If Nitesh Arora had to have been blessed with a fatal flaw which of the many could it be? Well, a type-A personality, an overzealous drive, and annoying persistence could all be drawn from the basket, but perfectionism is at the core of each of his flaws. Nitesh strives to achieve his goals—you can only be perfect if you’ve done everything you’ve set out to, right? He can’t settle for anything less. Settling for a les than optimal amount of sleep is certainly one of those tiny sacrifices someone whom shall one day have a top the New York Times bestsellers list, right? He would walk on Hollywood’s red carpet when going to the premiere of the movie based on his first chart-topping novel. That, would be a reward.
However, all of the ambition that he has, this perfectionist drive, stops him from achieving the goals he sets for himself. The joy of obtaining a real position writing and the regret months later…is that really perfection. It’s not that he just can’t say no, but more of an issue of he doesn’t want to say no. Why would he reject something that would advance his career? Or further his passion? Or spread his culture? Or help the family business? Nitesh’s drive causes him to accept each of these responsibilities, the obligation and promise are too enticing to let go to waste. And, when it comes down to it, he fulfills these responsibilities. Of course, like a true perfectionist the end result is glowing. He throws each of these plates of responsibility in the air, spinning and spinning and catching and throwing on and on, delirium setting in but the plates staying in the air.
Nitesh wants it all. And, if he’s going to do any of it he’s going to go all in, there’s no use making a commitment if the results aren’t amazing, that’s not the Nitesh Arora touch.
~Nitesh Arora
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Writing Flaw
The character Jaaziah seems unreal. His constant work ethic that is very strenuous seems impossible to be done by any human being. He appears to almost have no fun by is always working out or training for a competition, either with a team or as an individual on his own. Jaaziah overly dedication must force him to have no social life or interaction amongst his peers. Jaaziah cannot have the time to hangout or chill with his friends to play video games or watch television because his life appears to be extremly busy. If he gets up early to workout and then has classes plus a team practice, homework and studying incorporated into his daily schedule he can't have to time to do the typical things guys his age do. From having strenuous workouts so often Jaaziah has to be physically and mentally drained. This will not only affect his time spent with his family, friends, or teammates. But require him to get more rest for his body which takes more time away from him having a social life.
Another of Jaaziah's flaw's is that appears bias. He only talks about sports as if sports are the only thing that happen in the world and every reader can relate to what he is saying. He never mentions real life experiences and how it affects him or others unless it has a direct correlation to his own personal sport. Even when talking about sports he makes other sports seem less important or necessary than his own particular sport. Jaaziah praises himself and his sport and in the process disrespects other sports. He often neglects to reference other sports even exist on most occasions. If he were not so intrigued by his sport and himself maybe he would notice and recognize what is happening in the real world around him. Jaaziah needs to adjust his focus and his knowledge and at least for one day realize the truth that is surrounding him.
Jaaziah Bethea.
Another of Jaaziah's flaw's is that appears bias. He only talks about sports as if sports are the only thing that happen in the world and every reader can relate to what he is saying. He never mentions real life experiences and how it affects him or others unless it has a direct correlation to his own personal sport. Even when talking about sports he makes other sports seem less important or necessary than his own particular sport. Jaaziah praises himself and his sport and in the process disrespects other sports. He often neglects to reference other sports even exist on most occasions. If he were not so intrigued by his sport and himself maybe he would notice and recognize what is happening in the real world around him. Jaaziah needs to adjust his focus and his knowledge and at least for one day realize the truth that is surrounding him.
Jaaziah Bethea.
David's Heel
David knew he was capable of doing anything. He could make anyone happy and adapt to any situation if called upon. It was his one true dream realize his potential and be the best; to be everything anyone could ever be. If he had three wishes, they would be super strength, super speed, and super wisdom: this would ensure he could face any challenge. (Flight would help the falling from an airplane scenario, but he would be strong enough to punch the world away from him when he landed or flap his arms so fast he would hover; also, his super wisdom would probably devise a really cool way to survive the impact.)
David drew heavily upon his ease of conversation and understanding of M.U.C.S., Mutual Understand and Comfortable Silence. People liked to express themselves around David and he in turn shared his own perspectives. It was through this ease that David started to see that many people are completely oblivious to how they act. After this discovery, David grew bitter and felt himself superior. How could so many people be such fools?
It took David four years to finally see how horrible he was acting and that it was through this selfishness and superiority that people become assholes. And not just assholes: lazy people, attention whores, womanizers, know-it-alls, and other undesirable people we have to sit next to in the cab during your friend's birthday because you were too drunk to recognize which one you were getting in and found you were with Sarah's other group of friends that were constantly pissing you off while you tried to dance to that new Pitbull song. Yeah, I know Pitbull its just awful, but a mans gotta mambo when a mans gotta mambo.
David comforts himself with the fact that everyone struggles like he does, and everyone wants to be the best they can be. It's funny: if everyone was the best, then who would be the real best? Just goes to show that the world is just as fucked up as you are.
-David Darner
David drew heavily upon his ease of conversation and understanding of M.U.C.S., Mutual Understand and Comfortable Silence. People liked to express themselves around David and he in turn shared his own perspectives. It was through this ease that David started to see that many people are completely oblivious to how they act. After this discovery, David grew bitter and felt himself superior. How could so many people be such fools?
It took David four years to finally see how horrible he was acting and that it was through this selfishness and superiority that people become assholes. And not just assholes: lazy people, attention whores, womanizers, know-it-alls, and other undesirable people we have to sit next to in the cab during your friend's birthday because you were too drunk to recognize which one you were getting in and found you were with Sarah's other group of friends that were constantly pissing you off while you tried to dance to that new Pitbull song. Yeah, I know Pitbull its just awful, but a mans gotta mambo when a mans gotta mambo.
David comforts himself with the fact that everyone struggles like he does, and everyone wants to be the best they can be. It's funny: if everyone was the best, then who would be the real best? Just goes to show that the world is just as fucked up as you are.
-David Darner
Flaws That Give Headaches
Character flaws. The burden of humanity. As a species we strive for perfection and ultimately miss the mark by several hundred feet. More like miles, actually. There are those who would deny this statement of imperfection. One such individual is, Kim Jong-Il, the supreme leader of North Korea, who believes himself to be superhuman to the point of not defecating. Regardless of such absurdities, I don’t mind announcing my imperfections and inadequacies. I admit that, in my opinion, my worst flaw is probably my self-conscious nature. I constantly need the reassurance from my peers, family members, and friends that my work is adequate if not excellent. A compliment is powerful enough to make a day perfect, criticism strong enough to invoke tears. Because of this I am also striving to do the best work possible, however there is another character flaw that affects this trait of mine. That is procrastination. I hate to say that I am one of many who inhabit this frequent quality of dodging assignments till the night before and cramming projects down to the hour of their due date. Together my self-consciousness and my procrastination make for a stressful combination. My laziness ensures that I have mere hours to complete my work while my self-consciousness berates me to achieve the best possible outcome. Despite theses flaws I find that my work tends to be manageable for me to rest easy when I finally find my pillow at night. If I get rid of the day’s headache, that is.
Samantha Audet
Samantha Audet
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Jaaziah The truth untold here is my paper to be workshopped sorry its late.
Jaaziah Bethea
Creative Writing
Jessica McCaughey
Novemver 28th, 2010
The Story that changed their family.
“He’s kicking her out?”
Those were the words I thought in my head and said to my brother when I heard the news. It was an early morning day in February, and my mother was taking my brother, Caron, and I to Basketball practice. It was my junior year and his freshman, but we both were dedicated ballers and did not like being bothered, right before or during our practices or workouts. However, other people had different opinions. Well on this cold February day is when my mother broke the news to us. To me it was horrifying! I can’t speak on my brother’s behalf, but I figure that the news made him freeze like a deer in headlights, as it did me. The news was that my father was kicking my sister, Sheria, out the house. This angered me! But why’d my mother have to break this terrible news to me at this moment? I was trying to focus on Basketball practice as the season was coming to an end and this part of the season was important in how I finish my junior year.
As we rode over to the high school where our practice was, my mother started to explain to Caron and I the situation that my sister was in. She said that my father was disappointed about how late Sheria came home on a constant basis, after they both had commanded that she arrive home much earlier! She seemed disappointed about the decision that my father had made. But she went on with her story saying multiple times she and my father confronted Sheria about coming in late, and sometimes she heeded to their request, but more times than not she didn’t. This, she said was the reason that my father came to his conclusion. She did say if Sheria was apologetic that my father might let her stay. But she also said that my father was giving Sheria until April 1st, to get her things and find a place to live; before he sent her packing and on her own, if she wasn’t apologetic.
As we got out the car she said “we’ll talk more about this when you get home, and I’m sorry to make you late to practice.” Also she whispered, “Jaaziah since your closer to Sheria in age I think that you should talk to her. Maybe she will think about she’s doing and decide to stay.”
But I wasn’t stupid. I knew exactly what this meant, I am a guy too. It meant that my father’s pride could and would not take the feeling of being disrespected. Yes, he cared about what time Sheria arrived home, but he cared more about the fact that she was not obeying his orders. He felt that by her coming home after the time that he directed her to, his force of direction was not being obeyed. Well us guys we must be obeyed, or else we feel disrespected, and this is exactly how my father felt. Now what I didn’t exactly understand was how my father could get so angry about the situation; when he knew that my sister was coming from work, most days when she came home late.
Well as predicted, by April 1st Sheria had moved out. This was the worse day in my life. Before the first, we saw her taking boxes out of the house with her things in them. Some items she left in her car until she moved in to her other home. While other items I believe she left at her girl friends house momentarily. She moved in with her current boyfriend and his family. But I was mad! I felt the whole situation was unnecessary and with her living with him anything could happen. She could get in a car accident and not feel obligated to tell us. She could be attacked and we would not be able to help her. She could just exile herself from our family as a whole, and that would just be sickening. At least when she was home I saw her everyday and I knew that she was safe. But with her gone, I didn’t know anything! I just knew that she didn’t leave here, at 126 anymore.
Although it sometimes seemed that I didn’t like my sister, because I sometimes joked about her, or at times didn’t even acknowledge when her presence was near. I loved her to death and hated to see her go. Since I did not yet have my driver’s license she was always a valuable source of transportation, and with her gone that might as well have gone out the window. But that was not the real reason behind my disappointment, I love being in the presence of my sister. I could always go to her for advice, just sitting and talking to her late at night, when I was feeling down.
Now that she is gone everything has changed. My father acts different and nobody understands him. But what is worse is that we all had a strong hate towards him for what he did. I mean my sister was only 19 years old, without a college degree, when he sent her out on her own. She did not even have a high paying job and she was paying for cosmetology school, by herself at the time too. All of the children were angered at his decision. I could not even talk to this man anymore, I had to force myself to look in his direction, it was as if my face was molded completely frozen, he was just an enemy in our house. Everything that I needed I turned to my mother for. But the worse of it all was the barrier that he put between him and Sheria. Whenever I saw them around each other I thought someone had died, their presence was as people attending a funeral. Words were never spoken, glances were never made, and feelings were cold.
Creative Writing
Jessica McCaughey
Novemver 28th, 2010
The Story that changed their family.
“He’s kicking her out?”
Those were the words I thought in my head and said to my brother when I heard the news. It was an early morning day in February, and my mother was taking my brother, Caron, and I to Basketball practice. It was my junior year and his freshman, but we both were dedicated ballers and did not like being bothered, right before or during our practices or workouts. However, other people had different opinions. Well on this cold February day is when my mother broke the news to us. To me it was horrifying! I can’t speak on my brother’s behalf, but I figure that the news made him freeze like a deer in headlights, as it did me. The news was that my father was kicking my sister, Sheria, out the house. This angered me! But why’d my mother have to break this terrible news to me at this moment? I was trying to focus on Basketball practice as the season was coming to an end and this part of the season was important in how I finish my junior year.
As we rode over to the high school where our practice was, my mother started to explain to Caron and I the situation that my sister was in. She said that my father was disappointed about how late Sheria came home on a constant basis, after they both had commanded that she arrive home much earlier! She seemed disappointed about the decision that my father had made. But she went on with her story saying multiple times she and my father confronted Sheria about coming in late, and sometimes she heeded to their request, but more times than not she didn’t. This, she said was the reason that my father came to his conclusion. She did say if Sheria was apologetic that my father might let her stay. But she also said that my father was giving Sheria until April 1st, to get her things and find a place to live; before he sent her packing and on her own, if she wasn’t apologetic.
As we got out the car she said “we’ll talk more about this when you get home, and I’m sorry to make you late to practice.” Also she whispered, “Jaaziah since your closer to Sheria in age I think that you should talk to her. Maybe she will think about she’s doing and decide to stay.”
But I wasn’t stupid. I knew exactly what this meant, I am a guy too. It meant that my father’s pride could and would not take the feeling of being disrespected. Yes, he cared about what time Sheria arrived home, but he cared more about the fact that she was not obeying his orders. He felt that by her coming home after the time that he directed her to, his force of direction was not being obeyed. Well us guys we must be obeyed, or else we feel disrespected, and this is exactly how my father felt. Now what I didn’t exactly understand was how my father could get so angry about the situation; when he knew that my sister was coming from work, most days when she came home late.
Well as predicted, by April 1st Sheria had moved out. This was the worse day in my life. Before the first, we saw her taking boxes out of the house with her things in them. Some items she left in her car until she moved in to her other home. While other items I believe she left at her girl friends house momentarily. She moved in with her current boyfriend and his family. But I was mad! I felt the whole situation was unnecessary and with her living with him anything could happen. She could get in a car accident and not feel obligated to tell us. She could be attacked and we would not be able to help her. She could just exile herself from our family as a whole, and that would just be sickening. At least when she was home I saw her everyday and I knew that she was safe. But with her gone, I didn’t know anything! I just knew that she didn’t leave here, at 126 anymore.
Although it sometimes seemed that I didn’t like my sister, because I sometimes joked about her, or at times didn’t even acknowledge when her presence was near. I loved her to death and hated to see her go. Since I did not yet have my driver’s license she was always a valuable source of transportation, and with her gone that might as well have gone out the window. But that was not the real reason behind my disappointment, I love being in the presence of my sister. I could always go to her for advice, just sitting and talking to her late at night, when I was feeling down.
Now that she is gone everything has changed. My father acts different and nobody understands him. But what is worse is that we all had a strong hate towards him for what he did. I mean my sister was only 19 years old, without a college degree, when he sent her out on her own. She did not even have a high paying job and she was paying for cosmetology school, by herself at the time too. All of the children were angered at his decision. I could not even talk to this man anymore, I had to force myself to look in his direction, it was as if my face was molded completely frozen, he was just an enemy in our house. Everything that I needed I turned to my mother for. But the worse of it all was the barrier that he put between him and Sheria. Whenever I saw them around each other I thought someone had died, their presence was as people attending a funeral. Words were never spoken, glances were never made, and feelings were cold.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Alex Borschel
Creative Writing
Creative Non-Fiction
11/18/2010
Several moments later Paul walked amiably down the aisle laden with various soaps and other hair related products in front of the Pharmacy and the Frozen Food section. He stood in the HBC section of the grocery store, located at the back of the building, and part of the department stood apart from the pharmacy; both of which were in the general direction he was then heading in.
"Good morning, Sue," he said as he approached the Pharmacy's front desk. She was short, shorter than Paul at least. Her hair was grey and curled, a number of which were even streaked with a white that matched the pharmaceutical apron she always wore.
"Good morning young man, what trouble are you getting into today?" she asked Paul.
'The usual," he replied, returning her smile.
"I'm kinda worried, honestly, if I don't get more hours or a pay raise, or some other source of money, well..." he trailed off. Sue listened patiently,
"Well you know what worries me? All these kids who smoke pot these days," she said sharply, "I can't stand for it, it's a dirty, nasty habit that'll kill them. I was just reading today in TIME that so many live the dirty habit."
Paul looked down, though felt as if his ears perked at her words, so deep was his desire to stop and converse then. "I was wondering; what do you think of the legalization of Marijuana?" he asked.
"Oh not that again," Sue groaned, "you know how I feel about the matter; No, it shouldn't be. Period."
Paul paused. He carefully mulled the words over in his head before he asked them aloud.
"Would you say, then, that people who use marijuana are drug users?" he asked slowly. Sue snorted at what he said,
"More like drug abusers," she retorted. Paul blinked, and with the tip of his index finger tapped his chin thoughtfully.
"What if there was a drug, one that was natural occurring and non-cancer causing, and used as a herbal remedy and medicinally for thousands of years. It is normally heated when used, and stimulates people; much artwerk and literature is written while on it. It has global widespread usage, and comes from a green-leafed plant, but is used most widely because of it's effects on people?"
"Marijuana?" Sue asked, sounding bored. Paul blinked again, as if surprised,
"Actually," he said, "I was thinking of coffee."
They were both quiet for a moment. Sue considered what Paul had said, and Paul carefully waited for further reaction.
"If I had specified what I was thinking of, would you still think I was refer
.ring to Marijuana?" he asked quietly.
Sue frowned. "Yes," she growled and leaned against the counter, as if impatient. Though there were two customer's orders to attend to for hours later; she had little better to do than talk with Paul, at least at that part of the day, and they both knew it. Paul shamelessly exploited this knowledge whenever he could, and
not concerning her either.
"-And marijuana being illegal," he continued, "you attribute those qualities I listed to being of the substance... then thusly, are not those qualities then of an illegal substance?" he paused, "Qualities and characters are what define something, no? They are what define tetrahydrocanniboid, or THC from, say, caffeine, no?"
