M 08-Dec Due: Response 6 – Expressive Work (creative)
and reply to one classmate’s entry — “intuitive reading.”
(Req’d / part of 10 points — post here.)
Optional: Reply to 1-2 others (~200 words) — extra credit
Due: (optional / e.c.) Response (500 words) to Lot 49 using Nine Gates Chp 7/9.
Due: Response 6 – Expressive Work (creative writing assignment) ~500 words
Compose a work of figural expression,
– using our logic (expression/affect), and using mode of indirection. Review our method (on blog).
Form = Experimental prose; fragments; figures.
In addition to any experimentation, employ at least one author’s technique (stylistic / “literary”), to express specific affect; (but a different affect than that expressed by the literature we’ve read).
Derive formal method from Pynchon, Stein, or Faulkner; (others? contact me).
In your work, toward figural expression, employ one of their techniques: e.g. fragmented text; vignettes; the use of particular and concrete figures, (but not their specific figures or their content); multiple perspectives; allusions; expressive language — heightened “concentration,” one or more “frequencies” (mixing board metaphor), deriving from visual arts and music.
– Alternative way of using readings toward composition: express a specific affect (subjective condition) that Hirshfield describes in chp. 7 or 9 (plus others?). See additional notes below.
Composition notes:
Audience: public – anticipate their “intuitive reading.”
Akin to “flash fiction” — some similar methodology, but without that genre’s emphasis on narrative.
Not “Prose Poem” (but perhaps “Poetic Prose”?); i.e.poetic technique in prose: expressive language, metonymy, metaphor, explicit/concrete imagery.
Not “creative non-fiction”; (i.e. not explicitly describing your experience, reflectively/retrospectively) — and yet likely personal relevance/knowledge.
Remember, “affect” is not our personal emotion/reaction…(review). We want to express a specific condition, the subjective dimension of experience — perhaps of life within particular socio-historical circumstances; not our emotional reaction, moral judgment, or ideological position about this condition.
Optional: Hypertext functions, (e.g.links, images, sounds) — composing for web, after all.
As for minimum “criteria,” present at least 1 figure that expresses affect; incorporate at least 1 text into composition.
Also required: reply to (at least) 1 classmate (150-200 words) with an “intuitive reading,” (i.e. using our class method).
More coming soon, if necessary (?).
– Alternative means for incorporating reading:
express a specific affect (subjective condition) that Hirshfield describes in chp. 7 or 9 (plus others?).
Simply: effectively convey this condition to readers, specifically through figures. (possibly choose if struggling to decide upon an affect to express…?)
Chp 7 — subjective condition (affect) of experiencing “the shadow” or “living with the lion,” for example.
JH: Artists “have consistently endeavored to look at what is difficult to see; to press, by means of both subject matter and new formal techniques, into the realms of sorrow, chaos, indeterminacy, anger; to seek out the places where madness and imagination meet” (Nine Gates 154).
Chp 9: subjective condition (affect) of “threshold” or “liminal” experience.
JH: “Speaking from the point of view of multiplicity, betweenness, and visitation, the writer can become a person in whom both individuality and community may ripen into true expression” (Nine Gates 205).
Review Nine Gates and notes about “the shadow” and “the threshold.”
The Modernist formal techniques of fragmentation and the vignette are so familiar to us, you might not recognize as “experimental”!
The fragment is most obviously the dominant form of of writing on the web — I hadn’t realized the substantial prevalence of the vignette until recently, though. This form manifests in (personal) blog entries; in YouTube clips; across social networks — consider the Facebook status / IM Away Message as the most hyper-condensed conjunction of the vignette-fragment! (expressing our figure logic of metonymy — about which much to muse later…).
So what is this “vignette” form? Or, as network-thinkers, we’ve all already “flash-researched” in blink-speed? (literally, with Wiki-search extension).
For our purposes, I indeed endorse WP’s entry, with its key distinctions.
Couldn’t find much better via Google, honestly, (where 12.7 million hits prove counterproductive).
Francis E. Kazernek writes, “What is a prose vignette? It is simply a brief description or short sketch or story. Think of an incident or a scene in a movie. Think of “Christmas as a Kid.” A vignette might tell of a particular life experience or it might simply describe something we see, hear, smell, touch, or taste” (27).
Source: “Moving from Storytelling to Writing Prose Vignettes.” Celebrating Language with Adult Literary Students: Lessons to Engage and Inspire. International Reading Association. 2008. PDF Link.
Alternatively, here’s an example “Vignette Assignment” (High School English teacher’s?)
As for “Allusion” and “Metonymy,” the Bedford Glossary of Literary Terms is apparently online now — authoritative, yet not entirely extensive.
By: Gary Hink on December 5, 2008
at 11:34 pm
So does anyone follow the Possibly related posts: (automatically generated) ??
OMG, I’m so proud of my place of employment!!!
Truly random this time…always so curious how WordPress generates: seemingly by “Tags,” but this time I’d deduce a connection with Lawgirl’s sentence: “The condition affects her speech as well.”
Strictly literally speaking, the “automatically generated” links are never “truly random,” but connected on some level: within WP’s algorithm. (Coincidence or connection, Oedipa?)
I’d be thrilled if someone took up this “method” of connection (between blog entries across sites), as inspiration (formal?) toward their expressive composition…
of course, this is the “Both/And” logic that I introduced/advocated: Both “randomly” associated and (yet) “connected” through similarity.
We all already have network minds, thus we don’t think anything of this?
By: Gary Hink on December 5, 2008
at 11:42 pm
There is a time of year when the leaves begin to change from bright greens to deep oranges and reds that are always so closely associated with the changing of the seasons. Soon the trees will make another transformation and will be bare. There seems to be a certain smell that accompanies this change. One that is hard to describe, but so easy to recognize once it reaches your nose. Something always triggers the senses at this time of year and brings about a certain feeling inside. The smell of the season includes things such as Christmas trees, pumpkin pies, and Grandma’s perfume. Without this stimulation of the senses, things just wouldn’t be the same.
Soon a glimpse of lights and ornaments adorning decorated Christmas trees will be able to be seen through windows of houses. Driveways are filled with cars and family members are greeted warmly at the door. It is only for this season that people can’t resist from traveling near and far to be with the ones they love. Families of all different shapes and sizes gather together. Dining room tables, TV trays, card tables, and food lines are filled with foods held so sacred that they are only brought out for this one occasion. Without someone considered family there, things just wouldn’t be the same.
Churches overflow with people. Wreaths with red bows are hung on the windows that look out to large oaks with only a few lingering leaves. Candles are lit before the service begins and offer a peaceful glow to the congregation. The front doors of the church open to offer a relief from the cold outside. Young and old join together in joyful celebration. Offering plates are so full that you can’t even hear a coin hit when it is dropped inside. It is during this time that best in people can be seen in faces and felt in hugs. Without the sound of singing, things just wouldn’t be the same.
Logs are cut and stacked perfectly in the yard and brought inside when fireplaces are lit. The living room lights are turned down and a classic holiday movie is turned on. Children line up in front of fireplaces warming their hands, while making sure they don’t get too close. Hallowed traditions are carried out ever so carefully, as new ones are begun. Everything must be done just so. Stockings are hung and dreidels are spun, always accompanied by smiles and laughter. Without the continuity that traditions bring, things just wouldn’t be the same.
The excitement of going to sleep on that certain eve can be felt throughout the city. Roads empty and stores close, everyone goes home. All anticipation is leading up to this one day. One day that seems to fly by too fast and then leads you into a new year and a new beginning and without this beginning, things just wouldn’t be the same.
Soon homes will empty and Christmas trees will be burned. Wrapping paper will fill garbage cans and left-overs will be eaten for a few more days. People return to jobs and return to schools. Then, there is a time of year when the bare trees begin to fill with bright colors of green that are always associated with the changing of the seasons.
