Review on Stephen Corey's Experiencing

Art, Beauty, Body. Stephen Corey provides an interesting perspective on these three elements in his short piece. The vivid descriptions are noteworthy in this piece, but it is how the author ties his descriptions with his thoughts and reflections that make his message profound. In my opinion--I might be wrong--the message the author is trying to portray may be how humans are hardwired to appreciate beauty, based on his closing paragraph. That there is a natural amusement or awe within us when we see beauty, even if the beauty stems from something unknown. Corey's writing is simple and concise and well balanced in specificity to help readers generate a picture of his words. A story written by a grandfather observing what his grandchild observed. That is the beauty within his art as it comes from everyday life.

The Ricebowl Continues...

Because when one page is finished, another page unfolds...

House by Tracy Kidder (Profile Reading)

Tracy Kidder's House is a short but concise tale about the daily life and routine of a carpenter in Apple Corps, and also the ways they deal with imperfection. A noteworthy mention for this piece is Kidder's attention to detail and dialogue. Kidder selects specific details that bear meaning to his subject and uses short dialogues to make the reading more dynamic. A good example would be the cat's paw, which he writes:

Each carpenter owns a short handed crowbar with a rounded claw known as the cat's claw...

"What would a carpenter do without a cat's paw, Ned?"

"Buy one," Ned replies

None of them carries his cat's paw, but each knows where it is. If he makes a mistake, he has to get the tool

The details that Kidder emphasizes doesn't just describe the scene, but sought to tell readers a little about the people that is being mentioned in his piece--how the carpenters aren't pessimistic but still aware that errors occur. In addition, the short and well placed dialogues that Kidder employs also gives flesh to the characters. Dialogues create a sort of intimacy that makes readers feel like their reading a conversation. In this piece, Kidder includes the casual, raw dialogues of carpenters, which is ideal to get readers to feel the rhythm of the job.

This piece, in my opinion, has helped me understand how writing is about being selective of details. Everything has to play a part or make sense in the grand scheme of things. If Kidder highlighted every random description and dialogue that had no relation to the plot, readers would not have learned anything or feel the mixed-uppedness of wanting things to be perfect, but at the same time acknowledging that mistakes happen. An, I think Kidder does a great job in showing that through his descriptions and dialogue.  

 

APE Inspired Essay-My Father and I

My father is not my brother. In fact, I never had a brother before, but I imagined—if I did—he would agree that my father and I were total opposites. My father is a quiet man, I am a chatterbox.

We both have the same dark brown eyes, same round head, same black hair. I imagined that when he was younger, we looked alike. But, he is slightly taller than I am, hands more callous, and grey strands have started to appear on his head. 

He often says i’m wasting food, judging by the amount of scraps left on my plate. His plate was always clean.

My father prefers to be still, I prefer to move around. It didn’t matter if I was going to see my friends or make a quick trip to buy some food, he was always irritated when I tell him i’m leaving.

He loves to buy imitations—watches, bags, electronics—not because he was cheap, but because he thought all the real branded stuff were unnecessarily overpriced. Sometimes, I detest his behavior to buy fakes. For my 17th birthday, he gave me an analog watch as a gift—an imitation. He said the watch was just as durable as the real one, said the glass was impervious to scratches and cracks. A week later the first scratch, then a crack rooted its way through the glass three months later.

He hates waiting. He always says, “I don’t like to wait for people, and I don’t like people waiting for me,” although there have been countless times he left me waiting for an hour after school. And that’s another thing about my dad: He hates to be wrong.

I admit it hurts to be wrong, to have your values and actions scrutinized, but when you are wrong; the best you can do is to apologize, swallow your pride, and shy away. But my father hated the idea of being wrong. It showed weakness. And so, he convinced himself that he could never be subjected to error. I always sought to expose his errors.

Sometimes he sees my tears, but turns away instead of laying his arms around my shoulders. He cries too. In silence. 

We both love watching movies, especially comedies. And when my dad laughs, he emits a distinctive loud high-pitched sound, that resonates around the room. His laugh is so infectious that I find myself laughing with him even if I don’t get the joke.  

My father is not my brother. Sometimes I ask myself what does “Father and Son” mean? Would we be better off more similar than different?

My mother showed me a picture of my dad holding a baby. His arms tenderly wrapping the child’s fragile frame. My father looked calm and delighted as oppose to how stern he looks these days. That child was me. I realized he loves me because I’m his son, his flesh and blood, his imitation, but I am not sure why I love him. I wonder if he has loved me less since the day that picture was taken.

The Words of Six Work Postcards

The Selection

At first, I wondered why Taylor said "it was difficult to find a common theme within all the different stories in Short Takes," but I soon discovered some truth to what she said. Nevertheless, after some arduous searching, I've found three picks that relate to each other both thematically and structurally. These selections are Lawrence Sutin's Six Postcards, Joe Mackall's Words of My Youth, and Kim Barnes Work.   

Theme

The unifying theme that is present in all these short stories is Youth and Maturity.

Mackall's piece is a recount of a moment of his life--young and unrefined--spewing words that he innocently does not fully grasp the meaning, but says it anyways without concern for the consequences. He makes mistakes, and in one account, Mackall was punched in the face for calling the "kid-man's" girlfriend a "dyke." This was a reality check for the author, and he begins to realize the faults of his words, but  concludes that these words naturally come along just like any other typical occurrences. 

Six Postcards is a retelling of Sutin's life accounts growing up. Sutin write about his journey as a boy to fatherhood. He recalls the growing pains with his father, and the feeling of being a father himself--full circle. He talks about the things he observed such as summer girls, and the lessons he learned like the bittersweet moments of taking care a child. 

Kim Barnes talks about the work she has done from her youth to adulthood. The story also focuses on the change of perspective on gender roles. She writes about her mother and her acknowledgement that she is of the submissive sex. On the contrary, in the last section, Barnes is seen in a role reversal as she is a strong woman who chops wood to earn some income for the family.