And Sue nodded, she could not disagree with something so obvious and plainly put. Her annoyance grew, as Paul knew it would.
"Yes, they are," she concurred.
"So then if qualities are what define something, then logically, as even illegal or wrong things are still things, then the qualities of illegal things are what make them intrinsically wrong in adherence to our given laws or moralities. But most importantly, I think it is the qualities, the characteristics of illegal things that is what makes them illegal," and as his words lingered, a part of him wondered if he was irritating her. He continued nevertheless, as much to get his point across as to annoy her further. He didn't mind annoying people so long as he got the truth across. Anger faded, but the truth... well it was there forever; stark, real, and
"For example, our land doesn't ban substances wholesale, but rather by chemicals, or something in that substance that composes it. So you see, it is not Marijuana which is banned, it's the THC. There is literally tons of legal marijuana you can legally buy because the THC is absent. Hell, shoe stores sell hemp shoes. What did you think hemp was? It's fiber from male Marijuana plants. The THC, what is illegal, a quality, is only found in female which likewise is illegal, and anything with that quality is thereby illegal also. You change a chemical, one quality, and something illegal becomes legal, and likewise, legal becomes illegal. Right and wrong, like a light switch, being flipped on and off."
"So what?" Sue asked, sounding annoyed. Paul nodded, acceeding in how important the question actually was.
"So, it seems rather obvious to me," he replied, "that coffee and marijuana share similar qualities. Enough so that when I vaguely described it you associated it with marijuana. I feel it would be inappropriate to ask, but why is it coffee is legal, but weed is not?"
Sue shook her head derisively and snorted,
"If you're trying to say coffee and weed are the same thing, well, you're very wrong."
Paul smiled again,
"No I am not saying that. But come now, weed is only more noticeable because it's smoked. In fact, I once asked a man at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, a person who claimed he had smoked everything under the sun, if he had ever smoked caffeine."
Sue gave him a blank look, in fact there was a little surprise.
"Like... out of a cup?"
"No actually," Paul replied, "I had a similar reaction. I think most people do. He told me it was industrial caffeine, the stuff they add to the military coffee or something like that. Basically it came in powder form."
"And?" she asked, though Paul could tell she was keen to hear.
"Well, if you'll pardon my language, as he put it, 'it fucked him up real good' for roughly forty-five minutes, and made him feel as hyper as having done coke. But, regardless, I'm willing to bet if you put the same amount of weed as one does coffee in a cup of water, the affect would be the same. Marijuana is done normally all at once, whereas coffee is dolled out over time. But to be honest, I've seen people more lit by caffeine than marijuana, and the crash from experience I know, is much worse with the former than the later. The difference between their legality... is one is socially acceptable while the other is not."
"Your point?" Sue repeated. Paul noticed that every few seconds she had begun to look past him, as if there was a line behind him that he was holding up, though there wasn't, and no customer came chivalrously to her rescue. Despite how much she was making it clear he was inconveniencing her, Paul continued.
"Well, recently I werked briefly at a public school a few months ago."
"Oh no," she jested, and raised both hands to cover her mouth in mock horror. Paul laughed with her at himself, unable to deny that it was funny, even if derisive. He cared not. To Paul it was better to be laughed at than with, and surely any of the major merry-andrews would agree.
"It wasn't so bad," he remarked lamely with a jeer smile, "I werked two days a week, for six weeks, and successfully completed my menial job. However, while werking there, I noticed that every teacher, every single one, without exception, drank coffee."
Paul paused,
"Then, if it stands that people who use marijuana are drug abusers, than aren't coffee users drug abusers too?"
"Only if they drink in excess-" Sue replied, but Paul cut her off,
"Which only then is excused because it is socially acceptable." he repeated. "And what is excess?" Paul asked. "If somebody is caught with marijuana once, they go to the same drug programs as those who are suffering from an addiction. If I smoked weed five or six times a week, I'd be considered an abuser, even an addict. Most Americans have coffee once or twice a day, and some more than that!" he exclaimed.
Sue frowned coldly,
"I am not a drug abuser,"
"And I'm not saying you are either, or that if you are it's even necessarily a bad thing, you are." Paul quickly pointed out, "I don't think people who smoke weed are drug abusers anymore than those who drink coffee are. It isn't right or wrong, that's just opinion. But I'm just stating what is and the questions concerning that." Paul breathed in and then out, and with it came the words, "I don't know how much of the substance you use, only you do. If anyone has been thinking that of you..." he trailed off, the implication was clear enough without need of him stating it. Sue's frown only grew with it.
"But more to the point," he continued, "I'm not comfortable that the majority of our nation's educators are drug abusers."
"Coffee is legal," Sue protested.
"Yes? And why isn't marijuana? You use a drug, in the eyes of the law, you might as well abuse it. But why, if weed is equivocable, if less harmful, how is it not legal too?"
"I don't know," she admitted. Paul gave her a small, sympathetic smile.
"I don't know either," he replied, and began to back off, "it doesn't make sense to me. And when we don't know why something is illegal, or wrong, why should we continue to treat it as such? When we can't definitively, undisputably say why something should be illegal, maybe we shouldn't have it be illegal. Maybe we should wait and see, and make sure there is a reason, instead of there being none at all." He shrugged, "after all, if weed was wrong because it was deadly, than cigarettes would be, too. They kill far more than Marijuana."
Again Paul shook his head.
"Tell me Sue, what is the difference between something and nothing?" he asked, the seemingly unrelated question taking her by surprise. She shook head, unsure how or even what to say, thinking that even if she did, it would not be the response he was looking for.
"Everything," he replied, giving the answer for her when it became obvious she expected it from him. "It is infinite. Marijuana, in all its years of use has never killed a single person. Tobacco; millions, hundreds of millions, potentially billions. But even if tobacco had killed just one person, just one, weed, herb, would be infinitely less, as weed has never killed anybody. The difference is everything, and marijuana is infinitely less fatal because of it, and yet at the same is still infinitely more illegal than the poison. It's less harmful than even coffee, which can easily destroy the heart. Paul shook his head again,
"I mean, when I'm at the register, on a daily basis I sell products; tobacco and alcohol, that enable addiction and ruin and even kill lives. Me, with totally legal products, allow others, just by selling it, to destroy lives as thoroughly as any illegal drug dealer-"
"But that's different!" Sue protested. Paul shrugged.
"There used to be an old couple here who I was real friendly with. You know how it is, the familiar customers you get to know. They knew my name, even, without a nametag." and he blinked, "But I don't think I ever caught theirs. I'm much less of a name person than a face person. I guess because names are just words, and words just describe us, but are faces are us, but I digress. I don't like talking about it, because it does my soul no good, but the older gentleman, a very kindly fellow everytime he came through my line, bought a carton of cigarettes every purchase, once a week. They did this on the same day of the week, today in fact, for I suppose forever. They were quite old. One day, about a year ago, though, they just stopped coming. I didn't think much of it for a few weeks until I noticed their abscence. But I didn't think much of it; perhaps they went elsewhere. However, just earlier the lady came to the store, but her husband was not there. I asked her where he was, joking with her that I had not seen the two of them together. She sadly told me that he had passed away from lung cancer."
His words, heavy hung in the air.
"Every pack I sold to him contributed, and though I may never know how much of a hand I had in his death, the fact is, I did. Just as the heroine dealer who sold the addicts last dose before they OD is held responsible, am not I?." he asked at the counter and raised his eyebrows, "How many people have I sold the bottle of wine or case of beer that set them on that road to addiction, or alcoholic rage and abuse? How many packs of cigarettes have I sold, that were the pack that assured that person's cancer and inevitable death? I just wanted to point out, that Marijuana was once sold in pharmacies like the one you werk," he said and patted the counter, "as was Opium and even Heroine, of which the later was even prescribed by doctors. Not many know the blitzkrieg that allowed Nazi Germany's early military successes, was enabled by speed that was rationed out to German soldiers by their superiors. Sigmund Freud, the father of modern psychology both used and advocated the usage of coke as a remedy for any number of ailments, disorders, and insanities. You have a gram of it today, you get twenty-five years. Ecstasy began its use in the office of a therapist helping struggling couples with their marriages. If people hadn't begun overusing it at parties it might even still be used today. And from all that we know that it is not the harm the drug may cause that makes it illegal, but if it is socially acceptable. In the years to come much of what is sold here will be replaced and subsequently made illegal. The drug users of today are tomorrow's abuser. For I certainly consider people who used those drugs that were legal in the past, such as opium or heroine, as drug abusers today."
"But it's different," Sue repeated and protested, "we found those drugs to be harmful, and that there are better ones to be used-"
"Only by matters of time," Paul replied. "Come now, in time the same will occur with all the things we sell here... Your stock will be replaced, and those who cling to what has gone out of fashion will be labeled as deviants, and after enough time, even drug abusers. Look at Aspirin, something incredibly detrimental to the body to the point of being deadly; surely somebody somewhere will create a drug that is more efficient and practical than it, replacing the drug." He shook his head, "The people who used the drugs in the pharmacy today are the next century's drug abusers. Enjoy it while you can. It's just the way of things; you're just next century's illegal drug dealer," His words lingered in the air, and despite her resolute dark frown, he smiled,
"Tobacco, is a good example. It's banned virtually everywhere, and once it becomes socially unacceptable it'll be outlawed. It already has been from everywhere indoors. I was at an amusement park last summer, and the areas where smokers are allowed to smoke are little better than closed off cages." he winked,
"What do you think?" he asked, "still bored?"
"I have to go back to werk," she said sharply, giving him a last, annoyed look, and then turned. She stalked behind the counter, and appeared to be genuinely werking, at least to Paul, shelving and arranging boxes of pills.
In turn, he returned to his own job, whistling an upbeat tune as he absentmindedly returned to spraying, washing, and dusting; skillfully cleaning the wisp-like grey matter away. Paul was certain that if the customers knew just what the dust was, and how much literally covered the store, he was certain they would never shop at Big People and the veritable graveyard that it is.
Every now and then Sue would glance up, over at Paul and then back at her werk. Paul noticed; when it came to people, he always did.
The area, a moment later was clear of everybody but just the two of them.
"You know what I do, to escape the fact I'm a drug dealer?" he asked. Sue looked from over the counter,
"Dare I ask?" she said sarcastically. However, there was a touch of something else, something that begged for more, a release from the truth Paul had shared with her. But it was but one of facet of the bigger truth, for if truth were a diamond, it would be a many sided one, and each side a part of the diamond as a whole. Each side adding beauty, reality, and truth.
"I clean," he answered, "I took the only job they had available at the time, and though I've been trying to escape it ever since, in that aspect, I don't regret my decision. At least I don't help people with their suicide anymore," and he cast a backward glance at the register, "or at least I don't nearly as much as I used to."
Sue paused to listen, and then shook her head.
"That's silly," she said, "I can't just transfer to another job because I disagree with this one. I have a house to pay, kids-" Paul shrugged,
"Take it as you will, or don't. It doesn't affect me either way; only you, and what you think is right and wrong. I'm not telling you what to do, but I am telling you what I did."
He shrugged again, as if dubious to her judgement, and then walked away, returning to his idle sweeping and contentedness.
Though he did not know it, Sue for many minutes stood there, contemplating what he had said. She left early that day, and as she did, folded her apron, and finding herself retiring much earlier than she had expected she would.
-Alexander Borschel
Creative Writing
Creative Non-Fiction
11/18/2010
Several moments later Paul walked amiably down the aisle laden with various soaps and other hair related products in front of the Pharmacy and the Frozen Food section. He stood in the HBC section of the grocery store, located at the back of the building, and part of the department stood apart from the pharmacy; both of which were in the general direction he was then heading in.
"Good morning, Sue," he said as he approached the Pharmacy's front desk. She was short, shorter than Paul at least. Her hair was grey and curled, a number of which were even streaked with a white that matched the pharmaceutical apron she always wore.
"Good morning young man, what trouble are you getting into today?" she asked Paul.
'The usual," he replied, returning her smile.
"I'm kinda worried, honestly, if I don't get more hours or a pay raise, or some other source of money, well..." he trailed off. Sue listened patiently,
"Well you know what worries me? All these kids who smoke pot these days," she said sharply, "I can't stand for it, it's a dirty, nasty habit that'll kill them. I was just reading today in TIME that so many live the dirty habit."
Paul looked down, though felt as if his ears perked at her words, so deep was his desire to stop and converse then. "I was wondering; what do you think of the legalization of Marijuana?" he asked.
"Oh not that again," Sue groaned, "you know how I feel about the matter; No, it shouldn't be. Period."
Paul paused. He carefully mulled the words over in his head before he asked them aloud.
"Would you say, then, that people who use marijuana are drug users?" he asked slowly. Sue snorted at what he said,
"More like drug abusers," she retorted. Paul blinked, and with the tip of his index finger tapped his chin thoughtfully.
"What if there was a drug, one that was natural occurring and non-cancer causing, and used as a herbal remedy and medicinally for thousands of years. It is normally heated when used, and stimulates people; much artwerk and literature is written while on it. It has global widespread usage, and comes from a green-leafed plant, but is used most widely because of it's effects on people?"
"Marijuana?" Sue asked, sounding bored. Paul blinked again, as if surprised,
"Actually," he said, "I was thinking of coffee."
They were both quiet for a moment. Sue considered what Paul had said, and Paul carefully waited for further reaction.
"If I had specified what I was thinking of, would you still think I was refer
.ring to Marijuana?" he asked quietly.
Sue frowned. "Yes," she growled and leaned against the counter, as if impatient. Though there were two customer's orders to attend to for hours later; she had little better to do than talk with Paul, at least at that part of the day, and they both knew it. Paul shamelessly exploited this knowledge whenever he could, and
not concerning her either.
"-And marijuana being illegal," he continued, "you attribute those qualities I listed to being of the substance... then thusly, are not those qualities then of an illegal substance?" he paused, "Qualities and characters are what define something, no? They are what define tetrahydrocanniboid, or THC from, say, caffeine, no?"
And Sue nodded, she could not disagree with something so obvious and plainly put. Her annoyance grew, as Paul knew it would.
"Yes, they are," she concurred.
"So then if qualities are what define something, then logically, as even illegal or wrong things are still things, then the qualities of illegal things are what make them intrinsically wrong in adherence to our given laws or moralities. But most importantly, I think it is the qualities, the characteristics of illegal things that is what makes them illegal," and as his words lingered, a part of him wondered if he was irritating her. He continued nevertheless, as much to get his point across as to annoy her further. He didn't mind annoying people so long as he got the truth across. Anger faded, but the truth... well it was there forever; stark, real, and
"For example, our land doesn't ban substances wholesale, but rather by chemicals, or something in that substance that composes it. So you see, it is not Marijuana which is banned, it's the THC. There is literally tons of legal marijuana you can legally buy because the THC is absent. Hell, shoe stores sell hemp shoes. What did you think hemp was? It's fiber from male Marijuana plants. The THC, what is illegal, a quality, is only found in female which likewise is illegal, and anything with that quality is thereby illegal also. You change a chemical, one quality, and something illegal becomes legal, and likewise, legal becomes illegal. Right and wrong, like a light switch, being flipped on and off."
"So what?" Sue asked, sounding annoyed. Paul nodded, acceeding in how important the question actually was.
"So, it seems rather obvious to me," he replied, "that coffee and marijuana share similar qualities. Enough so that when I vaguely described it you associated it with marijuana. I feel it would be inappropriate to ask, but why is it coffee is legal, but weed is not?"
Sue shook her head derisively and snorted,
"If you're trying to say coffee and weed are the same thing, well, you're very wrong."
Paul smiled again,
"No I am not saying that. But come now, weed is only more noticeable because it's smoked. In fact, I once asked a man at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, a person who claimed he had smoked everything under the sun, if he had ever smoked caffeine."
Sue gave him a blank look, in fact there was a little surprise.
"Like... out of a cup?"
"No actually," Paul replied, "I had a similar reaction. I think most people do. He told me it was industrial caffeine, the stuff they add to the military coffee or something like that. Basically it came in powder form."
"And?" she asked, though Paul could tell she was keen to hear.
"Well, if you'll pardon my language, as he put it, 'it fucked him up real good' for roughly forty-five minutes, and made him feel as hyper as having done coke. But, regardless, I'm willing to bet if you put the same amount of weed as one does coffee in a cup of water, the affect would be the same. Marijuana is done normally all at once, whereas coffee is dolled out over time. But to be honest, I've seen people more lit by caffeine than marijuana, and the crash from experience I know, is much worse with the former than the later. The difference between their legality... is one is socially acceptable while the other is not."
"Your point?" Sue repeated. Paul noticed that every few seconds she had begun to look past him, as if there was a line behind him that he was holding up, though there wasn't, and no customer came chivalrously to her rescue. Despite how much she was making it clear he was inconveniencing her, Paul continued.
"Well, recently I werked briefly at a public school a few months ago."
"Oh no," she jested, and raised both hands to cover her mouth in mock horror. Paul laughed with her at himself, unable to deny that it was funny, even if derisive. He cared not. To Paul it was better to be laughed at than with, and surely any of the major merry-andrews would agree.
"It wasn't so bad," he remarked lamely with a jeer smile, "I werked two days a week, for six weeks, and successfully completed my menial job. However, while werking there, I noticed that every teacher, every single one, without exception, drank coffee."
Paul paused,
"Then, if it stands that people who use marijuana are drug abusers, than aren't coffee users drug abusers too?"
