Reading Week Soirée

Here’s a link to figure out when everyone has time to get together:

http://doodle.com/bvimrurap6u7cu9p

Finding My Way Home

Hey there.

My essay completely changed. I just started writing this one day and I thought I’d post it because it’s not at all what I originally stated. If someone reads this before tomorrow and has comments PLEASE LEAVE THEM.

Love,

Andrea

Home is where the heart is.

Home is where comfort is.

No. Home is where memories are.

My house is not my home. Cold, clean and perfect: no one lives there.

The family sleeps there. It’s not a home.

My home is not too far away from the house. Two hours and I’m home.

I’m happy. What does that mean?

I can read on the porch, in the swing. In the basement, on a couch. In the living room, by the window.

Here I can look out and see my childhood: the sledding hill, the maple tree that has been cut down for years, the driveway of brick I helped lay and fill with sand.

I can get up and remove the dust cover from the piano keys. I can play a song. Sort of. I can sing to a set of chords. That’s easier, more comfortable.

I can go to the kitchen, the yard, the bedroom. They’re mine. They’re home. My home.

I smell my grandmother’s perfume. It’s been the same for as long as I can remember. Always trying something new, but resorting back to the standard. I smell the faint smell of oak from the wood beams. The smell of boiling water. It has a smell.

The grandfather clock chimes and I stop to count the tolls. It announces the hour, as it has done for so many years.

I want to go outside and roll around in the soft green grass. It smells like hours of pretend. I am a princess, running from the monster, or searching for the prince. Then I remember it has rained and I hate the mud. I used to not care about the dirt. I was an adventurer, finding bunnies in the bleeding hearts. When did I grow up?

My grandmother interrupts the silence with questions: Are you hungry? Do you want to do something? I’m annoyed. Should I be? When did I start to find her annoying? When did I become my mother?

I think of her complaints about her mother. I never understood. I loved them unconditionally with the utmost patience, only, I didn’t know it was patience. They didn’t bother me. They were perfect.

I cried for hours when I had to leave. Kicking and screaming.

I made her life, their lives, a living hell.

My mother would drag me into her car, then turn up the radio and start singing. She wanted my mood to change. She wanted me to sing along.

I look up at my grandmother who continues questioning. I’ve stopped hearing her. I don’t want to hear her. I don’t want to hear anything. She gets frustrated by my disconnect. I say enough to satisfy her. At last, solace and silence.

When did I change? Am I right to lose patience? Have I even lost patience or is she just getting older–more cloying?

He clomps in. The door squeaks open then slams shut. The glass window rattles in its frame. Soon thereafter the blind crashes against the door. Clamor. He says very little. Stubborn, I think.

I judge him more as I get older. He thinks I’m impertinent and disrespectful. I’ve decided he has no regard for other people. He doesn’t ask, just does. Figures he’s in charge. He’s always in charge, whether or not you know it. Because he said so. Mom always said he was oppressive, abrasive, unbearable. I never agreed.

One day he does without telling, making my life harder, making my journey longer, wasting my time. He grumbles when he thinks I’m ungrateful. Yells, even. He starts the guilt trip that I don’t deserve, and will not let me fight back. He insists he’s right.

I’ve grown up?

I miss the patter of paws. Toby died when I was eight. Tobias Phinneas P. Dog. I cried for days. Weeks. I had a picture of him. I found it later, cut it out, and framed it in a refrigerator magnet. I cried every time I saw it. My tears eventually subsided, but the home is empty without him. Still, I forgot.

I grew up.

My house, two hours away from home, is lonely. Always too cold for comfort. My mother keeps the temperature low, leaving my basement, consistently freezing.

Mom is self-centered. It’s her house. It must be the way she likes it: unbearably cold and impeccably clean. When did she become her father?

“I can’t think in mess.”

“It looks like no one lives here.”

“I can’t live in chaos.”

“But you left that mess in the sink for days.”

“It’s my house. Do what I tell you!”

I do, even though I’d rather throw the dirty frying pan at her head. Just a fleeting moment of aggression. I grumble under my breath. No tears.

I’m an adult now.

Like her father, she has little concern for anyone else’s comfort. Beyond financial, that is.

They’ve inadvertently taught me money buys love. Gifts, even little ones, are the most demonstrative. Most effective to show that you care. Spoil me with things. That’s love.

I like things. I admit it. A family flaw. After all, we are a family. We give things meaning. I give things too much meaning. Everything is symbolic.

To escape my cold, clean, uninhabited house, I head home. When the car is available, I drive for a few hours.

But I start to see the validity of my mother’s argument. Home is plagued by flawed adults. Home is not just my porch, my swing, my window. Home is a house for my family–my grandparents. Suddenly I’m frustrated. I want to lash out: kick, and cry, and scream. After two days, I’m suffocating. This can’t be home. The porch is not so peaceful. The window doesn’t show me memories. Where am I?

I realize this is not my home.

I have no home.

I’ve grown up. It’s time for me to grow up. I’m an adult.

I must find myself a new home of my own.

Using Our Blog to Procrastinate

To my fellow procrastinators –

If you, like me, are struggling to sit down and write your lyric essay (arguably the most evil form of nonfiction), I encourage you to remind yourself of the value of procrastination: check out Catherine’s published article on North by Northwestern.

In other news, I propose that we have a final gathering sometime during reading week, either in the form of a dinner or an apartment fiesta. Doodle, anyone?

What’s Up, Class?

Hey,

So I decided to make my lyric essay interactive.  I went and posted it in seven sections on the ground right in front of the rock.  It starts closest to the rock and goes in a circle basically, but you can start anywhere, really.  They’re numbered.  Anyway I just wanted to let you know in case you wanted to read it.  I watched it secretly for about an hour; maybe two people found it and stopped to read.  I guess people don’t read flyers very often.  It’s supposed to rain tomorrow so I figured I’d give you a heads-up.