By: jenlouise on December 7, 2008
at 3:33 pm
Lara
My dad explaining to the customs officials why we are visiting Thunder Bay. Him switching off Jet’s “Look What You’ve Done” that plays on the single radio station between the border and the town (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rjPb2HJl0Co). Twenty-seven degrees, snows banks, starless night sky, driving late on the dark windy road that is the last leg of the six hour drive to my Grandma’s house.
Peter
She looks bewildered when I turn off the song, but its melody is too heart wrenching when I am already in such a state. I just want to get there, give my mother a hug and be as supportive as I can be, and sleep a long sleep. I drive past the factory I worked at as a teenager after my dad lined me up with the job. At a long red light, I stare mindlessly at a middle-aged man wearing a hard hat and am reminded of my dad when he was the head of the Sheet Metal Workers Union. I drive past St. Patrick’s Church where my dad brought us as children each Sunday, until I lost interest in going. Just yesterday I visited the Holiest Acre at home before we left, even though I haven’t been religious for years. I don’t know if it is of any use, but at least it showed respect for my dad. I have to find comfort somewhere. I pull up in front of the house and park beside the other guest’s cars. The lamps light the house and I can see people talking to each other inside. The Christmas wreath is still on the door, but is turning brown and scraggly. There are bouquets and trays of food on the tables. My mother, pale, drawn, and makeup-less, greets us and hugs Lara as Lara bursts into tears.
Mari-Elena
The sky is gray with relentless snow clouds the next afternoon. I offer my favorite son, Peter, a sandwich, soup, or anything else that the kind neighbors sent over. I watch the cardinals peck at the bird seed in the feeder, and the crows eating the seed that is scattered on the snow. Sitting in the armchair, I could easily watch the birds for hours. Perhaps I should return some phone calls, or prepare lunch for Lara. I watch the birds chirping and feeding and the sky growing grayer as snow starts to fall. Some time later, maybe thirty minutes, maybe two hours, I leave my chair for the kitchen and make some hot Red River cereal and press coffee. Soon it will be time for everyone to sleep again. Maybe I will do some laundry. Without meaning to, I fall asleep on the couch with a soft down pillow and a warm blanket.
Lara
I couldn’t help but cry when I saw my Grandma. I can’t imagine what pain she must be in. She isn’t herself, though. Her sedation allows her to be a calm and supportive figure for the rest of the family. She appears nearly emotionless, putting her grief off for a later time. She doesn’t cry at the funeral. My dad and his siblings cry the most. It seems everyone grieves differently. My Grandma worries that I am cold at the burial, and puts her big, warm, gray, coat over my shoulders and now I blend in with the sky.
By: averytm on December 7, 2008
at 7:20 pm
The day has finally come. Thousands of crazed, rowdy fans begin to awake ready to cheer on their team not caring whether or not they lose their voices. Some slip into bright orange and blue while others put on wardrobes of crimson and white. The fans begin their decent down to the packed parking lots where their cars stay waiting. The engines begin to rev, and doors slam; the caravans of fans ready for the game of the century are on their way. The vehicles are full of passionate individuals of all ages, from the nursing new born to the elderly couple who has been married for fifty years. Decals and stickers of gators and elephants decorate the automobiles like war paint; the battle begins. Yelling can be heard from the depths of the cars and honking fills the air.
On the horizon the white, round roof of the Georgia Dome can be seen peeking out from behind the tall skyscrapers shimmering in the morning sunlight. The dome represents all that is the game. Where the history of the game will be made and where one will come out victorious, the other defeated. The lot of the Dome fills with vehicles stuffed with eager fans. The cars release their contents and the passengers spill out ready to route on the team they love. As the people begin to unload their vehicles, the smell start to find their way to the nostrils of the newcomers. The aroma of hamburgers, hotdogs and all things barbeque permeate the air and give an atmosphere of food and fun, but underneath it all is a thirst for a hard hitting game. There seems to be something strange about the people who are there. It is a sea of crimson with hints of orange and blue. There was a feeling of tension in the air, the orange and blue were outnumbered but not shaken.
The massive indoor stadium begins to fill. Players wearing crisp, clean uniforms stretch and warm up of the Astroturf field. The lonely seats begin to meet those who will be occupying them until the conclusion of the game. Fans shuffle down the tiny rows and drop into their seats. Sounds of the marching band fill the rafters and almost in unison hands are placed over hearts, the Star-Spangled Banner started to ring throughout. Hundreds of feet belonging to the band march off and a shrill whistle signals the start of the game. A kicker sets the ball on to the stand and with the swiftness like that of the wind; he kicks it to the brutes awaiting it and just like that it’s on. The two titans of the south clash and collide with forces unseen ever before. Through four quarters the big, burly players battle it out, fighting for every last yard and point. Time ticks away and the final push for the win looms nearer. The sweat drenched gator squad finally did it. They are force to be reckoned with in the south. The streamers of yellow, red, green, blue, and purple rained down from the roof and gators rejoice in their newly claimed title.
By: jjswank28 on December 7, 2008
at 10:45 pm
A young man turns a corner of a busy city street. Joining the crowd, he flows toward his destination. His dark jeans, new and unwashed, fit close to his body. He runs his hands along the sleeve of his arm pulling off a piece of lint. The jacket still smells stale from being confined to an unopened cardboard box in the back of his closet. The prickly wool is familiar against his neck. He passes a small coffee shop and breaks from the crowd in front of the door. As he scans the menu affixed to the glass with pieces of tape, a shiver runs down his back. Seeing nothing appealing from the menu, he turns his back to the store front and joins the crown again. New faces move with him as unfamiliar as before. His hands fumble with the smooth buttons along his chest. Not looking down, he manages to seal his torso from the brisk air pounding against his body. It is the first cold day of the season and it took him by surprise.
The temperature is nothing new. He was always accustomed to short, mild summers that led into long, cold winters. It was the wind, however, that made this different. He encountered it this morning as he was leaving his apartment. Locking the dark, wooden door behind him, he stepped onto the concrete stoop still protected by the walkway of his foyer. The street was less crowded than he expected. The few people walking past him carried a cup of coffee and the steam was visible as it radiated from the cup. The streetlights were still on from last night, but he could tell it would be any minute before they flashed off. As he turned onto his street, he was struck in the face by a cold gust of wind. It gained momentum as it whipped around the corners of the building. Each time it made contact with his skin, he felt a sting of pain. His entire body shook as the blistering current permeated through his clothes, as if he were wearing nothing at all. As he moved forward, he kept his face pointed toward the ground, as if this primitive form of a shield could block his skin from the air.
As the man veers to a smaller side street he sees a single tree along the sidewalk. It is small, not much taller than the man himself. Nothing like the huge oak he spent hours climbing on when he was a child. The small plot of land the tree resides in is sectioned of by a small metal fence. There is no grass where the tree sits, just dark dirt that is devoid of rocks. As he looks at the branches, he doesn’t see leaves, but a painter’s palette of color. Each leaf is a different shade of orange or yellow, one more vibrant than the next. The man can’t help but remember the mornings when he would watch the sunrise over the horizon. Sitting on his roof staring out along the dark fields, he would wait patiently each morning. As the sun crept over the distant fields, the color would begin to return to his life and signal a new beginning. Although he would love to admire this unexpected beauty, a quick glance at his watch signals it is time to go. Finding himself in the crowd once more, he can’t help but force a smile as he continues down the street, the wind still whipping him in the face.
