'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.