See you tomorrow,

Tom

He is sooooo not my type

I recently took a guy as a date to a formal event who was 6′3, blonde and had all the trappings of a jock. When I described him to my mother over the phone her first response was “he doesn’t sound like your type.” My best friend abroad had a similar reaction via gchat. When this type came up in conversation with said young man he immediately bristled that I had “pegged” him and I found myself backtracking quickly over the need to qualify him as an archetype.

Still, I can’t say I disagreed with my mother or my friend and their “not your type” comments. After all, I am the first person to point out my rather strong affinity for Jewish men (strange seeing as I am Irish with a large, Catholic extended family). But these two reactions got me thinking about the “type” label. People love throwing this around. I have heard girls wax poetic at length about what their “type” is, but is this the ideal that we shoot for in a long-term mate or is it merely something we put up on a pedestal so that, even when we know we are settling we can justify our momentary deviation with a quick “Oh well I know, totally not my type or anything but for right now….”

I want to make a list of types. This will be from a female perspective so it will be about male prototypes, some cliche, some popularized by movies, fiction, television and music. I think I will weave leave room for a section entitled “My type” but this essay is intended to hit upon at least five of the most popularized types of men. I think this essay will determine whether or not typecasting is a fruitful exercise, or whether it is more fiction than fact. All the most prevalent types are in my head at this point, I need to come up with appropriate monikers for each of them and see how many hold up to the real-world example test.

Edumacation

I’ve said this before — I’m really, really bad at pre-planning my essays. This lyric essay thing is even more daunting because I have to consider TWO things: subject matter AND form.

Just about the only thing on my mind these days is my pending doom (graduation). I want to use this essay to explore my education: what the hell have I been up to for the past 10 quarters? Where do I go from here? What did $175,000 buy me?

In terms of form, I’m looking through past papers I’ve written over the past 3.33 years. I’m going to include a small excerpt from them (maybe one class per quarter?) and then try to connect it to larger ideas – although I confess I have no idea what those larger ideas are as of yet. I’m going to play it by ear and see how it turns out; knowing me I will probably toss around a dozen more ideas before I finally get down to it. I’m hoping that the form will inspire some sort of epiphany. We’ll see.

A few days ago my acting class was instructed to exit the classroom and go observe people, in assigned environments, and then come back for the second hour of class to assume the identity of these people. We had to each find a person who “did” or “did not” belong. I found myself in a library, fixated on a father and his young, illiterate son. The toddler kept throwing books on the ground, yet he knew he must be quite. The father, although getting frustrated remained gentle, but authoritative.

We returned, and as I let the presentations wash over me, I found myself most interested in people who were in close proximity to each other. Did the interact and how? If not, why? What was the nature of their relationship?

Two unemployed mothers sat at a coffee shop, bragging and lamenting about their daughter’s teenage habits. Sometimes their only goal was to one-up each other. Who had the better daughter? Yet, part of me knew that they lived for these Tuesday mornings. Some non-spousal adult interaction. Is that what all parents are doomed to be to other parents? One-uppers. Does this change when their child leaves them?

My mother always sent out mass emails to our friends and family when I accomplished something. I would always ask her not to, but she would anyway. Then someone, who I hadn’t seen in months, would come over the house and congratulate me. I wouldn’t know why. Then I’d ask. They’d tell me. I’d blush, and after thanking them, give my mother the stare of death. She didn’t even “one-up” she just set the bar. It’s as if she was inviting someone to one-up her. Did she not have any friends to have coffee with on a Tuesday morning, or did she just have a job?

I want to examine people, as the exit and enter into the lives of strangers, acquaintances, friends, and lovers. I want to observe these people and see what happens. Essentially, I want to sit around and people watch until I can eavesdrop no more. Until I have something interesting to say or extrapolate. Maybe something not so interesting. Maybe just a series of related observations about interpersonal relationships.

They tried to make me go to rehab and I said, Fine.

I spent this past summer in rehab. Food rehab, as the patients liked to call it. It was 8 weeks of intensive inpatient care in an eating disorder treatment center set in Wickenburg, AZ, population 6,423. The town’s only defining feature was the center. It was literally in the middle of nowhere.

The center was set up like a southwestern ranch. We got to do equine therapy and all of the staff wore cowboy boots.  I was there during monsoon season so about once every two weeks the sky would crack open and rain would pour heavily for a few hours and then the flowers would bloom. Patients used the sharp pricks of cacti to hurt themselves. It was really bizarre.

I’m not quite sure what exactly I have to say about this experience or how I plan on turning it into a lyric essay, but I think there is something to be said. I imagine I’ll start off with the facts of the place- the mission statement, the statistics, etc. Then I will turn it into something more personal, something more experienced focused and meditative. I may even start the essay prior to getting there, maybe while on the plane, and detail my journey through. Or I may just start writing and see where it goes, which has always seemed to be the best way for me to do these things.

House Fires and Fights.

This will sound crazy. It may be, but I like it, and I am unafraid to try and fail (this is what school is about yes?)

I have two things I would like to discuss. That have literally always been related in my mind, and I have never really had any reason to associate them beyond them being inherently linked in my reasoning and thought process.

The two things are burning buildings and houses, which I have seen a rather large number of and arguments.

After arguments I often feel the house, or building I am in, is set ablaze. Quite literally it has been.

A toaster caught on fire once in the middle of a battle. Catching to a roll of paper, and almost to the walls.

The building outside burning down, the man who owned it was a pen-sales man, collecting insurance.  A burning liar. All his nice pens were gone.

Arguments often feel like running out of a burning house, or running into one. There is a reason phoenix’s rise out of the ashes.

Chasing after my girlfriend in socks only to continue an argument not to stop her from it—and the important feeling of embers starting to burn that lead to arguments.

