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.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
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.
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