In my opinion, an important note in nonfiction is the theme. Writing can take many forms, styles and genres; but the most important thing is the central message to the readers. "What's important in this piece and why is this important to the reader" is a question writers should always ask when writing. It provides direction, and not a regurgitation of life accounts that do not add up.

Structure

In terms of structure, all the selected pieces are memoirs of the author. A memoir is a unique form of writing that is used in nonfiction. Unlike an autobiography, a memoir only covers certain portions of the author's life. It is a has a specific focus and seeks to implicitly/explicitly shared the experience and knowledge gained that has changed the author's perspective in life. 

These pieces also incorporate paragraph breaks--either by adding sub-titles or numbers. This is to signify a transition to a different segment of the author's life, a different lesson to be told. This method also compliments the memoir style as it only focuses on the experiences that matter--as opposed to an autobiography that seeks to reveal every chronological detail. 

In nonfiction, it is important to focus on what's important. Memoirs, as mentioned earlier, is a selection of crucial life-changing events that tell something about the writer and delivers a message to readers. I sometimes find myself inclined to write as many details as possible in my stories, trying to draw the scene as vivid as possible, but not every detail mattered. That crooked nail protruding from the wall would not be of importance to a story about an abusive father beating a child unless it had a purpose. Nonfiction. There is purpose, something to be told in nonfiction.

As Sutin writes: "The names and facts of my life as names and facts are insignificant...All I know is of these things or states and how they made me feel. That would be truth in this book." 

This Too Is Life by Lu Hsun

In his last months before death, Lu Hsun, a man considered by many to be the greatest modern Chinese writer, decides to use the remainder of his life to write two essays that reflect the mortality of a dying man. One of these essays is called This Too Is Life. 

Lu Hsun's essay may not be the easiest of readings. According to the Art of the Personal Essay, the piece incorporates classical Chinese technique which means nothing is straightforward. One of the intriguing aspects of this piece, as a whole, is its formlessness. It is as if Hsun had written his essay simply based on his thoughts, without a clear direction to steer the readers, talking about many themes on life such as illness, exhaustion, comfort. But, despite the lack of coherence between ideas, the essay still manages to convey a couple of key messages to readers--one that comes from the perspective of a dying man.

I particularly enjoyed reading Hsun's odd metaphor in his first passage on tiredness and relaxation. 

"I used often to boast that I did not know what it was to be tired. In front of my desk there is a swivel-chair, and sitting there to write or read carefully was work; beside it there is a wicker reclining chair, and lying there to chat or skim through the papers was rest. I found no great difference between the two, and often boasted of the fact. Now I know my mistake. I found little difference because I was never tired, because I never did any manual labor."

This metaphor, in my opinion is a careful observation of life. People, in general, don't really pay much attention to the comfort level of different types of chairs. It is the privilege of the privilege. And, this opens up to a wider context that only those who have endured suffering and pain, as Hsun encounters in illness, are able to distinguish the differences between the comfort of relaxation and the fearfulness of exhaustion in life, which I think this metaphor and later passages clearly show. 

I was really intrigued when I read the third passage. Hsun had succumbed to an illness, which led him to lose desire to do anything. He writes "I did not brood over death, but neither did I feel alive. This, known as 'the absence of all desire,' is the first step towards death." This sentence is effective because it clearly explains to readers the author's state of mind through the use of contrast. It is also interesting how the second sentence contradicts the first. Although the author did not think deeply toward death, he was, in a way, headed toward death because of his lack of will.The author, in his own mortality, understood that when a person begins to lose the will to live, he starts to die, although he is physically alive.    

The main message Hsun was trying to convey was how life is about looking at things as a whole and not as individual parts. He does this by saying "we notice rare blossoms, not the branches and leaves." This metaphor is simple yet thought provoking. Through the use of clever rhetoric and literary devices, the sentence critics and questions the logic of how we view life as only highlighting the high moments and disregarding the smaller, minor moments that led to that event. We need both parts, the good and bad times in life, to define who we are as a whole.

What is also interesting is the analogy in the next paragraph, which he uses to as an example of failing to look at life as a whole. He employs the fable of the blind man and the elephant. Due to the lack of sight, the blind man mistakes the elephant's foot for a pillar, implying how misleading our lives can be if the person doesn't look at the whole. One of the features of non-fiction is to be resourceful with your stories. Interpretations aside, this paragraph displays Hsun's resourcefulness in incorporating a fable, which originated from India, to spice up his essay.  

Trains to Womanhood

(In a Hunger Games manner) If I had to choose two essays as tribute, I would choose Danielle Daugherty's Innocence to Womanhood and Paul Zimmer's The Trains. I think two essays go well with one another as both these essays tend highlight the author's struggle with certain things in their lives. Danielle, on one hand is searching for inner femininity, of being a woman, while Zimmer is trying to regain the reality he never had. Both essays make good use of simple, concise sentences; let their propel the story; and portray a lot of personal reflections tied to key events of their lives--they try to make sense of things. They're both mixed up, and within their reflections they tend to bring up questions that motivate readers to think as well

What was I thinking? Why do I sit at my writing table at a time like this? (Zimmer)
What does it mean to be a woman? (Daugherty)

The raw emotions and solemn tone-- by using simple,non-extravagant words--makes these two essays a relatable read when pondering about life and struggles.

Onions of Relatibility

What does it mean to be relatable--and why is there a red line when I type this word? Rebecca Onion's article The Awful Emptiness of Relatable poses a thought provoking questions on the nature of relatability and how the present day society(college students) was using the term "relatable" as a default to avoid deeper, more meaningful analysis toward a subject.

"Relatable" is in the eye of the beholder, but its very nature is to present itself as universal. It is shorthand that masquerades as description. Without knowing why you find something "relatable," I know nothing about you or it.

When I think about this passage, the term "empathy" comes to mind. Empathy is defined as the ability to understand and share the feelings to another. To feel "relatable" toward something, we first need to have the ability understand--we relate to something based on the similarity of experience. But even if we experience something similarly, our perspectives and outcomes that we take from that experience are different. Everyone has experienced failure, failure is relatable, but to what extent we feel failure seeping into our souls is entirely subjective.

