Groupie Readings: Tanya

I actually had the pleasure of being Tanya's group member earlier in the semester. It was fun to read the other blogs I didn't get to read after the switch. The three "Greatest Hits" for me start with "What Someone Doesn't Know Doesn't Hurt" because her grandmother is hilarious and very relatable. The second would be "Him and I" because of the way the story progresses. It starts out giving little information about the actual subject, gives more until the reader finally gets to meet Mr Cuddles. "My Journey" was a great piece because it was so inspirational. I also like that the idea and question come full circle with an answer.

Tanya has a talent of writing about difficult issues and making them easy to swallow. The dialogue in all her pieces are honest and real. Some things that could improve were grammatical errors. They can be very distracting to a reader. Also I think that using more imagery and description in the pieces would be great. It's the whole "show us, don't tell us" thing. Good job Tanya.

Groupie Readings: Jessica

Jessica has an amazing talent for writing. I will go ahead and say that she is one of the best I have been partnered with in this class. My top three "Greatest Hits" would definitely be "Scarified," "Translations" and "The View." Scarified made me laugh. The easy flow of dialogue from the teacher to the students felt natural. The interrupted thoughts by the narrator had a distinctive voice, one the reader grows to love. "Translations" was genius. She has a great understanding of human relationships and the way we talk in them. Again its has a very easy flow because the structure is well established. "The View" was beautiful and thought provoking. The descriptions were perfect and made for easy imaginings.

Her strength is in her voice. Her characters have well developed personalities and Jessica has a way of writing so we all understand but think "what a cool way to say it." One thing that could use some improvement were small errors that were probably neglected in the editing stages: misspelled word, run-on sentence etc. There were remarkably few. Great blog!

There Were Roses

There were roses. I'll always remember that. They hung like living drapes, red and pink, over windows and banisters. The way they wound made me think of snakes or crate paper at a party, depending on the mood I was in for that second. The breeze through the windows moved their smell toward me, reminding me to smile at this wedding.

I know that he was there in black, smiling, not noticing the roses, how they smelled, or me. Though my back was to him I could see his thick eyebrows raised in surprise at some relative he hadn't seen in years. I knew he didn't know any cousins or aunts really well because he told me. Dark nights with just me and him sitting on a bench and we would talk for hours. We were best friends. He would be kind though and hug the distant relatives, remember their names and show them his beautiful bride. With my back turned to it all, I leaned to sign the guest book. Curvy black lines appeared on the paper as my name. I was guest number 157 to sign here. One hundred and fifty seven. I laid the pen down after briefly considering drawing a horizontal line through my name; this, so they could still read the name and that its being crossed out was intentional.

Heading for the door I noticed one rose had fallen from the wreath above the door. It had no stem and I couldn't make out where it had fallen exactly out of the wreath. An urge to crush it, so hard it would have to turn to powder, overcame me. But then I became aware of how soft it was, how good it smelled, the weightlessness of it. I pushed back my hair and placed the rose in the groove above my ear, then turned and walked out.

Braiding: Beginnings of a Braided Essay

She pulled my hair in a braid. One piece and then the other. Criss and then cross. "So then he told me he didn't want to see me anymore..." Her voice continued as with her fingers. I thought about her fingers and the knife accident: the reason why her index finger was too thin and strange looking. But her story and the braiding blended together, lulling me to sleep. It was somewhere in my dream now and I could still feel my hair being pulled. A voice was narrating a scene in front of me. 

I slid further into sleep and Tammy and her boyfriend were standing here, right in front of me, fighting. There was crying, which belonged to her, and he was saying he didn't want to see her anymore. It was never said but all of us in the dream knew perfectly why. Suddenly I couldn't see Tammy or her boyfriend. The room was filled by her hand. We were all forced to look at her index finger: at its remarkable unlikeness to the other fingers, how deformed it was. It was too thin and strange looking but worse since it was now too big as well. In the distance, fingers were on my head crissing and crossing, braiding.

A slit of sunlight, the kind that seeps through the lines in the blinds, cut across my closed eyes. My eyes opened responding to the touch of heat. Pulling forward quickly, the reaction of waking from deep sleep, startled my sister and the braid unraveled at the bottom. She looked irritated, knowing I had fallen asleep during her story. I feared she knew what I had been dreaming. "I'm so sorry, " I said. "Tell me again." So she started braiding.