The signs of fire, the smell of smoke are no different than the starts of arguments the simple signs you ought to see and sometimes miss. Falling asleep under the wrong conditions leads to deadly blazes in each case.

The tired ashes left behind of each.

The monk who set himself ablaze. Don’t say that was not an argument, that may be the most still argument I have ever witnessed.

Burning above the hills of our home. Sitting on the roof of our house with a hose to stop embers from landing and burning our house down. The lack of the arrival of the embers, a fearful defensive measure, that did nothing but for all we know the house would have burned had I not sat there.

My Relationship with Religion

This is an extremely tentative topic choice, but as of now I’m considering writing about my relationship with religion. This was sparked by the class where we read one of my blog posts out loud and everyone seemed fixed on my statement that I am a Christian. I didn’t intend for the statement to have too deep of a meaning, but everyone’s attention still seemed to be turned to it. And that got me thinking about my religious experiences. I consider myself a Christian, but I come from a fairly diverse religious background: my dad comes from a wholly Catholic family and my mom’s family has traces of Buddhism and Christianity. Some highlights of what I will focus on in the paper:

- When I was little, my mom told me about God and Jesus and all that, instilling in me the basic beliefs of Christianity. I prayed before every meal and before bed, but mostly because I wanted to go to Heaven and I wanted my parents to go with me, and I thought that was the only way I could make all of this happen.

- From 2nd grade to 6th grade, I lived in California, during which I started going to church. During this time, I considered myself very religious and could not imagine not going to church on Sundays. When I moved to Florida in the middle of my 6th grade year, I first stopped going because we couldn’t find a church. As I matured, I stopped thinking about it because I came to dislike the institutionalization of religion that the church had become. 

- Somewhere during my earlier years in California, my dad informed me that he didn’t believe in God. He saw the Bible as a good book of values, but nothing beyond that. This horrified me to no end and I spent the next week or so asking God to forgive my dad in all of my prayers.

- The summer before my senior year of high school, I met the first girl I fell in love with. She was the first girl whose parents I met as a boyfriend, so I was understandably pretty nervous. I thought everything went well, but apparently it didn’t. My ex later informed me that her parents didn’t like me for several reasons, highlighted by the fact that, as a half-Korean, I wasn’t Korean enough, and that I wasn’t a good person because I didn’t go to church. Although I don’t go to church, I still consider myself a faithful Christian, so this was pretty hurtful to me, and made me think about why so many people place an irrationally large emphasis on religion.

I’m sure there will be many more things I will write about that relates to the topic, but these are the highlights, so I guess I’ll just see where it goes with this foundation.

Shallow Vanity?

First off, I should say that last time I closed the course packet, I had pretty much written off the lyric essay as a worthwhile genre of writing. I thought that despite sporting a host of interesting facts and anecdotes, Son of Mr. Green Jeans, was somewhat dated and had to reach in some areas to achieve the A-Z configuration—which I thought a bit too reminiscent of elementary school English projects to take seriously anyway. It is a valid essay, though, and one for which I have little literary critique. The Atlantic Man—as I said earlier I hated—is what really turned me off, I think.

Both of the works I read today, however, were pleasant. Tisanes was not a completely straightforward read—it required a second or third examination in places, but it was also not indecipherable. I am still unsatisfied with my inability to resolve the ultimate meaning from the fragments but at least it piques my interest. The Pain Scale though, is pretty fantastic. It manages to do what the others have, in large part failed to do. Not only is it interesting and identifiable, it reads painlessly (haha) without bluntly giving itself away—I ponder it because I need to.

The wiggle room in the lyric essay seems to have two extremes—the somewhat cheesy collection of anecdotes and facts arranged by some periodic function and the clunky, metaphor laden compilation of vague self-indulgent bullshit that no one really wants to decipher and probably wasn’t actually intended to mean anything anyway. But… a middle ground of the two seems to yield something pretty pleasant.

All of this is probably boring chatter to you, but to me it’s an attempt to get my head around an unfamiliar genre—a necessary step to writing anything within it.

The most appealing idea I have so far is to write about physical appearances from different viewpoints and examine what they might mean. Presumably to imply something poignant about the human condition? This is something that everybody cares about in some form or another, and who knows, it might even get a little scandalous. It will probably include:

• A dichotomy between my mother—who is not a vain person—and her sensitivity about her completely acceptable nose
• The way my views of my own appearance have changed over the years, culminating in my gym attendance from last summer on to the present
• A good friend of mine is 20 and balding… I have a few good anecdotes about that from the female point of view
• Another good friend is worried about her weight constantly—I may not write about that for fear of a potentially grisly death… We’ll see
• The fraternity—and by extension—male mob viewpoint
• Maybe explore that thing about girls liking confident bad boys that we were talking about in class—I have stories
• The human biological impetus
• Perhaps some research littered in there?

I’m trying to arrange this according to a periodic scheme as well. I’d rather not write it here so I don’t plant it in anyone else’s mind—those conventions seem somewhat hard to come by. I definitely welcome suggestions that people have conceived but aren’t planning on using however :D

In high school, I used to write those kinds of wordy essays that only I would think were beautiful and everyone else would stop listening to by the third sentence. That’s because I was all about flow—my writing flowed wonderfully. In retrospect it also sucked ass at everything else. I didn’t think about content, really, until I came to college. So I need to be careful not to approach the irrelevant without losing the ‘lyric’ part of the essay. That said, I’ll have to throw in some healthy metaphorical mumbo-jumbo—I promise it will ALL have a purpose—and voila, a lyric essay.