By: ericgunther on December 7, 2008
at 10:47 pm
The use of language games and puns throughout the novel “The Crying Lot of 49” is very unusual and gives the feeling of chaos. For example, the odd character’s names are a play on words like the use of Oedipa which is much like the female form of “Oedipus” a subject of the Theban Cycle. Oedipa like Oedipus, has a mystery to solve that is related to her parentage and ends up figuring out most of the problem. Along with the main character’s first name Oedipa her last name “Maas” is a play on words. Maas sounds like the corrupted form of “mass” which means something that resists change according to Webster’s dictionary. Her last name gives the affect then as an active detective who wants to search for an answer but is reluctant and slow-moving towards her goal at the same time. For instance, at the end of the story Oedpia begins to stop caring as the mystery deepens immensely. Along with Oedipa, Pierce Inverarity’s name has an unusual play on words. His name sounds like “peers in variety” which describes his multiple identities that can be supported by Pierce’s use of many different land-holdings and voices throughout the novel.
In this novel language is the way through which the story is communicated, Pynchon has chose many puns, jokes and satires to create the feeling of unimportance of solving the mystery. Along with the names of Oedipa and Pierce, Mucho’s radio station spells “fuck” when the word is spelled in reverse, indicating another language game that is used to create the feeling of chaos and humor.
Throughout “The Crying Lot of 49” there is also the feeling of isolation felt through Oedipa. The drug culture plays a big role in the sense of isolation, both Dr. Hilarius and Marco desert Oedipa after becoming addicted. The world around her seems to be a world perpetually on drugs and conspiracies that leads to many illusions. The world to Oedipa seems new and exciting but also scary and dangerous. The drugs lead to the destruction of Oedipa’s marriage and cause Hilarius to go insane. Oedipa doesn’t realize she feels isolated and alone until the end of the novel, she is so caught up in the “search” that she doesn’t realize how she has isolated herself from her husband and social network.
A lot of the chaos found in the novel is tied to the idea of communication. One of the major symbols of order in the novel, Maxwell’s Demon, can not be operated because it requires a certain level of communication. For example, the letters in the novel, which should be clear and direct forms of communication, are ultimately meaningless. Oedipa gets a letter in the first chapter that is the first step in what may be nothing more than a big joke played on Oedipa. Along with the letters the mail-delivery group requires that each member mail a letter once a week even if they don’t have anything to say.
By: chell87 on December 7, 2008
at 10:58 pm
It was a beautiful house. A lawn covered in leaves, dark oak trees barreling over the dusty cars, and a small little lone pink flower surviving the fall weather thus far. In that house was a tall woman with short black hair, reminiscent of decades past, with little shades of grey peaking through. This woman was weathered but still had enough light in her eyes to make a dreary day seem perfect. Her name was Odessa.
Odessa lived for her and son, daughter, and dog. All three had grown up right in front of her. The dog, once a seemingly ferocious Jack Russel who could make a mess out of any black heal and pop on top of any cozy couch, now just lay nestled in Odessa’s lap. Both children had completed college and entered the same rough world she lived in now. Both were now on their way to becoming somewhat successful, no longer in need of their mother for guidance.
Odessa came from nothing. Both parents died at a young age. Her mother died at twelve from cancer, a disease at the time she could not understand, and her father died at age 15 from liver disease, in her mind she knew it was actually a drug overdose but no one ever had the heart to tell her. Surprisingly her two much older siblings turned into parent figures creating a makeshift family. Odessa lived a tough life rarely recognized by anyone. She came from a place where it seemed like no sunshine ever entered and no one person could relate to her. Her world was one of sadness but with hope, hardships but with reward, and tears followed with laughter.
Now all grown up, living in suburbia, U.S.A., with here little dog, with what seemed like was the rest of the world, she was living. Just living. She got through her day by working as a social worker. A job where there was little pays, little appreciation, but some satisfaction. Every so often she would take in a lost child, with hopes of helping turn their life around. Maybe someday, one of them would amount to something.
One typical night, with the moon filling what little of the sky that wasn’t already influenced by the bright lights of the shopping center, she was walking the dog. This was a duty that no husband, son, or daughter ever claimed. She found herself, like usually, on the same path she had always taken, with little variation depending on the amount of energy she wanted to expend. As she rounded the corner post light at the end of street, she noticed an unfamiliar car at the end of driveway. Upon approaching the front porch she heard a female voice, one that was vaguely familiar but indistinguishable through the door. As she entered into the light of the house she found a well dressed thirty-something woman speaking jokingly with her husband. This woman turned around and a wave of surprise and happiness was scene in their faces. Both Odessa and the woman began to cry. Both knew she had made it.
By: megben on December 7, 2008
at 11:05 pm
She waited for the day, and literally the hour. He came to the door with a bottle of wine and a smile that said a thousand words. The musty apartment was filled with bouquets of sunflowers and vanilla candles strategically placed around her living room. She did not hear him enter, even though the twenty-year-old apartment door creaked with each motion. She had her back to him, putting the finishing seasonings on the spaghetti she made for them. He placed his soft hands on her eyes for the ultimate surprise. Laughing, she turned to him with a loving smile and a kiss for hello.
The sauce, garlic, and bread left the vanilla candles in the dust with their engulfing smell and made the two lovers full of joy and food. It was 7 o’clock by the time they finished dinner when they both agreed to head to the party. Only a few more hours and their lives would change forever.
New York City around this time of year always made her feel different. She was excited, child-like, and even a bit mysterious at times. Before leaving, she grabbed her red, silk scarf and black, wool coat that he bought her just two weeks prior. They left by 7:30 and luckily made it to the party a quarter until 8 o’clock.
The greetings at the door were overwhelming, but gave her a sense of longing and importance that she thought he could only fill. They stayed by each other’s side throughout the night, sipping on white zinfadel and chatting with old and new friends. The American cheese and fruit danced around the room as the servers kindly offered each piece to every guest. She looked around the room and realized how beautiful and grateful she is to enjoy such fine things and places in life. She has never been happier right then and there, or so she thought.
He made her whole life full of love every day, she thought. Looking at him just made her happy. He had a stern face with sharp bone structure, but she thought he softened up every time he looked at her. Dark hair, green eyes, and a strong build made her feel safe. The clock was moving faster and she knew she had to make this moment last forever. He had different plans, though.
The party gathered in the street when they had thirty seconds left until the new year. With the snow falling around them, he looked at her and reached in his jacket pocket, feeling the blade of the sharp knife. While everyone was hugging and kissing at the turn of the New Year, he quickly pulled out his knife and stabbed her twice in the stomach. She shrieked with pain, but no one heard her cries. She fell to the ground asking him why and with a sick smug on his face, he walked away from her.
No one knew what happened that night. Their love was strong, or so others thought. She died in the street with the snow falling around her. 12 in the morning on a new year was supposed to be joyful, but took her to Heaven for unknown reasons. The blood stained the snow and left her friends shrieking with pain. Before her death, she thought she was his princess, his angel in fact, but now she is Jesus’ angel and that’s all she should’ve wanted anyway.
By: kjack on December 7, 2008
at 11:46 pm
A Chance Encounter
“Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with.”
– Mark Twain
Deirdra
I walked into the darkness of the theatre, and took my seat. Something drew me into that place, as if I were a sea turtle returning back to the shores of my birth. I could have walked right past this crumbling building along with everybody else, but I didn’t. That feeling was the first real thing I’d felt all week. I sit silently trying to figure out what part I play in this strange production of fate. Through the grime and the faded writing on my ticket I can barely make out the title of the play, “A Christmas Miracle.” Funny, I think to myself, that is exactly what this theatre needs. The only other people in the building are an old Hispanic couple. Despite the obvious holes and faded colors of their garments, they are dressed in what appears to be their Sunday best. They look content to be here. What am I doing in this place? Why was I even walking down this street notorious for bums, looters, and prostitutes? Surely my parents would think me insane. My stern father and overly proper mother. Oh, what mother would think of the stained seats and musty smell of this theatre? Sitting in the darkness near the peeling and cracked walls though, I do not feel disgust or fear, only self loathing. How had I let my life turn out as it is now? How could this unfortunate couple appear so happy?
