a true genius. who can be said to be/have been a true genius? who is more of a genius, VanGogh or Einstein? given the close line between madness and genius, can it be said that the two are linked? are all geniuses, to a degree, mad? if so, then is the madness a result of the genius's depth of intellect, or is the intellect a result of the ability to look maddeningly deep into the mind?
why are artists generally the outcasts of their time, yet masters of the future? do they have an insight into the future that the average being lacks, or is it just a coincidence that starving artists only gain fame postmortem?
what allows some people to create and others to appreciate? why are most members of society completely out of the loop? is creation simply a product of the ability to be completely honest with the self?
take music, for example: why can some people understand why Hendrix was so amazing, yet others only like him because it is cool to like him, as if he is baseball card or brand-name? one person might hear one of his songs for the first and only time, and be so moved and touched by it, but not know it to be a popular song, yet other people can own a copy of every Hendrix song ever recorded for the sake of having an extensive collection, but never listen to the songs, and never feel the soul-altering melancholy in each guitar solo?
will every generation listen to and love nirvana? or will they eventually fade out? what truth is there in "smells like teen spirit" that touches whole generations. young children who cant understand the lyrics, have never seen the video, and have no idea what a mullato is, but still feel the frustration and energy of the music?
how can people study art their entire lives, and never make anything worth notice, but others can pick up a paintbrush for the first time and create a masterpiece? does everyone have the potential to create, or is it an innate ability that some select, lucky people are born with, and that some may never realize.
are people born with a talent lucky? is it actually a pain? does art come from pain and profound sadness? can art come from happines without being contrite and forced?
where is the line between technical ability and soul? and how do i cross it?
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Sunday, October 12, 2008
ampersand
While sitting in my bedroom and listening to an owl outside, I decided that the world is a giant list with no commas.
I wonder how many times a day the word "and" is uttered by human mouth. Does every language have its own variation of "and" or are there cultures that exist without the concept of the word? Is there a language in which people list one object at a time, giving each object its own sentence?
I went to the store. Frank went to the store. June went to the store with us.
I do not know about other languages, but it occurs to me that without "and" the English language would lack inclusion, and would require much longer sentences.
I went to the store. Frank went to the store with me. So did June.
Frank, June, and I went to the store.
without saying that he, she, and I went to the store, it becomes difficult to explain that the three of us went to the same store at the same time. It is possible, but needlessly difficult.
to me, the ampersand is one of the most beautifully designed characters, nay, objects ever created. so much is expressed in that single symbol, and yet most people have no idea that it has a name, a real function, or a history.
Then again, most people do not know how to speak their native language.
I have studied language in depth, and I must confess that I even have trouble speaking it at times. So many rules that are broken constantly. Of course, I am not a language purist, I understand that language must change and evolve in order to stay alive, and that 20 generations from now my language will be obsolete, but still, it is sad for one to watch such a slaughtering of something so significant as a language.
I wish that I posessesd the power to hear my language from the perspective of a non-listener.
to an American, french sounds distinct from German, which sounds distinct from Japanese, but do those distinctions hold true to other people from other linguistic backgrounds? i.e. to a french person, is German as different from Japanese as it is to me? and what does English sound like to people who do not speak it? is it as classical and beautiful as French sounds to me? or as fluid as spanish? or is it as harsh and abrupt as Russian?
which is the hardest language to learn? which is the easiest? if everyone spoke one language, would everyone get along? would there be nothing to fight over?
I suppose people would still fight.
a world with one language would be a horrid place.
I wonder how many times a day the word "and" is uttered by human mouth. Does every language have its own variation of "and" or are there cultures that exist without the concept of the word? Is there a language in which people list one object at a time, giving each object its own sentence?
I went to the store. Frank went to the store. June went to the store with us.
I do not know about other languages, but it occurs to me that without "and" the English language would lack inclusion, and would require much longer sentences.
I went to the store. Frank went to the store with me. So did June.
Frank, June, and I went to the store.
without saying that he, she, and I went to the store, it becomes difficult to explain that the three of us went to the same store at the same time. It is possible, but needlessly difficult.
to me, the ampersand is one of the most beautifully designed characters, nay, objects ever created. so much is expressed in that single symbol, and yet most people have no idea that it has a name, a real function, or a history.
Then again, most people do not know how to speak their native language.
I have studied language in depth, and I must confess that I even have trouble speaking it at times. So many rules that are broken constantly. Of course, I am not a language purist, I understand that language must change and evolve in order to stay alive, and that 20 generations from now my language will be obsolete, but still, it is sad for one to watch such a slaughtering of something so significant as a language.