And when we find something unrelatable, we become curious to make it "relatable." When did "relatable" begin its reign?  A curious question from the author, and I agree that the word has been used too often to silence further opinions on a matter. The phrase "Oh, yeah I find that relatable!" automatically assumes there is no need for further explanation. Shutting out all opportunities of learning something. Are we just too lazy/afraid to speak our opinions?

Although the article seeks to expose the flaw of the term "relatable," I find the article, as a whole, delightfully informative and ironically "relatable." It all depends on the usage, and even if we find something relatable, just like fingerprints, there is always a distinction, always a glint of individuality that is worth mentioning, always, because no two minds think alike. To what extent are we "relatable?"

Listen:

               In my opinion, the segment that best portrays Rebecca Solnit's concept of intertwined lives, and how we are defined by of others around us, is best described in the first Ice chapter. In this section, the story of Frankenstein and the abomination he created is retold, but instead of just retelling a story, Solnit performs surgery and dissects the author's life to show readers how different consequences are embedded in creating this horror/psychological classic. Just like how the monster's self was a consequence of Frankenstein's rejection and irresponsibility, the author, Mary Shelley, and her defined 'self'' is a consequence of others in her live--her father, her mother, her husband, her dead children.  

Mary was often called as "cold" because she was reserve, and she even said so herself. But, Solnit shows us a different way of "telling" the story: Mary was the mother of dead children, Mary was the wife of a pleasure-loving husband, Mary was the cast-off of her father, Mary was the death of her mother. Who she was, was influenced  by the people around her, and the people around those people. And, out of all that came the inspiration for the novel Frankenstein and the monster. A monster, the embodiment of Mary's loneliness,her father's irresponsibility, her dead children, and husband's neglect. There are other ways of telling.     

Argh!!

Let the arrow of ye compass point true North, lad; and the oars roll forward, leaving behind the "what may" and "what if." For what is an adventure without a hurdle or two? And what is a tale if there be not a sea monster, whose claws were as sharp as obsidian, face as putrid as a corpse on Monday, or a flesh-eating teeth that would shiver yer spine. Ya might come home scarred, without a limb, running to your mama's fanny, or you might be a legend, which stories would entail, making the man part of the myth. But yer be changed either ways. Yer be changed for good.  

About Mandy

Mandy On Being Mandy

Sometimes my students would look at me and wonder if I'm really their teacher

--Mandy Calvert

Mandy is probably the one of the few people in the United States I can see "eye-to-eye." She is about 5 feet 4 inches, slim, and rosy around the cheeks. Her oval shaped head would be cascaded by a stream of blond hair with one side abnormally wavy, while the other was fine and straight. This probably due to the many transitional phases--long, short, straight, curly, feathered. And when she smiled, you could always see her perfect set of teeth under her pink lips--though stained with a light shade of yellow . The dense lashes above her eyes would crinkle amusement so plain that it was impossible to miss her radiance. Her eyes were painted with the color of the Caribbean sea, and would emit a sparkle of clarity every time the sun shone on her face. Small feet. Straight posture. She is 29 years old, but she does not look her skin still blooms of youth--absent of the wrinkles of aging and a compliment to her vibrant personality. When she talks, her voice sometimes runs a pitch higher, sounding like a child, pre-puberty, which adds to my perplexity that she is approaching her thirties. But, the dark ring below her eyes tells a tale of maturity as well. Her hands were soft and delicate, a credit to her kind and nurturing character. The clean, polished ring on her fourth finger, still untarnished, marks a fresh marriage and a life journey that has only begun.      

,,,,,Chameleeeeooon Response by David Grann

David Grann's article The Chameleon is a bittersweet story about the intricate life of Frederic Bourdin, a con artist, who adopts so many identities he ironically cons himself in the process. Aside from the bizarre content itseld, I find this piece interesting and well developed as Grann employs a journalistic inverted pyramid style of writing with artistic essences. The begins with a summary of a recent event on Bourdin, kind of a journalistic lede, and continues to dissect his life through accounts and interviews, leading to rich dialogues and perspectives. This, as a result, makes the story particularly effective in engaging with readers. Grann is sure to include some abstract notions in his writing as a fine contrast to how monotonous journalistic style can sound. In one of his descriptions, he writes: For once, he seemed unmistakably an adult, with a faint five-o’clock shadow.  

A feature I particularly like about this piece is the evident 'I' that Grann employs. The author sometimes makes himself known, though not disruptively, to readers. This gives a sense of existence that tells people that the story is being narrated from someone's voice, which might generate some intimacy? (I'm still researching on this haha!)
The repetition of Nicholas' is used extensively in the writing that it creates a confusion among readers, in which the readers, after some time, are confuse who is the main character of story anymore.

As an added emphasis on the "chameleon" idea. Grann uses repetition(anaphora) when it comes to the names Bourdin adopts in his cons.

As Bourdin came to inhabit the life of Nicholas, he was struck by what he considered to be uncanny similarities between them. Nicholas had been reported missing on Bourdin’s birthday. Both came from poor, broken families; Nicholas had almost no relationship with his father, who for a long time didn’t know that Nicholas was his son. Nicholas was a sweet, lonely, combustible kid who craved attention and was often in trouble at school. 

Rosemary Mahoney's "from Whoredom to Kimmage" Response

The one thing I find delightful is Mahoney's attention to non-verbal gestures, signs, and body movements, which the author coats with emotions and personal reflections.

She listened with her mouth open and her head tilted to one side, as though hearing the miracle of speech for the first time "But I thought you knew these people." she said.

This is also a great combination with the colorful dialogues the author puts in her piece. Dialogues, which gives a sense of intimacy, together with the non-verbal gestures effectively convey the emotions of the characters, and thus makes them more lively. I also admire how she adds contrast into her scenes such as the young couple coming out of a basement restaurant (pg.382).