Chris ‘The Atlantic Man might just be a 10 on the scale’ Garcia

My Favorite Facts

I’m tentatively writing my lyric essay about some facts I like to say.  When certain things are mentioned in conversation, and especially when I’m drunk, I usually have some piece of trivia that I can add.  In this way,  I suppose the essay will be similar to “Son of Mr. Green Jeans”, in that it goes through some facts, all loosely connected on the same topic (I have yet to select a topic; Professor Bresland suggested “invention/creation”).  In the essay, I won’t just state the facts, but also go into detail about other things surrounding that fact, like why it might come up or what it means or something.   Here are some of the facts:

• You know the drummer from ZZ Top?  The only one who didn’t sport a glorious beard?  His name is Frank Beard.
• Cats have two sets of vocal chords: one for meowing, another for purring.
• Henry Ford invented charcoal briquettes.  He sold the patent to his brother-in-law, E.G. Kingsford.
• Thomas Edison proposed to his second wife by tapping Morse Code on her hand while they were in a coach going to the theater.  They often secretly communicated like this; onlookers just thought they were holding hands.
• Mosquitos are attracted to people who have just eaten a banana.
• Hemingway rewrote the last page of A Farewell to Arms 39 times.
• Dostoevsky was a gambler.  One day, riddled in debt and needing an advance on his next novella, he made a deal with his publisher to complete it in 30 days, or else surrender the rights and profits to all his work in the following nine years.  To complete the task, he employed a stenographer to take his dictation — who he quickly fell in love with.  Through the course of the 30 days, he described a main character’s feelings and emotions for a woman in the story, who resembled the stenographer in many ways.  (The woman in the story, however, rejects the main character’s advances, in a similar way that Dostoevsky’s former love interest did).  After it was published in the nick of time, he married the stenographer.  The novella was called The Gambler.

Come to think of it, the most interesting facts are about writers and inventors, so I guess it’ll be about that.

Moore as an example

I read “Son of Mr. Green Jones” and wondered about Moore’s method.

Here, he strings together 26 bits of loosely related motifs about fatherhood, with each piece leading to the next and linking back to the last effortlessly. The result is a substantial, interlocking matrix of observations on the subject of fathers and, often times, their failures.

I want to learn to write like this. Every nonfiction writer seems to have a method, and I’m still reaching for mine. When reading, sometimes my highlighter becomes a convenient tool, imbuing delicately powerful phrases with color and therefore elevating to the status of remembrance. Other times, I stop what I’m reading and lunge for a pen and my journal, copying down an interesting fact or poetic line with an eye for exactitude. Sometimes, I store these bits and pieces digitally, e-mailing myself or using Microsoft Word to record a jewel of a sentence as I stumble upon it.

It seems like Moore spent years researching this piece, so varied are his facts on fatherhood — from the ecstasy of new fatherhood for a penguin to the effects of television’s Leave it to Beaver to the behavior of the Y chromosome. I wonder how he prepared for this piece.

There are people today who watch recordings of Michael Jackson’s last dress rehearsal with almost a religious fervor. They seek meaning in Jackson’s every glance — he way he engages with the mirror, how he drops his dead down for a particular dance move, his method of preparing for the concert stage. They are looking for the genius in his practice. In this way, I would love a glimpse of Moore’s notes for this piece — every rejected sentence, every motif that didn’t make it to the printed page. Maybe this transparency wouldn’t ruin the allure of good writing. But as a fellow writer, I long to know what went on behind the scenes.

Limits

When you look at Son of Mr. Green Jeans, you begin to see the structure formulating his work. The ABC’s form a restrictive guideline to his work. Can some of your best work come from limits that are within or out of your control? Think of George Lucas and his $11 million dollar baby Star Wars the New Hope. Within a limited budget and constant pressure from screen executives, Lucas would be the highest budget film of its time and create a multi-million dollar enterprise.

In another sense, the Star Wars movies got worse and worse as Lucas obtained legendary status, unlimited funds, and complete artistic control over his films. In a financial sense, he did himself good, but those prequels sucked balls.

In The Atlantic Man, we, the audience, can only see what Duras shows us, which is as she fondly describes as nothing or “emptiness.” However, confined within this screen of emptiness are her words, which seems overtly unrevealing. She has limited the audience’s access to concrete facts and like the screen leaves us empty. In that sense, her loneliness is felt, but we are left helplessly drowning in her sea of poetic suffering with no lifeboat in sight. She limits our access to connect with her, which is quite frustrating as a reader. It almost seems as if this essay is completely for herself and not for the subject or any reader.

In another light, she reveals enough. In a melodramatic way, this emptiness takes on another form throughout the essay. In the beginning, her mind tries to empty out her image of her love. The mind is trying to fight the emptiness with emptiness, but of course it doesn’t work and she knows it. She does not try to fill the void, but almost does nothing to heal it or close it up. He is an actor of this emptiness and of course is never there, and she doesn’t ever tell him if he is the main character or not. Is he watching the film or is he in this film? Maybe it no longer matters because he isn’t there.

Drift

I’ll start this by saying that I, too, struggled with Dumas’ piece.  It’s certainly not an easy read, though I found I liked it a bit more the second time around, having a sense of what to expect.

What I appreciated most about Dumas was that she really plays with sentence structure, which I think is part of what makes her piece so confusing, but also gives it such a unique flow.  I feel like the phrases that resonated with me the most from this piece were the most unusually organized ones: “You have remained in the state of having left,” or “While I no longer love you I no longer love anything, nothing, except you, still.”  By combining these convoluted statements with her short, bare-bones paragraphs, for instance “You do not know this” or “Look at the camera,” she drifts between being anchorless and certain through her structure as well as what she is saying.  I think I noticed this in particular when reading it with Moore’s work, which seems almost journalistic in its style at times (don’t get me wrong though—I loved Moore).  In Dumas’ essay, you drift and drift through convoluted thought bordering on philosophy (“You will think the miracle is not in the apparent similarity between each of the particles that make up those millions of men in their continuous hurling, but in the irreductible difference that separates them from each other, that separates men from dogs, dogs from film, sand from the sea…” on and on for another six lines, without a single period) and then are quickly brought back down to earth with a simple statement.  I feel like I had these ups and downs a lot reading this, and it kept me reading even though it could also lose me sometimes in the drifting.

