Technically started out as a calisthenic but I wanted to keep going with this... except... I'm feeling very uninspired right now. This is literally a push myself writing.
I tell my sister all the time she should shut up. If my sister were a car radio, she'd be the one with the broken mute button, blaring noise that vibrates the subwoofers of some obnoxious Escalade in an elementary school parking lot, and no matter how much you hit the radio, it won't shut up. I was slouching in the computer chair, back straining, studying stripes and spandex on some plus-sized site, when my sister plopped down on the bed next to me. She was talking to my mother on the phone, laughing in her usual volume, cross-legged with waving jaws. I could briefly hear my mom's voice drift from the phone, solely voice, no words, but it was soon lost behind my the cackle of my Ana's laughter.
I do not think that cackling is an exaggeration. If you look up the definition of cackle, it is defined as a shrill cry a hen makes after laying eggs. My sister's laugh ranges anywhere from a "hee-hee" that reminds me of rusty swings to a throaty warble, sometimes coupled with the rare but necessary snort. This was a "hee-hee-hee" occasion.
"I think you two would really get along," Ana told my mom, her teeth splitting her face, "you guys are just alike."
I'm staring intently at this $120 dollar dress I know I'll never need and really shouldn't bother buying, but I'm also convincing myself of the pros of this dress. If I ever got invited to a party, I'll be prepared. I could wear it to Kroger--at least I could say I wore it once, and show them all I can get done up outside the uniform. Or maybe I can use it as an excuse to actually go out somewhere, though people like me usually make it to the top of the stairs before sighing and crawling back onto the couch, slipping under my blankets, eating Ben and Jerry's. As I am trying to reason out the sweetheart neckline my sister keeps talking to my mother about her friend. More specifically, her best friend's mother, who Ana has taken on like another mother.
"You're both corny." Ana tells her.
My finger slips on the keyboard.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Junkyard Quotes Week 2, Entries 1-4
"I am jealous of the banana because it's perfectly acceptable for the banana to go naked everyday."
"There's something sadistic about the word, "scream." Like, look in the mirror and say it nice and slow and see if it doesn't make you smile."
"You know how they say "so-and-so" is probably "rolling in their grave?" What about if they died BCE? Do they have any body left to roll or is it basically just dust?"
"He can hear the female voice [in the book of Genesis] throughout the the many, many years." Sturgis on how someone (I forget the name and will have to ask him) believes that a woman wrote the Book of Genesis.
"There's something sadistic about the word, "scream." Like, look in the mirror and say it nice and slow and see if it doesn't make you smile."
"You know how they say "so-and-so" is probably "rolling in their grave?" What about if they died BCE? Do they have any body left to roll or is it basically just dust?"
"He can hear the female voice [in the book of Genesis] throughout the the many, many years." Sturgis on how someone (I forget the name and will have to ask him) believes that a woman wrote the Book of Genesis.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Improv Week 1, Entry 1
Mary Clearman Blew in The Unwanted Child moves between tenses and point of view a lot in her first few paragraphs. Starting out in a present first person narrative, Blew then moves into using a first-person simple future tense, "If he calls me Mommy again, I will break his glasses...I will kick him right in his obscene fat paunch. I will bury my foot in his disgusting flesh" carrying this until she meets her husband. I also find it interesting that on page 44, she changes tactics and begins to use the word "you." It has a way of projecting herself out on the readers. "When you get married, you can move into married student housing." or distancing the subject out further from herself and you, "All young women in 1958 like sex."
I am sitting on the toilet. I am not actually using it, the lid is down, and I am fully clothed. I'm doubled over on the toilet seat, forehead pressed onto my knees, toes pushing against the blue-diamond tile, arms wrapped across my legs. This rushing feeling builds inside my stomach, perhaps less rushing-- more sloshing, like someone has turned a blender on the sushi and fruit punch Gatorade I ate for lunch, and the chucks of salmon and nori are hitting the lining of my stomach, bouncing like pinballs into my esophagus. I swallow hard.
I will not be concerned that I am fighting vomit on a toilet seat. I will wait here another moment, then place my white flats tossed under the wood-finished cabinets on my feet, slip out the bathroom down the stairs to the front door. I will get in my car and leave, because my sister is waiting for me to pick her up from work. When I leave this place, I will not throw up. Before I leave this place, I will not throw up. I think my stomach swears at me.