"The woman's movement, so graceful, that it was like watching a ballet or a dance occurring underwater."

While the actual scene was a lady throwing fits at her companion, Mahoney's perspective is the complete opposite of the actual aggressive nature.This provokes thought in readers that nothing is always as it seems and may hold a different perspective.

Gary Smith's "Birth of a Nation" Response

Gray Smith's Birth of a Nation is a excellent piece that tells a tale of a boy who is trying to break loose form the repetitive cycle of monotony while trying to avoid being the victim. It is not only a profile of Takes Enemy and his journey but also a profile of the Indian community as well .The one thing I find delightful about this piece was the rich context Smith provides to readers. Realizing that the conflict spurs not only from the individual but also from the community, he is able to zoom in and out in a sociological perspective by focusing not only on Takes Enemy's but the people in his community as well. He focuses on their festivals and traditions, which adds insight to Takes Enemy's double-consciousness--pursuing success and preserving heritage. Smith's elaboration on past and future during the initial bus scene creates a mixed-up tone as he places questions such as Weeping. Did you hear it? or But Takes Enemy -- he would be the one who escaped. wouldn't he? These line make reader's question as to whether Takes Enemy would end up in the alcoholic short-lived spiral that looms over his teammates. It also serves as a good foreshadowing of the events that follow.

Night Trucks Response

Kent Meyers' Night Trucks is a coming-of-age story, which is told through the author's experience of selling cattle. One of the admirable aspects of this piece is the author's intelligent writing style in descriptions.

Shadows of crooked branches slid over the wall above my bed, over the ceiling, over my sleeping brothers, over the model cars and airplanes we had built and placed on our shelves, over the chifforobe where we each had a drawer to store thing. (pg 124)

In this sentence, readers are not only given a description of the scene through the use of a shadow, but the repetition of the word 'over' also gives a moving image of a shadow elongating its reach. Aside from that, I think Meyers does a good job addressing conflicts and contrast in this piece, which creates a unity between reader and writer. 

There was always a feeling of loss in selling. At the same time we knew it was necessary, like so many other necessary things. (pg 126)

Not everyone knows how cattle selling is done, but feelings of excitement/sadness in giving away things that one has spent a considerable amount of time for other gains is a universal feeling when transitioning into adulthood. This relatable conflict, additionally, creates intimacy with readers as well.   

Classmate/APE Response: The Death of Fleeting Curiosity

First thing that struck me? Well, it has to be how both authors give a vivid picture of their surroundings but successfully include some abstract notions as well. The imaginative style that Woolf employs to describe rooks and Prater's description of the hallway, captures the interest of the reader, curious to know more.  This works especially well in building a suspense, which is particularly effective in Braden's piece of hide-n-seek. In addition, both authors were able to give perspective to their characters in their writing. This not only gives us different layers to explore but also multiple angles to interpret the piece.

"Whatever the scenario, he seemed to always know exactly how long to stay out of view and when specifically to make a noise, such as a knock on a wall, as not to fully give away his location but provide us with a proper hint" (Prater, pg 2)

"The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am." (Woolf, pg. 268)

Dear Blue Swallow

How I envy this blue swallow that perches on my balcony. She chirps the same song every day. A song about how nature provides for her, how she never has to worry about tomorrow. Her friends—blue, red, brown—flock around her to sing in harmony, and they depart home before sunset, only to repeat again tomorrow. But, how I pity this swallow. She will never taste disappointment, and the joys of success. She will never know her true friends in absence of discord. Dear blue swallow, you will never know what today really means until you worry about tomorrow.

Still Motion

Play. Stop. Repeat.

Cool, this part looks great! This is going to be awesome.

Pause. Trim. Play.

Perfect! I even got her good angle. The lighting might be too bright though. Might need to edit that later.

Play. Stop. Delete.

What is that?! Who is that creep behind her?! Is he…ugh!   

Delete! Delete! Delete!

Alright, now to add the music

Play. Pause. Play.

Hmm, this song is catchy. I wonder who sang this…Cher Lloyd?! Let’s see how her music video looks like…

Play .STOP. CANCEL!

Ugh! The music isn’t syncing with her lips! Where’s the other clip?! I thought I’ve saved it! AHHH!!!!

Play. Stop. Play.

It’s almost 3 AM. Would anyone really appreciate this? 

Render. Render. Render.

JOSH! YOU’RE AN IDIOT! YOU MISSED THE POOL SCENE!

Save. Export. Render.

It's done...It''s finally done!

Play... Repeat... Pause.....

*sigh* Someday I won’t remember the searing pain from climbing down metal ladders under the scorching sun; or the sweat I dripped trying to capture the perfect scene; or even the meal of instant noodles while I sat soaked with laughter...Memories like all other memories will fade.  But, I want to preserve these moments -- the quirky smiles, the stream-like moves, the people. 
I want to remember.  

And when my memory becomes hazy, and the frames begin to fast-forward; I hope this treasury of clips will make time stand still. 
Just for a second.     
End.

Classmate/Short Take Response: Small But Mighty Winter

*Drum roll* *Mic descends* *Contenders strut forward*

On the Short Takes corner, spanning 7 pages long, story about a father and his outdoor furnace, let's hear it for Larry Woiwode's Winter! *crowd cheers*

And on the classmate essay corner, checking in with 4,304 characters, of siblings and might, give it up for Small and Mighty by Samantha Caulfield!! *enthusiastic chants*

***********

Thing thing I find similar with the two stories are their concise and simple writing style. Both authors project simple complete sentences, devoid from complicated abstract notions that occasionally "turns off" the readers interest, which generates an intimacy with the readers--as if the author is your friend and is speaking directly to tell you a story. Related to that, both Woiwode and Caulfield employ dialogues in their writing to give a real life representation of the characters and the moments they experience and further establishes a connection with reader.

The thing I enjoy most about the two pieces are how both are able to present a meaningful message through trivial-everyday-routines.Woiwode's perspective on life's short span, stemming from a broken furnace, and Caulfield's discovery of sisterhood through a racing sport, shows readers how their minds work and challenges our own thoughts about family bonds.