Collage: Red, Yellow, Blue

Red

The other day I watched a bullfight on television. The man waved a man-made flag in front of a bull. It is red, they explained, for the bull. A swipe to the right and then to the left. All the while the red flag flapping in front of the man and bull. Suddenly the flag went down. So did the man. There was red everywhere. The mesh of the flag melted into the wet red that seeped through. Some colors at sometimes mean something very real, like blood or life.

Blue

"He's feeling blue right now." This is what my mother told me when I was five after my brother had left the living room with tears in his eyes. Blue? How do you feel blue? Who ever thought of saying someone feels blue? I just thought he was sad. Sometime later I had gone outside. The sky was above and blue and beautiful. Something about how very open it was, the way it could swallow me or how I could float into it without ever reaching a protective barrier made me feel strange. My thoughts returned to the life around me and the sky turned back into the ceiling I had always known. It was just blue.

Yellow

My sister had drawn my mother in  picture at school. My blonde mother had yellow crayola colored hair and lazer green eyes. Her dress was a little pink triangle, the tip touching exactly on the bottom of her circle head. I laughed because it didn't look like her. Mom's hair was blonde not yellow. So I asked her who it was. She told me mom of course. Then how come she has yellow hair I egged on. She rolled her eyes. "Crayons aren't real life," she left in a huff.

Though her picture was wanting her understanding of reality was sound. Blonde could be yellow in a picture made with crayons.

The Girl on the Fence

She walks on the fence everyday. Blonde, barefoot and carrying  a bouquet in her hand. Maybe there is a half moon grin--maybe not. Either way she feels free in there. There is another girl in a bubble gum dress suspended and held, with her hands free. 

Each corner is a reminder that Home is an object like a balloon, a thing to hold onto, though we know with a slip that it could leave forever. Gazing up and past it, the sky waits. It can float very far away. That makes me sad.

So we hang Home in our houses. In a frame. At night as I ascend the stairs, I see her on the fence, free inside her square. Barefoot of course, she isn't going too far. Her shoes may be in the house we don't see. They are fine there. You don't need shoes to walk on the fence.

Essays to Emulate Part II

Virginia Woolf's essay called "The Death of a Moth" has always been a piece to remember. I read it back in junior high but didn't understand it fully. Not until I was in high school did I recognize how deep of a meaning was in the essay. Something I can use in  my own writing is using a seemingly simple thing, like a moth, and attach unlikely but true ideas to it. This way the readers are lead gently to a sometimes heavy subject matter.

Another essay that has a lot to learn from is "Three Fragments." I even tried to use it as inspiration as my recent blog. I love the way it starts. Simple and yet intriguing. It instantly makes you want to read on because you feel like you walked right into a regular conversation. It is very accessible.

Another thing I like about "Three Fragments" is the juxtaposition of eating while bombs fall. That line was very moving. It gave the sense that this war was being fought in people's backyard's literally. They just watched smoke rise, cut watermelon, and were unafraid when the thunder like sound turned out to not be thunder. It was eerily calm. That is something I want to try doing in my writing--make a point by using subtle and obvious observations.

Three Fragments

Prompt: An experience nobody knows about, my reaction and what others attributed it to.

Some days I can still see him. Lying--always lying there on that bed. He is still coughing but hardly though, because he doesn't have the energy to do it right. I had seen this in real life and now anywhere else I was, so long I remembered it. It was this leftover image of my grandpa that scared me. I never told anyone what made me sleep in someone else's bedroom until I was twelve. They could always get a good laugh over how old I was before I could sleep alone in my room. They thought I was afraid of the dark. I guess in truth, they were right.

I decided a long time ago I could deal with their laughing better than I could to explain. So I didn't. It made me feel better that people acknowledged it though, so my pain wasn't completely hidden and alone. It just wasn't fully understood and I liked that. I am a very private person.

 I had seen him pass away simply because I had to go with my mom to visit her dad in the middle of the night. He was frail, the workers had said. He could pass at anytime and they just wanted us to say goodbye if the time were to be soon. So we went and he died while I stood there. Strange how as soon as the spirit leaves, the body becomes foreign. I didn't know him. It frightened me.