I don’t know what it is I see that reminds me of you first. The dusty orange ribbon attached to the carcass of the balloon I got my roommate for her birthday, the tall, yellow-topped container of wipes I left in here so I could wipe the toilet seat before I used it, or the small tube of body shimmer powder—it’s sweet smell dusting and covering the gray holes on top with a white film. It is with these brief glances that I become distracted, forgetting the hummingbirds plastered on the bathroom walls, forgetting the paisley shower curtains—remembering what?
That you’re in Parris Island. Deep breaths, I can feel the rice grains creeping upward, little brown ants with no legs, stalking for an opening. I move, and my elbows press throbbing circles into my thighs. I take two more deep breaths then reach for my shoes. I hate being late.
I am sitting on the toilet. I am not actually using it, the lid is down, and I am fully clothed. I'm doubled over on the toilet seat, forehead pressed onto my knees, toes pushing against the blue-diamond tile, arms wrapped across my legs. This rushing feeling builds inside my stomach, perhaps less rushing-- more sloshing, like someone has turned a blender on the sushi and fruit punch Gatorade I ate for lunch, and the chucks of salmon and nori are hitting the lining of my stomach, bouncing like pinballs into my esophagus. I swallow hard.
I will not be concerned that I am fighting vomit on a toilet seat. I will wait here another moment, then place my white flats tossed under the wood-finished cabinets on my feet, slip out the bathroom down the stairs to the front door. I will get in my car and leave, because my sister is waiting for me to pick her up from work. When I leave this place, I will not throw up. Before I leave this place, I will not throw up. I think my stomach swears at me.
I don’t know what it is I see that reminds me of you first. The dusty orange ribbon attached to the carcass of the balloon I got my roommate for her birthday, the tall, yellow-topped container of wipes I left in here so I could wipe the toilet seat before I used it, or the small tube of body shimmer powder—it’s sweet smell dusting and covering the gray holes on top with a white film. It is with these brief glances that I become distracted, forgetting the hummingbirds plastered on the bathroom walls, forgetting the paisley shower curtains—remembering what?
That you’re in Parris Island. Deep breaths, I can feel the rice grains creeping upward, little brown ants with no legs, stalking for an opening. I move, and my elbows press throbbing circles into my thighs. I take two more deep breaths then reach for my shoes. I hate being late.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Memory Week 1, Entry 1
We just enjoyed the family thing--getting together, eating food, making memories to ridicule each other with over upcoming holidays; I will never forget the time my 6 foot, 4 inch uncle stumbled and assaulted the sliding glass patio doors, sending the doorway tumbling and bouncing off the naked concrete by the grill. We all stopped, staring at him in this strained silence, expecting what? A rewind perhaps, an explanation? And he, standing there in the now open frame, rubbing his face and laughing sheepishly--he relived that moment for years.
It might be important to understand that the side of the family I spent most of my Christmases and Thanksgivings with was my mother's side. Not that my father's family was antisocial, though they did have a way of making any gathering more about salad forks and seating arrangements than catching up; it's just that my mother's family was more readily available and the New York-bound patriarchs. Living and managing in all spouts of Atlanta living, my family lived less than a half hour away from my grandma, the center of all family functions, lent the top half of her two-story home to one of my aunts while she made due downstairs. All my aunts and uncles lived close--and when I say "all" I suggest about a half dozen siblings making up my mom's brothers and sisters, as well as a handful of nieces and nephews for each of them. To take a wild guess, for any family gathering, there had to be at least fifteen of us, and that was the bare minimum--not counting the ones who sometimes opted out of family functions to spend the holidays making music in their off-limit attics, wafting the rafters with the heady stench of smoke not quite incense. These things did not faze us then.
There were so many of us and we were all so close, that your absence really did not matter. You were as sure to be there with us in some way as my family was guaranteed to stand around in tight circles, tipping little red solo cups in unsteady hands, laughing, snorting, scented with Exclamation and Newports, remembering that time you danced your wig off at 60s thanksgiving dinner or that fight you had in grade school with that girl whose nose you ripped.