"Only if they drink in excess-" Sue replied, but Paul cut her off,
"Which only then is excused because it is socially acceptable." he repeated. "And what is excess?" Paul asked. "If somebody is caught with marijuana once, they go to the same drug programs as those who are suffering from an addiction. If I smoked weed five or six times a week, I'd be considered an abuser, even an addict. Most Americans have coffee once or twice a day, and some more than that!" he exclaimed.
Sue frowned coldly,
"I am not a drug abuser,"
"And I'm not saying you are either, or that if you are it's even necessarily a bad thing, you are." Paul quickly pointed out, "I don't think people who smoke weed are drug abusers anymore than those who drink coffee are. It isn't right or wrong, that's just opinion. But I'm just stating what is and the questions concerning that." Paul breathed in and then out, and with it came the words, "I don't know how much of the substance you use, only you do. If anyone has been thinking that of you..." he trailed off, the implication was clear enough without need of him stating it. Sue's frown only grew with it.
"But more to the point," he continued, "I'm not comfortable that the majority of our nation's educators are drug abusers."
"Coffee is legal," Sue protested.
"Yes? And why isn't marijuana? You use a drug, in the eyes of the law, you might as well abuse it. But why, if weed is equivocable, if less harmful, how is it not legal too?"
"I don't know," she admitted. Paul gave her a small, sympathetic smile.
"I don't know either," he replied, and began to back off, "it doesn't make sense to me. And when we don't know why something is illegal, or wrong, why should we continue to treat it as such? When we can't definitively, undisputably say why something should be illegal, maybe we shouldn't have it be illegal. Maybe we should wait and see, and make sure there is a reason, instead of there being none at all." He shrugged, "after all, if weed was wrong because it was deadly, than cigarettes would be, too. They kill far more than Marijuana."
Again Paul shook his head.
"Tell me Sue, what is the difference between something and nothing?" he asked, the seemingly unrelated question taking her by surprise. She shook head, unsure how or even what to say, thinking that even if she did, it would not be the response he was looking for.
"Everything," he replied, giving the answer for her when it became obvious she expected it from him. "It is infinite. Marijuana, in all its years of use has never killed a single person. Tobacco; millions, hundreds of millions, potentially billions. But even if tobacco had killed just one person, just one, weed, herb, would be infinitely less, as weed has never killed anybody. The difference is everything, and marijuana is infinitely less fatal because of it, and yet at the same is still infinitely more illegal than the poison. It's less harmful than even coffee, which can easily destroy the heart. Paul shook his head again,
"I mean, when I'm at the register, on a daily basis I sell products; tobacco and alcohol, that enable addiction and ruin and even kill lives. Me, with totally legal products, allow others, just by selling it, to destroy lives as thoroughly as any illegal drug dealer-"
"But that's different!" Sue protested. Paul shrugged.
"There used to be an old couple here who I was real friendly with. You know how it is, the familiar customers you get to know. They knew my name, even, without a nametag." and he blinked, "But I don't think I ever caught theirs. I'm much less of a name person than a face person. I guess because names are just words, and words just describe us, but are faces are us, but I digress. I don't like talking about it, because it does my soul no good, but the older gentleman, a very kindly fellow everytime he came through my line, bought a carton of cigarettes every purchase, once a week. They did this on the same day of the week, today in fact, for I suppose forever. They were quite old. One day, about a year ago, though, they just stopped coming. I didn't think much of it for a few weeks until I noticed their abscence. But I didn't think much of it; perhaps they went elsewhere. However, just earlier the lady came to the store, but her husband was not there. I asked her where he was, joking with her that I had not seen the two of them together. She sadly told me that he had passed away from lung cancer."
His words, heavy hung in the air.
"Every pack I sold to him contributed, and though I may never know how much of a hand I had in his death, the fact is, I did. Just as the heroine dealer who sold the addicts last dose before they OD is held responsible, am not I?." he asked at the counter and raised his eyebrows, "How many people have I sold the bottle of wine or case of beer that set them on that road to addiction, or alcoholic rage and abuse? How many packs of cigarettes have I sold, that were the pack that assured that person's cancer and inevitable death? I just wanted to point out, that Marijuana was once sold in pharmacies like the one you werk," he said and patted the counter, "as was Opium and even Heroine, of which the later was even prescribed by doctors. Not many know the blitzkrieg that allowed Nazi Germany's early military successes, was enabled by speed that was rationed out to German soldiers by their superiors. Sigmund Freud, the father of modern psychology both used and advocated the usage of coke as a remedy for any number of ailments, disorders, and insanities. You have a gram of it today, you get twenty-five years. Ecstasy began its use in the office of a therapist helping struggling couples with their marriages. If people hadn't begun overusing it at parties it might even still be used today. And from all that we know that it is not the harm the drug may cause that makes it illegal, but if it is socially acceptable. In the years to come much of what is sold here will be replaced and subsequently made illegal. The drug users of today are tomorrow's abuser. For I certainly consider people who used those drugs that were legal in the past, such as opium or heroine, as drug abusers today."
"But it's different," Sue repeated and protested, "we found those drugs to be harmful, and that there are better ones to be used-"
"Only by matters of time," Paul replied. "Come now, in time the same will occur with all the things we sell here... Your stock will be replaced, and those who cling to what has gone out of fashion will be labeled as deviants, and after enough time, even drug abusers. Look at Aspirin, something incredibly detrimental to the body to the point of being deadly; surely somebody somewhere will create a drug that is more efficient and practical than it, replacing the drug." He shook his head, "The people who used the drugs in the pharmacy today are the next century's drug abusers. Enjoy it while you can. It's just the way of things; you're just next century's illegal drug dealer," His words lingered in the air, and despite her resolute dark frown, he smiled,
"Tobacco, is a good example. It's banned virtually everywhere, and once it becomes socially unacceptable it'll be outlawed. It already has been from everywhere indoors. I was at an amusement park last summer, and the areas where smokers are allowed to smoke are little better than closed off cages." he winked,
"What do you think?" he asked, "still bored?"
"I have to go back to werk," she said sharply, giving him a last, annoyed look, and then turned. She stalked behind the counter, and appeared to be genuinely werking, at least to Paul, shelving and arranging boxes of pills.
In turn, he returned to his own job, whistling an upbeat tune as he absentmindedly returned to spraying, washing, and dusting; skillfully cleaning the wisp-like grey matter away. Paul was certain that if the customers knew just what the dust was, and how much literally covered the store, he was certain they would never shop at Big People and the veritable graveyard that it is.
Every now and then Sue would glance up, over at Paul and then back at her werk. Paul noticed; when it came to people, he always did.
The area, a moment later was clear of everybody but just the two of them.
"You know what I do, to escape the fact I'm a drug dealer?" he asked. Sue looked from over the counter,
"Dare I ask?" she said sarcastically. However, there was a touch of something else, something that begged for more, a release from the truth Paul had shared with her. But it was but one of facet of the bigger truth, for if truth were a diamond, it would be a many sided one, and each side a part of the diamond as a whole. Each side adding beauty, reality, and truth.
"I clean," he answered, "I took the only job they had available at the time, and though I've been trying to escape it ever since, in that aspect, I don't regret my decision. At least I don't help people with their suicide anymore," and he cast a backward glance at the register, "or at least I don't nearly as much as I used to."
Sue paused to listen, and then shook her head.
"That's silly," she said, "I can't just transfer to another job because I disagree with this one. I have a house to pay, kids-" Paul shrugged,
"Take it as you will, or don't. It doesn't affect me either way; only you, and what you think is right and wrong. I'm not telling you what to do, but I am telling you what I did."
He shrugged again, as if dubious to her judgement, and then walked away, returning to his idle sweeping and contentedness.
Though he did not know it, Sue for many minutes stood there, contemplating what he had said. She left early that day, and as she did, folded her apron, and finding herself retiring much earlier than she had expected she would.
-Alexander Borschel
Creative Nonfiction- D. Ryan
It was February. West Virginia was blanketed in snow. My ashtray was blanketed in butts. I chain smoke when I drive. The kills were blasting loud over my stereo. God knows how fast I was going, but knowing West Virginia cops and my own impatience, it was well over 90m.p.h.. I don't like the drive, made it too many times. My car was old and wasn't really built for long distance travel. Miata's are fun to drive in short increments. But when you're cooped up in one for twelve hours, the length of the drive, they start to feel like a cramped cage. I had left Chicago at noon or thereabouts, so it was about eight or nine at night when I reached the mountains in West Virginia and felt my bladder notify me that I needed to piss. I exited off the interstate and started looking for a gas station.
West Virginia woods are beautiful at night. The scenery for most of the trip consists of corn and bean fields. West Virginia, on the other hand, looks untouched, looks natural. The tree's had long lost their leaves and their branches looked to be thin hands reaching for the snow as it slid down slowly, carefully, so as not to be caught. I watched the snow and tree's while I barreled down the snow covered side road. I know how to drive in the snow, so my speed only declined slightly during a series of planned fishtails while searching for a bathroom. After 15 minutes of no buildings I decided to stop and write my name in the snow.
It feels great to piss after holding it for a long time. I remember it felt great then, maybe that's why I didn't notice the engine shut off mid-stream. When I turned around to return to my car, I experienced a short wave of panic. For twenty minutes I tried to restart the engine. It was no use, the cable around the alternator had been loose enough to drain the battery over the duration of the trip without my noticing. The car was dead, I needed help.
I've always hated technology, but never as much as I did when I looked down at my cell phone and read "no signal" on the display. I'm kind of known for throwing phones against walls or into bodies of water, but I stopped myself that time. I realized that, no matter how therapeutic it would feel, it wouldn't help my situation. I looked in my trunk for warmer clothes and made the best combination I could. I had a Bears beanie, t-shirt, hoodie, leather motorcycle jacket, jeans, and chucks. Those god damn chucks. No closed toe shoe in history can be compared to the Converse Chuck Taylor All-Star in terms of inability to protect from weather.
I had only gotten a hundred yards up the road before my feet felt like they were freezing off. It must've been ten degrees out there. I sang songs to myself to keep my mind off of the pain in my body. I love the cold, but that cold seemed unforgiving. I went through all the Modest Mouse and Foo-Fighters songs I knew. Then moved onto The Black Heart Procession and Queens of the Stone Age. I know a lot of songs, and by the time I finished the entire QOTSA catalog I started to get worried.
I walk fast. Three miles in an hour is an easy task. I looked at my phone. As useless as it was as a phone, it was useful as a clock. I had been walking for eight hours. Something was wrong, I should have been at the Interstate at that point. I started walking downhill for a while. That's when I realized I must have lost my way. At no point on that road did I drive uphill that long, I was lost.
The sun started coming up and my body was shaking uncontrollably. I was too tired to move with urgency. I decided to climb back to the top part of the road to see what I could see. The sun peaked over the mountains and that's all I saw, mountains and tree's. The snow covered the road I was on. I saw no interstate, no buildings. My body calmed down for a moment. I looked out at the big valley in front of me. I heard geese fly over my head, which was strange in the dead of winter. I love that sound. I remember thinking "this is a perfect moment." One of those memories that goes untouched in your head. One of those times that, when I'm nervous or worried, I go back to and calm myself down. I felt disconnected and alone, those feelings are freeing. There was no static in my mind, no worries weighing me down. Just the moment, and nothing attached to it.
I was so consumed that I almost didn't hear the man say, "You alright out here?" I looked behind me and saw a man with a bunch of surveying equipment. I replied, "what?" He directed me to his truck. I got in and he turned on the heaters full blast. My toes and fingers felt like they were on fire. My face and stomach started hurting. I couldn't feel my lips at all. He lowered the mirror in front of me and told me to look at myself. My skin was blue. He wanted to take me to the hospital but I declined due to my lack of health insurance. Instead, he took me to a garage and I got my car towed and fixed.
I frequently remember back to that moment and wonder what made that moment so perfect. Was it the beauty of the mountains and trees and snow, the geese flying over head. Or was it my brain slowly shutting down, locking out all thoughts, focusing on the moment, disregarding everything but what I could see and hear. Maybe it was both, ignorance is bliss, eh?
West Virginia woods are beautiful at night. The scenery for most of the trip consists of corn and bean fields. West Virginia, on the other hand, looks untouched, looks natural. The tree's had long lost their leaves and their branches looked to be thin hands reaching for the snow as it slid down slowly, carefully, so as not to be caught. I watched the snow and tree's while I barreled down the snow covered side road. I know how to drive in the snow, so my speed only declined slightly during a series of planned fishtails while searching for a bathroom. After 15 minutes of no buildings I decided to stop and write my name in the snow.
It feels great to piss after holding it for a long time. I remember it felt great then, maybe that's why I didn't notice the engine shut off mid-stream. When I turned around to return to my car, I experienced a short wave of panic. For twenty minutes I tried to restart the engine. It was no use, the cable around the alternator had been loose enough to drain the battery over the duration of the trip without my noticing. The car was dead, I needed help.
I've always hated technology, but never as much as I did when I looked down at my cell phone and read "no signal" on the display. I'm kind of known for throwing phones against walls or into bodies of water, but I stopped myself that time. I realized that, no matter how therapeutic it would feel, it wouldn't help my situation. I looked in my trunk for warmer clothes and made the best combination I could. I had a Bears beanie, t-shirt, hoodie, leather motorcycle jacket, jeans, and chucks. Those god damn chucks. No closed toe shoe in history can be compared to the Converse Chuck Taylor All-Star in terms of inability to protect from weather.
I had only gotten a hundred yards up the road before my feet felt like they were freezing off. It must've been ten degrees out there. I sang songs to myself to keep my mind off of the pain in my body. I love the cold, but that cold seemed unforgiving. I went through all the Modest Mouse and Foo-Fighters songs I knew. Then moved onto The Black Heart Procession and Queens of the Stone Age. I know a lot of songs, and by the time I finished the entire QOTSA catalog I started to get worried.
I walk fast. Three miles in an hour is an easy task. I looked at my phone. As useless as it was as a phone, it was useful as a clock. I had been walking for eight hours. Something was wrong, I should have been at the Interstate at that point. I started walking downhill for a while. That's when I realized I must have lost my way. At no point on that road did I drive uphill that long, I was lost.
The sun started coming up and my body was shaking uncontrollably. I was too tired to move with urgency. I decided to climb back to the top part of the road to see what I could see. The sun peaked over the mountains and that's all I saw, mountains and tree's. The snow covered the road I was on. I saw no interstate, no buildings. My body calmed down for a moment. I looked out at the big valley in front of me. I heard geese fly over my head, which was strange in the dead of winter. I love that sound. I remember thinking "this is a perfect moment." One of those memories that goes untouched in your head. One of those times that, when I'm nervous or worried, I go back to and calm myself down. I felt disconnected and alone, those feelings are freeing. There was no static in my mind, no worries weighing me down. Just the moment, and nothing attached to it.
I was so consumed that I almost didn't hear the man say, "You alright out here?" I looked behind me and saw a man with a bunch of surveying equipment. I replied, "what?" He directed me to his truck. I got in and he turned on the heaters full blast. My toes and fingers felt like they were on fire. My face and stomach started hurting. I couldn't feel my lips at all. He lowered the mirror in front of me and told me to look at myself. My skin was blue. He wanted to take me to the hospital but I declined due to my lack of health insurance. Instead, he took me to a garage and I got my car towed and fixed.
I frequently remember back to that moment and wonder what made that moment so perfect. Was it the beauty of the mountains and trees and snow, the geese flying over head. Or was it my brain slowly shutting down, locking out all thoughts, focusing on the moment, disregarding everything but what I could see and hear. Maybe it was both, ignorance is bliss, eh?
Adventures in Wonderland by Craig Fontenot
As the middle child and only girl in a family of two boys, I always felt that I had to be able to hang. I live for adventure. Confrontational like my father, I take no shit and disobey traffic laws. Unlike my brother, Craig who is beyond conservative, straight-laced and at times can be rather boring. Because he is the oldest, he sometimes tries to tell me what to do and how to do it. This contrast does not mean that I am a thrill seeker. Usually, I just can handle an array of situations better than he can. But with all heights achieved, limits are soon discovered.
I remember it like yesterday. It was around 1pm on Saturday afternoon, March 17, 1993. Bored to tears, my cousin Nicole and I were hanging out in our dorm room. After expressing our boredom for the 5th time there was a knock at the door, it was a friend of ours name Mona. “I know you’ll bitches are not going to sit in this room all day?” Mona said. This kind of language was usually ignored as we just wrote her off as being quite ghetto. Sharing our feelings, Mona then came up with a plan that involved her boyfriend, Lynn. “Lynn is working until 8:30 p.m.” she said exactly, “we can all hang out at his place and by the time he gets off; we will have a plan set on what we will be doing tonight.” She continued. Ill at ease of the options before us; Nicole and I were not sure what to do. Now don’t get me wrong, Nicole and I did want to do something other than hang out in the dorm but both of us could take Mona in very small doses. Ultimately we decided that hanging out with Mona would be the less of the two evils.
Now that the idea was agreed upon by all 3 of us, we were faced with a transportation problem. An easy answer would be for us to hail a cab. But for 3 poor college students whose income is divided totally into the two B’s categories, books and beauty, our current cash flow was non-existent. “Who could get us to Lynn’s?” Nicole said. “I can ask Craig to use his car.” I said. “Girl, you are crazy!” Nicole said sarcastically. “He just that got that car a month ago, he would never let you use that car.” She continued. “You’re right, but I am going to ask anyway.” I said. Silently I knew that there was no way in hell he would let us use his car. Not because it was brand new; it was because he sort of thought I was not that responsible. There are 2 possible reasons for this: The first, he is an overly cautious tight ass and the second, well I was wrong about the number of possible reasons.