Marah
Judas left her exactly a week ago today. How had she been so stupid? Now she’s broke and without any sort of future. We told her it was going to end this way, and of course, what little money he did leave her is probably being spent on drug paraphernalia seeing the way she looks lately. What is a mother supposed to do when a daughter can’t even help herself? Now she has run off, probably selling herself on the street by now. Maybe we should just let her go once and for all.
Judas
Walking through the darkness of the underpass I can’t help but stop to think of my good fortune. What an easy target she had been. A pretty innocent from a well-off family, desperate to find love. Perfect. She was so easy, so eager to trust, I almost feel bad. I have stolen a doll from a child. The appearance of wealth can do you wonders in this city, but of course, now it is more than simply an appearance.
Deirdra
This was the wrong play to watch, another version of “A Christmas Carol.” As I sit here watching Tiny Tim’s optimism, and the Cratchit family’s bond, I am like a terminally ill patient watching all of the patients around him get well, leave the hospital, and progress on with their lives. The curtains go down and I rise to leave my seat, disappearing into the shadow of the isle. Something a few seats down catches my eye. Looking over through the dim light, I see a small box moving ever so slightly. Cautiously approaching the box I peer inside and find a tiny ball of fur. It is a kitten, barely 6 weeks old, freezing and starving to death but seemingly satisfied to just be alive. We look into each other’s eyes, and the hopeful, strong, accepting eyes of the kitten meet mine. I cuddle the kitten into my jacket for warmth and leave the theatre entering the blinding sunlight outside.
By: stephdull on December 8, 2008
at 12:34 am
As I open the heavy grey doors and step into the lecture hall, the bleak atmosphere is apparent. I select my seat arbitrarily; every seat is as lively as jury duty. The roar of commotion is calmed by the shouting of the professor who was visibly agitated that his mere presence did not produce the same effect. The mundane colors of the wall added to the drear of the room—it was flattening; I felt as though I was melting into my chair. Minutes passed as the lecture began, though few took notice of the material; my own attention was divided between disgruntled groans and the clicking of cell-phone buttons. Words yawned out of the professor’s torpid mouth, grazing my ears but finding much more freedom and acceptance elsewhere behind me. I began to lose focus as the room faded into a familiar obscurity—colors blur and sounds become ambient noise.
There is a hangman drawing scribbled on the back of a chair in the row in front of me. A thin man was being hanged, with “ _ _ _ _ _ _” written beneath him. No letters were chosen correctly, and various incorrect letters were written off to the side. Someone must be terrible at this game. I scanned the picture once more. The hanged man seemed at ease. Though he died in a horrendous and prehistoric way, you would never know it from his nonchalant penciled-in graphite smile. I could tell why. The dead man had no worries, no trials, and no trifles. He was dead. Any struggle in his life was gone. Any pain he felt was gone. His troubles are gone. His limp body is a testament to his leisure and relaxation. Even as he hangs there, all of his weight is being supported by the obliging rope delicately laced around his lean neck. I surmised that his fate was consensual.
Glancing around…two, three, four empty chairs in my vicinity were in poor condition, their fabrics ripped, split at the seams where the fabric and plastic of the chairs at one time connected. Just like the hanged man, they too were dead. They looked as though in death they were grinning, open-mouthed, with their tongues of interior cushioning pointed directly towards the center of the room. They were proud, celebrating their victory; they cheered in death as they escaped their fate. They were no longer tied to the entity of the room. They had won. I can only guess that they did this to themselves, perhaps at one time feeling envious of the stick-man. But now they shared his vivacious destiny.
My vision is restored as class ends. The room re-emerges from blurred colors back into a clear, distinct hall. I take no solace as I exit the room. In two days I’ll return to relive the dismal scene; but in two days, the stick-man will still be dead, and the chairs will still be dead. But chemistry class lives on, as I live on.
By: aml2070scoma on December 8, 2008
at 1:38 am
The crisp winter night air of the mountainous country even to the tip of Morns de Selle reeks of Creole herbs and spices that cavort in brightly lit kitchens where the chatter and bustle of beautiful ebony women can be heard as they flutter around aroma filled dishes of rice and beans, legumes, and meats. Outside golden, mahogany, and sooty boys and girls prance to “Compas” music as little alabaster faces carrying cameras look on in amusement. The children are honored to be in the presence of ‘blan”, some shy away, others perform their best dances in hopes to impress these alluring and eminent people. The men gather around a large table to play a round of Dominos drinking rum and munching on sugarcane and mangoes in preparation for the meal ahead. At the table discussions of fleeing to countries like the U.S and Canada arise in hopes of escaping poverty or a better chance at life even if it means leaving the beautiful tropical island.
The older girls are on their way home from university, when they arrive they will flaunt their sophisticated French, intellect, European dress styles, and straightened hair. As they enter their humble homes the embarrassment they feel creeps through their brown faces. They greet family members and adults with a kiss on each cheek to display their respect and modesty. Within seconds everyone is inside the home to devour the meal that has been prepared and to engulf themselves in the stories that have been assembled by the altered young women.
It was now about nine o’clock in the evening the adults are now clustered around the now foreign girls. They tell stories of meeting and interacting with “blan” from France, the Americas, and Africa. A feeling of gratification overwhelms the parents as the dream of their children’s success is becoming more of a reality. For one mother, as soon as the gratification comes it leaves, leaving her with a strong sense of sorrow, that causes her to breakdown internally, but on the outside she is as content as the rest of the party. She looks around at her lowly surroundings, the people among her, and then her eyes glaze over her daughter. The tawny child she once knew is now an eerie yellow. Her once kinky hair is now straight and golden. She has not spoken the native language since she arrived, only French, and at times boasts English and Spanish. She wonders if her meager lifestyle is now not enough for her daughter. She wonders if she herself will not meet her daughter’s standards when her social status is heightened further. Across the room Jacqueline notices the intense gaze of her mother, and swiftly looks outside the window turning her attention to the stars, where she realizes their immense beauty for the first time. She wonders if they fight over which group of stars are the prettiest and brightest and concludes that they are all equally wondrous. She glances back at her mother, their eyes meet, and she quickly turns back to the stars admiring their beauty as a tear rolls down her cheek.
By: miamij on December 8, 2008
at 3:36 am
Each and every year, right around the time school starts in the Fall, a seed is planted in each and every fan as college football arrives. Wild speculation fills the minds of all, as the punditry of amateurs and professionals alike travel about through any medium available. Be it through word of mouth, television, or radio, talk of players, teams, schedules, intangibles, and fan fair, all are communicated in anticipation for the birth of a new season. While the feats of seasons past remain firm in the minds of many, even the most celebrated of teams share in relishing the tabula rasa that exists before the opening kickoff. Because now, at this precise moment, all statistics are at zero, a flat plane of equality is visible, and everyone knows it will be gone in just the blink of an eye. Once this instant ends, the seed bursts and begins its five or more month journey, its growth paralleling the successes and failures of their respective teams.
Flocks of supporters extend in every direction, forming ad hoc communities with which to prepare for the quickly approaching game. Despite the autonomy of each group, their motives remain the same, to water the seed within. Alumni come together to reminisce and continue the celebrated traditions that their predecessors instilled. New bonds are formed and old ones reinforced as fans celebrate their teams and socialize to pass the time. At last, a great migration takes place as the hordes of fans descend onto the massive concrete structure that houses their obsession.
