Wednesday, February 26, 2014

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.   

Monday, February 24, 2014

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)





Saturday, February 22, 2014

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.

Friday, February 21, 2014

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.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

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.

Monday, February 17, 2014

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)

 






Wednesday, February 12, 2014

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.

 

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

"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.



Monday, February 3, 2014

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.