Elle Ai Elle

Spring

I couldn’t tell if this season would be different from the rest, but you wore a yellow shirt. Daisies. Your lips were the first thing I noticed. Red, luscious, tender. First day of knowing you: a debate erupts, shared our first giggle, and slap to the arm. . I was only 13. Too young to start holding roses. The thorns would prick wounds deeper than the flesh. To me, you were that rose. A blossoming infatuation.  

Summer

I was wondering how far we could travel before we arrived at a journey’s end—France? The AC in the bus was out. You gently leaned your head on my shoulder, exhausted from the heat wave circulating in the interior. Your hair cascading the like a waterfall. A different kind of warmth. You breached my safety perimeter--an undisclosed side where outsiders were prohibited. But, you didn't seem to care. It was just the two of us, in a pool of strangers. I got my answer.

Autumn

September called for breathing space. Someone else had set his sight on you--my best friend. And I found a dark corner by the edge of eyes. One filled with tears.The leaves of our friendship, withering: slowly.  I gripped the rose, and the thorns pierced and blood oozed.  

Winter

“Come back, okay?” she said faintly. Words that echoed a chill up my spine. But, not a word breezed through my mouth. Uncertain promises are always better left unsaid. Snowflake tears. We held on to each other—both seeking solace on a winter’s night. Like conspirators of the night, we exchanged a moment only shared between the two of us. Your hands around my back only serve as reminder of what we could have been. I’m 20. Still holding on to that rose.

Hoke/Roberts: Two Hot Weeks in Undercurrent

This Week's Pick: Ryan Hoke's Two Hot Weeks In August; and Katrina Roberts Undercurrent.

The one thing I particularly enjoy about both author's writing is their sense of writing style. They are both very visual in descriptions, writing in short sentences or broken up by comas, as if they were snap shots, which set a quick pace to the reading, as if the eyes were writing words

[T]he baby in his carrier peers out, kicks and coos. Two and a half months, young as a lima bean, strapped to my belly to walk Cottonwood Hill up past twenty acres of wheat, yellow eye that centers our loop. (Roberts)

[T]he smell of freshly cut grass welcomes you as you arrive, only to be replaced with a smelly cocktail of generic bathroom cleaner, sweat, dirt, grass and old equipment, as you reach the locker room. (Hoke)

Another reason why I find these two pieces mixing well together is the rich descriptions. Going to great lengths to describe the scene and to draw readers to picture the world they painted and the things they feel. Especially Hoke's description of the stadium, the sprinklers, etc.

[Y]our fingers and hands are tattered and torn, blistered and callused from months of off season lifting, drills, and throwing. (Hoke)

[T]hen, there in the lee in a fold of grass like a boat's wake: the housecat, cream and rust, seem to have ruin himself to sleep. (Roberts)

 

Classmate/Short Takes Response

If I had to pick a story from Short Takes and a piece from my classmates. It would be Yellowed Memories by Anessa Wilson, and Kim Barnes' Work. To start off both stories have somewhat of a similar structure that reflect a journey of growing up, and I particularly enjoy the transitional pauses marked by asterisks or numbers. The focus on a series of important life events, told in single scenes without the need to connect to the other, allows reader to tap solely to the emotions of that specific moment. And with each moment the reader is able to connect more with author.

Both pieces also establishes intimacy and with the reader. Wilson touches on her roller-coaster sibling relationship and Barnes talks about trying to get by life challenges. They do not assume the role of heroine in their stories and they do stir up the sympathy of the reader by sharing relatable hardships.

I'd say this two pieces are a good match.

 

"The Lantern-Bearers" Response

It may take a while for someone to fully grasp what Stevenson is trying to say in his essay The Lantern Bearers. He starts off by painting a picture of his childhood experiences every autumn at a certain fishing village; how he and his boys went about doing fun activities. [Y]ou might golf if you wanted. [A]gain, you might join our fishing parties. [O]r again, you might climb the Law, where the whale's jawbone stood landmark. And then he describes his favorite sport -- lantern bearing.

The essence of this bliss was to walk by yourself in the black night; the slide shut, the top-coat buttoned; not a ray escaping, whether to conduct your footsteps or to make your glory public; a mere pillar of darkness in the dark; and all the while, deep down in the privacy of your fool's heart, to know you had a bull's-eye at your belt, and to exult and sing over the knowledge. (144)

Stevenson and his boys would play a game of hide-n-seek by identifying the smell of "blistered tin." Upon discovering each other, they would sit down and have their inappropriate talk. And that was the climax of the lantern bearing sport.

Stevenson is known for his adventure stories for youth. The author himself has a fascination for nature, children and exotic climes. As a storyteller and a critic, he voices his defense on imaginative fantasy in personal essays as oppose to the 'realist' way of writing essays, which lack the real 'life' of the scene. He does so by telling the story as a participant rather than an observer.

 His use of language when describing his adventures/activities, as sentences would start with words like: Or, or again, Again -- like how a young person would talk. And again, the author spends a lot of the piece building up the scene with rich imaginative-like imagery as if the author was inciting the inner-child within the reader.     

The 'lantern within the coat' is a metaphor signifying that even the average man has a special story to tell, and just like the highlight scene of the boys unveiling their lanterns; it is through the unveiling of a person's inner life and thoughts where true literary joy is found. 

The whole lantern game is also a metaphorical critic to 'observer/realist' writers, who, in Stevenson's opinion, only focus on recording external details. Stevenson opposes this way of writing because he thinks writers like 'Zola' will miss the mark of telling a story's "true joy/meaning," hence the scene is only a collection of details that do not add up to anything. Stevenson writes: [T]o one who has not the secret of the lanterns, the scene upon the links is meaningless. And hence the haunting and truly spectral unreality of realistic books. 

But, if one dives deep into the person's pool of thought "in the mysterious inwards of psychology,"--participating in the act-- then the true story is found. He uses the gathering of lanterns an an example.