We all got dressed and with our hopes and shiny lip gloss we walked up to the male dormitory. Once we got there, called him down to the lobby. Now, I could come up with this elaborate lie but he would see right through me. So I will be honest with him and to my surprise he said yes. I was still pleading my case when he asked, “Did you hear what I said?” “Yes, I did.” I replied. “But I cannot believe you said yes.” I said honestly. He then gave me his usually spill about being careful and not wrecking his car and off we went.
We were at Lynn’s house at 5:30 p.m. To everyone’s surprise, except Mona, Lynn was there. So for the next hour or so, Nicole and I sat and watched Lynn and Mona paw at each other like a virgin at a prison rodeo. We were sitting there and there was a knock at the door. Some guy, whom we later found out his name later, Randy, walked in. Randy seemed to be startled that we were there. He did not want to sit and continued to look at his watch. He was not there for more than 3 minutes when four dudes strolled in. This occurrence was odd but for some reason I was not scared probably because everyone seem to know each other. That soon changed when one guy said to Randy, “We good.” With that acknowledgment, Randy left. However instead of using the front door, he ran out of the back door. That action seemed peculiar at first but the events that followed only got worse. In unison, the guys all pulled out guns and demanded the dope and money from Lynn. I remember looking at Nicole, and thinking, this has to be some sort of joke. “Where are drugs? Where is the money? Lynn was not that guy. His friends can be so silly.” I though. Then one guy walked up to Lynn and cocked the shotgun he held and pointed at him and said, “We don’t have time to fuck around, where is it?” Nicole said, “Are we on candied camera?” Our attitudes soon changed when Lynn said, “It over there, in that box.” One of the guys walked over to the box in question and opened it. I cannot believe all the drugs that came out of that box. Soon after Lynn directed them to a drawer with money in amounts that I have never saw in my life. I looked at Mona for some sort of assurance that this was something that was shocking to her but to my surprise she was quite calm. She was almost a little too calm, as if she has gone through this type of thing before. As two of the guys stuffed large bags with drugs and money, the other two guys stayed with guns had their guns still pointed at us. Upon completion, one of the bag stuffers asked Lynn, “Where’s the rest?” “That’s all there is.” Lynn replied. The gunman, who had the gun pointed at Lynn, struck him in the face with fist. Lynn fell to the floor, obviously writhing in pain. “Oh baby, are you ok?” Mona said. The second gunman kept his weapon point in our direction. I then noticed Nicole began to cry. The guy who hit Lynn said, “Lynn you want to be some big time drug king, welcome to the other side of the game!” He then pulled out some sort of duct tape. Still demanding more money and drugs, the gunman began taping Lynn’s hands behind his back and his feet. One by one he made the rest of us lie on the floor and did the same to us while there were now 3 guns pointed at us. This is when I began to cry. I am not sure how the other girls felt but I felt in my heart that they were going to rape us.
They tore his place apart. They went through all through the bedrooms, the bathrooms and even the refrigerator. Displeased with the contents of the refrigerator, one of the goons said, “Lynn, you invited these pretty ladies here with nothing to feed them with! What kind of buster are you?” Among the pleading, the screaming, and the ransacking of his personal items, I cried relentlessly. There was the consuming sound of my racing heart beat rang in my ears. Since I could not physically remove myself from the situation, I tried to, at least remove my mind from it. I remember lying still on the floor. The overpowering smell of some type of floral carpet deodorizer engulfed my nostrils. Either Lynn owns a very cheap Dirt Devil or his is just a substandard housekeeper because down here on the floor had massive amounts of the un-vacuumed powder. With the position of my head, my tears stopped midstream and unable to reach the end of my face. The dampness mixed with the carpet freshener made a cake-like substance near the end of my nostrils. If, at that moment, the police would have arrived that would have thought I was a coke fiend. Since they could not find any more drugs or money they began to take the jewelry on our hands. They took a charm bracelet I wore around my neck that my grandmother gave me when I was five. They went through all of our pockets. One of the goons said that this one has money but found nothing. Nicole who was always snacked on potato chips had 3 empty Doritos bags folded in her back pocket. Just as I was entering my semi-dream state this is when the intruders started going through all of our handbags. The goons said that they were taking our car keys. This is when I begged them to give my keys back. At that moment, I was more afraid of what Craig would do to me than the robbers. I begged and begged and the robber finally gave back the keys. As they were leaving, he tossed them hitting me in the back. He then said, “Bitch, you not going to say thank you!” In a sheepish voice I said, “thank you.” They then pulled out all of the phones out of the socket and threw Lynn’s keys in the darkness outside.
We laid there for the next hour and one by one we were able to untie our hands and feet. Nicole and I left Mona with Lynn searching for his keys in the darkness and we drove straight back to campus. I tried to put on poker face so that I would not alarm him. However, I return the car back to him at 8 p.m. and the pensive look did not work. It did not take long for him to know that something was wrong. He asked what happened. He did something I did not expect. He was comforting, understanding, and more of a big brother than a parent. Though he did not give me one of his long lectures or a hard time about the incident, he never let me use his car again.
I remember it like yesterday. It was around 1pm on Saturday afternoon, March 17, 1993. Bored to tears, my cousin Nicole and I were hanging out in our dorm room. After expressing our boredom for the 5th time there was a knock at the door, it was a friend of ours name Mona. “I know you’ll bitches are not going to sit in this room all day?” Mona said. This kind of language was usually ignored as we just wrote her off as being quite ghetto. Sharing our feelings, Mona then came up with a plan that involved her boyfriend, Lynn. “Lynn is working until 8:30 p.m.” she said exactly, “we can all hang out at his place and by the time he gets off; we will have a plan set on what we will be doing tonight.” She continued. Ill at ease of the options before us; Nicole and I were not sure what to do. Now don’t get me wrong, Nicole and I did want to do something other than hang out in the dorm but both of us could take Mona in very small doses. Ultimately we decided that hanging out with Mona would be the less of the two evils.
Now that the idea was agreed upon by all 3 of us, we were faced with a transportation problem. An easy answer would be for us to hail a cab. But for 3 poor college students whose income is divided totally into the two B’s categories, books and beauty, our current cash flow was non-existent. “Who could get us to Lynn’s?” Nicole said. “I can ask Craig to use his car.” I said. “Girl, you are crazy!” Nicole said sarcastically. “He just that got that car a month ago, he would never let you use that car.” She continued. “You’re right, but I am going to ask anyway.” I said. Silently I knew that there was no way in hell he would let us use his car. Not because it was brand new; it was because he sort of thought I was not that responsible. There are 2 possible reasons for this: The first, he is an overly cautious tight ass and the second, well I was wrong about the number of possible reasons.
We all got dressed and with our hopes and shiny lip gloss we walked up to the male dormitory. Once we got there, called him down to the lobby. Now, I could come up with this elaborate lie but he would see right through me. So I will be honest with him and to my surprise he said yes. I was still pleading my case when he asked, “Did you hear what I said?” “Yes, I did.” I replied. “But I cannot believe you said yes.” I said honestly. He then gave me his usually spill about being careful and not wrecking his car and off we went.
We were at Lynn’s house at 5:30 p.m. To everyone’s surprise, except Mona, Lynn was there. So for the next hour or so, Nicole and I sat and watched Lynn and Mona paw at each other like a virgin at a prison rodeo. We were sitting there and there was a knock at the door. Some guy, whom we later found out his name later, Randy, walked in. Randy seemed to be startled that we were there. He did not want to sit and continued to look at his watch. He was not there for more than 3 minutes when four dudes strolled in. This occurrence was odd but for some reason I was not scared probably because everyone seem to know each other. That soon changed when one guy said to Randy, “We good.” With that acknowledgment, Randy left. However instead of using the front door, he ran out of the back door. That action seemed peculiar at first but the events that followed only got worse. In unison, the guys all pulled out guns and demanded the dope and money from Lynn. I remember looking at Nicole, and thinking, this has to be some sort of joke. “Where are drugs? Where is the money? Lynn was not that guy. His friends can be so silly.” I though. Then one guy walked up to Lynn and cocked the shotgun he held and pointed at him and said, “We don’t have time to fuck around, where is it?” Nicole said, “Are we on candied camera?” Our attitudes soon changed when Lynn said, “It over there, in that box.” One of the guys walked over to the box in question and opened it. I cannot believe all the drugs that came out of that box. Soon after Lynn directed them to a drawer with money in amounts that I have never saw in my life. I looked at Mona for some sort of assurance that this was something that was shocking to her but to my surprise she was quite calm. She was almost a little too calm, as if she has gone through this type of thing before. As two of the guys stuffed large bags with drugs and money, the other two guys stayed with guns had their guns still pointed at us. Upon completion, one of the bag stuffers asked Lynn, “Where’s the rest?” “That’s all there is.” Lynn replied. The gunman, who had the gun pointed at Lynn, struck him in the face with fist. Lynn fell to the floor, obviously writhing in pain. “Oh baby, are you ok?” Mona said. The second gunman kept his weapon point in our direction. I then noticed Nicole began to cry. The guy who hit Lynn said, “Lynn you want to be some big time drug king, welcome to the other side of the game!” He then pulled out some sort of duct tape. Still demanding more money and drugs, the gunman began taping Lynn’s hands behind his back and his feet. One by one he made the rest of us lie on the floor and did the same to us while there were now 3 guns pointed at us. This is when I began to cry. I am not sure how the other girls felt but I felt in my heart that they were going to rape us.
They tore his place apart. They went through all through the bedrooms, the bathrooms and even the refrigerator. Displeased with the contents of the refrigerator, one of the goons said, “Lynn, you invited these pretty ladies here with nothing to feed them with! What kind of buster are you?” Among the pleading, the screaming, and the ransacking of his personal items, I cried relentlessly. There was the consuming sound of my racing heart beat rang in my ears. Since I could not physically remove myself from the situation, I tried to, at least remove my mind from it. I remember lying still on the floor. The overpowering smell of some type of floral carpet deodorizer engulfed my nostrils. Either Lynn owns a very cheap Dirt Devil or his is just a substandard housekeeper because down here on the floor had massive amounts of the un-vacuumed powder. With the position of my head, my tears stopped midstream and unable to reach the end of my face. The dampness mixed with the carpet freshener made a cake-like substance near the end of my nostrils. If, at that moment, the police would have arrived that would have thought I was a coke fiend. Since they could not find any more drugs or money they began to take the jewelry on our hands. They took a charm bracelet I wore around my neck that my grandmother gave me when I was five. They went through all of our pockets. One of the goons said that this one has money but found nothing. Nicole who was always snacked on potato chips had 3 empty Doritos bags folded in her back pocket. Just as I was entering my semi-dream state this is when the intruders started going through all of our handbags. The goons said that they were taking our car keys. This is when I begged them to give my keys back. At that moment, I was more afraid of what Craig would do to me than the robbers. I begged and begged and the robber finally gave back the keys. As they were leaving, he tossed them hitting me in the back. He then said, “Bitch, you not going to say thank you!” In a sheepish voice I said, “thank you.” They then pulled out all of the phones out of the socket and threw Lynn’s keys in the darkness outside.
We laid there for the next hour and one by one we were able to untie our hands and feet. Nicole and I left Mona with Lynn searching for his keys in the darkness and we drove straight back to campus. I tried to put on poker face so that I would not alarm him. However, I return the car back to him at 8 p.m. and the pensive look did not work. It did not take long for him to know that something was wrong. He asked what happened. He did something I did not expect. He was comforting, understanding, and more of a big brother than a parent. Though he did not give me one of his long lectures or a hard time about the incident, he never let me use his car again.
Nonfiction assignment, Samantha Markey
Black Bird and a Yellow Bus
I have fond memories of childhood, of school, and of being young and naive to the experiences of adulthood. I have memories of long days of play and laying in the sun as song birds and buildings’ silhouettes traced tiny and shifting shadows across great green lawns, bigger than oceans under small sandaled feet. I did not know experience more than I knew an elm tree and just how to scale up to its lowest branch. There are a lot of things I didn’t know then because knowing is something that occurred to me, like it does to many people, over many years as experiences build and childhood fades. That’s how my life seemed to change – like something slow and Blake-like that is too abstract to be anything but poetry. When I think of childhood, I think of that romanticized version of which Wordsworth or Longfellow feverishly philosophized, but The Child was no more I than a child of their time. Still, their thoughts of gardens and innocence were not as far off from what I lived before a black bird and broken trust shaped one of my first experiences.
Unfaltering affection was what I had for my elderly neighbor, Dot. She was a gardener, and she took pride in priming and potting the flower beds all around our suburban neighborhood. I can remember watching her with her shovel and gloves like I would watch the next page of my picture books – with eager eyes drinking in stories spanning smooth pictured pages, come to life. She was not smooth, but she had stories, a shovel, and my trust.
We were walking to the bus stop, one autumn morning – the windy kind of morning that crunches under your feet as leaves skitter over pavement – and I was hopping to stomp on the strays before they got away. It was game. I was five. The little corner marked our bus stop and the parents stood tall and muted next to our brightly colored coats and lunch boxes. Excited squeals sounded as we continued to stomp the leaves. I wandered off towards a tree in my pursuit and only paused at the flap wings and gripping feet.
A black bird had flown right into my chest and clung to the front of my coat. I was so still in that moment, afraid any movement would send it flying away, but even when I lost that brief hesitation, and curled my hand over it, it did not move away. I knew it was hurt, and as I held it to my chest, I hurried back to Dot. I wanted to save it.
“We have to take him to a Vet,” I said, as Dot took the bird from me. She assured me she’d take care of him and I knew she would.
“I think his wing is broken,” I said, and Dot assured me that a vet would be able to fix him right up, and I knew he would.
The lurch of the big yellow school bus was the only thing that ever drew my attention away from the bird as Dot carried him back towards her house. I filed into our multicolored lunchbox line and found my seat next to the window. I looked for Dot again and craned my neck to watch her as she paused before a great green dumpster with my tiny black bird. As we began to pull off, she tossed the bird into the big black square and I experienced death for the first time. I cried.
-Samantha Markey
I have fond memories of childhood, of school, and of being young and naive to the experiences of adulthood. I have memories of long days of play and laying in the sun as song birds and buildings’ silhouettes traced tiny and shifting shadows across great green lawns, bigger than oceans under small sandaled feet. I did not know experience more than I knew an elm tree and just how to scale up to its lowest branch. There are a lot of things I didn’t know then because knowing is something that occurred to me, like it does to many people, over many years as experiences build and childhood fades. That’s how my life seemed to change – like something slow and Blake-like that is too abstract to be anything but poetry. When I think of childhood, I think of that romanticized version of which Wordsworth or Longfellow feverishly philosophized, but The Child was no more I than a child of their time. Still, their thoughts of gardens and innocence were not as far off from what I lived before a black bird and broken trust shaped one of my first experiences.
Unfaltering affection was what I had for my elderly neighbor, Dot. She was a gardener, and she took pride in priming and potting the flower beds all around our suburban neighborhood. I can remember watching her with her shovel and gloves like I would watch the next page of my picture books – with eager eyes drinking in stories spanning smooth pictured pages, come to life. She was not smooth, but she had stories, a shovel, and my trust.
We were walking to the bus stop, one autumn morning – the windy kind of morning that crunches under your feet as leaves skitter over pavement – and I was hopping to stomp on the strays before they got away. It was game. I was five. The little corner marked our bus stop and the parents stood tall and muted next to our brightly colored coats and lunch boxes. Excited squeals sounded as we continued to stomp the leaves. I wandered off towards a tree in my pursuit and only paused at the flap wings and gripping feet.
A black bird had flown right into my chest and clung to the front of my coat. I was so still in that moment, afraid any movement would send it flying away, but even when I lost that brief hesitation, and curled my hand over it, it did not move away. I knew it was hurt, and as I held it to my chest, I hurried back to Dot. I wanted to save it.
“We have to take him to a Vet,” I said, as Dot took the bird from me. She assured me she’d take care of him and I knew she would.
“I think his wing is broken,” I said, and Dot assured me that a vet would be able to fix him right up, and I knew he would.
The lurch of the big yellow school bus was the only thing that ever drew my attention away from the bird as Dot carried him back towards her house. I filed into our multicolored lunchbox line and found my seat next to the window. I looked for Dot again and craned my neck to watch her as she paused before a great green dumpster with my tiny black bird. As we began to pull off, she tossed the bird into the big black square and I experienced death for the first time. I cried.
-Samantha Markey
Nonfiction--by Jackie Ho
The Tradition
by Jacqueline Ho
Sweatshirt first. Quilted vest next. Then wool coat. Black leather gloves. White fur earmuffs. Then lavender cashmere scarf. Wrap around twice. Layers of protection. We all do what we can to brace ourselves for what lies behind the other side of the door.
Anne Livingston made sure that her eyes would be the only visible part of her body before rushing out the Science Building and into the merciless winter snowstorm. She had been attending the University of Western Ontario for over a year, but she accepted the impossibility of ever becoming accustomed to the near-death experience that Canada called Winter.
“Five more minutes…five more minutes,” Anna optimistically muttered aloud while enshrouded in clouds of her own visible breath. The pain from her key’s jagged edge digging into her left palm pulsed in and out as numbness began to set in. By the time she reached her icy front doorstep, her trembling was uncontrollable. After multiple clumsy attempts, Anna finally succeeded in turning the key and pushing in the icicle-framed door, which creaked open into her musty, warm apartment.
