to the kitchen.
When the latte arrived at the table, Ellie and I were so excited to try a new “World’s Best.” We grabbed a straw each and took a sip at the same time. Both our eyes grew wide, and when the latte was gone, we slapped the table in hoorah. “That,” we had proclaimed at the same time, “is definitely the World’s Best Latte!” The waiters had smiled at our approval and, moments later, came out with two more, each decked out in 2008 paraphernalia.
It will be 2010 in twelve hours, and I’m supposed to be at a ball with my boyfriend, dressed up and ready to welcome in the New Year. I bought the sequined dress, remembering the joy it had brought Ellie and me two years earlier. I was hoping that by wearing the dress, a part of Ellie would be with me through the changing of the year and on. I hadn’t anticipated, however, that every time I moved in the dress, I would hear the faint rustle of the discs as they slid against each other, sounding to me like tears of sorrow, or that the weight of it would remind me of what was missing from my life. I hadn’t counted on the fact that in order to get the dress, I would have to visit the same store that Ellie and I had gone to that New Year’s Eve, and that by going there, I would be reminded of all we did after that. By wearing the dress, I would be reminded of “The World’s Best Chili Dog,” and “The World’s Best Latte.” Most of all, however, I would be reminded that the one person who I would have shared these moments with is no longer here.
I shimmy out of the dress and let the heavy fabric slide over my hips and form a puddle at my feet. I lift the dress by the delicate straps that are supposed to support the entire dress as it hangs from my body and place each of them carefully onto a hanger; I place the hanger in my closet and shut the door gently. I lean back against the door and breathe a heavy sigh. I don’t know what I was thinking, buying a sequined dress.
My sister and I used to make fun of sequins, back when we were in grade school. We thought that they were wretched looking and concluded that only old people must wear them. After all, every Christmas our grandmother would arrive in a shiny dress loaded down in the tiny, colorful discs. She would announce her entrance by sashaying her hips, producing a sound similar to that of a wave breaking on the sand. All the adults in the room would laugh as if that was the first time Grandma had done this, and Ellie and I would roll our eyes and giggle to ourselves about how funny Grandma’s shoulder pads looked.
Years later, sequins became stylish. It took Ellie and me awhile to jump onboard with this latest fashion. We couldn’t get over the fact that Grandma had been ahead of us on a style trend. But eventually we caved and went out and bought ourselves each a slinky, shimmery dress. It was New Year’s Eve, and instead of waiting for night to fall to put them on and doll ourselves up, we ripped the price-tags off in the parking lot of Macy’s and put them on then and there. We sashayed our hips just as we had seen our grandma do every year at Christmas, and when we heard that swishing sound, we collapsed into a fit of laughter. Shoppers passing by gave us reproaching looks, but we didn’t care. We felt pretty in our sequins and no one was going to take that from us. It was probably the exact way that Grandma felt every year at Christmas.
We went down to a little café on the beach in our sequined dresses and our flip-flops. The Robin’s Egg was a café we visited regularly, not for the food so much as for the entertainment it provided us. What first attracted us to the place was a sign in the window that read “World’s Best Chili Dog.” We wanted to see what made this chili dog the world’s best, so we had waltzed in there and ordered it before even taking a seat at one of the many vacant tables. The chili dog lived up to its name (although Ellie and I weren’t true connoisseurs of the chili dog), and we had been going back to that café ever since. The waiters there liked us, partially because, after eating there a couple of times, we would always prelude our order with “The World’s Best,” and partially because we were almost always the only customers in there. When we walked in with our sequined dresses that day the waiters had ooh-d and ahh-d and told us right off that whatever we ordered was on the house. We clapped in joy and looked over the menu, Ellie really contemplating her options while I already knew what I was going to get— “The World’s Best Chili Dog.” Before the waiter left after taking our orders she asked if we’d like to try their latte. “Is it the world’s best?” I asked. “You know it,” she said, and laughed as she wrote something down on her pad and walked back to the kitchen.
When the latte arrived at the table, Ellie and I were so excited to try a new “World’s Best.” We grabbed a straw each and took a sip at the same time. Both our eyes grew wide, and when the latte was gone, we slapped the table in hoorah. “That,” we had proclaimed at the same time, “is definitely the World’s Best Latte!” The waiters had smiled at our approval and, moments later, came out with two more, each decked out in 2008 paraphernalia.
It will be 2010 in twelve hours, and I’m supposed to be at a ball with my boyfriend, dressed up and ready to welcome in the New Year. I bought the sequined dress, remembering the joy it had brought Ellie and me two years earlier. I was hoping that by wearing the dress, a part of Ellie would be with me through the changing of the year and on. I hadn’t anticipated, however, that every time I moved in the dress, I would hear the faint rustle of the discs as they slid against each other, sounding to me like tears of sorrow, or that the weight of it would remind me of what was missing from my life. I hadn’t counted on the fact that in order to get the dress, I would have to visit the same store that Ellie and I had gone to that New Year’s Eve, and that by going there, I would be reminded of all we did after that. By wearing the dress, I would be reminded of “The World’s Best Chili Dog,” and “The World’s Best Latte.” Most of all, however, I would be reminded that the one person who I would have shared these moments with is no longer here.