That's the real story behind why I couldn't sleep alone until I was twelve. Now it has just become natural to me, when everyone else is laughing and remembering, I remember him.

Cellphone

1)"I need my cellphone!" I yelled from my room. A muffled "what" was yelled back.

"Cellphone!" No yell back meant that there had been a complete communication. Staring at my leg, I cursed the caste it was shackled in. A day ago at this time walking downstairs to retrieve my cellphone would have been easy, painless. Instead I was to lay in bed because of it. I had received a call in the middle of the night. The voice on the other end was rushed and quiet. It had said something about being in trouble or needing help. I had sprung from my bed not realizing how well twisted in the sheets I had been, fell and broke my leg. My phone snapped shut. I pushed my way to the phone and tried to call back. Private number. I couldn't call. I moaned as I rolled to my side, in pain and worried about the caller. Now I lay in my bed again, shackled in numb pain and needing my cellphone in case they called back.

2)We were in Europe for the first time and we had lost our cellphone. Classic. Worst of all was the way we were expected to act as if this wasn't a problem, simply because it had been my brother who had lost it. Had it been me, it would have been a clumsy absentminded thing to do. But Jake had a way of persuading people into believing whatever he said and he was now saying it wasn't that big of a deal, that is would just be a distraction in such a beautiful and fascinating place as Europe. That is why I loved it when he met Sandra. A graceful, trim brunette who told Jake in broken English that he should call her to meet him at some museum. She touched his arm as she extended her hand to retrieve his cellphone to put her number in it. Jake's face was priceless. She turned in a huff when she thought he was rejecting her. The rest of the trip I reminded him that Sandra would just be a distraction in such a beautiful and fascinating place as Europe.

3) Alright fine. I got work off for tomorrow. See you then. I found this text on my boyfriend of two years' cellphone. From Cassie it had said. All I could do was reread it. I tried to make sense of it. But tomorrow was my birthday and Blake said he had to work tomorrow night. That was why tonight we were going out instead. I heard the toilet flush so I shut the phone and threw it to wear Blake had left it. "Ready?" he said smiling, wiping off his hands on his jeans. "Who's Cassie?" I said bluntly, wondering why I had shut the phone if I couldn't keep my mouth shut. He blushed. I had caught him. "Oh...it was supposed to be a surprise. For your birthday. What else did you read? You know about the surprise now huh?" I stopped and felt very small. I ran to him and hugged him. "No. Let's go to dinner." He didn't believe me of course and the rest of the night was spent trying to see if I really did know. We laughed and talked. All I knew was that I had picked a good one.

Outside My Window

Outside my window is a green, prickly tree. Next to it is my neighbor's house. I picture his red truck and the noise that comes from his garage at two in the morning. Then I picture myself lying in bed, eyes wide and staring at the grayish ceiling. This makes me remember some of the thoughts I have had those nights when the music from his red truck won't stop blaring. College, careers, dating, money all these and others swirl in my head until the hum of my thoughts lulls me to a heavy sleep.

Outside my window I can see a park. Much to my chagrin, it has no swings. Swings of course are the only reason to have a park. I recall nights swinging at a park other than the one out front of my house with people who are special to me. Most of these were summer nights, when the scent of orange blossoms hung in the air, I ran barefoot through grass and sand, and when I would sweat with the moon high above.

Outside my window I see a lot of things I have seen for a very long time. Eleven years to be exact. But I am moving after this semester. Off to another state, to a new college and I wonder how much I will miss what I know now. I am studying and memorizing the scene around me. I wonder how I could ever forget this place, but I have lived long enough to know that all things fade with time. When I look out my window, life is on my mind.

Fingerprinted

Today I got fingerprinted. Yes. Fingerprinted in some hole-in-the-wall dive where I felt completely wrong for being there. I guess to me an ordeal like this comes because you've committed some heinous crime, but I reminded myself that I was there to fulfill a requirement for my College of Education check sheet.

As I entered the door wearing a magenta short sleeve turtleneck, black pants and a smile, I realized I might not find another magenta short sleeve turtleneck (let alone a smile) come through the door for the next half hour.

I saw visibly sick people waiting in congested slumps for the flu shot, a woman almost in hysterics over a TB test and some frowny lady who didn't speak even when the attendant at the front desk asked her simple questions. I decided to make this a short and one-time visit. 