My mother's family, predominant five to one, female to male ratio, lived for the art of the gab. Hovering over full cups, smelling faintly like mixed peach drinks they sipped, permitting the big-eyed, elementary version of me only the smallest regretted sucks solely for laughs. These were the women who taught me the secrets to life even when they tried to keep them from me. My cousins and I never hovered too far from them, learning the proper way to shake one's ass on the dance floor or how a man was never worth as much as they let him think he was. And I'd watch my aunt Tonya, her long blonde hair tipping over her peeking collar bone or my aunt Valerie, swaying with her ribbed chest protuding, jutting the air. It was some wild world that needed to be studied, some wild world of women.
And in this world, these women loved to talk. My mother included. Of course, I didn't anticipate being on the outside of their chatter.
I mean, it happened before. My cousin, just a few months younger than me, wanted to be a professional singer. They often paired us up, she refused to sing Annie without me, and I had a singing voice closer to scraping your fingernails on half-empty water bottles than broadway.
"She sounds like her father," they would laugh, ushering us to sing more and I, confused, would belt out louder and longer because, well, I love my father. This time wasn't like that. It was the first real time I ever felt like something else in my family.
It was one of those grilling holidays, perhaps Memorial Day, perhaps Labor day, but certainly not the Fourth of July. If there had been fireworks we would have seen them. We were visiting my Aunt Valerie in Decatur and we had all piled into her backyard for some grilled hamburgers and good times. I hovered near my mother, because, that was what I did best and my mom, like many of the other women, spent their time hovering near the food, cooking--and I do love food.
Some of my younger cousins had invested their time in a sorry game of soccer. I say sorry because of the condition of the backyard--more clumps and patches of rocky red soil than grass, sad little sprouts of limp green lilting out and smashing underneath light-up Nikes. Tiki torches shoved in crooked angles in the dirt, they used them as goal posts, or they tried to weave the balls around them, the game seemed to have no rules. Though they called me over, I refused to play, instead, hovering around the adults, trying to be apart of that woman's world. I ignored the ball as much as possible when it bounced off the soil into the concrete beside me, only sometimes shooing it to the long expanse of wooden fence before returning to my neglect of it. I had no time for child games, but it was in one of these half-hearted soccer ball repulsions that the conversation started.
"And of course, there go the Forde's. Always coming in here trying to outshow somebody. Always gotta be best dressed."
They laughed and I looked back at them, upset that I had missed something. My mother pursed her lips, smiled, shifted, but simply denied. I remember her response was unremarkable and my aunts felt the same way because they continued their insistence.
"Always gotta come in here done up and looking sharp. Tryin' to outdo everybody." my aunt Valerie chimed in and it was the first time I stopped to actually look at my mom. I mean look at my mom. For the first time, I was judging her.
My mother had always been this pretty woman, but today she was a woman with thick layers of dark red lipstick, immaculate short hair, and a thigh-high black skirt--embarrassingly flawless. My father had always prized hygiene, almost pushed it down my throat. He keeps bottles of cologne in his car, spraying himself every time he gets out of his car, because he prizes the scent so much--no specific kind, just different bottles, all strong scents, all constant. Even my dad's pants were fitted, clean, his New York jersey the whitest shirt in the crowd of uncles.My sister, painfully adorable. And then there was me.
I did not dress up that day to impress them. I was lucky if I even dressed myself. Left to my own demise I'd spot my hair in crooked, braided pigtails, huge sunglasses, and some awkward dimpled smile on my face. Never did I think when I put on that checkered pair of bedazzled overalls that I would be making a statement. It was at that moment I ceased to judge my mother, and that all the judgement fell upon myself. I was ashamed because, unlike everyone else laughing at our expense, we just didn't fit in. I did not mean to upset anybody, and I did not think that I thought I was better than them. But of course there was the soccer game still going on beside me, and here I was on the concrete patio, too good for that game. My sneakers were still clean, barely scuffed, and the others? Caked with red dirt.
At that time I wasn't aware of the sparsity money can bring. At that time, I, my whole family, was measured by the worth of our blue jeans, long before I even knew Girbaud, Guess, or Levi. These jeans, as all our clothes that day, defined us. And I could barely realize at the time, though I felt it like you feel a tugging at your shoulder, that somehow, we had fallen short in their eyes.