There was only one word on her unfeeling, ripe plum-colored lips—“Ryan.” She could not wait to hear his voice. They had been dating for a year and a half, and the very fact that this was her longest relationship to date convinced her that they must have something special. Something different. As Anna tore off her dripping layers, she wondered what he was doing back in Virginia at this very moment. She glanced at the clock before tightly pulling on a soft, cream-colored robe. 9:53. He was probably reclining in his favorite computer chair, getting drunk off some Jack.
Picture this: Brown carpet floor covered—and I’m not exaggerating…literally covered—in unidentifiable black stains. A decent-sized bed—no, wait, I’m sorry—a decent-sized mattress, sans sheets, dotted with cigarette-burns. A desk hidden under layers of dust and piles of crusty dishes. A flat-screen T.V. hooked up to an X-Box—the star of the room. Boxers and wife-beaters thrown carelessly on the floor and furniture, and no way of knowing what was clean and what was dirty. Use your nose, I guess. Speaking of smell, the worst thing about Ryan’s room was the dire stench of rotting leftovers, dirty laundry, stale smoke, alcohol and the occasional stinkbug. Most people would recoil in revulsion at the sight of his room. She smiled.
At last Anna was dry, warm, safe. She had been longing for her nighttime phone call to Ryan with excitement and desperation. Her late-night phone conversations with her long-distance lover gave her comfort and reassurance. Just hearing his raspy voice soothed her. She had no way of knowing what he spent his days and nights doing, but at least for a few minutes every day, she knew that he was listening to her, and she to him.
Can you guess how much she’s spent on calling cards so she could make those late calls to him every night? $750. Amount spent on surprise gifts that she occasionally shipped to him? $300. Amount of debt she is currently in because of frequent flights home? $1,200. Number of flights he took to see her, number of calling cards he bought, number of gifts he sent her: 0. Most people, myself included, would think this imbalance unfair and intolerable. But he stayed with her even though they were far apart, and he told her he loved her. And that’s all that mattered to her. She ignored the pesky voices of Conscience that occasionally lurked in her gut. She was just doing the right thing for them.
“Hey babe.”
“Ryan! How are you?!”
She heard his drawn out breath as he exhaled from his Camel Light.
“All good, just chillin…you?”
“Better now! I’ve been waiting all day to hear your voice.”
“Cool, cool, me too. Uh, hey…sweetie?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Can I call you back? The boys and I are kinda having Tradition right now.”
“Oh I’m sorry! Yeah, for sure, call me back. I love you!”
Click.
Tradition. Kind of a silly thing, she thought. But still kind of cute. After a day of working at Starbucks, Ryan and his coworkers would lock up the doors then arrange a semi-circle of chairs out front, facing the empty parking lot. They would smoke. They would laugh. They would relax. As badly as Anna wanted to sprawl out on her pull-out couch, pop in a romantic movie and talk to Ryan until they fell asleep, she closed her eyes and grinned at the image of him. Some kind of white skater shoes. Khakis—slouched down to expose his Elmer Fudd boxers. Black collared shirt. His cross tattoo peaking out from under his right sleeve. And him smiling, laughing in appreciation of his own jokes and playful insults. Even though Anna looked forward to her nightly tradition with Ryan, she understood that he had his Tradition too.
Anna sighed and began to fumble impatiently with her phone. Staring blankly at the chipped pink paint on her toenails, she couldn’t think of how to occupy herself now. It was Friday night, and her roommates were long-gone. They used to invite Anna out with them when they first moved in together. Invitations turned to pleas. Pleas turned to urges. Urges turned to demands. Demands turned back into invitations, and eventually the invitations disappeared. Before she left Virginia to go to Canada, they had spoken about this kind of thing. Ryan specifically told her not to go out on weekends. She would never do anything to make him uncomfortable, and so she stayed at home.
Ryan tossed his phone onto his pile of work clothes, from his black collared shirt to his Elmer Fudd boxers, now sitting on the floor. “Where was I?,” he said playfully as he caressed his hands under her white T-shirt, felt over her tiny waist, up to her ample breasts and skillfully unhooked her cotton bra with one hand while impatiently pulling her shirt over her head with the other. Whitney felt herself becoming relaxed and aroused at the same time. She grabbed the back of his head and forced on him a heavy kiss. He slowly worked his way down, yanking off her blue jeans and teasing off her tiny panties. She leaned back onto the pillows, and he kneeled over her, knees digging into the naked, cigarette-burned mattress. They smiled at each other with untamed excitement.
Taken in her car on her departure to Canada, Anna had taken a picture of herself to give to Ryan. She was blowing a kiss to him. “Don’t forget me now,” she had said to him. “I’m thinking of you and loving you no matter where I am.” And now, over on his dusty desk, wedged between his sticky smoky bowl and a half-eaten slice of pizza, her framed picture sat, reflecting the two bodies working desperately to please and be pleased.
Back in Canada, Anna placed her phone on the nightstand within arm’s reach and collapsed on her couch-bed. She checked the time. 11:12. She couldn’t wait for Tradition to be over.
by Jacqueline Ho
Sweatshirt first. Quilted vest next. Then wool coat. Black leather gloves. White fur earmuffs. Then lavender cashmere scarf. Wrap around twice. Layers of protection. We all do what we can to brace ourselves for what lies behind the other side of the door.
Anne Livingston made sure that her eyes would be the only visible part of her body before rushing out the Science Building and into the merciless winter snowstorm. She had been attending the University of Western Ontario for over a year, but she accepted the impossibility of ever becoming accustomed to the near-death experience that Canada called Winter.
“Five more minutes…five more minutes,” Anna optimistically muttered aloud while enshrouded in clouds of her own visible breath. The pain from her key’s jagged edge digging into her left palm pulsed in and out as numbness began to set in. By the time she reached her icy front doorstep, her trembling was uncontrollable. After multiple clumsy attempts, Anna finally succeeded in turning the key and pushing in the icicle-framed door, which creaked open into her musty, warm apartment.
There was only one word on her unfeeling, ripe plum-colored lips—“Ryan.” She could not wait to hear his voice. They had been dating for a year and a half, and the very fact that this was her longest relationship to date convinced her that they must have something special. Something different. As Anna tore off her dripping layers, she wondered what he was doing back in Virginia at this very moment. She glanced at the clock before tightly pulling on a soft, cream-colored robe. 9:53. He was probably reclining in his favorite computer chair, getting drunk off some Jack.
Picture this: Brown carpet floor covered—and I’m not exaggerating…literally covered—in unidentifiable black stains. A decent-sized bed—no, wait, I’m sorry—a decent-sized mattress, sans sheets, dotted with cigarette-burns. A desk hidden under layers of dust and piles of crusty dishes. A flat-screen T.V. hooked up to an X-Box—the star of the room. Boxers and wife-beaters thrown carelessly on the floor and furniture, and no way of knowing what was clean and what was dirty. Use your nose, I guess. Speaking of smell, the worst thing about Ryan’s room was the dire stench of rotting leftovers, dirty laundry, stale smoke, alcohol and the occasional stinkbug. Most people would recoil in revulsion at the sight of his room. She smiled.
At last Anna was dry, warm, safe. She had been longing for her nighttime phone call to Ryan with excitement and desperation. Her late-night phone conversations with her long-distance lover gave her comfort and reassurance. Just hearing his raspy voice soothed her. She had no way of knowing what he spent his days and nights doing, but at least for a few minutes every day, she knew that he was listening to her, and she to him.
Can you guess how much she’s spent on calling cards so she could make those late calls to him every night? $750. Amount spent on surprise gifts that she occasionally shipped to him? $300. Amount of debt she is currently in because of frequent flights home? $1,200. Number of flights he took to see her, number of calling cards he bought, number of gifts he sent her: 0. Most people, myself included, would think this imbalance unfair and intolerable. But he stayed with her even though they were far apart, and he told her he loved her. And that’s all that mattered to her. She ignored the pesky voices of Conscience that occasionally lurked in her gut. She was just doing the right thing for them.
“Hey babe.”
“Ryan! How are you?!”
She heard his drawn out breath as he exhaled from his Camel Light.
“All good, just chillin…you?”
“Better now! I’ve been waiting all day to hear your voice.”
“Cool, cool, me too. Uh, hey…sweetie?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Can I call you back? The boys and I are kinda having Tradition right now.”
“Oh I’m sorry! Yeah, for sure, call me back. I love you!”
Click.
Tradition. Kind of a silly thing, she thought. But still kind of cute. After a day of working at Starbucks, Ryan and his coworkers would lock up the doors then arrange a semi-circle of chairs out front, facing the empty parking lot. They would smoke. They would laugh. They would relax. As badly as Anna wanted to sprawl out on her pull-out couch, pop in a romantic movie and talk to Ryan until they fell asleep, she closed her eyes and grinned at the image of him. Some kind of white skater shoes. Khakis—slouched down to expose his Elmer Fudd boxers. Black collared shirt. His cross tattoo peaking out from under his right sleeve. And him smiling, laughing in appreciation of his own jokes and playful insults. Even though Anna looked forward to her nightly tradition with Ryan, she understood that he had his Tradition too.
Anna sighed and began to fumble impatiently with her phone. Staring blankly at the chipped pink paint on her toenails, she couldn’t think of how to occupy herself now. It was Friday night, and her roommates were long-gone. They used to invite Anna out with them when they first moved in together. Invitations turned to pleas. Pleas turned to urges. Urges turned to demands. Demands turned back into invitations, and eventually the invitations disappeared. Before she left Virginia to go to Canada, they had spoken about this kind of thing. Ryan specifically told her not to go out on weekends. She would never do anything to make him uncomfortable, and so she stayed at home.
Ryan tossed his phone onto his pile of work clothes, from his black collared shirt to his Elmer Fudd boxers, now sitting on the floor. “Where was I?,” he said playfully as he caressed his hands under her white T-shirt, felt over her tiny waist, up to her ample breasts and skillfully unhooked her cotton bra with one hand while impatiently pulling her shirt over her head with the other. Whitney felt herself becoming relaxed and aroused at the same time. She grabbed the back of his head and forced on him a heavy kiss. He slowly worked his way down, yanking off her blue jeans and teasing off her tiny panties. She leaned back onto the pillows, and he kneeled over her, knees digging into the naked, cigarette-burned mattress. They smiled at each other with untamed excitement.
Taken in her car on her departure to Canada, Anna had taken a picture of herself to give to Ryan. She was blowing a kiss to him. “Don’t forget me now,” she had said to him. “I’m thinking of you and loving you no matter where I am.” And now, over on his dusty desk, wedged between his sticky smoky bowl and a half-eaten slice of pizza, her framed picture sat, reflecting the two bodies working desperately to please and be pleased.
Back in Canada, Anna placed her phone on the nightstand within arm’s reach and collapsed on her couch-bed. She checked the time. 11:12. She couldn’t wait for Tradition to be over.
Non-Fiction story assignment-Phillip Cobey
Nazi Zombies and Christmas Crack
by Phillip Cobey
"Behind you, behind you," Mike yells at Phillip. "I got it," Phillip pulls the right trigger button on the controller. "Nazi Zombies was a great idea," proclaims Mike. "Dude I know this, it's why I bought the game," says Phillip as opens the first door in the game. "...I made it from scratch...," Kara says in into her cell phone as she goes down the stairs and out the front door. "Did she just say Christmas Crack?" Phillip says as he turns his head looking at Mike.
"No man, I am pretty sure she said made it from scratch," Mike assures Phillip. "I heard Christmas Crack," argues Phillip. "No, I am positive she said, made from scratch, and you need to open the second door too," Mike says as he questions Phillip's listening abilities. "Probably is what she said," Phillip admitting defeat as he opens the second door into the game.
"What is Christmas Crack?" Phillip questions Mike. "I got no clue, some type of Crack derivative maybe," explains Mike. "I don't think just because it has Crack in the name it has to have Crack in the substance," Phillip ponders aloud, "it could be that it's really addictive or has similar effects to Crack." "I think you are putting way too much thought into this," Mike shaking his head at Phillip, "just play the game, the MP-50 is down the stairs." "MP-40," Phillip corrects Mike.
"I will cover these two windows, you cover the upstairs window and doorway," Mike orders Phillip. "Christmas Crack," Phillip mutters aloud, "I can't get it out of my head." "Dude, come on, Christmas Crack, why Christmas?" Mike says as he finally joins Phillip on his level. "I don't know, maybe it's a seasonal thing or refers to color," elaborates Phillip as if he is some type of expert on the subject. "I think you just invented a new a drug," jokes Mike as he presses the left bumper on the controller throwing a grenade up the stairs.
"No, I am sure it exists somewhere," Phillip informs Mike. "No, I am sure you are the only person to ever come up Christmas Crack, just focus on the game, you are letting too many zombies through," Mike says as he questions Phillip's mental state. "I got the zombies, don't worry, I think I should go out and try to buy some and see what I get," plans Phillip. "What?" Mike says, staring down at Phillip, now convinced of Phillip's mental state, "just please play the game, I am running low on ammo."
"I am getting over run, I am coming downstairs," says Phillip as he holds the right joystick down then presses B. "Don't dive down the stairs when the zombies are chasing you, I am not reviving you when you go down," yells Mike at Phillip. "That's cool, it will give me time to Google Christmas Crack," says Phillip. Zombies start to fill the room, "I am going to open the last door," says Mike.
"I'm down," says Phillip as he puts down the controller and pulls out his Droid. "Get off your cell phone, I am coming to revive you," commands Mike. "You are almost out of ammo, there is no way," snaps Phillip, as Mike pulls the right trigger button killing a zombie that drops a "Max Ammo." "The game isn't over yet," says Mike as he charges back into the room. "Hold up I am Googling Christmas Crack," says Phillip to a now angry Mike.
"Hold up let me revive you," Mike says as he holds the left trigger button aiming down the sights of his MP-40 scoring headshot after head shot. "Ok," says Phillip as he is typing away on his phone's mobile browser. "You are back up, start shooting," orders Mike. Phillip doesn't even have the controller in his hand, "Sure." Phillip's character gets killed by zombies again, "I just revived you," yells Mike.
"Oh, apparently Christmas Crack does exist, it's a type of chocolate toffee," says Phillip to a very bitter Mike. "No!" Mike exclaims, as he gets surrounded by zombies and taken down, "I just wanted to get past level 7." Mike stares down Phillip, "What Mike?" The front door is opened and Kara walks inside. "Hey Kara, did you say Christmas Crack earlier?" Phillip Queries. "No," says Kara with a confused look on her face. Mike rest his face on the palm of his hand and shakes his head in disgust, dropping his controller on the floor.
by Phillip Cobey
Non-Fiction Story assignment
by Phillip Cobey
"Behind you, behind you," Mike yells at Phillip. "I got it," Phillip pulls the right trigger button on the controller. "Nazi Zombies was a great idea," proclaims Mike. "Dude I know this, it's why I bought the game," says Phillip as opens the first door in the game. "...I made it from scratch...," Kara says in into her cell phone as she goes down the stairs and out the front door. "Did she just say Christmas Crack?" Phillip says as he turns his head looking at Mike.
"No man, I am pretty sure she said made it from scratch," Mike assures Phillip. "I heard Christmas Crack," argues Phillip. "No, I am positive she said, made from scratch, and you need to open the second door too," Mike says as he questions Phillip's listening abilities. "Probably is what she said," Phillip admitting defeat as he opens the second door into the game.
"What is Christmas Crack?" Phillip questions Mike. "I got no clue, some type of Crack derivative maybe," explains Mike. "I don't think just because it has Crack in the name it has to have Crack in the substance," Phillip ponders aloud, "it could be that it's really addictive or has similar effects to Crack." "I think you are putting way too much thought into this," Mike shaking his head at Phillip, "just play the game, the MP-50 is down the stairs." "MP-40," Phillip corrects Mike.
"I will cover these two windows, you cover the upstairs window and doorway," Mike orders Phillip. "Christmas Crack," Phillip mutters aloud, "I can't get it out of my head." "Dude, come on, Christmas Crack, why Christmas?" Mike says as he finally joins Phillip on his level. "I don't know, maybe it's a seasonal thing or refers to color," elaborates Phillip as if he is some type of expert on the subject. "I think you just invented a new a drug," jokes Mike as he presses the left bumper on the controller throwing a grenade up the stairs.
"No, I am sure it exists somewhere," Phillip informs Mike. "No, I am sure you are the only person to ever come up Christmas Crack, just focus on the game, you are letting too many zombies through," Mike says as he questions Phillip's mental state. "I got the zombies, don't worry, I think I should go out and try to buy some and see what I get," plans Phillip. "What?" Mike says, staring down at Phillip, now convinced of Phillip's mental state, "just please play the game, I am running low on ammo."
"I am getting over run, I am coming downstairs," says Phillip as he holds the right joystick down then presses B. "Don't dive down the stairs when the zombies are chasing you, I am not reviving you when you go down," yells Mike at Phillip. "That's cool, it will give me time to Google Christmas Crack," says Phillip. Zombies start to fill the room, "I am going to open the last door," says Mike.
"I'm down," says Phillip as he puts down the controller and pulls out his Droid. "Get off your cell phone, I am coming to revive you," commands Mike. "You are almost out of ammo, there is no way," snaps Phillip, as Mike pulls the right trigger button killing a zombie that drops a "Max Ammo." "The game isn't over yet," says Mike as he charges back into the room. "Hold up I am Googling Christmas Crack," says Phillip to a now angry Mike.