Stadiums, packed like sardines, reach a fever pitch as the thousands and thousands of wild, screaming fans coalesce into two opposing bodies, mirroring the pair of brutish, armored teams that serve as the impetus for their frenzy. As play commences, demeanors ebb and flow, rapidly shifting as the clock ticks down towards an inevitable conclusion. With each docked second, the crowd’s interest rises, fear or hope can be seen in the eyes of each onlooker. Below, athletes, brimming with adrenaline, work till exhaustion to please the crowds. Their exertion is mocked by the opposing force, who taunts them despite their own bruised and battered state. The contest becomes one of mental attrition, and the team who yields least ends up on top. After the clock strikes zero, a final polarized feeling inhabits all in attendance. As they spill out of the stadium, celebration ensues for the victorious while the losing team’s forlorn fans walk away with their heads held low.
Week by week, the ritual of football returns in full force to college campuses throughout the country. In each instance, the hearts and minds of thousands of devoted supporters are captivated by the emotional rush that comes with each down. Their desire for the game is like a drug, pulling them up ever so high just to have it crash down and begin anew. And so like clockwork, the seeds of the masses transform into the flowery blooms whose appearance were held secret within until at last, as the teams depart the field after the final game, each seed’s full potential is visible in all. Some have flourished, while others remain brittle, dry, and plain. Regardless, this final visage of their experiences will soon wither away into dust, leaving no external hint as to the inevitable resurgence that will and must take place each year.
By: spencerphillips on December 8, 2008
at 9:52 am
^^ignore my first post, the paragraph spacing did not work, sorry!
The 1920s and the 1930s were definitive years for author Dorothy Parker as she clearly characterizes the roles of women in many of her works. Particularly in The Waltz, Parker conveys a sense of duplicity when presenting a contrast between her internal emotions and her objective actions. The premise of everyday life for women in this time period fuels her aggression. The dry humor expressed by Parker in The Waltz perfectly provides for enjoyable reading as well as insights into the seemingly vanquished lives of women in the early 20th century.
One of Parker’s specific stylistic techniques in The Waltz is her humorous submissive tone. Although it is confusing as the subjectivity of her thoughts contradict her actions, Parker is explicitly mocking the American way of life in the 1920s. She interprets the social outlets provided for enjoyment as an insult to her imagination and intelligence when she says, “Here I was, minding my own business, not doing a stitch of harm to any living soul. And then he comes into my life, to sue me for the favor of one memorable mazurka.” Women are just beginning to step out into the workplace and go beyond the confines of the “traditional” role as a wife, mother, and housekeeper. A dance, like a waltz, is inauthentic to these particular women. When Parker says, “It’s this constant rush, rush, rush, that’s the curse of American life,” she is reflecting on the passive treatment of women and projecting her anti-suburbia attitude. A dance is a form of forced confrontation that is inadequate to women like Parker, the rebels who refuse to comply with the network of society.
Parker’s complete subjective dimension is her execution of relating two different things to the reader. The poem begins and ends with the proper tone that a lady should use as a polite response. She displays the exact opposite of what she feels to her dance partner, who injures her in the process. However, throughout The Waltz, Parker succeeds at humiliating her dance partner in a scornful way by referring to him as “Jukes”, “Cannonball”, “Butch”, and “Double-Time Charlie.” In her sarcastic expression of the dance, she pities herself and her condition, “It (her name) stands for Despair, Bewilderment, Futility, Degradation, and Premeditated Murder… I am Outraged Womanhood.” Although she appears to be overdramatizing the event, she is satirically articulating her outlook on life.
Parker’s bitter attitude is a reflection of the abandonment women were traditionally exposed to. Men of this time are still the usual breadwinners of every household. The “flappers” of the twenties are frowned upon by older society. Parker is like these women because she steps out of the social norm by revealing her repressed frustration with the way women are expected to act. Even though she physically submits to the dance by going through the motions, Parker contradicts her actions mentally in her sarcastic and intuitive use of voice. She is more masculine than her piers, which adds to her view in The Waltz; a waste of her time. However, Parker never credits herself as one who deserves more praise or acknowledgment than any other. She is simply rejecting the social constraints that have been forced upon her. For some reason her actions comply with all that is asked of her, and it is her insights that are revolutionary for this time period.
By: katetyler on December 8, 2008
at 10:47 am
Literature is dead.
It’s life stolen by analytic license.
A breathing chest confined to restriction till movement is smothered away.
Movement of vibrance. Movement of subtlety. Movement no more. The action
smothered stricter with each new breath of word. Breath of word. Cursed word. Cursed word of intended revelation! Rather, word of construed—aimless– manipulation.
This breath you take from soul-vomit soaked pages. To send vibrations through your own vocal chords. To send words in the air that are not your own. Neither can they be of the words you’ve tended and pillaged. To send nameless words into the air, which do not serve beyond a placeholder. Skeletons not bodies. Shadows not figures. Zeros not ones. Digital verses analog. You dirty machine.
Rapists and murders of the flesh are sentenced to jail. Rapists and murderers of the soul serve a likewise fate. Your fate. Sealed within your own mind, excluded from the text you sought to dissect because you dissected it and not let it live. You killed it. A breathing chest, scalpel in hand, you plunged in to trace a y-incision. You peeled back the cover. Break apart its pages (with a snap you heard them crack!) Expose a beating heart. Ripped from context you hold the pounding text within the motor of your jail cell, your clenching fists, and await its faded rhythm. Without a sound it ceases. Without a word you proceed. Release its content, vibrations through the emptiness. Dissipate. The beating is gone. And now its vibrations, still ringing through the air, you swallow them and regurgitate them, send them in mutated form over your vocal chords, spit out words, which lack meaning and lead the lot into confusion.
Literature is dead. Must its breathing chest be so confined? It must. As long as clenched fists bear down upon it. It must. But to grasp it with open palm? A stage for dancers to prance about in self-expressing movement. Vibrations through the air, but not of audible incline. Their graceful, wistful prancing blessing you by a cool wave of breeze. The brushing past of another’s silk shirt sleeve. The intimacy of feeling another’s breath on your ear, in your heart, in your soul. It fills you. Your lungs become inflated. Your heart gains a new rhythm. Oxygen races through your veins, fills your heart and enriches your mind. Now you can speak. Now you can speak translated words.
Unlike speaking after a dissection, this is not manipulation. This is not regurgitation. This sensation is different. This sensation is true. It is a hand from another time reaching out to grab yours and as you grab back you are led down a path of loosely packed dirt, with the imprint of only one other soul. And as you walk, you jump to the pre-lain footprints to preserve the paths serenity. And as you retrace these pre-lain footprints, you leave your own behind. The words you speak are translated. But with smaller shoes you walk. The soul left before extends beyond your own, and through patterns of yours are the remains of a pre-existing pattern. You are reminiscent. You join the memory. Walk along this forest’s shaded path. Walk along in this quest to embrace.
By: jvacha88 on December 8, 2008
at 12:58 pm
In response to Jenna:
The figure that substantially stands out to me is the smell of the Christmas tree and the lit candles in the church full of people. These two figures jump out at me because they remind me of my own Christmas at home. The smell of the Christmas tree has always been a big part of my family’s Christmas because with our highly vaulted ceilings, we always manage to get over a 10 foot tree. The candles in the church are also a prominent figure because my Dad and I go to midnight mass every Christmas. You obviously have several figures in each paragraph, but these two I recognized the most due to my own personal life. When reading your response, I felt peace, joy, and the sense of being grateful for such a wonderful family. Even at the end where spring comes in, there is still happiness that life is good no matter what time of year it is. Seasons change, but our hearts should stay the same; blessed and thankful is the feeling of the season with Christmas.
(I really enjoyed it, Jenna!)