Waiting for my name to be called, the woman next to me leaned over to explain just how very sick she was. Getting even closer, she was trying to decide whether it was seasonal allergies, a cold or that dirty dog she was watching for a friend she couldn't be sure. I tried to listen but could not help but be distracted by something that happened in the past.

I had been at the DMV when the room had been just as full and just as unsettling. A woman in a spandex green dress and a cowboy hat was leaning toward another woman, while half laughing-half coughing. The woman listening then pulled out a piece of paper and covered her entire face but her eyes. The point was made, but not well taken.

Back in the fingerprinting office I considered briefly the tactic of the lady in at the DMV. My kind heart won over, but I was particularly glad when her name was called. I left with my checksheet filled and possibly also with a cold.

The Radio and What it Says

You can learn a lot about a person from the "things" they own. The type and style of their clothes, car, phone and music can clue you into who they are- at least in part. Like most people my age I own a stereo. At any time you might find "Wicked," "Music and Lyrics," church music, or some compilation of my iTunes in it. The CD inside would tell you much about me and my state of mind on any given day.

I'll guess that on a sad day you will find something soft and soothing or perhaps fast to bounce me back to my happy self. If I am contemplative, which I would say I am quite often, I will have on music somewhere in between, so long as I can understand the lyrics and they make me think.

Maybe even more importantly you can learn about me from where my stereo can be found. Right now it is sitting amongst papers and odd ends on my desk. Dust is accumulating on it. This reminds me that I don't spend much time in my room lately. I can picture myself on-the-go, swirling the iPod trying to find the right song for the day. 

There are those days where you will find it in the bathroom as I am curling, straightening, or spraying to go out for the night. You might find it down stairs for all my nieces and nephews to dance to when they simply won't sit still. The music follows me and my life. Or maybe I follow it. Whichever way it is,  my stereo says a lot about me. Not everything of course. Not the full song but maybe just the tune.

Essays to Emulate

From the moment I began reading "The American Man at Age 10" by Susan Orlean, I knew it was a piece I wanted to emulate. Her writing was clearly that of an experienced writer, all the while reflecting a young male. Her word choice and pacing allowed us to see that she colored her writing  with the perspective of her interviewee.  Something that I admire in writing is character development. Orlean's dialogue and detailed childhood experiences with Colin Duffy allows us to believe in him--believe he is real. Something I enjoy about reading is that I learn about what other people go through and find that I am not alone in many things that I experience. The vehicle to many reader's hearts is a developed character. That is what I admire most in this piece-- how Orlean makes us fall in love with this little boy, as we read things that make us laugh and things that make us think.

Another essay I loved was "Total Eclipse" by Annie Dillard. I have read some of her other work and I have decided she is a master of detail. Some essays and stories I have read can get heavy with too much "stuff" but I always feel like all that Dillard includes as detail serves a purpose. I have never seen an eclipse but the way she describes this event, I feel like I have. She also has an amazing ability to make the reader in awe of some phenomenon whether it be cosmic, or mental or emotional. I think perhaps because of her intense detail, the readers become so involved as to not be able to escape the world that she creates with her words. A question I would ask Annie Dillard is how she decides what details to include and how much of it if she does.

There are many essays that I have learned from this semester. These two happen to be ones that have stuck out. In order to become better at these two aspects of writing I will need to continue practicing. Hopefully I can incorporate life-like characters and captivating detail in all my writing, not just creative non-fiction. These are just a couple of the lofty goals I have for my future writing.

Love At First Sight

Grandpas love to tell stories. And as my grandpa tells his own love story, he says he knew instantly that he would marry my grandmother. The story he told is now elaborated in the way I like to imagine it.

Waiting in the bus station Forrest hiked up his neatly ironed trousers and flipped through the newspaper. He grumbled about the gloomy events and continued to skim until he heard the bus wheeze to a halt. Folding the paper, he picked up his coat and waited like a gentleman for the pressing line to file onto the bus ahead of him. Everything was typical. Sideways seats, metal handles, and the smiling driver. The bus gave a familiar grumble to life as they pulled away from the station and Forrest began to get comfortable in his seat.