"Hold up let me revive you," Mike says as he holds the left trigger button aiming down the sights of his MP-40 scoring headshot after head shot. "Ok," says Phillip as he is typing away on his phone's mobile browser. "You are back up, start shooting," orders Mike. Phillip doesn't even have the controller in his hand, "Sure." Phillip's character gets killed by zombies again, "I just revived you," yells Mike.
"Oh, apparently Christmas Crack does exist, it's a type of chocolate toffee," says Phillip to a very bitter Mike. "No!" Mike exclaims, as he gets surrounded by zombies and taken down, "I just wanted to get past level 7." Mike stares down Phillip, "What Mike?" The front door is opened and Kara walks inside. "Hey Kara, did you say Christmas Crack earlier?" Phillip Queries. "No," says Kara with a confused look on her face. Mike rest his face on the palm of his hand and shakes his head in disgust, dropping his controller on the floor.
by Phillip Cobey
Non-Fiction Story assignment
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Italian 110, Draft 1
“Buongiorno!” my part-time Italian professor would say if he were still here, adding a dabble of French. But he's not. He was thrown in jail in the beginning of November for the possession of child pornography. In America, that's a felony, especially if one person possesses over 100,000 photos of adults raping children covered with duct tape. And it's definitely not a mistake if these photos are organized into specific folders.
Girls.
Boys.
Duct tape.
This guy had the nerve to go to George Washington University, where he also worked, with his external hard drive in hopes of wiping all the viruses from it. Instead, he received handcuffs and a lot of disgusted students. “I can't believe this guy!” a twenty-five year old woman in my class shouted.
Well, at least you don't have the body of a twelve year old girl at the age of eighteen.
At least you didn't think he was a decent human being in the first place.
The night before next class, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned and finally decided to get out of bed at three in the morning. I wondered if I should've gone to class; I didn't know if I wanted to take Italian anymore. I really thought I hated this guy. Who could ever enjoy watching someone rape a child? All I could think about was child pornography and Italy. Italy and child pornography. I wanted this guy to rot behind bars. I wanted Italy to burst into flames.
A lot of child molesters or abusers were molested or abused as children. These victims either grow up and stop themselves from hurting others, or these victims find that what happened to them as children is okay.
There was an alcoholic father who had two sons; the first son grew up to be an alcoholic, and the second son grew up to be a normal guy. The second son said, “I saw what alcohol did to my father, and I didn't want to end up like that.”
The first son said, “Well, I guess I learned how to drink from my father.”
I don't know my Italian professor's back story, but something else could've attributed to his possession of child pornography. Maybe a family member molested him; it's not impossible.
After three weeks of trying to forget about him, I realize that I don't hate him anymore. Our new Italian professor told us he was cooperating and was now wearing house arrest jewelry. He had a five mile limit in D.C. “He could totally come back and teach us!” someone shouted as a joke. There was some nervous laughter.
And now that it's Thanksgiving, I can only imagine what he would be doing. He's probably home alone in his apartment complex on a day that millions of Americans drive for miles and miles to see their families. He's probably miserable—staying home, wearing house arrest jewelry, mulling around his apartment with nothing to do. Nothing's open on Thanksgiving. Almost everyone's out of town.
Fasolini, have a Happy Thanksgiving.
Wherever you are.
Girls.
Boys.
Duct tape.
This guy had the nerve to go to George Washington University, where he also worked, with his external hard drive in hopes of wiping all the viruses from it. Instead, he received handcuffs and a lot of disgusted students. “I can't believe this guy!” a twenty-five year old woman in my class shouted.
Well, at least you don't have the body of a twelve year old girl at the age of eighteen.
At least you didn't think he was a decent human being in the first place.
The night before next class, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned and finally decided to get out of bed at three in the morning. I wondered if I should've gone to class; I didn't know if I wanted to take Italian anymore. I really thought I hated this guy. Who could ever enjoy watching someone rape a child? All I could think about was child pornography and Italy. Italy and child pornography. I wanted this guy to rot behind bars. I wanted Italy to burst into flames.
A lot of child molesters or abusers were molested or abused as children. These victims either grow up and stop themselves from hurting others, or these victims find that what happened to them as children is okay.
There was an alcoholic father who had two sons; the first son grew up to be an alcoholic, and the second son grew up to be a normal guy. The second son said, “I saw what alcohol did to my father, and I didn't want to end up like that.”
The first son said, “Well, I guess I learned how to drink from my father.”
I don't know my Italian professor's back story, but something else could've attributed to his possession of child pornography. Maybe a family member molested him; it's not impossible.
After three weeks of trying to forget about him, I realize that I don't hate him anymore. Our new Italian professor told us he was cooperating and was now wearing house arrest jewelry. He had a five mile limit in D.C. “He could totally come back and teach us!” someone shouted as a joke. There was some nervous laughter.
And now that it's Thanksgiving, I can only imagine what he would be doing. He's probably home alone in his apartment complex on a day that millions of Americans drive for miles and miles to see their families. He's probably miserable—staying home, wearing house arrest jewelry, mulling around his apartment with nothing to do. Nothing's open on Thanksgiving. Almost everyone's out of town.
Fasolini, have a Happy Thanksgiving.
Wherever you are.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
I'm Just Getting to the Disturbing Part
The piece I chose to discuss is "I'm Just Getting to the Disturbing Part," by Steven Church. Possibly my favorite technique in this piece is how Church uses all points of time, to explain his story, without confusing the reader. He uses phrases such as "at this point in my story," clearly discussing the present, "let me tell you what I don't know at this point in my story," discussing the future, "here is what I haven't told you up to this point in my story," the past. I find this method to be effective as well as artistic. It isn't harsh or unattractive to the reader but instead a smooth transition.
The author also holds the audience’s attention throughout the entire piece giving us new information about the speaker’s life that is relevant to the storyline. Eventually all pieces of the story come together forming the relationship that the speaker has with his fear of water. From the death of his brother, to the event at the lake, and, finally, to his son, the speaker’s new fear is a stitched creation of all the parts of his life.
The author also dabbles with extremes. In the beginning we are introduced to a problem. Heat. This condition makes the speaker and his companions uncomfortable and causes them to seek a solution. At first we think that heat is the problem that these friends must overcome. Later we realize that water, synonymous with refreshment, cleansing, and cool, is actually a more dangerous alternative. Though heat is uncomfortable, the refreshing lake has brought a situation of mortality to these characters that wasn’t present when they were simply sweating in a Barbie pool. In addition, with this new situation of mortality is causes the speaker to not just reconnect with the death of his brother but to also almost relive it in an attempt to save him, or even to just be reunited. In an act of heroism to save a teenage boy the main character is now confronted with a fear about his own mortality and relationship with his dead brother. An overwhelming urge to reestablish a connection even at the price of his life.
Samantha Audet
The author also holds the audience’s attention throughout the entire piece giving us new information about the speaker’s life that is relevant to the storyline. Eventually all pieces of the story come together forming the relationship that the speaker has with his fear of water. From the death of his brother, to the event at the lake, and, finally, to his son, the speaker’s new fear is a stitched creation of all the parts of his life.
The author also dabbles with extremes. In the beginning we are introduced to a problem. Heat. This condition makes the speaker and his companions uncomfortable and causes them to seek a solution. At first we think that heat is the problem that these friends must overcome. Later we realize that water, synonymous with refreshment, cleansing, and cool, is actually a more dangerous alternative. Though heat is uncomfortable, the refreshing lake has brought a situation of mortality to these characters that wasn’t present when they were simply sweating in a Barbie pool. In addition, with this new situation of mortality is causes the speaker to not just reconnect with the death of his brother but to also almost relive it in an attempt to save him, or even to just be reunited. In an act of heroism to save a teenage boy the main character is now confronted with a fear about his own mortality and relationship with his dead brother. An overwhelming urge to reestablish a connection even at the price of his life.
Samantha Audet
Once More to the Lake
I chose 'Once More to the Lake' by E. B. White because the words and rhythm of the story 'sing.' They flow well and have a feel of poetry to them. The author writes about his memories of peaceful, serene, and sometimes humorous lake vacations with his family. He doesn't just tell us about these experiences, he shows them through his use of cinematic descriptions and word choice. As I read the story, I could see the father and son fishing on the lake. Later, I could see (as the father saw) the comparisons between father and son. The story made me think of my own memories with my family and how time flies by. Somethings remaining the same, with a chilly deja vu feeling, and somethings change like the son replacing the father and the father replacing his father.
What I find powerful about this creative nonfiction is that it could be a piece of fiction or nonfiction. There are elements of both in this story and neither overpower the other. The author never lets the truth and 'data' of the story interfere with the telling. The flow and almost musical use of descriptions and words also helps create a more visual image. A lot of times, writing creative nonfiction has me so concentrated on the facts that I miss the objective. 'Creative' nonfiction should evoke feelings, have meaning, and show not only what is going on but how. E. B. White does this all with 'Once more to the Lake.'
Jae Khoury
What I find powerful about this creative nonfiction is that it could be a piece of fiction or nonfiction. There are elements of both in this story and neither overpower the other. The author never lets the truth and 'data' of the story interfere with the telling. The flow and almost musical use of descriptions and words also helps create a more visual image. A lot of times, writing creative nonfiction has me so concentrated on the facts that I miss the objective. 'Creative' nonfiction should evoke feelings, have meaning, and show not only what is going on but how. E. B. White does this all with 'Once more to the Lake.'
Jae Khoury
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
"The Face of Seung-Hui Cho" & "Community College"
The two best were already chosen so I decide to write on both. While "Community College" is stylistically written and quite innovative the subject matter is a bit more commonplace. I was never bored while reading and found myself in tears more that once if only for the momentous of his daily grind. What this piece brings to the essay, more than anything else, is the way it showed me that it is written in the interests that is shared by others. "Community College" is a testament to the writers and their rare skills, of being creative at creating creative non-fiction. This is a skill that is essentially needed for writers who pour their guts out while engaging their audience. I love the peculiar, fascinating and amazing stories he shares in this piece.
Wesley Yang's "The Face of Seung-Hui Cho," which takes on the freighted topic of the 2007 shootings at Virginia Tech. While "Community College" and "What Come's Out" employ the techniques of literary fiction to relate autobiographical stories; they're well told, but don't transcend the memoir genre. Yang's entry is a memoir and more, providing a personal narrative of disaffection along with a studied analysis of a historical event, suggesting the wider scope that's possible within the bounds of "creative nonfiction." The techniques and forms are visible and understood through the writings. Though “What Come's Out" and "The Face of Seung-Hui Cho," are relatively simple in style their subjects are simultaneously uncomfortable and wonderful.
Craig Fontenot
Wesley Yang's "The Face of Seung-Hui Cho," which takes on the freighted topic of the 2007 shootings at Virginia Tech. While "Community College" and "What Come's Out" employ the techniques of literary fiction to relate autobiographical stories; they're well told, but don't transcend the memoir genre. Yang's entry is a memoir and more, providing a personal narrative of disaffection along with a studied analysis of a historical event, suggesting the wider scope that's possible within the bounds of "creative nonfiction." The techniques and forms are visible and understood through the writings. Though “What Come's Out" and "The Face of Seung-Hui Cho," are relatively simple in style their subjects are simultaneously uncomfortable and wonderful.
Craig Fontenot
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Community College
College: a noun that has become popularized into less of an object and more of a concept.
Then, there’s a branch of the college experience: community college. I have friends in community college, both teaching and studying. The ones studying are generally doing so because of the two-year programs. Thus, the majority of people in community college, at least in my network, are there for necessity not because they desire to be there.
The horror stories are abundant.
It’s interesting, then, that the creative non-fiction piece of reading I enjoyed most was the community college one. That was largely due to the unique style of the piece. The author, Tim Bascom, delineates his experience as a professor for one semester by each week. Furthermore, instead of adding opinion to the actions of the students, Bascom incorporates details of various students through each week of the semester.
I find that some of the most fascinating writing comes from well-developed characters whom happen to appeal to the audience. Tim Bascom’s piece does just that. In fact, his unique structure coupled with minimized details about his students draw the audience into his tale and “characters.” Bascom carefully picks which details to express in the piece. This may not had been successful with a different structure, but the audience is able to focus on the author’s precisely chosen details. Much like in a work of fiction, the audience wants to continue reading in order to discover what happens in the lives of each person. And, unlike a work of fiction, the end of the piece does not deliver a neatly wrapped package. The author strings together his chosen details and takes the audience along a short piece, here a semester, of life.
While one does comprehend that the piece is nonfictional, the style that Bascom has chosen is creates a successful piece.
~Nitesh Arora
Then, there’s a branch of the college experience: community college. I have friends in community college, both teaching and studying. The ones studying are generally doing so because of the two-year programs. Thus, the majority of people in community college, at least in my network, are there for necessity not because they desire to be there.
The horror stories are abundant.
It’s interesting, then, that the creative non-fiction piece of reading I enjoyed most was the community college one. That was largely due to the unique style of the piece. The author, Tim Bascom, delineates his experience as a professor for one semester by each week. Furthermore, instead of adding opinion to the actions of the students, Bascom incorporates details of various students through each week of the semester.
I find that some of the most fascinating writing comes from well-developed characters whom happen to appeal to the audience. Tim Bascom’s piece does just that. In fact, his unique structure coupled with minimized details about his students draw the audience into his tale and “characters.” Bascom carefully picks which details to express in the piece. This may not had been successful with a different structure, but the audience is able to focus on the author’s precisely chosen details. Much like in a work of fiction, the audience wants to continue reading in order to discover what happens in the lives of each person. And, unlike a work of fiction, the end of the piece does not deliver a neatly wrapped package. The author strings together his chosen details and takes the audience along a short piece, here a semester, of life.
While one does comprehend that the piece is nonfictional, the style that Bascom has chosen is creates a successful piece.
~Nitesh Arora
Community College
Tim Bascom's piece, "Community College", has a strange, but very solid structure in the form of a consistent time lapse: each week in the semester of the writing course being taught has its own small entry, with a first person point of view. The characters and their traits emerge solely from the teacher's observations, with little direct personal or emotional reaction in it. Comically, nearly all of the students in his class skip on work and class, but their excuses flesh out the lives of those otherwise purely delinquent students: Arlene disappears from class after having attended a beauticians course, Sara has migraines and a mule and decides to write about the mule, and many other students use these strange but interesting factors in their lives to ditch lectures and turn work in late. The character of the narrator himself comes through his stoic narration, rarely displaying offense or frustration towards his delinquent students, even being invested in their lives and their complications. Yet the story closes with Dan, the blind but hard-working student who receives a scholarship and thanks the teacher for helping him earn it. The story ends on a positive note with a student who makes all of the annoyances of community college teaching worthwhile.
-Tomas F.
-Tomas F.
Table of Figures
Creative Nonfiction can be the typical history book or intriguing personal accounts of real life events. Dividing the two relies on the integrity in the author for the account being recorded.
Historians may briefly overview wide periods of history with simple labels like the Industrial era, but that leaves out people in history that didn't experience Industrialism during that time. Likewise, an author can go over periods of life in a biography; however, both the historian and the author can engage in creative nonfiction if they add fictional techniques to the real events they record.
"Table of Figures," by Brenda Miller, takes the form of a nonfiction description for a Miller's younger years and introduces, by way of the diary account, the emotional discourse unique to the Miller.
The narrator is Miller, yet she is separate and merely observing the girl's experiences. She records significant parts of the girl's life with editorials for how she feels, signaling to the reader that this is really Miller's experiences. At that point, the piece becomes creative nonfiction.
Creative Nonfiction lets a true story reveal personal growth of characters and do so by engaging the reader in the events. This type of nonfiction is not the listing of fats--it's an explicative account of events through literary techniques.
Miller uses a narrator and emotion to record her years as a girl while a biography notes a timeline. "Table of Figures" can be a biography and that is why it can be considered Nonfiction. The integrity of her account does not mar the real events she is describing.
David Darner
Historians may briefly overview wide periods of history with simple labels like the Industrial era, but that leaves out people in history that didn't experience Industrialism during that time. Likewise, an author can go over periods of life in a biography; however, both the historian and the author can engage in creative nonfiction if they add fictional techniques to the real events they record.
"Table of Figures," by Brenda Miller, takes the form of a nonfiction description for a Miller's younger years and introduces, by way of the diary account, the emotional discourse unique to the Miller.
The narrator is Miller, yet she is separate and merely observing the girl's experiences. She records significant parts of the girl's life with editorials for how she feels, signaling to the reader that this is really Miller's experiences. At that point, the piece becomes creative nonfiction.
Creative Nonfiction lets a true story reveal personal growth of characters and do so by engaging the reader in the events. This type of nonfiction is not the listing of fats--it's an explicative account of events through literary techniques.
Miller uses a narrator and emotion to record her years as a girl while a biography notes a timeline. "Table of Figures" can be a biography and that is why it can be considered Nonfiction. The integrity of her account does not mar the real events she is describing.
David Darner
The Face of Seung-Hui Cho
Wesley yang employs several narratives that serve to paint a viewing angle for the incedent at Virginia Tech. While written in a somewhat journalistic form, the author includes a personal and subjective voice to the various narratives. The range of his emotion is different from sentence to sentence, at times being humorous and other times lecturing.
Each story he gives serves as a form of symbololism of every day life that the reader in turn applies to information the author assumes the reader already knows. At times, the reader may forget what the peice is primarily about as she reads page after page about his friend Samuel until the reader's eyes shift back across the page and catch the title.
This seemingly disconnected feeling between some of the narratives also serves as a mechanism to incite thought on the reader's part.