By: kjack on December 8, 2008
at 2:44 pm
In response to Megan…
One of the figures that stands out the most to me is the “lone pink flower.” I think that the flower is very meaningful as an insight into the main character Odessa in that she feels alone also now that her kids are all grown up and moved out and even her dog is getting old and probably won’t be around much longer. Like the flower surviving through the fall weather “thus far,” Odessa seems to be simply surviving through her loneliness, instead of thriving. From this figure and the rest of the story I interpreted an affect of loneliness and hardship but also strength and ultimately joy. It is very sad and lonely in the beginning because she has nobody left to be there with her and she had such a bad childhood, but also uplifting that she managed to get through it and raise her own children as well as making a difference in the lives of other children. The flower can be a symbol of her strength also because if stood up to the fall weather instead of wilting and dying like all of the rest of the flowers.Finally at the end there is also joy when the woman and Odessa meet. I interpreted this woman to be her daughter and Odessa “had made it” through the time without her daughter. At this part there are also references to light which can be a figure for the completeness and happiness she has now found again.
(It was very good..i liked it alot!)
By: stephdull on December 8, 2008
at 3:29 pm
To Kaley:
Your technique was very obvious to me throughout the reading. The colors were very significant because they allowed me to get a very bright and vivid picture of what you were describing. The figure that produced the most affect in my opinion was the description of the apartment. It gave the affect of excitement and romance, definately setting the tone for the rest of the story and especially the ending!
I found myself looking forward to what was going to happen as I read the story. The descriptions of everything helped with this. The party was also a prominent figure because it gives you the feeling that all is well and happy in the world. Then the ending ends up being a suprise.
(I really enjoyed it Kjack! Your roommates are silly, it was a great story!)
By: jenlouise on December 8, 2008
at 4:39 pm
In response to Eric:
The story that is told doesn’t take place over a long period of time but is still in fact very powerful. The one image that stands out to me the most is one of the lone tree standing on the plot of dark dirt and rocks. The colors of the leaves help convey a feeling of relief. The tree is like a breath of fresh air in a cold winter night. It is as if the orange and red leaves of the tree warm us from the bitter cold. The other image that stands out to me is of the man staring at the menu in the window. It is almost as if he is longing for something he can not have, a feeling of loneliness and gloom.
By: jjswank28 on December 8, 2008
at 7:38 pm
To Avery:
The figure that stands out to me the most is the Christmas wreath. I was reminded of the feeling I experienced as a child when the Christmas season was coming to an end. I never wanted to take down the decorations, because once we did that Christmas was officially over. The wreath, to me, expresses a feeling of nostalgia and the need to hold onto something after it was gone. Even though the wreath is dead, it doesn’t mean that what is symbolizes is and thus the need to keep it adorned on the door.
The red stoplight also stood out to me. The obvious literal connotation with a stoplight is when you encounter a red light you have to wait until you are instructed to go. In the context of this story the light expresses a desire to move on. After a loved one passes away it can be very hard to move on. This image expressed how it can be hard to “go” forward with your life after losing someone.
By: ericgunther on December 8, 2008
at 9:23 pm
To Eric-
To start with, I really enjoyed reading this because it was so descriptive that I could picture everything the man sees. One of the figures that stands out is the cup of steaming coffee that the people walking by are carrying. The protagonist is freezing in the wind and does not have a warm cup of coffee to comfort him, but he made the conscious decision not to purchase a cup just a few minutes before. He is aware of the comforts surrounding him, particularly those that are familiar, but he no longer partakes in what used to make him happy. This intuits an affect of sadness, but also makes the man seem a little pathetic because he could have very easily partaken in this simple comfort rather than leaving the coffee shop empty handed. Another figure is the small metal fence that sections off the single tree along the sidewalk. The fence is cold and confining, separating the man from his memories of happiness and hope and placing him at a distance. He is removed from this symbol of hope and color, contributing to the affect of loneliness and also of hopelessness. This piece is not entirely hopeless, however, because despite the lack of grass and the dark dirt surrounding the tree, the man still manages to admire the beautiful colors of the leaves.
By: averytm on December 9, 2008
at 12:10 am
In response to Jessica,
This may have been more confusing than anything we have read this semester (in a good way, haha). The figure I picked up on (one of the seven-thousand) was the pages of the book. They’re first described as “soul-vomit soaked” pages, indicating their importance to the speaker. If the speaker’s soul is vomited all over the pages, I can well imagine that the pages are of the utmost importance. The second sighting of the pages comes in the line: “Break apart its pages (with a snap you heard them crack!) Expose a beating heart.” In this instance, not only are the pages important, but they conceal a vital organ to sustaining life. And the “snap” heard when they are opened conveys their brittleness; the pages are the literal emotions of the authors. The affect expressed by these pages is vulnerability. To write books is to be vulnerable, because the words that one writes can be interpreted in any number of ways, possibly rendering the initial intent useless.
that’s what I got out of it, anyway.
By: aml2070scoma on December 9, 2008
at 1:59 am
I’m not sure who kjack’s first name is, I’m sorry.
But your response was very interesting!
Time and location seem to be strong figures in your piece. Its given importance in the first sentence “day, and literallly the hour” so the event has been long awaited. And as the apartment is vividly described as well as decorated with cheerful things, the long awaited day seems to gain not only importance, but a certain familiarity and intimacy. Time and location grow as a figure when repeated in “New York City” and “7:30.” Here time becomes associated with more feelings of cheer and familiarity. Time and location thus are figures expressing the joy of love and the fulness of living. Lastly, solidified as figures with thirty seconds till New Year in the street, time and location dramatically alter the mood, direction and emotion of this piece. Now time and location take on the sharpness of the knife and the emptiness of betrayal.
I thought the use of time and place developed quite nicely. It was a solid figure readers could be connected to in order for the author to wind them along the emotional roller coaster that is this work. I enjoyed it, good suspense!
By: jvacha88 on December 9, 2008
at 10:40 am
Just wanted to note quickly how great I’m finding this — not only the many wonderful figures, but all of the intuitive readings! I can’t help divert my attention from work and glance at most of these when they’re posted, (not exactly a “scholarly” practice, especially amidst finals/essays) — I will certainly read thoroughly and reply, albeit later this week, (so as the airlines tell us, “expect longer delays than usual,” particularly long for “Internet time”).
I’m inclined to report the success of this assignment/thread to my colleagues (in English!) who would otherwise call me naive/idealistic or outdated/irrelevant for teaching “humanities” skills….(not that I’ll show other readers, don’t worry; just a rhetorical point).
Keep checking back to see your classmates’ reading of your work, if you don’t receive email notifications about comments. And please remember to analyze an entry that has not been discussed yet, at least for this first round, so that everyone’s is read.
By: Gary Hink on December 9, 2008
at 11:08 am
In response to aml2070scoma :
While this bleak description of the routine and mundane has several vivid figures, the chairs stand out as producing a deep emotive response. The narrator’s own chair is uncomfortably warm, as it is contributing to his/her “melting”. Normally, a chair functions as a physical support, yet here it is described as serving the opposite purpose, repelling the user. Meanwhile, the empty chairs that are serving no immediate useful function are personified as being morbid suicidal creatures who emulate the perceived decision of the hangman. The functional in this piece are seen as inorganic, merely tools, while the useless, who have “died”, feel emotion and desire. This sarcastic celebration of the unnecessary is overtly pessimistic and produces an affect of spite and sets a dark tone. Additionally, the narrator’s focus on only the immediate surrounding area while keeping sensory stimuli from farther away blurred and incomprehensible, as with the colors of the wall, shows that he may be incapable of or has no desire to extend his/her perspective. We receive only a fragment of what we know must be within the setting of the text, effectively stifling the readers ability to perceive just and the narrator feels stifled by his surroundings.