But his desire for comfort left when he saw a fair skinned girl with jet black hair. A blue hat sat on her head and she had a quiet pleasant smile on her face that was looking away from him. Suddenly sitting up right he tried to fidget and cough to get her to turn from the window. Finally after knocking over his own suitcase, she looked at him. He smiled up at her as he bent to set his case right. She smiled back. I am gonna marry that girl. 

Perhaps my grandmother had something for clumsy men or just for my grandpa. Because they were married in February. The day after the wedding he left for WWII. They have been married for over 65 years.

Film Review: Valkyrie

The most recent movie I saw was Valkyrie. It is one of the greatest movies I have seen in a while. I can therefore find many qualities to emulate in another form of storytelling, which is writing. For the purposes of comparing elements of writing nonfiction to filmmaking, this is particularly fitting because Valkyrie is based on a true story.

What made this movie excellent was the way the setting, time period and character attitudes reflected the authentic events as best as possible. In writing, fiction or nonfiction, the reader has to believe what they are reading. Even if in the case of writing fiction, the reader has to buy into it and the author allows that to happen by making the setting, era, and characters real. The outfits as seen in the film could be described in detail. The specific personas were performed through specific gestures and actions. This can also be applied to writing. The best piece of advice I have been given in regards to writing is "show us, don't tell us." 

With this same tool we can learn about the rhythm of our writing. The movie uses pauses and silence to build tension. A writing teacher once taught me that punctuation is our best friend in making "special effects." This sense of creativity and art in a nonfiction piece may be the difference between history and a captivating story that really happened.

I certainly cannot verify whether or not facts were checked perfectly but it is clear that research came before the creation of the movie. This is a good example to anyone who is trying to recreate some part of real life. It can be a huge discredit to any piece of art depicting some part of history when facts are found to be false. Fact checking is crucial to certain types of nonfiction. In general Valkyrie has many techniques that can be channeled into writing.

Free Breakfast at Denny's

The line was very long. This was to be expected, naturally, because Denny's had advertised  that they were  giving away free "Grand Slams" from 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. Emily and I arrived around 9:30. In forty-five minutes I learned a lot about people and free food. 

During our wait, I noticed a man standing next to me who had a face like a platypus. It was an honest observation, one that was not attached to any intentional unkindness. The length of his face was extra wide, his eyes and nose spread across it proportionately. Without thinking, a twinge of pity came into my heart. I also noticed a family in front of us. The husband was short and thin, the wife double his size and holding the baby. He was a bus driver and I soon discovered that he had a warm bubbly personality I was sure none of my bus driver's in junior high had.

The sun was beating down even though it is barely February and some complaining began. First about the sun and then about the injustice the Cardinals were served at the Super Bowl. A woman who worked at Denny's came out with a plate of "Pancake Puppies" and the line jittered with suspicion that they had run out of Grand Slams. These were surely to soften the blow when they told us they ran out of Grand Slams they said. I laughed to myself. 

No one had made us stand out here. It's free food people. Geez. Just be grateful. 

I was pleased with my logic and silently congratulated my own sensibility.

Then the platypus-looking man took a step. I knew that step. I knew exactly what is meant too. It was the kind that meant he intended to cut me in line. I was not perfectly standing in front of him  but I was not perfectly standing adjacent to him and now he thought he'd take advantage of where I was standing. But this was not my first time involved in line thievery. I stepped forward to regain position. So did he. This was an outright sign of hostility! He fully expected me to stay behind him . Stepping again, I placed myself where he could see me, and I him, and we both knew this was a battle.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw tan, leathery man with a beard down to his belly button riding on a bike. As he came closer he slowed his pace. The clear plastic backpack he wore revealed a banana peal, socks and a bowl. He was looking at the long line wrapped around Denny's. Some spark of awareness lit his eyes. A toothless smile showed through his white beard. 

"Holy S***!" he yelled excitedly and peddled faster to the end of the line. Everyone looked at each other and smiled. Even me and my platypus-looking rival shared a sheepish smile. Suddenly I felt funny. Perhaps a twinge of guilt now. Human nature had gotten the best of me. By then we were near the door, in a cluster and it was hard to distinguish who was in front of who. A man with a clipboard came out and began jotting down party sizes and names. I learned that the bus driver and the woman with the baby had come separately and were not married. When the man with the clipboard began taking down my rivals name, he quickly pointed to me and explained we were actually ahead of him. Guilt. Recognition.