-Brian Walker
Each story he gives serves as a form of symbololism of every day life that the reader in turn applies to information the author assumes the reader already knows. At times, the reader may forget what the peice is primarily about as she reads page after page about his friend Samuel until the reader's eyes shift back across the page and catch the title.
This seemingly disconnected feeling between some of the narratives also serves as a mechanism to incite thought on the reader's part.
-Brian Walker
What Comes Out
In “What Comes Out,” Dawnelle Wilkie provides a shocking but realistic view into the goings on at an abortion clinic. She plays on how ridiculous it is to insist that the workers don’t use certain harsh words to describe the reality of abortion in attempt to make it appear less drastic and acceptable. Usually arguments for or against abortion are clear and forthright. The writer takes the use of words and provides vivid descriptions and lets the readers make up their own minds, even though it is clear the conclusion she is seeking each one of us to reach.
At times it was sad, other times it was in your face and blatantly real but the overall tone was melancholy. She did a good job of striking up strong emotions each time she made light of the “script.” Whenever What Comes Out is mentioned it’s like the reader is pulled back in, not to stray away from the whole point of the piece. What stroke me the most was her mention of the fact that the “truth” of the abortions and what actually happens is something so dark and unforgiving that the workers can so much as speak this truth amongst themselves.
The truth will come out, she declares but it is something that she knows after speaking its name that it will eventually reveal itself, but she is willing to wait.
Cindy Davis
At times it was sad, other times it was in your face and blatantly real but the overall tone was melancholy. She did a good job of striking up strong emotions each time she made light of the “script.” Whenever What Comes Out is mentioned it’s like the reader is pulled back in, not to stray away from the whole point of the piece. What stroke me the most was her mention of the fact that the “truth” of the abortions and what actually happens is something so dark and unforgiving that the workers can so much as speak this truth amongst themselves.
The truth will come out, she declares but it is something that she knows after speaking its name that it will eventually reveal itself, but she is willing to wait.
Cindy Davis
Table of Figures
"Table of Figures" is a third person narrative that takes snapshots of a womans life from childhood to her mid 40's. It is written as though the reader is looking through a candid photo album. This is an interesting way to present a narrative. It has the feel of diary entries, which gives the reader the sense that he/she is looking at the characters most secretive and sensitive moments, while at the same time poses the content in a third-person point of view which leaves the reader to decide the motivations and meanings behind what is written, what the character does and how it is presented. This is an even more effective way at illustrating the emotions of the character than describing such emotions. When the feelings of the character are given, they are presented through the context of the reader's personal experiences (sad means different things to all people). Presented in the way Brenda Miller presents it, the reader is forced to place themselves in the situation and decide the correct feeling. This allows the author to control the reader emotionally, while allowing the reader to find the appropriate emotion for the scene.
This is a short piece, but spans a story of 40-some odd years. This would usually lead the reader to a place of indifference when it comes to the characters representation. However, the author uses situations in the characters life that the audience can relate to. This cuts out the need for long explanations as most readers will be able to find the back-story withing their own personal history. Again, this is extremely effective.
Brenda Miller uses imagery in order to tell a story. She tells the reader what to see, and gives some side-notes as to the action and why the character is behaving in such a way. This seems fitting due to the story's obsession with looks. The theme fits well into the style of writing and provides the reader with the knowledge they need to find the correct point to the story.
D. Ryan
This is a short piece, but spans a story of 40-some odd years. This would usually lead the reader to a place of indifference when it comes to the characters representation. However, the author uses situations in the characters life that the audience can relate to. This cuts out the need for long explanations as most readers will be able to find the back-story withing their own personal history. Again, this is extremely effective.
Brenda Miller uses imagery in order to tell a story. She tells the reader what to see, and gives some side-notes as to the action and why the character is behaving in such a way. This seems fitting due to the story's obsession with looks. The theme fits well into the style of writing and provides the reader with the knowledge they need to find the correct point to the story.
D. Ryan
Guilt.
Church's "I'm Just Getting to the Disturbing Part" mainly includes imagery--the Barbie pool, the mountains, the lake, and his interactions with his son. His imagery in the beginning is playful (the swimming pool and how he's too big for it), but it starts to become more powerful towards the end and evokes sympathy (his son and his fear of swimming).
Like in most creative nonfiction, Church has a lot of introspective monologues through out the piece. Towards the end, he discovers something about himself that he didn't know before; he realizes why he was frightened the day he tried to look for a drunk, drowning man at the bottom of a lake. This epiphany moment about his fear and his cowardice makes him seem more realistic; Church doesn't make himself out to be a hero for attempting to save this ultimately doomed man. He knows he didn't try his best to save him, because he had his dead brother in the back of his mind.
when he dove in to try to save that drowning man, he felt closer and closer to his deceased brother. Even though he couldn't do anything to prevent his brother's death, he still felt guilty. All of us always think that we could have done more to save someone who is no longer living, but with some situations, that sense of guilt never really disappears and reveals itself every so often in other things that we do.
Like in most creative nonfiction, Church has a lot of introspective monologues through out the piece. Towards the end, he discovers something about himself that he didn't know before; he realizes why he was frightened the day he tried to look for a drunk, drowning man at the bottom of a lake. This epiphany moment about his fear and his cowardice makes him seem more realistic; Church doesn't make himself out to be a hero for attempting to save this ultimately doomed man. He knows he didn't try his best to save him, because he had his dead brother in the back of his mind.
when he dove in to try to save that drowning man, he felt closer and closer to his deceased brother. Even though he couldn't do anything to prevent his brother's death, he still felt guilty. All of us always think that we could have done more to save someone who is no longer living, but with some situations, that sense of guilt never really disappears and reveals itself every so often in other things that we do.
Monday, November 15, 2010
What Comes Out
“What Comes Out” by Dawnelle Wilkie is an extremely powerful creative nonfiction piece Right from the beginning, Wilkie sends a strong message through the title, which is a creative play on the physical aspect of “what comes out” from women in the abortion clinic, as well as the truth that is coming out through her essay.
Wilkie’s purpose in writing this essay is to expose the raw reality which lies behind the façade of a rehearsed “script.” The effect of doing so is the creation and delivery of a persuasive, pro-life message.
Wilkie says after the 2nd paragraph, “Here is the truth. This is not the script.” She stays true to these statements, and the majority of the essay is the bare truth of what goes on in abortion clinics. However, she does use fictional, creative techniques which work to not only inform the audience, but also to persuade.
A recurring technique is Wilkie’s repetitive use of parenthesized phrases beginning with the word “imagine.” More important that just the phrases itself is the dissonant juxtaposition between the parenthesized phrases and what they are being compared to. For example, to conjure an image of the amount of women’s discharged blood (pg. 164), Wilkie says, “Imagine a Pyrex measuring cup, the four-cup size, the one you use to make brownies or to measure cut strawberries.” Why would Wilkie choose to compare a grotesque thing like discharged blood after an abortion to something familiar, like brownies and strawberries? Another example is when Wilkie compares emptying contents from an abortion into a colander (pg. 165) to “rinsing spaghetti.” Again, she draws comparisons from the uncomfortably unfamiliar to familiar routines and memories. The effect of these dissonant juxtapositions is that Wilkie makes it easier for readers to picture the processes involved in abortions. However, a stronger effect is that the readers are left uneasy and repulsed by the routine, casual manner in which such a grotesque procedure happens on a daily basis. Wilkie does not simply state her point of view that abortion is a cruel practice—her literary techniques that she intertwines throughout her essay effectively work to convey her perspective.
In the last paragraph of the essay, Wilkie says that “the forbidden word” is “baby” and that “the mother of all words” is “choice.” She is telling her audience that abortion clinics mask the harsh reality of the events that take place and words they avoid, like “blood, pain, clot, and fear,” with a positive, uplifting pretense of “empowerment, healing, and…choice.” Wilkie tell us the “truth” that if the public was exposed to what abortion clinics continue to hide, perhaps we might feel realize the seriousness of the brutality of abortion. She leaves her readers with a powerful statement—“I am waiting.”
-Jackie
Wilkie’s purpose in writing this essay is to expose the raw reality which lies behind the façade of a rehearsed “script.” The effect of doing so is the creation and delivery of a persuasive, pro-life message.
Wilkie says after the 2nd paragraph, “Here is the truth. This is not the script.” She stays true to these statements, and the majority of the essay is the bare truth of what goes on in abortion clinics. However, she does use fictional, creative techniques which work to not only inform the audience, but also to persuade.
A recurring technique is Wilkie’s repetitive use of parenthesized phrases beginning with the word “imagine.” More important that just the phrases itself is the dissonant juxtaposition between the parenthesized phrases and what they are being compared to. For example, to conjure an image of the amount of women’s discharged blood (pg. 164), Wilkie says, “Imagine a Pyrex measuring cup, the four-cup size, the one you use to make brownies or to measure cut strawberries.” Why would Wilkie choose to compare a grotesque thing like discharged blood after an abortion to something familiar, like brownies and strawberries? Another example is when Wilkie compares emptying contents from an abortion into a colander (pg. 165) to “rinsing spaghetti.” Again, she draws comparisons from the uncomfortably unfamiliar to familiar routines and memories. The effect of these dissonant juxtapositions is that Wilkie makes it easier for readers to picture the processes involved in abortions. However, a stronger effect is that the readers are left uneasy and repulsed by the routine, casual manner in which such a grotesque procedure happens on a daily basis. Wilkie does not simply state her point of view that abortion is a cruel practice—her literary techniques that she intertwines throughout her essay effectively work to convey her perspective.
In the last paragraph of the essay, Wilkie says that “the forbidden word” is “baby” and that “the mother of all words” is “choice.” She is telling her audience that abortion clinics mask the harsh reality of the events that take place and words they avoid, like “blood, pain, clot, and fear,” with a positive, uplifting pretense of “empowerment, healing, and…choice.” Wilkie tell us the “truth” that if the public was exposed to what abortion clinics continue to hide, perhaps we might feel realize the seriousness of the brutality of abortion. She leaves her readers with a powerful statement—“I am waiting.”
-Jackie
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Coupons
Coupons, Coupons where art thou sale?
Whole Foods, Safeway, and a Giant to boot
With an abundance of circulars almost written in Braille
Out of Bread and need more jam
Don’t want my pancakes to stick so have to get Pam
Without hast I am off to the freezer section
To use my two dollars off sausage & pepperoni
Then next to the Seafood Counter
Off to the see the butcher but sadly no sale there
Spending so much money; much more that I can bear
Only to get into a lengthy line and see the patrons
In line behind me and their annoyance of stares
Craig Fontenot
Whole Foods, Safeway, and a Giant to boot
With an abundance of circulars almost written in Braille
Out of Bread and need more jam
Don’t want my pancakes to stick so have to get Pam
Without hast I am off to the freezer section
To use my two dollars off sausage & pepperoni
Then next to the Seafood Counter
Off to the see the butcher but sadly no sale there
Spending so much money; much more that I can bear
Only to get into a lengthy line and see the patrons
In line behind me and their annoyance of stares
Craig Fontenot
What I Learned
This week I learned that I was ineligible to compete for Mason's wrestling team. I was furious! I was psyched and ready for our first competition, only to find out moments before we were scheduled to depart that I could not wrestle. Not only could I not travel and wrestle this past weekend when my team made the drive up to Clarion, PA for a tournament but the unbearable news is that I might not be able to compete until next semester which means I will miss many matches.
As a competitive athlete my goal is to compete and win. I am motivated to practice because I envision the reward of winning my matches and enjoying the excitement that comes with the success. I work extremely hard for what I like to call a positive outcome or in wrestling terms to get my hand raised, which simply means to win the match. But how can I even be motivated to practice when my potential incentive might be momentarily taken from me, I may just choose to momentarily not work so hard.
Most people know that wrestlers have, from my perspective the most strenuous workout of college athletes and if not the most strenuous we have to be very close to the top. I particularly do not agree with working out and training if I'm not going to compete, may be if I was red shirting I would because I still have the opportunity to partake in some competitions. Other athletes can train for no reward but me I would rather not. I am still hoping and praying that I can compete this semester and that something is done where the university decides that I can compete.
I always like to keep a positive mind and be optimistic towards most situations but this situation is really getting difficult to be optimistic about. I have tried to give the school the benefit of the doubt of getting what needs to be done situated before I completely get aggravated and angry but some people seem to think that I am enjoying the situation, although I am far from enjoying it. But I do hope it all can be changed quickly because I am still looking forward to competition, I have been training with the rest of the team since September and I would love to compete just like their are given the opportunity.
Jaaziah Bethea
As a competitive athlete my goal is to compete and win. I am motivated to practice because I envision the reward of winning my matches and enjoying the excitement that comes with the success. I work extremely hard for what I like to call a positive outcome or in wrestling terms to get my hand raised, which simply means to win the match. But how can I even be motivated to practice when my potential incentive might be momentarily taken from me, I may just choose to momentarily not work so hard.
Most people know that wrestlers have, from my perspective the most strenuous workout of college athletes and if not the most strenuous we have to be very close to the top. I particularly do not agree with working out and training if I'm not going to compete, may be if I was red shirting I would because I still have the opportunity to partake in some competitions. Other athletes can train for no reward but me I would rather not. I am still hoping and praying that I can compete this semester and that something is done where the university decides that I can compete.
I always like to keep a positive mind and be optimistic towards most situations but this situation is really getting difficult to be optimistic about. I have tried to give the school the benefit of the doubt of getting what needs to be done situated before I completely get aggravated and angry but some people seem to think that I am enjoying the situation, although I am far from enjoying it. But I do hope it all can be changed quickly because I am still looking forward to competition, I have been training with the rest of the team since September and I would love to compete just like their are given the opportunity.
Jaaziah Bethea
The Collector
I am a nerd.
I collect sentences that I find exemplary.
Some examples:
You can tell from how much people seem to be enjoying their buffet food that it's got to be a pretty heavily umlauted crowd.
– Gideon Lewis-Kraus, The Last Book Party, Harpers 3/09 p. 50
“So much of the coverage and commentary has to do with the narrative, stagecraft, the political implications of what he is doing,” said David Axelrod, Obama’s special advisor for narrative, stagecraft and the political implications of what the president is doing.
– Jason Horowitz, The Obama ‘Narrative’ is Overshadowing the Presidencies Real Stories, Washington Post 6/20/10 B01
Everyone has to die, and in a hundred years nobody’s going to inquire just how most people died; the best thing is to do it in the way that takes your fancy most.
– Oe Kenzaburo, The Silent Cry, Tokyo: Kodansha, 1967. p.5
Glare and shutter-whizz, the fan’s gaze weaponized: hiss the word… paparazzi.
– James Parker, The Last Pop Star, The Atlantic, June 2010, p. 40
That is all.
-dennis
I collect sentences that I find exemplary.
Some examples:
You can tell from how much people seem to be enjoying their buffet food that it's got to be a pretty heavily umlauted crowd.
– Gideon Lewis-Kraus, The Last Book Party, Harpers 3/09 p. 50
“So much of the coverage and commentary has to do with the narrative, stagecraft, the political implications of what he is doing,” said David Axelrod, Obama’s special advisor for narrative, stagecraft and the political implications of what the president is doing.
– Jason Horowitz, The Obama ‘Narrative’ is Overshadowing the Presidencies Real Stories, Washington Post 6/20/10 B01
Everyone has to die, and in a hundred years nobody’s going to inquire just how most people died; the best thing is to do it in the way that takes your fancy most.
– Oe Kenzaburo, The Silent Cry, Tokyo: Kodansha, 1967. p.5
Glare and shutter-whizz, the fan’s gaze weaponized: hiss the word… paparazzi.
– James Parker, The Last Pop Star, The Atlantic, June 2010, p. 40
That is all.
-dennis
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Rocky Horror Glee Show
I'm a tv blogger for a student media site & this was one of my earlier pieces. I would love to be able to get your opinion on the writing style. Is it appropriate? Does it work?
The Rocky Horror Glee Show
“We've lost the true meaning of Halloween: fear”
I’m kind of cut off from American cultural classics—my friends jokingly call me sheltered.
I guess it’s typical of me not to have seen Rocky Horror Picture Show before this Glee episode.
I ended up watching Rocky Horror Picture Show online right before I watched the Glee episode on Hulu.
And now I shall prepare to be pelted with stones by any Rocky Horror Picture Show fans.
What. The. Heck?
And my reaction to the Glee: RHPS episode?
Again: What. The Heck?
According to my friends, Rocky Horror Picture Show is known to be a terrible movie. I guess it’s an inside joke for fans.
What’s Glee’s excuse?
Seriously? As Sue Sylvester would say “The Horror!”
Glee’s tribute episodes are always terrible. Well, that’s if you happen to be watching for some kind of plot.
“The Power of Madonna,” “Britney/Brittany,” and “The Rocky Horror Glee Show” weren’t just 3 Glee episodes. They were three wasted hours of my life.
If you skipped the episodes or watched just the songs you would get the same experience out of the episodes.
Part of my dislike of the episode must have come from hating the musical.
All of the songs of the week? Weird. And more awkward than the original.
Did anyone else find it weird that Will wanted a part that would have him in a sex scene with Rachel? Translation: Rachel Berry would be asking Will to “Touch-a, Touch-a, Touch Me.” Not Emma.
I haven’t liked Mr. Schuster for a while, but really? He’s insane.
He agreed to stay away from Emma. She’s happily in a relationship with Dr. Carl. And then he stages an entire musical for her.
And the whole “abs issue”? Not “ab-ulous.”
