Wednesday, October 7, 2009
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.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Week 5 Assignments
Paper #1
Due Thursday, October 1, 2009
Writing Exercise
Take an exercise you’ve written this semester that you’re not entirely happy with, or take something that you really like that you think could be explored more deeply. Change the voice, from first person to second or third person or from third person to first or second person. Then continue to revise the piece, making any other revisions the changes suggest. Make sure to include the original version along with your new piece.
Read for Next Week
Our Lady of 121st Street, Stephen Adly Guirgis
Blog
No blog posts this week – work on your paper!
In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried
This piece was very interesting to me.
I found it interesting that the voice of the piece would go in and out of the relationship with the other girl. One of the lines that caught my attention was on the first page, "Did you know when they taught the first chimp to talk, it lied?" The voice makes continuous remarks towards this chimp. I'm not quite sure how it relates to the patient that she talks about. I am also a little confused as to if the voice is a fellow patient or if she works in the facility. When she talks about being in the hospital and being self-conscious in front of the cameras that, "played us to the nurses down the hall in Intensive Care." On top of this the voice continues to give us all of this random information. I think that it is sweet that the voice of the piece is trying to make the patient feel more at ease when it is really the voice who is uncomfortable. When reading the piece i felt sympathy for the patient because it sounds like she does not have any true friends. I did not realize this until i re-read the piece and came across the part where she introduces the voice as the 'Best Friend' and claims that the 'impersonal article is more intimate.' There are many questions that I have on this piece but overall I enjoyed reading it. I enjoyed trying to become the voice and really get into the story.
I found it interesting that the voice of the piece would go in and out of the relationship with the other girl. One of the lines that caught my attention was on the first page, "Did you know when they taught the first chimp to talk, it lied?" The voice makes continuous remarks towards this chimp. I'm not quite sure how it relates to the patient that she talks about. I am also a little confused as to if the voice is a fellow patient or if she works in the facility. When she talks about being in the hospital and being self-conscious in front of the cameras that, "played us to the nurses down the hall in Intensive Care." On top of this the voice continues to give us all of this random information. I think that it is sweet that the voice of the piece is trying to make the patient feel more at ease when it is really the voice who is uncomfortable. When reading the piece i felt sympathy for the patient because it sounds like she does not have any true friends. I did not realize this until i re-read the piece and came across the part where she introduces the voice as the 'Best Friend' and claims that the 'impersonal article is more intimate.' There are many questions that I have on this piece but overall I enjoyed reading it. I enjoyed trying to become the voice and really get into the story.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Day Lauren Died
After dinner, Jae and I get back home late. She invites to watch True Blood in her room, but instead I wander around the house, take secret slugs of wine, go into her roommate Lauren’s room. Lauren had the smallest room but the coolest stuff. Old Polaroid cameras, a Holga, comic books. I sat on her bed next to her cat Clementine. I sometimes think that I like her better than Jae.
I retire to Jae’s room late, we have sex, she falls asleep instantly. I stay awake and think.
A phone call wakes us up 7:00 am. It is Kat, Jae’s art department friend from Berkeley. Jae asks what?
“I’m calling about, Lauren,” Kat says, I can hear through the phone, listen irritatedly.
“What?” Jae says, sitting up in the bed. She looks at the clock, turns on the lamp.
“She was in a car accident,” Kat says. “Her and her family.”
“What?” Jae says.
“They were in an accident. They tried to call you but they couldn’t find Lauren’s phone, her dad had my number.”
“Why, what? What happened?”
“She didn’t make it, Jae. I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“She’s gone.”
Jae starts getting hysterical and hangs up the phone. She starts screaming and hugs me and cries. She lays down in the bed, coveres her head with the pillow, kicks, screams. She gets on the phone to call Ryane. I get up because I think I‘m going to vomit. But I don’t for some reason. I can hear Jae screaming into the phone, “Lauren’s dead! She’s dead!” and crying. I go into the living room. Clementine is sitting on the couch. I sit next to her and pull her onto my lap.
I retire to Jae’s room late, we have sex, she falls asleep instantly. I stay awake and think.
A phone call wakes us up 7:00 am. It is Kat, Jae’s art department friend from Berkeley. Jae asks what?
“I’m calling about, Lauren,” Kat says, I can hear through the phone, listen irritatedly.
“What?” Jae says, sitting up in the bed. She looks at the clock, turns on the lamp.