By: spencerphillips on December 9, 2008
at 11:56 am
In response Spencer:
The figure that definitely stands out to me the most is the seed. Initially as just the beginning of football season, the “seed “ flourished throughout the story. I thought the affect was something of hopefulness and excitement. As the game and football season progressed the story became more and more detailed. Your use of language and your vivid descriptions add a lot to the affect of excitement and the building of the story. I also thought one of the figures was the clock. Repeatedly throughout the story I found that references to time and progression. This as seen many times throughout football games also add to the anticipation in your creative work.
I really loved the story and your ability to take something so relevant to our lives right now and form it into a well-written story. It made me want to go to a football game right now!
By: megben on December 9, 2008
at 1:16 pm
In response to Steph:
First and foremost, your piece was quite enjoyable. I loved the emotion and you did a great job in adopting Faulkner’s method. What stands out to me in this piece is social class, love, and money. The old, underprivileged Hispanic couples seem to be a figure as they represent happiness and love despite their somber situation. Deirdra expresses how money does not equate to happiness. She obviously comes from a privileged background, but the advantages she received did not seem to provide her with any type of fulfillment. In fact she seems to resent her privileged background. Overall I interpreted an affect of loneliness and longing. All of the characters in the piece are longing for something. Deirdra is longing for love, Marah is longing for Deirdra, and Judas is longing for a superior status in society. The kitten that Deirdra finds symbolizes the love that she has been yearning for. The audience gets the feeling that this kitten will help Deirdra get her life together, as the true companionship that this kitten might offer is what we assume she wants. The sunlight Deirdra faces as she exits the theater gives an affect of hope and symbolizes a new beginning so we can assume that there is a happy ending. Overall, it was a nice piece, good job!
By: miamij on December 9, 2008
at 2:06 pm
extra credit post 1: In response to aml2070scoma…
What stands out to me the most about this piece is definitely the colors and the very descriptive nature of the chairs and the hangman game. These images, instead of creating a feeling of sorrow that death normally would convey, to me, create an affect of perseverance and freedom. Instead of being the person “melting into the chair” as almost non-existence the hangman and he chair have reached peace by defying the monotony of the class and fining a better place in death. The colors and words used such as “gray” and “dreary” also set up the classroom as a vile place to be and it seems that the “dead” are actually more alive than the living in this case. Also, I loved it!! You did an amazing job expressing what it is like being in Chemistry class! I know I felt that way!
By: stephdull on December 9, 2008
at 2:49 pm
extra credit post 2: In response to JJ..
What I picked out the most from this was the sensory images and the feel they give to the piece. The smells of the food and all of sound etc combined creates an overwhelming affect but in a good way. It demonstrates the feelings of the fans that this is more than just a game; it is the whole experience that counts. Also the war images create an intense affect of rivalry and chivalry as well. The players are in an intense battle to be the best not only for their own glory but also for their loyal fans of all ages just like people go to war to protect their livelihood and families. All in all liked it and thought it captured the essence of such intense games such as the gator games! Good job!
By: stephdull on December 9, 2008
at 2:59 pm
To Jenna:
First, I would like to commend you on your work because I really liked this piece. It was marvelously descriptive, and very refreshing to read especially since we are getting closer and closer to Christmas. It is very stimulating and the picture you are painting is easy to see, hear, smell, and feel. It is difficult to pinpoint one specific figure as there are many possible figures. In this piece I sensed an affect of warmth and unity. However, it is difficult to pinpoint one specific figure as there are many possible figures. The colors stand out as they represent the different feelings and emotions. The bright greens, deep oranges and reds of the trees, scenery, etc. all seem to display wealth, not in money, but wealth in love, warmth, love and happiness. Good job.
By: miamij on December 9, 2008
at 3:54 pm
In response to Kaley
My roommate is a little confused as to why there was an audible “WHAT THE EFF?!” from my room. That ending definitely took me by surprise.
I really liked the foreshadowing that led up to the ending. The “ultimate surprise” and “a few more hours until their lives changed forever” hinted that something big was coming. By the tone of your response, I definitely expected an engagement.
I liked the image of the apartment in the beginning of the responses. The way you described created feelings of comfort and serenity. This was interesting because the way you ended the story was completely different. It showed that things may not always be what they seem.
Great job!
By: ericgunther on December 9, 2008
at 3:57 pm
In response to Spencer:
While there were not many figures in the story, the overall metaphor about the seeds was very clever and also very fitting. The progression of the seed and how well it does throughout the season is directly linked to how well the team does on the football field. The image that sticks out in my mind is the one of the two different flowers that could emerge depending on the type of season that had unfolded. I can picture both a colorful plant full of life and potential, but also one that is dry and ready to wither and die. Depending on what flower you “become” you could have one of two affects. The flower that is dying conveys a feeling of defeat and weakness. It can become one of inefficiency and failure that permeates throughout those who had faith in that team. The flower that is alive and thriving brings along with it a different kind of affect and feeling. The feeling derived from this flower is one of victory and accomplishment. An emotion of being able to do what you have set out to do fill the body. It is funny how the same situation can produce such varying affects.
By: jjswank28 on December 9, 2008
at 3:59 pm
To Chris:
I really enjoyed your response and it was especially fitting to this audience. I think we have all been stuck in a class before as boring as the one you described.
I thought the use of Hangman as an image was great. With a literal meaning, Hangman is usually something you do when you are bored. It is something that can easily be played in class to pass the time. What the image expresses, however, is a feeling of dread and despair. The class was draining the life from the student. I think it was actually humorous that you picked an image that was so blatantly about death and related it t your story.
Good job.
By: ericgunther on December 9, 2008
at 4:04 pm
To Jessica
Wow. This is really good; it is reminiscent of literary works we have read throughout the semester. Overall, I sensed some anger, anger towards those who scrutinize, and analyze literature which I got from the line that reads “the text you sought to dissect because you dissected it and not let it live. You killed it.” The soaked pages stand out as a figure as they represent literature, but most importantly something that is tampered, hurt, and has loss worth. It seems that you are saying that analyzing something like literature that is very personal and beautiful takes away from it and ultimately kills it. All in all, it seems like a plea for literature, and individuality and I think it’s wonderful.
By: miamij on December 9, 2008
at 4:31 pm
Jacqueline, this is a touching piece. It was really well thought out and developed. I really enjoyed reading it.
Color is an interesting and expressive figure choice. Color in this work seems synnonomous with the self. Not the physical self, but one’s emotions, past, character and the like. The fact that individuals can identify colors by appearance, yet have different interpritations of the mood expressed seems fitting to the experience you’re describing. Also, colors can be effected by surrounding colors (for example the color wheel) and putting certain colors together can smother ones true radience over another (so its important to stay true to one’s self). It seems fitting since people have an exterior appearance that can be effected by their surroundings even though their roots and foundation are always the same. So the part at the end with the mom, its like the one person who has the lighting right and knows your true hue. That’s what I got from it anyway. (I’m close to my mom.) Color also seems an effective figure as it can so vividly depict emotion; its common to hear colors associated with emotion, like red and passion. So color was a wise choice☺ It was awesome when you mentioned “ebony”, “golden”, “mahogany” and even “tropical Island.” They cast images of bold, rich and luxurious colors. So a sense of pride, respect and reverence can be gathered, and applied to one’s origins. It’s also interesting that, though very precious materials, ebony, gold and mahogany are used to make other things like jewelry and fine furniture. This is where the college girls coming back to their “humble homes” and parents who “dream of their children’s success” becomes interesting. It’s as if the girls roots makes them a “precious material” and their pursuit of education and independent life has given them their “precious form.”
Overall, I got the sense that this scene is a part of the self-discovery process involved in breaking away, in a respectful way, and gaining independence. This derived from color as a figure expressing the different shades a person can appear, while knowing all along they are one color. A person can have many stages and temporary traits, but their personality and roots are solid.
There were a lot of powerful details.