[T]o the eye of the observer they are wet and cold and drearily surrounded; but ask themselves, and they are in the heavens of a recondite pleasure, the ground of which is an ill smelling lantern.

Therefore, I believed Stevenson's use of the lantern as a metaphor is effective as well as relevant even in today's world of nonfiction writing.

The Things I Like/Dislike

I adore the melody of dripping water. Droplets so small to mean anything. Water precipitated from the sky or from the protruding pipes of my apartment—the consistent tempo that soothes my mind.

Whilst still on the topic of water, I love the vast borderless ocean. What mysteries it has installed in its belly’s deep? 

I hate people who smoke in confined places. It reminds me of the annual haze my countrymen suffer because certain parties are too ignorant to be accountable for their actions.

I find displeasure with paper cuts. It is like an ant’s sting—nowhere near fatal but the lingering pain is the bane of my soul.

I admire the ‘me’ that yearns for adventure, romance and the unpredictable. At times this ‘me’ serves me well in exploring new challenging things; but I resent the ‘me’ that is afraid of failure and rejection.

I find the words plucked from heartstrings most delightful.

I hate vegetables, horror movies, racist, child-abusers, one-night stand relationships, bootlickers, skin deep beauty, narrow-minded two-faced haters, heart-breakers, and ignorance.   

I hate monotony.

Right now, I have a love/hate relationship with the snow outside.

'September' Response

Lia Purpura’s September is a piece about the bones of a small cat—weird huh? Personally, I am fascinated how Purpura writes about death and decomposition so nonchalantly to the extent she sounds like a scientist.

However, Purpura’s use of literary style and technique creates an interesting narrative about the matter--as if it was an archeological fossil.

The line that I particularly enjoy in this piece was:

The shape the body made was placid-seeming, unlike the animals of prehistory, who, trapped in the posture of shock, in half-light on a cave wall, are forever outrunning fire, weather, attack. (81)

This sentence gives readers a sense of what the author is thinking. What’s interesting is the absence of conjunctions, which makes the sentence sound choppy; however, it also mimics the way how people think thoughts and see things—one thing at a time. This also sets an analytic tone to the narrative. 

Aside from that, the author also plants a lot of abstract/ vague sentences such as: simple bodies are sketched in ochre flight, red oxide smudge on a flank. These sorts of imagery are difficult to picture without having to dissect the sentences—word for word. And I think the author has written the narrative in a way that puts readers in the same shoes as how she analyzes the cat’s bones.     

Scene Add on: Uncharted

     As I gazed around the long bustling terminal, I saw a couple savoring a plate of cheesecake, a boy waving good bye to his parents, and a company of air stewardesses making their way to the escalator with their luggage bags trailing behind. French-twist, floral scarf, knee-length skirt and a smile that would make any man blush. A much needed distraction from my pulsating stomach, which seem to sync with the ticking clock hanging from a pillar in this aerodrome—the awaited hour draws near.

     

     Everyone seem like they had a place to go, a thing to do. Janitors would clean and waiters would serve and officers would go on patrols. Flight passengers would try to pin-point their flight destinations on the six-screen board hanging by the gateway. But I was somewhere in between. Between what is and what will be.

     Ah, a destination, I thought. It’s the prime rule for travelers. It could be a neighboring country or somewhere on the other side of the world or EVEN THE ARTIC! Regardless, every traveler has a journey’s end. I wonder if I ‘really’ had a destination.I was going somewhere--a one-way ticket to the United States, but where was I going? I began to wonder if I made the right dec-...

     Jason Mraz started to sing a chorus line:

            “So, I won’t hesitate no more, no more”s

     It was my cellphone—ringing the same tune about 'not hesitating' for half an hour now. The awaited hour draws near and calls from friends who wanted to say their final goodbyes flooded the communication sphere. It amazes me how cold hard wires in all its intricate ways are able to channel familiar voices from miles away. Petty thoughts. What annoying pleasures their voices were.

             “Josh, don’t party too much, okay?”

             “Joshie boy, have a safe flight, I’ll miss you!”

             “Oy, don’t eat too many burgers and grow fat, Mr. Lim!”

     Perhaps the most heartfelt was from my 15-year-old friend, Joel—a talented boy whom I've seen grown from a kid to a teen.  

              “Hey Josh, I’m sorry we couldn't make it. I really wanted to send you off but my dad had to be somewhere. Just know we all wish you a safe flight, and we’ll see you soon.” *end*  

               

     A bittersweet moment indeed. Tick tock tick tock. 

     No one was obligated to attend my departure, yet it felt good that people cared to show up—in large numbers too. My parents and relatives and the cheerleading team and my closest friends from church--all here. I've always felt inadequate, but I was complete.

     Grandpa and grandma came too—both approaching their 80s. I held their hands for a moment longer. These were the hands that have nurtured two generation of Lim’s; hands once smooth and strong now soft and wrinkled and discolored from the brightness of youth. How much sand does the hourglass still hold? Enough to hold these hands again?

     

     Why have I chosen to leave all this behind?

      The life I had was great. Why trade all I had gained only to start over. Nervousness started to perspire from my palms. There would be no shame in turning back. I’m sure no one would fully object. Even the girl I had a crush on for five years stood in front of me with tears flowing down her cheeks.

“Come back, okay?” she said.

I stared at the clock again--tick tock tick tock. The awaited hour was here.

Scene: Uncharted

     As I gazed around the long bustling terminal, I saw a couple savoring a plate of cheesecake, a boy waving good bye to his parents, and a company of air stewardesses making their way to the escalator with their luggage bags trailing behind. French-twist, floral scarf, knee-length skirt and a smile that would make any man blush. A much needed distraction from my pulsating stomach, which seem to sync with the ticking clock hanging from a pillar in this aerodrome—the awaited hour draws near.

     

     Everyone seem like they had a place to go, a thing to do. Janitors would clean and waiters would serve and officers would go on patrols. Flight passengers would try to pin-point their flight destinations on the six screen-board hanging by the gateway. But I was somewhere in between. Between what is and what will be.