It might be important to understand that the side of the family I spent most of my Christmases and Thanksgivings with was my mother's side. Not that my father's family was antisocial, though they did have a way of making any gathering more about salad forks and seating arrangements than catching up; it's just that my mother's family was more readily available and the New York-bound patriarchs. Living and managing in all spouts of Atlanta living, my family lived less than a half hour away from my grandma, the center of all family functions, lent the top half of her two-story home to one of my aunts while she made due downstairs. All my aunts and uncles lived close--and when I say "all" I suggest about a half dozen siblings making up my mom's brothers and sisters, as well as a handful of nieces and nephews for each of them. To take a wild guess, for any family gathering, there had to be at least fifteen of us, and that was the bare minimum--not counting the ones who sometimes opted out of family functions to spend the holidays making music in their off-limit attics, wafting the rafters with the heady stench of smoke not quite incense. These things did not faze us then.
There were so many of us and we were all so close, that your absence really did not matter. You were as sure to be there with us in some way as my family was guaranteed to stand around in tight circles, tipping little red solo cups in unsteady hands, laughing, snorting, scented with Exclamation and Newports, remembering that time you danced your wig off at 60s thanksgiving dinner or that fight you had in grade school with that girl whose nose you ripped.
My mother's family, predominant five to one, female to male ratio, lived for the art of the gab. Hovering over full cups, smelling faintly like mixed peach drinks they sipped, permitting the big-eyed, elementary version of me only the smallest regretted sucks solely for laughs. These were the women who taught me the secrets to life even when they tried to keep them from me. My cousins and I never hovered too far from them, learning the proper way to shake one's ass on the dance floor or how a man was never worth as much as they let him think he was. And I'd watch my aunt Tonya, her long blonde hair tipping over her peeking collar bone or my aunt Valerie, swaying with her ribbed chest protuding, jutting the air. It was some wild world that needed to be studied, some wild world of women.
And in this world, these women loved to talk. My mother included. Of course, I didn't anticipate being on the outside of their chatter.
I mean, it happened before. My cousin, just a few months younger than me, wanted to be a professional singer. They often paired us up, she refused to sing Annie without me, and I had a singing voice closer to scraping your fingernails on half-empty water bottles than broadway.
"She sounds like her father," they would laugh, ushering us to sing more and I, confused, would belt out louder and longer because, well, I love my father. This time wasn't like that. It was the first real time I ever felt like something else in my family.
It was one of those grilling holidays, perhaps Memorial Day, perhaps Labor day, but certainly not the Fourth of July. If there had been fireworks we would have seen them. We were visiting my Aunt Valerie in Decatur and we had all piled into her backyard for some grilled hamburgers and good times. I hovered near my mother, because, that was what I did best and my mom, like many of the other women, spent their time hovering near the food, cooking--and I do love food.
Some of my younger cousins had invested their time in a sorry game of soccer. I say sorry because of the condition of the backyard--more clumps and patches of rocky red soil than grass, sad little sprouts of limp green lilting out and smashing underneath light-up Nikes. Tiki torches shoved in crooked angles in the dirt, they used them as goal posts, or they tried to weave the balls around them, the game seemed to have no rules. Though they called me over, I refused to play, instead, hovering around the adults, trying to be apart of that woman's world. I ignored the ball as much as possible when it bounced off the soil into the concrete beside me, only sometimes shooing it to the long expanse of wooden fence before returning to my neglect of it. I had no time for child games, but it was in one of these half-hearted soccer ball repulsions that the conversation started.
"And of course, there go the Forde's. Always coming in here trying to outshow somebody. Always gotta be best dressed."
They laughed and I looked back at them, upset that I had missed something. My mother pursed her lips, smiled, shifted, but simply denied. I remember her response was unremarkable and my aunts felt the same way because they continued their insistence.
"Always gotta come in here done up and looking sharp. Tryin' to outdo everybody." my aunt Valerie chimed in and it was the first time I stopped to actually look at my mom. I mean look at my mom. For the first time, I was judging her.
My mother had always been this pretty woman, but today she was a woman with thick layers of dark red lipstick, immaculate short hair, and a thigh-high black skirt--embarrassingly flawless. My father had always prized hygiene, almost pushed it down my throat. He keeps bottles of cologne in his car, spraying himself every time he gets out of his car, because he prizes the scent so much--no specific kind, just different bottles, all strong scents, all constant. Even my dad's pants were fitted, clean, his New York jersey the whitest shirt in the crowd of uncles.My sister, painfully adorable. And then there was me.