By: jvacha88 on December 9, 2008
at 6:17 pm
I forgot to label the one above for extra credit
By: jvacha88 on December 9, 2008
at 6:17 pm
To Eric for Extra Credit #1:
First of all, excellent story. I was engaged and completely interested in this man’s journey through the cold, windy city. The figure that I found was the tree because it brought the man a sense of life with the brightly colored leaves even though it was a measly tree compared to the big oak he used to climb. I personally find that ironic that he would find such beauty in the colors and the stout tree because one might think a greater beauty would be a grand oak tree. I felt a great sense of hope and optimism within this man. Even though it was cold and the wind whipped his face sharply, he left with a smile and the contentment of knowing that there is always a new beginning in life.
Great job, Eric!
By: kjack on December 10, 2008
at 12:14 am
To Steph for Extra Credit #2:
Your work is amazing. I could feel every emotion from each charcter, but obviously moreso in Deidra. I found the play itself, “A Christmas Miracle,” to be an ironic figure for Deidra. She obviously is distraught and pessimistic about her life. Being drawn into a broken down theater with a “happy-go-lucky” Hispanic couple while watching “A Christmas Miracle” is completely contradicting of her own life. Deidra, being in the higher class society herself, is naive and broken. At the end, however, another great figure appears that reminds me of another social class distinction. The kitten, being starved and shivering is homeless, yet Deidra immediately finds hopes and renewal and hopefully, help for a new life. Great job using Faulkner and the quote from Mark Twain was an excellent touch. I enjoyed this very much!
By: kjack on December 10, 2008
at 12:25 am
To Kaley for Extra credit 1:
This was a really surprising story! I thought the couple was going to get engaged because I noticed how you kept hinting at something, and I took it to mean that the woman thought she was the happiest she would ever be because she was about to b even happier. I really liked the twist. One of the figures that stood out to me was the vanilla candles placed strategically throughout the room. Evidently, the woman is trying to make the room very romantic and special for her lover. The scent of the candles intuits an affect of comfort and romance, and looking at this after finishing the story, it intuits an affect of sadness. The poor woman was really in love with this man and tried to please him and make him happy. Another figure was the description of the woman having her back to him as he comes into the house. After finishing the story this is just creepy. Her murderer is sneaking into the house and she doesn’t even know he is behind her! Maybe he was even considering killing her right then.
Good job!
By: averytm on December 10, 2008
at 10:53 am
To Jacqueline for extra credit 2:
I really enjoyed your descriptions because they brought everything to life. One prominent figure was the rum, sugarcane, and mangoes that the men munch on as they await the big meal. This combination of a strong, tropical drink with sweet fruit is very appealing. This creates an affect of lightheartedness and enjoyment. The description of the once “tawny” daughter as having become an “eerie yellow” also resonates. The daughter has become something foreign which the mother cannot identify with. Yellow is not a comforting color; I think “eerie” is a really good way of describing it. The daughter is intimidating because she is becoming a part of a higher social class and the mother cannot relate. This is sad because the girl is moving on and leaving her familiar roots behind, including her beloved family, for a better, more sophisticated life. The mother is obviously having a difficult time adjusting to this idea.
Great job, I really enjoyed it!
By: averytm on December 10, 2008
at 11:09 am
Extra Credit 1 In response to JJ:
What stuck out to me the most was your vivid use of language. Your ability to recognize all of the senses made the story even more exciting. It is amazing how even the distinct aroma of certain foods can lead to specific memories. The amount of detail used down to blowing the whistle at the beginning of the game added to the intensity. It is amazing to me that a football game is more that just athleticism… it is the entire environment that surrounds it. It really liked your creative story!!
By: megben on December 10, 2008
at 1:14 pm
Process Memo: I hope this response is highly identifiable to “The Waltz” by Dorothy Parker. I tried to relate my style to hers directly by using a satirical tone and dry humor. Like Parker, I wanted to convey insight into a deeper concern that I have covered with a submissive attitude in this response. I am loosely relating an event in my own life with this story I have created.
The contents are not directly correlated to my life, so I had fun creating a story. I found that attempting to imitate her style was not has difficult as I had imagined. Perhaps this sheds light on the way I sometimes actually think! However, I did have to read over her poem many times to really improve my effective understanding.
“Of course! Seriously, it’s no problem at all. I can probably get to the dry cleaners and the florist across town before my exam at noon. Mind? No, I’d be happy to do it. ”
Does she mean the florist across town or the florist that is technically in the next town over? Is she really serious this time? I am almost at my last straw here. That place is so far away I’d have to go back to my apartment first in order to MapQuest where it is. I honestly think she is hallucinating over who she thinks she is. She is the Queen Almighty and I am her slave. Great, things really couldn’t get much worse at this point. Oh, except for the fact that I have a test in forty minutes. Seriously, it’s no problem at all.
How did I even end up here? It’s embarrassing to admit that I really signed up for the crap. I actually filled out an application and practically begged to be on the committee for this stupid pageant. I even provided her ways to prove how I though I could make it better! I must have been really out of it that day. Or perhaps, I was just following the heard of other students with all this “getting involved” business. Why isn’t schoolwork enough? It’s not, and it never will be. I have to go “above and beyond” the adequate requirement provided by society: Make good grades and get a job. What about those of us who don’t want to go above and beyond? What happens to us? We get screwed. No one tells you beforehand that you’ll need to have an outstanding resume in addition to your 3.95 GPA. I need extracurricular activities in order to prove I’m a diligent student. Why can’t anyone see that I have proved myself diligent, I’m getting an A in chemistry this semester for heaven’s sake. I am not lazy. Tired, yes. But I’m definitely not lazy. I’m tired of her daily “major crisis” resulting in an emergency phone call to me to take care of it. “Sure”, I’ll always say. Because it’s not like I have my own problems to deal with. My day consists of running around town for this awful girl and finding some time to study for finals in between. I don’t have to wonder what she does all day. Her idea of “picking out colors” and “prepping the contestants” translates precisely to hanging out with her dumb boyfriend and going to the mall with her other mindless friends.
“Flier? No I have never done it. Well, I mean, I have that project due – Sorry? Oh, yeah, I guess I could do it for a little while. Sure, no problem.”
Fliering? Fliering!? That’s it. I’m done. I am livid. She has struck the very core of my soul. The one honest-to-God thing I cannot stand are the people who flier every damn day on the colonnade. First of all, what a waste of paper! Some seriously nice trees have been cut down in an endangered rainforest somewhere so you can thrust that piece of meaningless paper into my already busy hands. This paper could go to schools in third world countries that really need it. Secondly, there is no possible way I can become one of those people. I absolutely cannot stand out there and perform an act I hate seeing done everyday. I can’t be that person because I make a game out of dodging that person on my way to class! I understand that there are thousands of people on campus who all want to promote their particular club, organization, fundraiser, and event. But, I can’t be one of those people who stand alone handing out fliers only to see them land on the floor or end up in the trash. I want to shake the hands of those students who toss them in the trash, because the others are littering! Fliering promotes littering and global warming and that’s the end of that story. Students don’t have time to stop and chat about pageants on their way to class, just like I don’t have time to be the absolute hypocrite who begs for their attention. Listen up, spawn of Satan, I will not flier.
I was under the impression that attending an institution of higher learning would simply require me to work hard by studying and doing lots of class work. If this is what I have to do to “expand my resume” and “become a better student” then I would rather be struck down by lightning. Does she honestly think I can provide insight on which pair of stripper shoes is going to look better on the contestants for their introduction dance? She must be kidding. Oh, no. She’s really not.
“Definitely the pair on the left, those are so cute. Red is the new pink.”
Red is the new pink? I am officially delirious.
By: katetyler on December 10, 2008
at 6:30 pm
You can find Michelle’s entry here.
By: Gary Hink on December 10, 2008
at 7:14 pm