“She was in a car accident,” Kat says. “Her and her family.”
“What?” Jae says.
“They were in an accident. They tried to call you but they couldn’t find Lauren’s phone, her dad had my number.”
“Why, what? What happened?”
“She didn’t make it, Jae. I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“She’s gone.”
Jae starts getting hysterical and hangs up the phone. She starts screaming and hugs me and cries. She lays down in the bed, coveres her head with the pillow, kicks, screams. She gets on the phone to call Ryane. I get up because I think I‘m going to vomit. But I don’t for some reason. I can hear Jae screaming into the phone, “Lauren’s dead! She’s dead!” and crying. I go into the living room. Clementine is sitting on the couch. I sit next to her and pull her onto my lap.
Musee...
Bus stops can seem so full of sad little stories,
being tight, efficient little microcosms of the
rest stops that line our interstates, and oh,
we know what goes on there: the tragedy,
the grasping, the stories we're told; mostly
cautionary. But bus stops, so nearer, so
much more accessible: the homeless sleeping
in filth, the fetal position, curled up at any hour,
the graffiti etched into plastic walls; perhaps
a faint claim to something proprietary and tangible
to those who may feel they possess too few solid things:
'possess' being, in this case, synonymous with control.
You can almost feel, in the cold stone of bench seats,
the same stories that have played out, again
and again, the push and pull of transitory living,
of going and wanting to stay,
of staying and wanting to go.
Take, for instance, the 60 out of Cloverdale:
a night like any other; rain falling in buckets,
or even not: you're dry enough to stand and watch.
The last bus out of town departs at ten.
It leaves a single strip of fluorescent on toward the back.
The sixty plods south along the boulevard,
it stops at points, a shiver and a hiss,
picks up fares, lurches on.
And it glows in the dark like a vigil.
Past the shuttered brake plant,
then a storage yard at a shoulder on the right,
a roar of the engine, it turns a bend,
and passes, then, out of view.
being tight, efficient little microcosms of the
rest stops that line our interstates, and oh,
we know what goes on there: the tragedy,
the grasping, the stories we're told; mostly
cautionary. But bus stops, so nearer, so
much more accessible: the homeless sleeping
in filth, the fetal position, curled up at any hour,
the graffiti etched into plastic walls; perhaps
a faint claim to something proprietary and tangible
to those who may feel they possess too few solid things:
'possess' being, in this case, synonymous with control.
You can almost feel, in the cold stone of bench seats,
the same stories that have played out, again
and again, the push and pull of transitory living,
of going and wanting to stay,
of staying and wanting to go.
Take, for instance, the 60 out of Cloverdale:
a night like any other; rain falling in buckets,
or even not: you're dry enough to stand and watch.
The last bus out of town departs at ten.
It leaves a single strip of fluorescent on toward the back.
The sixty plods south along the boulevard,
it stops at points, a shiver and a hiss,
picks up fares, lurches on.
And it glows in the dark like a vigil.
Past the shuttered brake plant,
then a storage yard at a shoulder on the right,
a roar of the engine, it turns a bend,
and passes, then, out of view.
In the Cemetery
The first part of this story are random useless facts. I'm proficient in these, and I'm going to share some of my favorites with you. ENJOY!!!
Robert Downey Jr. (Love of my life!!!) once spent a night in jail with Tommy Lee.
Mark Wahlberg has a third nipple
Coffee drinkers have sex more frequently and enjoy it more than non- coffee drinkers
The hundred- billionth Crayola Crayon was Periwinkle blue
Michael Crichton handed in a paper written by George Orwell to see if his college professor had something against him. He got a B-.
The following people worked in the circus:
- Pierce Brosnan- Fire Eater
- Christopher Walken- Assistant lion tamer
- Harry Houdini- Escapologist
- Burt Lancster- Acrobat
China uses 45 billion chopsticks per year
The poorest country in the world is Mozambique
Switzerland is the richest country in the world
The People of Iceland read more books per capita than any other people in the world, and they were the first country to legalize abortion.
The first time men and women used separate toilets was in 1739 at a Paris ball.
The first couple to be shown in bed together on U.S. prime time TV was Fred and Wilma Flintstone
The word "sex" was coined in 1382
The first novel written on a typewriter was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
If your body's natural defenses failed, the bacteria in your gut would consume you within 48 hours, eating you from the inside out.