I did not dress up that day to impress them. I was lucky if I even dressed myself. Left to my own demise I'd spot my hair in crooked, braided pigtails, huge sunglasses, and some awkward dimpled smile on my face. Never did I think when I put on that checkered pair of bedazzled overalls that I would be making a statement. It was at that moment I ceased to judge my mother, and that all the judgement fell upon myself. I was ashamed because, unlike everyone else laughing at our expense, we just didn't fit in. I did not mean to upset anybody, and I did not think that I thought I was better than them. But of course there was the soccer game still going on beside me, and here I was on the concrete patio, too good for that game. My sneakers were still clean, barely scuffed, and the others? Caked with red dirt.
At that time I wasn't aware of the sparsity money can bring. At that time, I, my whole family, was measured by the worth of our blue jeans, long before I even knew Girbaud, Guess, or Levi. These jeans, as all our clothes that day, defined us. And I could barely realize at the time, though I felt it like you feel a tugging at your shoulder, that somehow, we had fallen short in their eyes.
Original Prompt Week 1, Entry 1
Jo Ann Beard's "The Fourth State of Matter" initially strikes its reader with well-manipulated tone and diction. It is flat, almost reportage, in some cases moving into a list-like movements. I note that throughout the beginning of the work Beard embraces, longer, detailed but not poesy sentences, "Or that the dog at the bottom of the stairs keeps having mild strokes which cause her to tilt her head inquisitively and also to fall over," which later moves on to a series of brief, broken sentences during the shooting, heightening the situation using punctuation--"A slumping. More smoke and ringing. Through the cloud an image comes forward--Bob Smith, hit in the chest, hit in the hand, still alive. Back up the stairs." What is most impressive about these shortened sentences is that they continue to maintain a vague, stand-offish report. There is no direct image of a body slumping in the chair, there is only "a slumping." There is little description, solely fact, and even though the sentences move the reader in a rushed anticipation, there is no presentation of lingering gore.
Even before introducing the gun shooting however, Beard employs other techniques. She integrates other subject matter. The story weaves in many levels--dealing with Beard's husband and dogs, her coworkers and friends, and ultimately the murders. Beard manipulates these many levels and often jumps back and forth between subjects as a distraction to readers. It almost reminds me of the comedic slips Shakespeare inserted into his plays to break the melancholy. Certainly this work has a lot of heavy, depressing material but because it moves so avidly throughout each idea the reader does not have time to dwell and sink into that depression.
In fact, even when dealing in the subject matter,--the dying dog for instance--Beard has a way of making even the repetition work in her favor, as if this kind of care for a collie is typical and in a way, therapeutic. "Each time this happens I stand her up, dry her off, put fresh blankets underneath her..." (2) The certainty of repetition counterbalances the uncertainty of some moments for her, for instance, "He does, I miss it, stoop to pick it up, and when I straighten up again I might be crying."
So the prompt is,
Write a brief piece regarding your first experience with your own mortality. In this piece, no sentence can be any longer than 10-words in its length, no more than 8 sentences per paragraph. Focus on the details that are important and let the imagery come with the specificity.
Even before introducing the gun shooting however, Beard employs other techniques. She integrates other subject matter. The story weaves in many levels--dealing with Beard's husband and dogs, her coworkers and friends, and ultimately the murders. Beard manipulates these many levels and often jumps back and forth between subjects as a distraction to readers. It almost reminds me of the comedic slips Shakespeare inserted into his plays to break the melancholy. Certainly this work has a lot of heavy, depressing material but because it moves so avidly throughout each idea the reader does not have time to dwell and sink into that depression.
In fact, even when dealing in the subject matter,--the dying dog for instance--Beard has a way of making even the repetition work in her favor, as if this kind of care for a collie is typical and in a way, therapeutic. "Each time this happens I stand her up, dry her off, put fresh blankets underneath her..." (2) The certainty of repetition counterbalances the uncertainty of some moments for her, for instance, "He does, I miss it, stoop to pick it up, and when I straighten up again I might be crying."