 

     Ah, a destination, I thought. It’s the prime rule for travelers. It could be a neighboring country or somewhere on the other side of the world or EVEN THE ARTIC! Regardless, every traveler has a journey’s end. I wonder if I ‘really’ had a destination.I was going somewhere--a one-way ticket to the United States, but where was I going? I began to wonder if I made the right dec-...

     Jason Mraz started to sing a chorus line:

            “So, I won’t hesitate no more, no more”s

     It was my cellphone—ringing the same tune about 'not hesitating' for half an hour now. The awaited hour draws near and calls from friends who wanted to say their final goodbyes flooded the communication sphere. It amazes me how cold hard wires in all its intricate ways are able to channel familiar voices from miles away. Petty thoughts. What annoying pleasures their voices were.

             “Josh, don’t party too much, okay?”

             “Joshie boy, have a safe flight, I’ll miss you!”

             “Oy, don’t eat too many burgers and grow fat, Mr. Lim!”

     Perhaps the most heartfelt was from my 15-year-old friend, Joel—a talented boy whom I've seen grown from a kid to a teen.  

              “Hey Josh, I’m sorry we couldn't make it. I really wanted to send you off but my dad had to be somewhere. Just know we all wish you a safe flight, and we’ll see you soon.” *end*  

               

     A bittersweet moment indeed. Tick tock tick tock. 

"The Khan Men of Agra" Response

     "The Khan Men of Agra" is a remarkable piece of writing that describes a Pamela Michael’s experience in a foreign land and how her journey unfolds when there was absent choice but trust a complete stranger. We can sense the author’s alertness when she listed the different types of people wanting to carry her luggage.

Perhaps two were porters, four or five were rickshaw drivers, three or four were taxi drivers, and maybe a couple were thieves. (60)

     It is the contrast from porters to thieves place within a single sentence that creates an uneasy mood throughout the story, which also builds a sense of suspense of the unknown when she finally agreed to employ a stranger to carry her luggage, knowing that the stranger could be one of the options listed. Suspense is also achieved by the imagery Michael chooses to reveal to readers. The choices to mention the absent “Agra Taxi Company” or the “glimpse of a spectral, loinclothed man through the leaves,” are imagery told to readers so they could relate to the doubts Michael had about the each situation.  

     I particularly enjoy how the mixed-up tone was set when the author decided to start with: One good thing about monsoons. By starting this way, readers are fixated on the gloominess and uncertainty elicited from the image of the monsoon season—unpredictable and dark.

By combining these elements, Michael made a story that was relatable, and ultimately uplifting at the end

I remember (These Four Walls)

     I remember the four walls of my high school classroom. White paint, blackboard, bulletin board, two fans—standard classroom. The desks and chairs were placed in a 4 x 10 arrangement. I sat by the right corner near the door. My desk—made of wood—had words written all over by predecessors who had once sat where I was. Some were typical: Playerz 4 life. School Sux. Call Me 01-xx. While others were just downright disturbing: Penis—enough said.

     When the bell rang, the four walls capsuled us from the outside world. The space within it became the new world, and for 5 years, I would have learned, cried, laughed, and hurt within these four walls. This was an all-male school. And yes, you may cringe at the thought of 40 guys boxed into a small space, but I could not have asked for anything better than a class of testosterone-filled adolescent boys. Oh, the times we had—skipping classes for basketball, whistling at young female teachers, hysterical beating traditions during birthdays. Everyone was a brother.

     And then there was my language teacher-- a short middle-aged man with curly hair, brown skin, clean shave, and a deep-creased frown. It was his signature frown. This was his world as well. He was the caretaker of the four walls. The commander. The boss. Instructing those under his dominion to listen as he blatantly quotes the textbook; word for word. And he was not fond of the brats who interrupted the natural order within the four walls.

     I was probably No. 20 in his ‘brat’ list. Never finishing homework, always making excuses, getting poor grades. Best of all—or worst—I had a bad habit of turning my attention towards my friends during lessons.
  

“Joshua, don’t turn your back on me when I’m teaching!” he said.“It’s disrespectful, you bla-bla-bla bla-bla.” The noise was drowned by the sound of rustling leaves outside. I lost attention. 

     There would always be a brat in every class, every year, every generation. It’s like reincarnation--each rebirth would take on a different face, but the spirit of the brat lives on to annoy the hell out of teachers.

     My teacher,Mr. Sapi, had past his prime. I imagined a time when fresh paint coated the four walls. I imagined a cleaner classroom, sturdier tables, and a young man full of vigor and enthusiasm. A man ready to challenge the world. Years would fast forward and the man would be worn down by the repetition of students—coming in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out— the four walls. As the paint faded, so did the image of the young man. It was a slow fade; of what once was, and now a distant memory. We will all experience that one day. Those were my thoughts.

     And as every one of us within the four walls will one day depart—to find love, opportunity, amusement, satisfaction, and to find self—and severe ties along the way. I will always cherish the moments stored within those four walls. I made sure to leave a piece of me behind. Joshua was here.

Scene: Add on

     I remembered the first time I was robbed. It was a shady alley. The path made of tar, the building on the right was abandoned, and the building on the left was never completed. The paint was beginning to fade on both buildings. Dumpsters, graffiti, broken bottles, burnt cigarettes-- the only thing missing in this scene is a rat making a dash to the dumpster. I was ignorant.

     I should have listened to my friend’s warning, but I was young and considerably naïve (dumb). I gave the world and everyone in it more credit than it deserved. It was a sort of childhood innocence that had been preserved by the people who had raised me. I’m 20 years old now. Twenty years of being a Malaysian. Twenty years growing up in a city called Klang, which I’m proud to call my own. Twenty years, and innocence still spirals around me like vines around a tree. I was sheltered.

     So, I took the first step and my friend reluctantly followed. It was dark that night—the moonlight was dimmed by passing clouds—but I took note of the little things: water dripping from broken a pipe, and the echoes of crickets chirping. We were almost out when we heard the sound of a motorcycle speeding towards us. I was scared.