The Second Person

I was always taught that writing in second person was for children’s adventure novels or trivial things. This of course, excludes letters and things that are actually only addressed to one other person.

I found Duras’ use of the second person both intimate and distance. At first, I questioned whether she was trying to draw her audience in by making it seem insistently personal. She said “you will forget this is you,” which I thought was very true because, regardless of whether or not the reader is supposed to feel like it is s/he, by the end of the second page, we’ve already begun imagining a character and setting the scene with her.

Once I made that transition, I felt sort of distanced from the work because, I knew it wasn’t about me. However, not distanced in a way in which I lost interest. Instead I felt as if I was reading something I shouldn’t be; something that wasn’t intended for my eyes. This, I felt, made the essay all the more interesting. Although I didn’t belong there, I was curious to find out who did.

That being said, I think this choice has the capability of distancing the reader to the point which they lose interest in the work. The execution is definitely key and the subject matter is important. It would be ambitious to try, but innovative to say the least. When do you ever read published works in second person?

Creativity

I agree with both Tom and Chris about the merits of these two works. I think that both Duras and Moore biggest strength is the creative approach they take in engaging the reader. Honestly, there have been plenty of essays that we’ve read that I haven’t liked at all. After a while, reading essays becomes kind of tedious, unless the author presents interesting material in a unique fashion. 

Moore, of course, does this by organizing his theme into twenty-six seemingly random ideas, arranged in alphabetic order. This makes his essay read kind of like an encyclopedia, and each “entry” is short and to-the-point. It allows the reader to understand what Moore is getting at without reading too much into it, and thus keeps the reader from getting bored. The connections Moore draws from objects of nature, pop culture and his own life are inspired, creating a way of looking at a somewhat common theme (the loss of a father) that I had certainly never seen before. I particularly loved the entry for the letter Q, or “Quiz.” In this entry, Moore creates an impromptu quiz for the reader. This really makes it seem much more interactive than an essay should be, and actually makes it fun to read. 

Duras, on the other hand, engages the reader by speaking directly to him through extensive use of the second person. I didn’t particularly enjoy reading this piece, but I did see some merit in the second person technique. In speaking directly to the reader, Duras effectively engages the reader in ways that a normal, formulaic essay simply cannot.

My main point is that, in writing, it is often easy to just stick to what you know, which can sometimes result in fairly boring essays. That’s why it’s important to take risks. These risks are most often evident in the form of subject matter: for example, the controversial essays of Joe Wenderoth or the various selections from the course reader relating to sex. However, it is also important to experiment with style, and to present readers with new essay structure. If the risk fails, there is of course the danger of embarrassing yourself with a subpar essay. But if the writer’s risk succeeds, the essay often benefits hugely from the break from form or subject matter. This is true in the case of Moore: the break in form is incredibly entertaining and makes for an easy read that gets its point across effectively. The same is also true for Duras. Although I didn’t particularly like the essay, I do think the break in form made the essay better than it would have been without it.

Puzzle Pieces

In reading Son of Mr. Green Jeans, I am reminded of Kathryn Chetkovich’s Envy, when she reads “those pages of his I wished I had written.” I wish I wrote this: it’s brilliant. Seemingly random, fully independent snippets mesh together ingeniously to create a cohesive whole. Moore leaves us with a unique, nuanced look at absent fathers. And I always admire a writer who can do justice to a serious matter while maintaining his sense of humor.

When it comes to writing, I am absolutely incapable of pre-planning anything. I find outlines and lists useless; structure only makes me want to rebel. So I wonder how Moore approached writing this: did he start out with a general topic and just begin writing? Was the patterning of this story just lucky circumstance, or is it artfully arranged? Did he know each topic he would touch upon beforehand?

Whatever my writer envy, at least we both like Leave It To Beaver references.

The Reader

Marguerite Duras uses the second person quite a bit.  “The Atlantic Man” is addressed to some unknown person (although we know from the forward that it’s Yann Andrea), and stands as a list of commands, qualities, and effects that she wants to explain to him.  However, during the course of the reading, I can’t shake this lingering feeling that the “you” in this story is actually the reader, me.  Combined with the fact the the original French used “vous” for all instances of “you”, the formal version that she wouldn’t use for a lover but rather someone she doesn’t know, like me.

This uncanny feeling doesn’t go away throughout the piece.  It makes you feel inadequate and shameful, as if all this pain and anguish was your fault.  She speaks with force, telling you exactly how to leave her, how to leave the film empty with nothing, because you are nothing and neither is she.  You have caused her to lose herself in the nothingness, and so she tells you how to leave.

But the worst part comes at the end, with “You do not know this”.  Here, we are reminded of the roses she was just talking about.  The ones that stay open for days, let everything out, and die, unseen by anyone.  She relates this rose to herself, with “you do not know this”.  She has just let herself out, and yet no one has seen it.  So maybe we are not the person who is addressed in this piece.  We read it; we know her pain and how we caused it.  But the real “you” doesn’t know this, so we are not “you”, and we did not cause her pain.

But then again, it resonates still, even after this reversal at the end, that maybe we did do it.  Maybe not in Marguerite’s life, but our own.

Intertwining Connections

I think it’s pretty fantastic the way that Moore weaves together tidbits about animal mating habits, sitcom actors, scientific studies, and personal anecdotes—despite being seemingly random components—while remaining anchored to his theme of missing fathers. This establishes a rapport with the reader, as living without ones father is a common experience. The parts about animals and science interest the reader sort of like documentaries and news stories, the actors are recognized and acknowledged, and most importantly, the personal stories make it all honest. It also helps keep the reader paying attention since it constantly switches topics.