So the prompt is,
Write a brief piece regarding your first experience with your own mortality. In this piece, no sentence can be any longer than 10-words in its length, no more than 8 sentences per paragraph. Focus on the details that are important and let the imagery come with the specificity.
Junkyard Quote Week 1, Entry 4
"Looking dipped in butter, shining and glistening." --Riley, Boondocks, on his wardrobe.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Junkyard Quote Week 1, Entry 3
"Don't you just love looking back and realizing everything you've done until this point was complete crap? It's like, ok, well here we are. Now scratch all that and start over again--do it right this time, and pretend all those tears and hours of struggle were part of the learning experience."
Reportage Week 1, Entry 1
Sitting in the hallway, I have just finished munching chocolate fudge Poptarts and am trying half-heartedly to focus on some pamphlet about heroes and Star Wars. The Hi-C juice box I finished earlier is both demolished and lying on its crushed side beside me. Two girls emerge from my right, trampling up the staircase chatting. They are both loud, but one girl in her brown cowgirl-like boots is redefining ruckus as she walks almost heavy on one side. She isn’t fat or anything, just heavy. I'm pressing my nose into my world literature pamphlet when one of the girls pipes up.
"Did you know English classes go up to like... 4115?" she tells her friend and at this point the pamphlet becomes invisible. Mostly because there information is so wrong, as a 4210 student stands attested to, and I want to tell them how wrong they are. Then again, I’d hate to be rude. I glance over to them as they take their seat beside me in the hall. I later learn they're thirty minutes early for their film class. I’ve become very good at overhearing things, so I’m excited about what other incredibly incorrect comments they can spew out in that short time frame.
"I couldn't do that" the other girl groans, "can you imagine all that writing?"
And I'm thinking that they have no idea.
My eyes are still focusing on the pamphlet but I steal a few glances at the girl across the hall from me. This is the girl in the cowboy boots from earlier, brunette, blue jeans. I notice she has her purse clutched tightly to her side, the loops dangling off her shoulder but the bag pressed into her side as if forming into her. Her ankles form a compressed X. Her blonde friend takes a seat across the hall and pulls out her phone. She begins chatting about some guy I don't know and I’m disappointed in the abrupt change of conversation. I wonder if seeing Sturgis loom past the doorway of one of the classrooms deterred them, but a part of me thinks they might not even know who he is. I soon become bored with them. Aside from noting the slow drawl that lilts from the blonde girl's lips when she has to pronounce a short "a" sound, they're conversation becomes more background noise through a haze of learning.
"Did you hear what he said? Something about putting the brakes on sex."
I come back. Sex always brings you back. At this point I whip out a pen for an exact quote because I know this is going to be gold. The brunette shakes her head, and the blonde friend, now ecstatic, surfs madly through her cell phone. From the way her toe twitches in the corner of my eye I can tell she is not excited about the probably less than 3G service she is getting in this building. She finds it and my pen is already hitting the paper.
"I've got the sex drive, but the spirit is putting the brakes on it. Can you believe that?"
This is funny. Partly because who writes that kind of stuff on facebook? Partly because I know a guy who would write that kind of stuff on facebook. I imagine this guy in my head, some bent and broad smiling ladies’ man, flaunting words to win over attention and facebook likes. At this point I'm dying to know who this guy is because the girls seem to be both amused and teeth-suckingly annoyed at what this guy is posting. But I can hardly lead there conversation and when a third friend joins them, they change subject pretty quickly. I'm left with a handful of questions and a strong desire to google this guy... not to mention an odd dislike for light brown boots.
"Did you know English classes go up to like... 4115?" she tells her friend and at this point the pamphlet becomes invisible. Mostly because there information is so wrong, as a 4210 student stands attested to, and I want to tell them how wrong they are. Then again, I’d hate to be rude. I glance over to them as they take their seat beside me in the hall. I later learn they're thirty minutes early for their film class. I’ve become very good at overhearing things, so I’m excited about what other incredibly incorrect comments they can spew out in that short time frame.
"I couldn't do that" the other girl groans, "can you imagine all that writing?"
And I'm thinking that they have no idea.