Creative Piece inspired by "A pause, a rose, something on paper"
A Moment, Grain, an Image on Paper
Time stopped grey, a single figure walking alone on the pavement, shrunk by the giant structures surrounding him. He tightens his overcoat as he hurries. The edges dissipate into an endless black. But time is now captured in moving, high definition color. The man, the sidewalk, the buildings are stuck in an abstract, grainy moment. Grain exudes emotion. Now we've opted out for pixels. Images are always contorted in a lens, bounced around inside a light-tight box. The crude moments were noted on silver crystal emulsion. Now we neatly compress our pixels into perfection. Darkrooms are casinos. Here I have invited in the random. What is random is never wholly random; it is always connected by a thin silk thread. Silk threads can be carelessly snapped between two thoughts. No mirrors. No windows. Wasted paper for that one un-wasted sheet costs money in any language. Cancer chemicals serenade the fixed air. Before the casino, a photographer paints a soul in a portrait. After gambling hours away, the photographer has an image of a single girl or boy, man or woman, in which we make up a story to categorize him or her. Lesson children: the photographer never captures, simply creates.
Time stopped grey, a single figure walking alone on the pavement, shrunk by the giant structures surrounding him. He tightens his overcoat as he hurries. The edges dissipate into an endless black. But time is now captured in moving, high definition color. The man, the sidewalk, the buildings are stuck in an abstract, grainy moment. Grain exudes emotion. Now we've opted out for pixels. Images are always contorted in a lens, bounced around inside a light-tight box. The crude moments were noted on silver crystal emulsion. Now we neatly compress our pixels into perfection. Darkrooms are casinos. Here I have invited in the random. What is random is never wholly random; it is always connected by a thin silk thread. Silk threads can be carelessly snapped between two thoughts. No mirrors. No windows. Wasted paper for that one un-wasted sheet costs money in any language. Cancer chemicals serenade the fixed air. Before the casino, a photographer paints a soul in a portrait. After gambling hours away, the photographer has an image of a single girl or boy, man or woman, in which we make up a story to categorize him or her. Lesson children: the photographer never captures, simply creates.
Spinning Slowly While Thinking Fast" -a poem written in the style of (As for we we who love to be astonished)
Are bugs attracted to light or merely scared of the dark? A pigeon is a dirty bird and a dirty woman which is funny because I can not tell female pigeons from the male ones. All babies look alike except for the homely ones. Which we stand out in your mind as teh losers of the genetic lottery. I wonder if Darwin considered himself evolved? Or if he even liked monkeys. If a turtle could drive, would it use the fast lane? Did you know that some scientists believe that man's conception of God is really due to the fact that aliens visted Ancient civilazations--So Jesus might be a little green Man? Food for thought, but what to drink? Tantalus is none the wiser, though if you ask me Sisyphus looks bored.
A final Note. Isn't it obvious to anyone in Gotham city that Bruce Wayne is Batman since he is the only person who could affored all those gadgets?
If the mighty ducks was about golf it would still be a little cool, but only because it had Emilio Estevez. My body stops, but my mind races...
A final Note. Isn't it obvious to anyone in Gotham city that Bruce Wayne is Batman since he is the only person who could affored all those gadgets?
If the mighty ducks was about golf it would still be a little cool, but only because it had Emilio Estevez. My body stops, but my mind races...
Pet Milk, Stuart Dybek
The author captures the city of Chicago perfectly with the radio stations and how the such a diverse city is stil segregated and the smallest turn of a knob like turning a block to a whole new country within Europe. Traveling the subway and how quickly you move from one sight to the next in a blink. I found the subway ride like the whole story and how one thought leads to the next in this marathon of reminders our brains calculate with thoughts and memories based of of some visual, scent, and/or sound building, building, and building. The direction we can try to control but is way more fun to walk directionless down avenues and alleyways exploring.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Week 6 Assignments
Writing Assignment
Choose One:
1) Write a conversation between two liars. Give everything they say a double or triple meaning. Never state or indicate through outside description that these two people are lying. Let the reader figure it out strictly from the dialog. Try not to be obvious, such as having one person accuse the other of lying.
2) Write two poems or monologues in which two characters see the same situation from very different points of view. Let the characters speak. Experiment with voice, tone, and characterization. Format the two so that they go on simultaneously as in Double Trouble.
3) This week, listen in on the conversations you hear around you – on the bus, in a café, between your housemates. At some point during the week, settle someplace where there is lot’s of conversation going on. Eavesdrop on those around you and transcribe as much as possible of what you hear. Write a story, poem, or scene using the dialogue you “collected.”
Read for Next Week
“A pause, a rose, something on paper,” and “As for we who “love to be astonished,”” Lyn Hejinian
Pet Milk, Stuart Dybek
Our Lady of 121st Street, Stephen Adly Guirgis (!!)
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.
Choose One:
1) Write a conversation between two liars. Give everything they say a double or triple meaning. Never state or indicate through outside description that these two people are lying. Let the reader figure it out strictly from the dialog. Try not to be obvious, such as having one person accuse the other of lying.
2) Write two poems or monologues in which two characters see the same situation from very different points of view. Let the characters speak. Experiment with voice, tone, and characterization. Format the two so that they go on simultaneously as in Double Trouble.
3) This week, listen in on the conversations you hear around you – on the bus, in a café, between your housemates. At some point during the week, settle someplace where there is lot’s of conversation going on. Eavesdrop on those around you and transcribe as much as possible of what you hear. Write a story, poem, or scene using the dialogue you “collected.”
Read for Next Week
“A pause, a rose, something on paper,” and “As for we who “love to be astonished,”” Lyn Hejinian
Pet Milk, Stuart Dybek
Our Lady of 121st Street, Stephen Adly Guirgis (!!)
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.
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