I don’t have much more to say about that—it’s pretty straightforward. I guess I could note that the other piece, “The Atlantic Man” is quite possibly the most painful thing I’ve ever read. That’s notable, right? Nothing else has invoked in me so difficult to control a desire to headbutt the sidewalk after removing my eyes slowly with a wooden spoon. While covered in fire ants and hot coals. Duras might be a very accomplished writer, and indeed the way the writing flows suggests this, but I am obviously not her intended audience. Please tell me that this isn’t the essence of the lyric essay genre.

Chris “is not in a good mood due to non-208 related things” Garcia

 

P.S. I will grant “The Atlantic Man” a good use of artistic effects with the whole act of addressing nothingness as a director would a movie. It just doesn’t resonate and I haven’t the energy to dissect it.

“Goodness” changes

Today, I’m a rather messy person – dropping clothes and towels on the floor, misplacing irreplaceable items left and right, letting dirt pile up until it discolors the carpet. But once upon a time in the past-tense realm of childhood, I was a neat freak. Any handwriting expert would tell you this.

My perfectionist’s drive manifested itself most clearly in my grade school notebooks. These black-and-white composition books were chocked full of clean, rounded block letters, “I’s” dotted decisively, mistakes (reluctantly) crossed out with a thick black line. Each page, I considered, was a feat of artistry and order – of course I doodled, but these sketches were not to be found creeping in the margins but rather on their own, specially designated pages.

Having a neat notebook was an utmost priority of mine, in addition to snagging the perfect pink-trimmed Nike sneakers at the beginning of the school year and making sure ketchup was a component of as many of my meals as possible. To jazz up my notebooks, I insisted my mother drive me to a local stationary store and buy Milky Pens. As a result my notes had lines of gold, silver and turquoise ink that other girls could only envy. Building my inflated confidence were my teachers. I took a fundamental pride in my notebooks, but became even more ecstatic when a teacher asked to photocopy my clear notes to give to absent students – a regular occurrence.

Today, my handwriting has evolved into something quite different. No more are there straight letters, perpendicular lines, neat margins. Today, my penmanship is loose and loopy; a unique hybrid between simple and cursive letters, with many connected to each other for the sake of jotting down words as quickly as possible. I can’t help but see meaning in this evolution – that today I am undeniably looser, more prone to doodles and unorthodoxy, a bit less constrained by a desire to please. I only wish it was socially acceptable to hand in college assignments in sky-blue Milky Pen.

Shirley Temple Dreams

When I was a toddler, I had an uncanny likeness to Shirley Temple. She’s the famed singing/dancing child star of the 1940s, with cherubic sausage curls and a round dimpled face that could melt the heart of the Grinch. My mother grew up watching Shirley Temple, and she bestowed her love of all things having to do with Animal Crackers in my Soup, The Good Ship Lollipop and Curlytop unto me. I became entranced. Shirley’s perfect golden locks invigorated a sense of pride in my own head of kinky curls, which I had previously viewed as an undeserved and malicious trick of genetics. I watched movies of Shirley tromping around in her fluffy skirts, clicking her toes on the floor to an old-timey rhythm. She giggled and sang and made everyone around her glow with affection. AND she was famous. Shirley Temple was everything I wanted to be…when I was four.

Before I had started any formal dance training, I would adorn myself with glamorous costumes and accessories (usually including, but not limited to: a tiara and a wand of some sort) and make my family watch me dance around our living room for ungodly amounts of time. In one home video of little Julia at age three, I finish a grandiose solo to the Nutcracker suite (with a grumbling DJ, Christopher DeNardo, age 6½ ) and plunge into a luxurious curtsy exclaiming “EXCUSE ME, IS anybody CLAPPING?!” What can I say? I have always loved the stage. And I am not afraid to admit appreciating a good round of applause now and again. I asked my mom if I could be in movies, and if she could start me out in Juicy Juice commercials so I could break into the biz. I was a pretty precocious little whippersnapper to say the least. Her response to my adamant requests to lead the life of a child star was to sign me up for tap dance lessons at our community recreation center. I had just turned four, and although this wasn’t exactly the same caliber of artistry as appearing in a Juicy Juice commercial, or being the kid chosen to ride around in the Oscar Myer Weiner-Mobile (my other plot to instant stardom) I was satisfied. I remember buying my first pair of tap shoes before the class. I chose to put a bright red ribbon on them. They were smashing. My expectations of a good time in tap class had little to do with technical prowess, and lots to do with the intoxicating notion of scampering about the room with fun music and being allowed to make loud noises with our shoes. I was right, that was pretty fun. But as it turns out, I also had something of a knack for physical movement. I remember standing on the wooden floor of “community dance room #4,” and hearing the shrieks from the next room over filled with little boys doing karate.