Women smile more than men do
14 million people were killed in WW1, turns out, 20 Million people died of the flue epidemic that followed it.
Between the ages of 20 and 70, the typical person spends about 600 hours aving sex
Men get hiccups more often than women do
Every year 100 people choke to death on ballpoint pens.
- "This book of more perfectly useless information" by Mitchell Symons
Robert Downey Jr. (Love of my life!!!) once spent a night in jail with Tommy Lee.
Mark Wahlberg has a third nipple
Coffee drinkers have sex more frequently and enjoy it more than non- coffee drinkers
The hundred- billionth Crayola Crayon was Periwinkle blue
Michael Crichton handed in a paper written by George Orwell to see if his college professor had something against him. He got a B-.
The following people worked in the circus:
- Pierce Brosnan- Fire Eater
- Christopher Walken- Assistant lion tamer
- Harry Houdini- Escapologist
- Burt Lancster- Acrobat
China uses 45 billion chopsticks per year
The poorest country in the world is Mozambique
Switzerland is the richest country in the world
The People of Iceland read more books per capita than any other people in the world, and they were the first country to legalize abortion.
The first time men and women used separate toilets was in 1739 at a Paris ball.
The first couple to be shown in bed together on U.S. prime time TV was Fred and Wilma Flintstone
The word "sex" was coined in 1382
The first novel written on a typewriter was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
If your body's natural defenses failed, the bacteria in your gut would consume you within 48 hours, eating you from the inside out.
Women smile more than men do
14 million people were killed in WW1, turns out, 20 Million people died of the flue epidemic that followed it.
Between the ages of 20 and 70, the typical person spends about 600 hours aving sex
Men get hiccups more often than women do
Every year 100 people choke to death on ballpoint pens.
- "This book of more perfectly useless information" by Mitchell Symons
Imitation: The Language
I look for the
words some-
where on your
face, in your
eyes I want to
see what I
feel. Don’t force
it. Words ease
the heart.
I
Love you
always,
a response
that is
empty, like
all other words,
words that fill
silences and
uncertainties.
Words are
as wide and
as gaping as
the hole they
escape from.
words some-
where on your
face, in your
eyes I want to
see what I
feel. Don’t force
it. Words ease
the heart.
I
Love you
always,
a response
that is
empty, like
all other words,
words that fill
silences and
uncertainties.
Words are
as wide and
as gaping as
the hole they
escape from.
The Rain
I woke up to the finger taps
of drops on your windows
quietly, persistent, polite
at first then louder and louder
until we were both awake
in the dark of the symphonic
tap tapping of the rain
who are you? In the dark
I can't recognize you
until I hear you breathing
and I am unlocked from
fear, from my uneasiness.
Sometimes I think I feel
you say "I love you" in the dark, or
with your eyes. Who are you?
Are you the rain?
Response: The Difference Between Pepsi and Coke
The first thing I noticed after reading David Lehman's The Difference Between Pepsi and Coke was its appearance. Its presence, and enjambment, is very apparent. It makes you think, why? Is there a specific reason Lehman took the time to create each line the way he did? Was it premeditated or did the pen lead the way?
The poem starts with a very depressing tone. A portrait of a man masked with failure. He feels inadequate, he looks fat in jeans, he cheats, he panics, and he fights. Yet, after the initial "this guy is a mess," reaction there is a ray of light. A sonnets volta, the whole voice of the poem is flip-flopped. While he may fall in certain ways, he gets back up. He compensates and makes up for his imperfections...like any human being. And that is what makes it such a powerful piece. It's real and it's raw. A man beneath his cover.
The line that really resonated with me was:
"give him
a minute with a road map
And he will solve the mystery of bloodshot eyes;"
I've been there, stuck in a car, wondering where to go. Battling the feisty itch of my bloodshot eyes. It was just a powerful line for me. Powerful poem.
The poem starts with a very depressing tone. A portrait of a man masked with failure. He feels inadequate, he looks fat in jeans, he cheats, he panics, and he fights. Yet, after the initial "this guy is a mess," reaction there is a ray of light. A sonnets volta, the whole voice of the poem is flip-flopped. While he may fall in certain ways, he gets back up. He compensates and makes up for his imperfections...like any human being. And that is what makes it such a powerful piece. It's real and it's raw. A man beneath his cover.