I’m pretty sure that was tacked on so they could do something plot-wise about Chord Overstreet’s Sam in his golden boxers. I just thought that it was awkward.
I have to admit I liked a few things about the episode and, of course, Sue and Becky made that list. “Give me some chocolate or I will cut you.”
The singing lips in the beginning of the episode were a nice tribute to the original RHPS. And, the “Brad! Janet! Rocky! Dr. Scott!” scene? Cute and hilarious!
All in all?
Dear Ryan Murphy,
Please stop with the tribute episodes.
“I have no idea what's going on in this script, and it's not in a cool Inception kind of way.”
Nitesh Arora
The Rocky Horror Glee Show
“We've lost the true meaning of Halloween: fear”
I’m kind of cut off from American cultural classics—my friends jokingly call me sheltered.
I guess it’s typical of me not to have seen Rocky Horror Picture Show before this Glee episode.
I ended up watching Rocky Horror Picture Show online right before I watched the Glee episode on Hulu.
And now I shall prepare to be pelted with stones by any Rocky Horror Picture Show fans.
What. The. Heck?
And my reaction to the Glee: RHPS episode?
Again: What. The Heck?
According to my friends, Rocky Horror Picture Show is known to be a terrible movie. I guess it’s an inside joke for fans.
What’s Glee’s excuse?
Seriously? As Sue Sylvester would say “The Horror!”
Glee’s tribute episodes are always terrible. Well, that’s if you happen to be watching for some kind of plot.
“The Power of Madonna,” “Britney/Brittany,” and “The Rocky Horror Glee Show” weren’t just 3 Glee episodes. They were three wasted hours of my life.
If you skipped the episodes or watched just the songs you would get the same experience out of the episodes.
Part of my dislike of the episode must have come from hating the musical.
All of the songs of the week? Weird. And more awkward than the original.
Did anyone else find it weird that Will wanted a part that would have him in a sex scene with Rachel? Translation: Rachel Berry would be asking Will to “Touch-a, Touch-a, Touch Me.” Not Emma.
I haven’t liked Mr. Schuster for a while, but really? He’s insane.
He agreed to stay away from Emma. She’s happily in a relationship with Dr. Carl. And then he stages an entire musical for her.
And the whole “abs issue”? Not “ab-ulous.”
I’m pretty sure that was tacked on so they could do something plot-wise about Chord Overstreet’s Sam in his golden boxers. I just thought that it was awkward.
I have to admit I liked a few things about the episode and, of course, Sue and Becky made that list. “Give me some chocolate or I will cut you.”
The singing lips in the beginning of the episode were a nice tribute to the original RHPS. And, the “Brad! Janet! Rocky! Dr. Scott!” scene? Cute and hilarious!
All in all?
Dear Ryan Murphy,
Please stop with the tribute episodes.
“I have no idea what's going on in this script, and it's not in a cool Inception kind of way.”
Nitesh Arora
Nonfiction and Facebook
It's interesting that now we as a class start creative nonfiction, since I've recently absorbed myself in thought over a work that distinctly stretches the idea of "nonfiction": "The Social Network." Directed by one of my favorite directors David Fincher ("Se7en," "Zodiac," etc.), with a screenplay written by Aaron Sorkin of "West Wing" fame, it in essence is meant to be an ensemble "docudrama" about the founding of Facebook, focusing itself primarily on creator Mark Zuckerberg and spurned cofounder/former friend Eduardo Saverin.
It's interesting primarily because the movie itself doesn't make much of an attempt to slave over accuracies. Sorkin himself stated "I don’t want my fidelity to be to the truth; I want it to be to storytelling," and the abundance of sex, drinking and drug use present throughout the movie (though almost always alongside Napster founder Sean Parker) makes that deliberate truth-stretching clear. Not that factual events or behavior aren't present in the movie itself, as Zuckerberg's erratic behavior and lack of social nuance can easily be seen through his awkward TV interviews and embarrassing drunken blog posts, and Sean Parker himself was actually arrested for cocaine possession.
Whether the smaller details are true or not however matter little, since the movie itself does such an amazing job creating complex characterization out of those real-life figures. Zuckerberg, despite his display of borderline sociopathic behavior throughout the movie, manages to remain sympathetic due to his intense dedication to his work, while his roommate Saverin's perceived lack of commitment to the project is counterbalanced by his own feeling of betrayal towards Zuckerberg ultimately removing him entirely from the company. It stretches facts consistently but in a way, it's admirable to see a semibiographical work that, while not relying strictly on facts, attempts to focus itself more on mood and truly in-depth character interaction.
It's interesting primarily because the movie itself doesn't make much of an attempt to slave over accuracies. Sorkin himself stated "I don’t want my fidelity to be to the truth; I want it to be to storytelling," and the abundance of sex, drinking and drug use present throughout the movie (though almost always alongside Napster founder Sean Parker) makes that deliberate truth-stretching clear. Not that factual events or behavior aren't present in the movie itself, as Zuckerberg's erratic behavior and lack of social nuance can easily be seen through his awkward TV interviews and embarrassing drunken blog posts, and Sean Parker himself was actually arrested for cocaine possession.
Whether the smaller details are true or not however matter little, since the movie itself does such an amazing job creating complex characterization out of those real-life figures. Zuckerberg, despite his display of borderline sociopathic behavior throughout the movie, manages to remain sympathetic due to his intense dedication to his work, while his roommate Saverin's perceived lack of commitment to the project is counterbalanced by his own feeling of betrayal towards Zuckerberg ultimately removing him entirely from the company. It stretches facts consistently but in a way, it's admirable to see a semibiographical work that, while not relying strictly on facts, attempts to focus itself more on mood and truly in-depth character interaction.
Measuring Skulls
I have the best Biology Lab partners, ever. Having said that, I must also admit that there is nothing pleasant about sitting around in a dingy Robinson classroom measuring fake skulls with, what I would call, shabbily fastened rulers hinged with screws too loose to even begin to be useful; I'm sure there is a scientific name for the device, but when are we ever scientific in a science lab? General Education is a gem among gems, isn't it?
There is something surreal about drudging through over two hours of measurement plotting and averaging, which, in the greater scheme of things (or maybe in the wishful thinking of our Biology instructor), proves human and apes have common ancestry, when all you really want to do is grab a coffee or go to sleep. Simplifying a vast wealth of knowledge into a tedious exercise is not only a waste of our time, but an utter insult to the field of study we're mimicking.
I've always viewed general education as a scam, as a way to swindle college students out of a few grand and tack on two unneeded years (if you're not lucky enough to have AP credit going in). The pretense of creating a well rounded student by subjecting them to classes they have no interest in taking seems more than counterproductive. Do they want to induce BS or are they just sadistic? Or are they just greedy? Can you imagine how quickly and productively we could train students if they only had to go to two years of college to get a degree? But, I guess, college is a business, like any other, and if measuring skulls for almost three hours can earn the university a few extra grand, then why not require it?
There is something surreal about drudging through over two hours of measurement plotting and averaging, which, in the greater scheme of things (or maybe in the wishful thinking of our Biology instructor), proves human and apes have common ancestry, when all you really want to do is grab a coffee or go to sleep. Simplifying a vast wealth of knowledge into a tedious exercise is not only a waste of our time, but an utter insult to the field of study we're mimicking.
I've always viewed general education as a scam, as a way to swindle college students out of a few grand and tack on two unneeded years (if you're not lucky enough to have AP credit going in). The pretense of creating a well rounded student by subjecting them to classes they have no interest in taking seems more than counterproductive. Do they want to induce BS or are they just sadistic? Or are they just greedy? Can you imagine how quickly and productively we could train students if they only had to go to two years of college to get a degree? But, I guess, college is a business, like any other, and if measuring skulls for almost three hours can earn the university a few extra grand, then why not require it?
-Samantha Markey
Original
The statement that nothing original can be created reminds me of a rather prominent individual during the early 1900s that declared techonology to have reached its pinnacle and there would was nothing left to be invented. I supposed just the fact that things have been invented doesn't mean that those inventions were original, but there are plenty of things that spawned from pure creativity, objects that served as previously non-existant ends to satisfy needs we had, like a computer.
In art, it can be more difficult. In the realm of acedemia, I feel a stupdent's vision is narrowed to the point they find themselves curled up in the corner with a bottle of whiskey screaming "Damn you Picasso." Other literally shit over their work... and then sell it.
In short, I'd say stop whining and just go from the heart. While trying not to abuse the cliche of "Wea re all unique snowflakes." there is plenty of original material in all of us, as I doubt any of us have seen or read something the completely and entirely reflects a feeling or idea of their own.
-Brian Walker
In art, it can be more difficult. In the realm of acedemia, I feel a stupdent's vision is narrowed to the point they find themselves curled up in the corner with a bottle of whiskey screaming "Damn you Picasso." Other literally shit over their work... and then sell it.
In short, I'd say stop whining and just go from the heart. While trying not to abuse the cliche of "Wea re all unique snowflakes." there is plenty of original material in all of us, as I doubt any of us have seen or read something the completely and entirely reflects a feeling or idea of their own.
-Brian Walker
I entered this semester not really sure what to expect, nor what I would take from the class.
Let me just say, that pass or fail, I have enjoyed the class thus far.
Well, I'm not really sure what to write now. I'm thinking of taking the Finding Forester route, and typing away until something appears.
I suppose most of all from this class I expected to improve, if not my writing style, but my ability to edit and better organize those said pieces of writing.
I hope that I didn't just write a whole bunch of filler. I'm feeling kind of tired; I think I'll leave any philosophical insights for next week.
-Alex Borschel
Let me just say, that pass or fail, I have enjoyed the class thus far.
Well, I'm not really sure what to write now. I'm thinking of taking the Finding Forester route, and typing away until something appears.
I suppose most of all from this class I expected to improve, if not my writing style, but my ability to edit and better organize those said pieces of writing.
I hope that I didn't just write a whole bunch of filler. I'm feeling kind of tired; I think I'll leave any philosophical insights for next week.
-Alex Borschel
Time
It is amazing how time works. When you need time to be slow it seems to speed up and when you need it to speed up it always seems slow. It seems like no matter what there are not enough hours in a day, but with nothing to do or nothing you want to do the day just drags on and on.
Work is one of those places where time can move by fast or slow. I absolutly love doing art project with my kids so the time seems to go by so fast. I really hate going out on the playgroud when it is cold so our playground time seems to take forever. Lunch seems to go by so fast since we dont give our kids everything at once we are constantlly up and down doing work. Nap on the other time seems to go by fast and slow. When I am working on something it seems to go by fast, but when there is nothing to do and I forget to bring a book it goes by so slow. Some days when we are really busy the day goes by fast but the hours until I am off take forever and it seems like the day is so long.
Car trips are also one of those things where time seems to jump or stand still. The ride to a location never seems so bad. I am excited to get there but time goes by a little faster. Once I'm there it seems like the time is fast, but the drive home it seems like time stands still.
It's funny how when youre excited about something or have many things to do time goes by so fast. When there is nothing to do or you don't like doing something time goes by so slow.
Ashley
Work is one of those places where time can move by fast or slow. I absolutly love doing art project with my kids so the time seems to go by so fast. I really hate going out on the playgroud when it is cold so our playground time seems to take forever. Lunch seems to go by so fast since we dont give our kids everything at once we are constantlly up and down doing work. Nap on the other time seems to go by fast and slow. When I am working on something it seems to go by fast, but when there is nothing to do and I forget to bring a book it goes by so slow. Some days when we are really busy the day goes by fast but the hours until I am off take forever and it seems like the day is so long.
Car trips are also one of those things where time seems to jump or stand still. The ride to a location never seems so bad. I am excited to get there but time goes by a little faster. Once I'm there it seems like the time is fast, but the drive home it seems like time stands still.
It's funny how when youre excited about something or have many things to do time goes by so fast. When there is nothing to do or you don't like doing something time goes by so slow.
Ashley
Friedrich
Who the hell is this Friedrich Alexander guy who's following us? What's with the name Friedrich? Is he German? Dutch? Is he Dutch South African like my girlfriend? If I talked to him would I get the faint notion that he's mildly racist? Alexander, is that his middle name? How is he following us? Does he read the blogposts because he's interested in collegiate creative writing? Or did he just subscribe in an attempt to make himself feel more literate? Does he actually follow us? Is he crawling around above the ceiling panels while we're in class? Is HE the one who rearranges the chairs after we've gone? Or is that professor McCaughey? Should that really be her responsibility? Does everyone else stay and help her put the desks back while i'm the douche bag who leaves as soon as class is over? Is Friedrich a douche bag? Is he a Deutsch bag? Has anyone else looked at his picture and noticed it's hard to make out his face? Is he a ginger like I think he is? Does he have a soul? Why, whenever i see a redhead with freckles do I think of Dr. Moreau? Has anyone else noticed that he looks like a cast member of one of those late 80's early 90's prep school movies where the kids "fight the system" and stand on their desks or sue the school or some shit at the end? Does anyone else give a shit? No, probably not. I'm suffering through bronchitis right now and this post is probably being fueled by the massive amounts of cough syrup I've been consuming lately. That and the Milk Tart Klariska made me, whatever the hell was in it, it did NOT taste good. If a South African ever asks you if you want a Milk Tart, the answer better be "hell no." Because, not only am i coughing up lung butter something fierce, but I've got the strangest feeling like tomorrow morning is going to hold a whole new adventure into the realm of consequences to eating foreign cuisine. All this on top of my dog acting clinically depressed, which is strangely making me re-think my outlook on life. Probably another byproduct of the "Tussin."
D. Ryan
D. Ryan
Capricious
I started this semester with high hopes. The computer aspect of this class seemed new and a great way for blogging chances, but I've never blogged before. I thought I could power through these assignments with great insights being gained along the way--how I wish it were true. Granted, I'm not putting enough effort into this class as I could, which is sad, but not as sad as when I realized I'd posted three blogs in different pages.
It's frustrating to try and find them now, and I have a tendency to distance myself from frustrating circumstances. Now I have low participation on the blogs and have started using my desperation as an attempt to return to pre-semester bliss.
If I could just get a handle on this week and finish it with no screw ups, it would really release a lot of the tension I have about our assignments. This has always been my issue to deny and ignore, and with senior year upon me, it seems like I'll have to continue dealing with this disillusionment well into my real life career.
I look at my parents and see a father that forgets the social norms and a mother that can't remember how to turn the T.V. on. I see a brother with schizophrenia and an embezzling sister with kleptomania, my oldest sister who was institutionalized for alcoholism and fantasy induce vampire-ism is now a lesbian Aflak saleswoman, and my older, though youngest sister, has an illegitimate child after graduating college and has severe stress handling issues.
Where do I fit in? Have these issues affected me so subconsciously that my memory purposefully ignores assignments if I'm dealing with too much stress? I've learned I'll never be perfect and acknowledging that fact rather then dwelling in hindsight torment has me returning to a humbler self, ready for the last push of the semester.
It's frustrating to try and find them now, and I have a tendency to distance myself from frustrating circumstances. Now I have low participation on the blogs and have started using my desperation as an attempt to return to pre-semester bliss.
If I could just get a handle on this week and finish it with no screw ups, it would really release a lot of the tension I have about our assignments. This has always been my issue to deny and ignore, and with senior year upon me, it seems like I'll have to continue dealing with this disillusionment well into my real life career.
I look at my parents and see a father that forgets the social norms and a mother that can't remember how to turn the T.V. on. I see a brother with schizophrenia and an embezzling sister with kleptomania, my oldest sister who was institutionalized for alcoholism and fantasy induce vampire-ism is now a lesbian Aflak saleswoman, and my older, though youngest sister, has an illegitimate child after graduating college and has severe stress handling issues.
Where do I fit in? Have these issues affected me so subconsciously that my memory purposefully ignores assignments if I'm dealing with too much stress? I've learned I'll never be perfect and acknowledging that fact rather then dwelling in hindsight torment has me returning to a humbler self, ready for the last push of the semester.
Got to have a plan
I'm the kind of person who believes if you fail to plan, you plan to fail. Yeah, it's cliche and all that but think about it. I'm the kind of person who has to have more than a plan B...maybe I don't plan all the way to Z, but you can't just have two variables when figuring out life's equations. Took me a few hard knocks to learn the beauty of planning but now I get it, and it's something I'll never let go of.
What is trying for me is dealing with individuals who live life on a whim. Don't get me wrong, on vacations I rarely plan, I make it as whimsical as possible and more often than not on purpose. I hate to be regimented when I'm trying to enjoy myself and take a load off. In a way that is planning though, planning to do nothing..lol...so there's a time and place for flying by the seat of my pants. No way can it be an everyday thing, just can't work.
My friends say I'm getting old and set in my ways, I say, not really. Planning frees me up to focus on what's important and I can be quite flexible...flexible does not mean scattered and disorganized, it just means that if my plans fall through I can adjust to another plan. Flexibility is fine in my book, failing to plan is not.
Cindy Davis
What is trying for me is dealing with individuals who live life on a whim. Don't get me wrong, on vacations I rarely plan, I make it as whimsical as possible and more often than not on purpose. I hate to be regimented when I'm trying to enjoy myself and take a load off. In a way that is planning though, planning to do nothing..lol...so there's a time and place for flying by the seat of my pants. No way can it be an everyday thing, just can't work.
My friends say I'm getting old and set in my ways, I say, not really. Planning frees me up to focus on what's important and I can be quite flexible...flexible does not mean scattered and disorganized, it just means that if my plans fall through I can adjust to another plan. Flexibility is fine in my book, failing to plan is not.
Cindy Davis
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