I had seen everything wrong.

People and free food.

Three Difficult Topics

To be honest, I have had a very good life. However, no life is without some degree of difficulty. Therefore I will endeavor to tell you about three topics which could be hard for me to write about.

The first would have to be the day I arrived in Washington state after having lived in Oklahoma. The weather was thick, damp and brewing when we arrived. Dark clouds and persistent rain were a perfect reflection of the way I felt about moving. It was beautifully green, but in an odd depressing sort of way. My father being in the Air Force and all, I came from a line of people who tended to be good with transition. It was only in my later years that each of my family members separately told me how much they hated that particular move. It is also a difficult topic to write about simply because there is much I do not remember about it. Its all very hazy to me, almost like a dream or something, it has so little familiarity with what my life has been since and what it was before.

I am writing these topics in no particular order, for if I were this would most certainly come first. Of all my grandparents Baba was the closest to me and had the largest impact on my life. My grandfather (who we called Baba) had Alzheimer's disease. This is a wretched illness that seems to take away the person you love long before their body wears out.  I was actually there when he passed away. I saw how his appearance changed from one second of life to the next of death. In one of my journals I wrote a more detailed description of the event, but this forum does not necessarily call for that. Needless to say, it was one of the most spiritual experiences of my life so far. I believe I will see him again.

A third and final difficult topic for me to write about is when I had a very serious decision to make. I was confronted with it right after I began my first semester here at ASU. I had two options that had very real consequences and I was sick over which one to choose. This was not a choice between doing something morally right or wrong. It was more between two suitable decisions. That was part of the difficulty. This particular dilemma would be a hard subject to adequately explain in writing, which is why it made it on this list.

Love and Panic

I was five and we were visiting our cousins in Texas. Being so young and fully aware that I was not home, a distant fear of losing my family constantly threatened to put me in hysterics. It was for this reason that I was averse to everything about going to Sunday school class with my cousin April. Everything was new--a terror to kids like me.

The room was boxy. The walls were pasty white. The hard metal chair beneath me was starkly different from my home's rocking chair. Dislike filled me as I looked at the flannel board with fuzzy characters patted on it. Seeing this, familiar as it was, brought no relief to the certain dread that my family would forget me here. Somewhere in the teacher's lesson she said something about going on a field trip. Shock pierced my little heart. Whatever she had said left me with no doubt that we were to leave now and that I would leave this church building without my mom and dad and siblings and I would never see them again. What horrible vindication to my suspicions! I started to cry. The strangers tried to reason with me. I remember the teacher reaching for me with a concerned look and high voice used by all adults to soothe children. Suddenly there came a quiet knock.

Around the side of the door, my father popped in his head of black brown immaculately military style hair. When he saw me, he smiled and said, "I thought I heard that cry." With a wink to the teacher, he came into full view from behind the door. He put his rescuing arms out to me and I happily jumped in. He spun around and headed for his original destination--the water fountain. The rest of the day I sat with him. Better than that, I learned something that would have a profound effect on my view of life forever: someone had heard my cry.

Existentialism

When I walked in the room, I knew that something was off. Colors seemed to be muted and lines were blurry around the edges. More importantly, I think that the door had four handles at one time and even more at another. All that was certain was that one would give me passage through it and the others sudden death. I was very sure as well that the decision was to be made quickly. As I weighted my options a pressing fear paralyzed me.  But a saving grace came. In a deep corner of my mind I heard a voice that sounded much like my own voice of reason. It told me this had to be a dream. And I was comforted.

Suddenly I was awake and grateful to be so. Awareness had a certain palpability that was the reason I knew the door I was glaring at would not grow more handles. I looked at the quiet white door through my moonlit bedroom. Slowly, as if it had followed me out of my slumbering thoughts, an idea crept in my mind. Am I still dreaming? How could I ever be sure if I am or not? 

My stomach dropped into an endless pit and my brain seemed to collapse on itself. I never could know. I felt alone and even the companionship of my sister in the bed next to me seemed a cruel trick, one where she was an apparition or a character in my dream to be ripped away if I ever did wake up. Silence. My heart was pounding. I didn't want to dream, but seeing that I might be anyway, that voice of reason told me my only real option was to go to sleep. I would wake up in the morning to a shining sun and a new awareness.