The line that really resonated with me was:
"give him
a minute with a road map
And he will solve the mystery of bloodshot eyes;"
I've been there, stuck in a car, wondering where to go. Battling the feisty itch of my bloodshot eyes. It was just a powerful line for me. Powerful poem.
Amy Hempel use of language...
...I found it really interesting. The story reminded me in a lot of ways of a Chuck Palahniuk piece, with a narrator who loves to start sentences with "That" and who loves to over use "and"s and who punctuates her narration with random, semi-factual pondering. In particular, it reminds me of a line from Invisible Monsters where the narrator says something along the lines of, "Game shows exist to make us feel good about the tiny tidbits of useless info that are all that remain of our educations," a line I've always liked.
One big difference is that Palahniuk always leaves you guessing as to whether the little tidbits he shares have any truth to them. With this story, Hempel makes it clear right away that her tidbits are not to be taken as facts. (By describing the moon as banana shaped). Other facts are absolutely absurd, but simultaneously strangely familiar and impossible-to-fact-check enough to actually be true (like Dylan's mom inventing white out, a monkey signing to its dead progeny, both have that certain sound... like something that could be true but likely isn't) but by including this fact about the moon, she removes all doubt from the situation. Everyone knows the moon's a sphere, period. I'm still puzzlng over the effect of this descision to use blatantly false trivia...
Another aspect of Hempel's use of language I wanted to draw attention to is its sound. Phrases like, "She yanked off her mask and threw it on the floor. She kicked at the blankets and moved to the door," are peppered throughout the story. They were a big part of what made the story enjoyable to me. And they're more than just ear-porn, too, the sound helps to influence meaning. I mean, maybe its a little obvious, what with the end rhyme and all, but these are two lines from a poem tactically transplanted into this shortstory. Realizing that draws the readers attention to the rhythm, and although I've already forgotten the names of the different metrical patterns we looked at in class, I'm pretty sure I recognize this as the one that gallups--a perfect match in language for the scene that the narrator would have witnessed: a patient who hasn't used her legs in a long time attempt to storm angrily out of a room.
There's plenty of other examples of her style matching her substance, and I'd love to talk about them, but I think this post is probably longwinded enough as it is.
One big difference is that Palahniuk always leaves you guessing as to whether the little tidbits he shares have any truth to them. With this story, Hempel makes it clear right away that her tidbits are not to be taken as facts. (By describing the moon as banana shaped). Other facts are absolutely absurd, but simultaneously strangely familiar and impossible-to-fact-check enough to actually be true (like Dylan's mom inventing white out, a monkey signing to its dead progeny, both have that certain sound... like something that could be true but likely isn't) but by including this fact about the moon, she removes all doubt from the situation. Everyone knows the moon's a sphere, period. I'm still puzzlng over the effect of this descision to use blatantly false trivia...
Another aspect of Hempel's use of language I wanted to draw attention to is its sound. Phrases like, "She yanked off her mask and threw it on the floor. She kicked at the blankets and moved to the door," are peppered throughout the story. They were a big part of what made the story enjoyable to me. And they're more than just ear-porn, too, the sound helps to influence meaning. I mean, maybe its a little obvious, what with the end rhyme and all, but these are two lines from a poem tactically transplanted into this shortstory. Realizing that draws the readers attention to the rhythm, and although I've already forgotten the names of the different metrical patterns we looked at in class, I'm pretty sure I recognize this as the one that gallups--a perfect match in language for the scene that the narrator would have witnessed: a patient who hasn't used her legs in a long time attempt to storm angrily out of a room.
There's plenty of other examples of her style matching her substance, and I'd love to talk about them, but I think this post is probably longwinded enough as it is.
The Day Lady died: Frank O'Hara
I was not expecting the ending to be so sudden and spontaneous and inclusive. He doesn't really set you up for the death, well, except in the title but not with the storyline. The subject in the story seems disassociated with society. Like, she never really had a relationship with her banker and only knew her name by over hearing it being said. Her interactions are routine for both her and the people she comes in contact with. Also, the person lady, reminds me of the mother from last weeks reading. How she used to have clout back in the day and expects people to address her the same way even though her time has passed in a sense. She seems a little delusional. I think that her delusion is added by the ending, "and everyone and I stopped breathing" without a grammatical closing. O'Hara, it seems, is asking for us to put our interpretations on the pieces and have our fun with her.
Response to: Musee Des Beaux Arts
Icarus
If you were in broad daylight,
And someone mugged you at gun point, took your things, and fled
Would you be saved?