My eyes are still focusing on the pamphlet but I steal a few glances at the girl across the hall from me. This is the girl in the cowboy boots from earlier, brunette, blue jeans. I notice she has her purse clutched tightly to her side, the loops dangling off her shoulder but the bag pressed into her side as if forming into her. Her ankles form a compressed X. Her blonde friend takes a seat across the hall and pulls out her phone. She begins chatting about some guy I don't know and I’m disappointed in the abrupt change of conversation. I wonder if seeing Sturgis loom past the doorway of one of the classrooms deterred them, but a part of me thinks they might not even know who he is. I soon become bored with them. Aside from noting the slow drawl that lilts from the blonde girl's lips when she has to pronounce a short "a" sound, they're conversation becomes more background noise through a haze of learning.
"Did you hear what he said? Something about putting the brakes on sex."
I come back. Sex always brings you back. At this point I whip out a pen for an exact quote because I know this is going to be gold. The brunette shakes her head, and the blonde friend, now ecstatic, surfs madly through her cell phone. From the way her toe twitches in the corner of my eye I can tell she is not excited about the probably less than 3G service she is getting in this building. She finds it and my pen is already hitting the paper.
"I've got the sex drive, but the spirit is putting the brakes on it. Can you believe that?"
This is funny. Partly because who writes that kind of stuff on facebook? Partly because I know a guy who would write that kind of stuff on facebook. I imagine this guy in my head, some bent and broad smiling ladies’ man, flaunting words to win over attention and facebook likes. At this point I'm dying to know who this guy is because the girls seem to be both amused and teeth-suckingly annoyed at what this guy is posting. But I can hardly lead there conversation and when a third friend joins them, they change subject pretty quickly. I'm left with a handful of questions and a strong desire to google this guy... not to mention an odd dislike for light brown boots.
Classmate Response, Week 1, Entry 1
Response to Melissa's entry: Mawnkey.
Clever entry with a great beginning. Really amusing description of Francesco's actions, the sort of rolling motion that moves in his limbs and the bouncing dialogue create a very amusing opening for this piece. Where I begin to hit the fence is some of the description. I'd rather not suggest that less is more, but perhaps consider which details serve you best. For instance I almost felt the description of Andréa and his brother were unnecessary. I liked the detail of them working in their parents' wine shop, but these things do not come into detail later. It's hard as writers trying to balance enough detail with too much. Looking back on my own writing, I feel like whenever I slipped into character description, though often interesting it came off as amateurish. I feel like there are other ways to suggest character description without using a list. For next time, try weasling in those details bit by bit as the story goes.
I also suggest for future drafts, considering where this draft is headed. Perhaps consider ideas to focus on. We do a lot of bouncing between characters--mostly the three Italian boys. It seems like an interesting experience is happening here--you're in Italy, I know that's like "duh" on the interesting meter--but it's hard to focus on one thing to capture me as a reader when there is so much happening. One of the things I honed in on initially was the soccer scene. Especially the part about how girls don't play soccer. Really said something to me about cultural views on woman--of course, that could have stemmed from some of the debate we had earlier about the expected position of Japanese women once they marry. That aside, maybe this could be your next focus? I feel like you have a good first start. The next attempt should hone in on an idea and I feel like you can shave down on some of the unnecessary bouncing between topics.
Also, just a side note but your response to Andréa in this is just so aloof and amusing I did snicker a few times. Funny stuff.
Clever entry with a great beginning. Really amusing description of Francesco's actions, the sort of rolling motion that moves in his limbs and the bouncing dialogue create a very amusing opening for this piece. Where I begin to hit the fence is some of the description. I'd rather not suggest that less is more, but perhaps consider which details serve you best. For instance I almost felt the description of Andréa and his brother were unnecessary. I liked the detail of them working in their parents' wine shop, but these things do not come into detail later. It's hard as writers trying to balance enough detail with too much. Looking back on my own writing, I feel like whenever I slipped into character description, though often interesting it came off as amateurish. I feel like there are other ways to suggest character description without using a list. For next time, try weasling in those details bit by bit as the story goes.
I also suggest for future drafts, considering where this draft is headed. Perhaps consider ideas to focus on. We do a lot of bouncing between characters--mostly the three Italian boys. It seems like an interesting experience is happening here--you're in Italy, I know that's like "duh" on the interesting meter--but it's hard to focus on one thing to capture me as a reader when there is so much happening. One of the things I honed in on initially was the soccer scene. Especially the part about how girls don't play soccer. Really said something to me about cultural views on woman--of course, that could have stemmed from some of the debate we had earlier about the expected position of Japanese women once they marry. That aside, maybe this could be your next focus? I feel like you have a good first start. The next attempt should hone in on an idea and I feel like you can shave down on some of the unnecessary bouncing between topics.