I was by far the smallest student, even among other four and five year olds. I was in my phase of only wearing dresses and pink tights; NEVER pants, or anything that might even subtly connote a lack of femininity. My patent leather tap shoes stuck out from underneath the billows of my dress like clown shoes on a princess, and my curly hair was shoved messily into a bun on top of my tiny head. We would face our teacher Ms. Joan, who looked like she had been plucked out of the chorus of 42nd street with giant hair sprayed hair, as she had us practice the Buck Times Step or our Maxiford turns one at a time. I was a tiny little ball of energy waiting and ready to prove that good, hell great things come in small packages. I wasn’t competitive with any one else; I just wanted to make sure Ms. Joan didn’t overlook me. I wanted her to think I was the next Shirley Temple, because I wanted it desperately. I also wanted to be a little taller. I wanted to have high heel shoes so I looked older. Nevertheless, each time it was my turn to do the steps I outperformed everyone. I certainly wanted to be a great dancer like dear Shirley, but I didn’t know I actually had something special. I was good. I was really good. From the moment I learned the shuffle ball change, and executed it pristinely in front of Ms. Joan and my fellow pre-school comrades, I had the first feeling of knowing I had found something I am innately good at. It was a raw stage of self-discovery. Of course in my dance training for many years to come, I would work tirelessly to achieve recognition, rehearse for many hours to perfect a piece of choreography, and prepare for the mental and physical rigors of auditions. But when I was four, in Ms. Joan’s Rec-center tap class, I was truly a kid wonder. I whipped out buffalos across the floor in perfect time, with my arms in the right place, and a dazzling smile on my face. At the end of the first class, unbeknownst to me until years later, Ms. Joan approached my mother in confidence. “Julia has got it” she said bluntly, “Your daughter is a dancer.” But at that moment, I didn’t even need the validation. I knew I had unearthed something that I loved; something that would follow me for the rest of my life. And it has. So I didn’t become a child star. And that’s ok. I’m probably way better off emotionally. But there is a Shirley Temple poster on the wall of my apartment, and more importantly; there is still time for me to figure out a way to ride around in the Weiner-Mobile.

 

Shirley (1944)

Me (1994)

 

 

 

 

Vampire

I’ll be honest, it took me a while to come up with something for this post.  I’m a fencer for Northwestern, but I’m flattened so routinely by some of my much more skillful teammates that I hesitate call myself “good.”  I played piano for eight years, but I was horrible about practicing and it took me a painfully long time to learn pieces.  I can’t paint or draw, I’m hideously tone-deaf.  But by the time I was a Senior in High School, I was a pro a running successful blood drives.

 

It’s hardly what you’d call a talent, I’m not entirely sure why I picked it.  But over the span of two years, Junior to Senior, I became capable of conniving even the most needle-phobic, squeamish person to at least consider having someone slowly drain 1/8 of their blood in a single sitting.  I had an arsenal of factoids (still do), answers for every question or misgiving.  No, you cannot get diseases from donating, it’s impossible.  Yes, the needles are sterile.  Or, of course, I also picked up the occasional well-placed encouragement.  Yes, you can miss class if you donate.  Yes, you do get out of sports practice that day.  I was so notorious for being the “blood drive girl” that for a Holiday assembly one year, “Santa” called me onstage, had me sit on his lap, told me he had the gift I wanted most, and handed me a leaking bag of red, sticky, odorless “blood.”

 

So what exactly I am I good at?  Guilt-tripping people for a good cause?  I hope not—I really, really hate it when people try to guilt trip me, and the people who stand at the arch and ask me if I have a minute for the environment, or gay rights, or PETA, and then ask for my credit card number so they can automatically take money from my account monthly never fail to frustrate me.  But I know I sank to that level a little.  Early on, when I was having less success getting names of people willing to donate, I went on stage during a school announcements session and said something along the lines of, “Guys, almost no one’s signed up for the drive.  And I know you might not love the idea but there is no substitute for human blood in transfusions, so if people don’t give, people die.”  I hadn’t meant to put it so bluntly.  But it worked.  I got at least ten names within five minutes of making that announcement.

 

I think what I able to master was the art or putting on a bit of a persona.  I hesitate to call it acting.  It was more like there was this little part of me that was the vampire: efficient, blood-hungry, tireless, merciless to fear or hesitation.  And for two weeks, at the drop of a hat, I could forget everything else and become that thing.  You know that part in Harry Potter when he’s under the imperius spell and all that’s in his mind is one action?  It was eerily like that.  All I had to do was step back and let it take over.

 

Maybe the moral is, when I want something to succeed bad enough, I get really, really good at getting it, shoving aside inhibitions and distractions.  Or maybe I’m good at framing myself in whatever light I want to be seen in that day.  Or, well, it’s possible I’m just adept at guilt-tripping.  But I like to think the whole thing proves I’m good for something, apart from sucking blood.

 

 

Potato Sacks

At the end of each year, my grammar school held an outdoor celebration, aptly entitled Field Day. The school was divided into eight teams, each of them having members from grades K-5.  The competition involved a long series of athletically oriented events, and we maneuvered through them in small groups, competing against groups from other teams. At the end of the day, the winning team would be crowned and given ribbons. It was not unusual for children to cry when they were deprived of these ribbons.

(Note: I remember that the scoring was incredibly complicated, considering that that there were at least 500 participants. Furthermore, the units for measuring Frisbee tosses are not the same as those for foot races. Worse, the gym teachers were enlisted to compile all of this data. I can’t help but feel as if egregious errors were made.)

Anyway, at the beginning of the day, we were assigned to a group and sent to the classroom where we would mobilize. Despite being in the same school, I remember experiencing a nervous discomfort, like an unfit gladiator in a foreign holding pen. Instead, it was my fourth grade dignity—and not my life—that was on the line.

As expected, I faltered in the 100-meter dash, and my Frisbee toss was one of those extreme duds. Oh, and I must mention the event where we had to pick up a bunch of obnoxious items at once and carry them to another location without dropping any (which held the penalty of starting over). In retrospect, I have deemed the creator of this aforementioned event to be a sadist that enjoyed watching uncoordinated children drop rubber chickens, turn back to look at said dropped rubber chickens, proceed to drop the rest of his/her items, and then start over, often taking three times as long as the next worst contestant.  Needless to say, my performance was leaving something to be desired, and I knew that I would have to prove myself in the next event—the potato sack race.

At the time, my intuition told me that I had a chance. Perhaps I had participated in one before; I do not remember. Surely, it was not because of any physical advantages that I possessed in comparison to my peers—I was a tad overweight, could not run very well unless it was in the direction of dinner, and surely did not perform any calf raises in my spare time.