If you were walking down the street,
And someone pushed you into a dark alley, proceeded to rape you, you screamed,
Would you be heard?
If you came home from work one day,
The door was broken, your house was robbed, everything stolen,
Would it be replaced?
If your child had just gotten off the bus,
Someone grabbed them, through them in a van, kidnapped them,
Would they be found?
If you were choking in a restaurant,
Your food was lodged, your face was pale, your heart was slowing,
Would someone help you?
If you were standing on a buildings edge,
Your heart racing, your mind spinning, your life flashing,
Would someone stop you?
If you were vomiting in your bathroom,
Body heaving, throat burning, head pounding,
Would someone intervene?
If you were sitting in your closet,
Blades cutting, blood running, skin tearing,
Would someone bandage you?
If you were crying on the street corner,
Make-up smeared, nose running, voice shaking
Would someone hold you?
If you were in a nursing home, dieing
Body withering, memory going, mobility frozen
Would someone remember you?
Introduction Response to Musee des Beaux Arts
Upon reading this poem by W.H. Auden, I found that the theme of apathy towards the suffering of others resonated for me, and I wanted to explore the concepts and details he presents in this piece to further my understanding.
I looked up the significance of the title, and it is taken from his visit to the Museum of Fine Arts in Brussels in 1938. Art is also explored within the poem itself, in the second line when he refers to "the Old Masters," or the Renaissance painters who often depicted human suffering in their works. During his visit to the museum, he viewed the painting "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" by Pieter Brueghel the Elder. He goes on to reference this painting in the fourteenth line of the poem.
The story of Icarus is a Greek cautionary tale, in which Icarus' father Daedalus, an Athenian craftsman, built a labrynth for King Minos to trap the Minotaur. Daedalus and Icarus were exiled by King Minos, and Daedalus made two sets of wings for himself and his son to escape the island. Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sun, as the wings were fashioned from feathers and wax and would melt if they got too hot, but Icarus got caught up in the exhilaration of flight and didn't heed his father's warning. His wings melted and he dropped from the sky into the sea.
The imagery of Brueghel's painting depicts Icarus falling into the sea as everyone else in the landscape goes on with their day to day business. This idea of nonchalance and ambivalence towards suffering and extraordinary events (like witnessing a person falling out of the sky) is the essence of the poem, and is illustrated in the careful images Auden chooses.
I looked up the significance of the title, and it is taken from his visit to the Museum of Fine Arts in Brussels in 1938. Art is also explored within the poem itself, in the second line when he refers to "the Old Masters," or the Renaissance painters who often depicted human suffering in their works. During his visit to the museum, he viewed the painting "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" by Pieter Brueghel the Elder. He goes on to reference this painting in the fourteenth line of the poem.
The story of Icarus is a Greek cautionary tale, in which Icarus' father Daedalus, an Athenian craftsman, built a labrynth for King Minos to trap the Minotaur. Daedalus and Icarus were exiled by King Minos, and Daedalus made two sets of wings for himself and his son to escape the island. Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sun, as the wings were fashioned from feathers and wax and would melt if they got too hot, but Icarus got caught up in the exhilaration of flight and didn't heed his father's warning. His wings melted and he dropped from the sky into the sea.
The imagery of Brueghel's painting depicts Icarus falling into the sea as everyone else in the landscape goes on with their day to day business. This idea of nonchalance and ambivalence towards suffering and extraordinary events (like witnessing a person falling out of the sky) is the essence of the poem, and is illustrated in the careful images Auden chooses.
Fork
I found “Fork” to be rather dark and full of disturbing images. He compares a fork to a bird’s foot and his fist to a large, bald, beakless, blind bird. The opening lines “This strange thing must have crept right out of hell” curious. Has he never seen a fork? If he has, why perceive it so strangely evil? He compares the fork to a “birds foot worn around a cannibals neck” and later in the poem stabs a piece of meat. Is it human meat? I couldn’t get the image of a cannibal out of my head but as the poem continued the image of a bird reappears. “It is possible to imagine the rest of the bird: Its head which is like your fist, is large, bald, beakless, and blind.” Comparing his arm to the rest of a bird was fantastic and a curious way to see oneself. It left an interesting image in my mid. After reading the poem and doing some research on Simic I found an interesting quote where he says “Hitler and Stalin taught us the basics.” I wonder if that has anything to do with the tone of the poem. T. G.
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