Also, just a side note but your response to Andréa in this is just so aloof and amusing I did snicker a few times. Funny stuff.
Junkyard Quote Week 1, Entry 2
"On Your Mark, Get Ready, GO!!!!! Magic Dust Is Coming"
Mmkay. Well, I'm not going to lie, I literally copied those exclamation points as was shown in the article, which in and of itself was a wild one--but only from my perspective of course. Someone who is common to psychic articles might find this one quite tame, even boring in its brevity. It was an advertisement saying that all people were psychic and that even the "unconscious" would soon be able to tap into their skills. Eccentric thinking of psychic abilities as magic dust from the magic pot, sprinkling out on everyone in my opinion.
Mmkay. Well, I'm not going to lie, I literally copied those exclamation points as was shown in the article, which in and of itself was a wild one--but only from my perspective of course. Someone who is common to psychic articles might find this one quite tame, even boring in its brevity. It was an advertisement saying that all people were psychic and that even the "unconscious" would soon be able to tap into their skills. Eccentric thinking of psychic abilities as magic dust from the magic pot, sprinkling out on everyone in my opinion.
Oddity Week 1, Entry 1
It was one of the first things that hit me when I read the word, "oddity." I'm not surprised it has a relation to food. I am a food connoisseur after all and one of the things I love most about food is a variety of texture. So when I eat my sandwiches it might not be a far off idea that I like to eat them with chips. Not too much more of a stretch than that is that I like to eat those chips on my sandwich.
The best sandwiches to eat with chips are turkey sandwiches. Smoked turkey, a little mayo, glob of spicy brown mustard, cheese. Layer salty mounds of classic Lays and you get lunchtime genius. You can’t eat them on PB&J sandwiches. That kind of stick sweetness doesn’t deserve the pricked bite of potato chips. It has to be turkey.
When I eat one, I prefer to smash the entire sandwich in my fingers first, feel the crisp potatoes give way through the soft, cool slices of bread, softness not unlike pinching the edges of a new plush throw. It’s almost therapeutic hearing the sound of the chips crushing in my palm, like grinding grit on a smooth curb with the heel of your toe or pounding dead leaves into scraps. There really is no easier way to upgrade the taste of your sandwich. It brings both a crispness and a well-balanced saltiness to the sandwich, as well as a dry texture that compliments really well against the slick slide of mayo on your tongue, or the cool chew of turkey.
It’s weird but I’d suggest it to everyone. Even my sister eats her sandwiches this way now.
The best sandwiches to eat with chips are turkey sandwiches. Smoked turkey, a little mayo, glob of spicy brown mustard, cheese. Layer salty mounds of classic Lays and you get lunchtime genius. You can’t eat them on PB&J sandwiches. That kind of stick sweetness doesn’t deserve the pricked bite of potato chips. It has to be turkey.
When I eat one, I prefer to smash the entire sandwich in my fingers first, feel the crisp potatoes give way through the soft, cool slices of bread, softness not unlike pinching the edges of a new plush throw. It’s almost therapeutic hearing the sound of the chips crushing in my palm, like grinding grit on a smooth curb with the heel of your toe or pounding dead leaves into scraps. There really is no easier way to upgrade the taste of your sandwich. It brings both a crispness and a well-balanced saltiness to the sandwich, as well as a dry texture that compliments really well against the slick slide of mayo on your tongue, or the cool chew of turkey.
It’s weird but I’d suggest it to everyone. Even my sister eats her sandwiches this way now.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Introduction to Me
Hey guys, this is Diamond. I figured I'd have a little introduction here. Not much to say, however, I hope over time you guys will get to know me and that we can understand each other and grow together a little more in the future. I only have poems available so for an idea of how I work and operate visit my 3200 blog:
http://th3rabbith0le.blogspot.com/
Mmkay, thankiez guys. =)
http://th3rabbith0le.blogspot.com/
Mmkay, thankiez guys. =)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)