The whistle blew, and I scampered forward frenetically. Jumping repeatedly with one’s feet confined to the bottom of a potato sack is not the most comfortable activity, but for the sake of redemption, I pulled upwards on the sack and drove my torso forward for extra momentum. Most of the race was a blur; this was not helped by the fact that my cranium was being jerked to and fro, allowing my brain to bounce freely.

I won the race by quite a margin, confirming my strange suspicion. I remember noting to myself that I was rather excellent at the potato sack race. At the time, I may have even considered this a legitimate skill. Regardless of my victory, I am quite glad that there is no video footage of this event.

I have not since participated in a potato sack race.

Making Silly Jokes

It was last period on a Wednesday during the last month of Junior year.  My friend Nevin and I were sitting in study hall when we came up with the idea to run for office.  The election was on Friday, and people had been campaigning for weeks.  “Let’s make a bunch of silly posters”, we thought, “and see how many votes we get.”

"If elected President, I promise a handlebar moustache for every man, woman, and child." -Tom Hayden for Senior Class President

That’s what ensued.  I also had one that showed a picture of a glass of orange juice that said only “Orange juice is delicious.  Vote for Tom Hayden.”  Nevin ran for Secretary.  His poster was a picture of him punching Stalin in the face, promising to rid the school of communism.

We put the posters up on Thursday, writing our speeches that night as well.  Mine told the story of my childhood, beginning with my birth, the tides of which brought about the destruction of the Berlin Wall.  Nevin’s was a list of “facts” (“When given the choice of rock, paper, or scissors, he always chooses Democracy”), and a drawing of a billy goat.

We won.  We had beaten out people who had spent way more time than we had, simply because our posters and speeches (they weren’t really speeches, though.  Voters had to read them on their own time) were funny and ridiculous.  It was at this point that I realized that I was good at making jokes.  Nevin was also pretty good.  Sidenote: my friends from High School still call me “Mr. President” sometimes.

This ability went on to help me win future elections.  For example, for my speech for Willard Secretary, I recited the lyrics of “She’s a Bad mama Jama”.  I went on to write a four-page weekly bathroom newsletter that included stories about Obama flying and fighting crime, or a piece entitled “Minutes from the First Meeting of the First Frat Ever”.

But at the heart of this isn’t really just “oh I can make people laugh isn’t that swell hur hur”.  It’s that I learned that people like me when I make them laugh.  Humor became a social tool — helping me win elections was a happy coincidence.  In humor I could win friends and make a name for myself.  I wasn’t just some guy who lived down the hall.  I was the funny guy who lived down the hall, and that’s a great person to be.  Of course, I still don’t have a girlfriend — I’m not that good yet.

I’m so good I’m doing it right now

The procrastinator’s logic in putting things off is best explained in the following quote from season two of Grey’s Anatomy:

“Maybe we like the pain.  Maybe we’re wired that way.  Because without it, I don’t know; maybe we just wouldn’t feel real.  What’s that saying? Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer?  Because it feels so good when I stop.”

There is no greater feeling of relief than getting a paper printed and stapled five minutes before it’s due to be handed in.  Race to class, throw it on the pile with everyone else’s work, and DONE.  Sit down, wait for class to be over, and go back to bed.  Lie down, soak in the glorious feeling of your full weight on the mattress and your carefree head on the pillow, and three, two, one…out.

The difference between my form of procrastination and most other students I find, is that I enjoy what I call “constructive” procrastination.  I don’t waste time by re-watching movies, perusing photos on Facebook, or shopping for new music on i-tunes.  Don’t get me wrong.  I do those things to fill the void of hours between classes or between the end of classes and dinner, but not in the peak hours of procrastination.

Instead, I start off my late-night study/paper writing sessions with good intentions.  I lay out all my books and notes and collect my pens and highlighters and open up Microsoft Word ready to begin.  But then I see I have to reference Wikipedia for something.  Alright, Internet open.  Search Montgomery Bus Boycott.  Hmm, Rosa Parks died in 2005…sad.  Oh but Condoleeza Rice spoke at her funeral.  How nice.  She used to teach at Stanford?  Leland Stanford was one of the Big Four wasn’t he?  I think I learned that in fourth grade…

I think you get the point.  My friend Danielle best associates my problem with this comic:

The end result is I have a plethora of innocuous knowledge that serves no real purpose other than to make me blurt out random facts at lunchtime in the midst of otherwise mindless chatter.  Worse still, my problem only gets progressively worse as general apathy sets in and the “fear” I had in high school that compelled me to begin work earlier steadily wanes into nonexistence.  In fact, unless I’m really excited about an assignment, I have no other way to boot my ass into gear than to watch the clock wind down until the early hours of the morning when I finally realize I actually need to dig into my work.

The worst time vacuum has to be reading week.  Last fall, I actually tried to get work done early like a good student to help keep the stress from getting to me.  What was the end result?  I finished my french assignment five days in advance,  put it on my shelf to be handed in on its due date, AND COMPLETELY FORGOT IT WAS THERE UNTIL ONE HOUR AFTER THE DEADLINE.

Luckily for me, my professor was very understanding and accepted my final the next day with no penalties.  But had I pulled my usual all-nighter and finished the paper the day of, I would have printed it off, stapled it, raced to the French department, and spared myself the pleading e-mail that stressed me out for hours between the time it got sent and the time my professor sent her benevolent reply.

Everyone can and occassionally does procrastinate.  Suddenly your laundry needs to get done, those errands need to be run, and you haven’t called home in a while, so why not chat up Mom and Dad for an hour or so before getting that essay started?  My only difference is that I still like learning when I’m wasting my time.

Anyway, now that I’ve completed this assignment, I suppose I only have seven hours to explain how the Cold War affected race relations between 1945 and 1965…arn’t you jealous?