     There was little to identify about the person on the motorcycle, except that he was a stocky male—he wore a regular t-shirt and navy blue jeans. Before I could analyze the situation, he managed to get a firm grip on my sleeve. In an adrenaline-pumped situation, the man and I were engaged in a tug-of-war. He tried to pull me to where he was but I struggled—though it seemed obvious he had the upper hand in brute strength. When pulling was too much of a hassle, he shoved me—causing my foot to lose balance. Gravity played the role of culprit that night and led to my falling. I felt the impact of rocks pressing my back as the ground welcomed me with a cold embraced. I was hurt.
     In the heat of the moment, all my friend could do was stand perfectly still—he looked like he was screaming, but not a single sound was heard. My ‘fight or flight’ instinct was on high alert, and I chose ‘Flight.’ In a matter of seconds after the fall, I got up, grabbed my friend and said: “Let’s go!” I was confused.

     He clicked back into reality, and we ran as fast as we could from the scene. The man, however, decided not to pursue.

     For days, I tried to make sense of what happened that night—tried to find a reason behind the man’s actions. William Shakespeare once wrote: The eyes are the window to the soul. And I do so agree with Shakespeare.

     You can tell a lot about a person just by looking through their eyes; and I wished I had seen his. That way, I could try to understand his situation. Perhaps he had a family that needed food; or he was a lonesome man desperate for cash; or a man from an abusive family; or perhaps…

     But I did not see the man’s eyes. I only felt his clenched fist on my shoulder. And it lacked human touch.

I have made myself victim and my innocence paid the price. I no longer find comfort in dark places for fear of the unknown. No longer feel comfortable being feel safe around strangers in isolated spaces. I doubt good intentions extended by others. The world I knew was darker after that fateful incident. I was vulnerable

     Sometimes, my friend and I would talk about that day. Occasionally, he reminded me how lucky we were—narrowly escaping a robbery. I wish that was true. I wish the story would have ended after I had fled from the scene; but life is not a fictional tale. The scene never ends. I was unlucky.

     That day, innocence was robbed.

"Signs and Wonders" Response

“Signs and Wonders” is a unique story that revolves around Rebecca McClanahan’s life in a busy city: New York. What stood out in her writing, was how McClanahan contrasted her feelings about New York. She starts calm with her "New York highs"--complete thoughts with lots of conjunctions--but later creates a hurried rhythm by omitting conjunctions in her writing, thus creating a frustrated tone.   

Live another two years in this jackhammering, siren-screaming, piss puddling city? In someone else’s apartment?-because who can afford their own? Someone else’s bed, plates, forks, spoons? (36)

Most of the imagery is based on sight, therefore the author creatively puts two or more observations in short sentences to mimic how an eye would glances at places with lots of activities. This also sets an energetic tone to the scenes she describes.

The leaves on the ginkgos are falling as I speak, gold coins upon gold coins. And there in the pond are my geese, my ducks, how I admire them. Look one is passing up bread crumbs to catch a blossom (36)

I particularly enjoy how McClanahan creates several scenes through her observations from a single setting—the park. Although the author talks about the gazebo, signs and people, she also includes personal reflections to what she observes and turns the familiar everyday scenes into a message to readers at the end.

Curb your dog, curb your dogma, love your neighbor, your neighbor’s dog. We’re at the peak of our lives. O sole wio. Catch and release. (40)

Scene

I remembered the first time I was robbed. It was a shady alley. The path was a tar road, the building on the right was abandoned, and the building on the left was never completed. The paint was beginning to fade on both buildings. Dumpsters, graffiti on the walls, broken bottles, burnt cigarettes-- the only thing missing in this scene is a rat making a dash to the dumpster. I was ignorant.

     I should have listened to my friend’s warning, but I was young and considerably naïve (dumb). I gave the world and everyone in it more credit than it deserved. It was a sort of childhood innocence that had been preserved by the people who had raised me. I was sheltered.

     I took the first step and my friend reluctantly followed. It was dark that night—the moonlight was dimmed by passing clouds—but I took note of the little things: water dripping from broken a pipe, and the echoes of crickets chirping. We were almost out when we heard the sound of a motorcycle speeding towards us. I was scared.

     There was little to identify about the person on the motorcycle, except that he was a stocky male—he wore a regular t-shirt and navy blue jeans. Before I could analyze the situation, he managed to get a firm grip on my sleeve. In an adrenaline-pumped situation, the man and I were engaged in a tug-of-war, and what ensued was a quick succession of events: He pulled. I struggled. He shoved. I fell. In the heat of the moment, all my friend could do was stand perfectly still—he looked like he was screaming, but not a single sound was heard. My ‘fight or flight’ instinct was on high alert, and I chose ‘Flight.’ In a matter of seconds after the fall, I got up, grabbed my friend and said: “Let’s go!” I was confused.

     He clicked back into reality, and we ran as fast as we could from the scene. The man, however, decided not to pursue. I tried to make sense of what happened that night. Sometimes, my friend and I would talk about that day. Occasionally, he reminded me how lucky I was--narrowly escaping a robbery. But he couldn’t be more wrong. That day, innocence was robbed. I was never the same.

"Night Song" by Stephen Kuusisto

“Your eyes can deceive you, don’t trust them. Stretch out with your feelings! 

+Obi-Wan Kenobi

“Night Song” is a tale about Stephen Kuusisto’s childhood memories as a blind person. What I enjoyed most about this story was the irony behind the author’s blindness. By describing his experiences through alternative senses—mainly through hearing—the author is able to give readers a ‘visual’ picture of each setting he encounters. Aside from that, Kuusisto cleverly arranges his sentences to elicit a desired emotion. Excitement is expressed through staccato-like sentences, such as his interaction with a horse. Most importantly, I’ve learnt that the gift of sight may not always be a good thing. Personally, I find it difficult to focus with my eyes open, but when I close my eyes; my world becomes clear and that’s when I’m able to make sense of things.