I wish that I posessesd the power to hear my language from the perspective of a non-listener.
to an American, french sounds distinct from German, which sounds distinct from Japanese, but do those distinctions hold true to other people from other linguistic backgrounds? i.e. to a french person, is German as different from Japanese as it is to me? and what does English sound like to people who do not speak it? is it as classical and beautiful as French sounds to me? or as fluid as spanish? or is it as harsh and abrupt as Russian?
which is the hardest language to learn? which is the easiest? if everyone spoke one language, would everyone get along? would there be nothing to fight over?
I suppose people would still fight.
a world with one language would be a horrid place.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
summer is over
well, summer is over, and while i dont have to go back to school because of that beautiful milestone we call "graduation" I still have a feeling of lost time. I think i wasted my summer. I am not sure yet what happens after summer when there is no school. It is uncharted territory. I have never had school-less post-summer activities.
maybe i should just start doing things that i put off doing all summer. perhaps, if i continue to allow my time to waste away, the rest of my life will turn into a wasted summer.
i have a new appreciation for the usefulness of school.
even if the work is boring or useless in itself, it is still soemthing that is to be done, and the assignments and subsequent deadlines are helpful.
so, since i didnt do half of what i wanted to do this summer, here are the ten things i wanted to do, and will try to do, even though it is no longer summer:
actually...lets be more optimistic. i'll start with things that i feel that i have accomplished, and then move on to what i want to do:
accomplished this summer:
1. decided to get married. picked the venue, colors, flowers, theme, ect.
2. re-upholstered a chair, my first experiment in re-upholstering. success.
3. wrote a single poem.
4. blogged. not alot, but enough to constitute having blogged.
5. went on many job interviews.
6. applied for countless jobs.
7. read a few books.
8. made a purse...that i am going to send to Heather because she likes it.
9. did some fun kitchen-type experiments.
10. played tennis and exercised. lost some weight
now, that isnt very reassuring, but here are the things i should have done, and will try to do:
1. get a job. successfully. and therefore make money.
2. paint some stuff. like canvases. why have i not painted this summer?
3. write something else. anything. story, poem, something.
4. read more.
5. keep a doodle blog. i am starting it today.
6. try linolium printing.
7. be more active, i.e. be more consistent with tennis and walks. even jog? maybe?
8. go to a concert soon. the lack of music is disheartening.
9. actually get married, move into new place, and start that whole aspect of life.
10. cook more.
there. now there are lists, that means everything will be easier, right? self-help books always say "start with a list" but i disagree. lists are a waste of time. you spend so much time making the list that you never check things off.
but they make me feel better. if nothing else, i have accomplished the list part of the activity.
I have begun to have a written pen-pal. a friend of mine moved to Chicago last week, and we have decided to actually try to keep in touch with that archaic method: snail mail. what a brilliant idea for a back formation. we never needed "snail mail" until "email" was invented. remember when "email" had a hyphen? been a while, hasnt it? remember when the "i" in apple products stood for "internet"? who would have thought that the internet would literally take over the world?
anyway, so I wrote my first letter to Heather (chicago chick) today. and i was suprised at how strange it felt to not have things like "delete/backspace" and a spell checker. I am a big advocate for writing things out before typing. even my papers in school were all written by hand before i typed them. i believe that the thought process is different, and that by combining writing with typing, you get the benefit of both processes. but mos of those written papers were just drafts, so i never had to worry about anyone else reading them. i always fell back on spell check and the ability to easily delete. i need to write more by hand. such an odious task...since when has writing become a chore to me?
maybe i should just start doing things that i put off doing all summer. perhaps, if i continue to allow my time to waste away, the rest of my life will turn into a wasted summer.
i have a new appreciation for the usefulness of school.
even if the work is boring or useless in itself, it is still soemthing that is to be done, and the assignments and subsequent deadlines are helpful.
so, since i didnt do half of what i wanted to do this summer, here are the ten things i wanted to do, and will try to do, even though it is no longer summer:
actually...lets be more optimistic. i'll start with things that i feel that i have accomplished, and then move on to what i want to do:
accomplished this summer:
1. decided to get married. picked the venue, colors, flowers, theme, ect.
2. re-upholstered a chair, my first experiment in re-upholstering. success.
3. wrote a single poem.
4. blogged. not alot, but enough to constitute having blogged.
5. went on many job interviews.
6. applied for countless jobs.
7. read a few books.
8. made a purse...that i am going to send to Heather because she likes it.
9. did some fun kitchen-type experiments.
10. played tennis and exercised. lost some weight
now, that isnt very reassuring, but here are the things i should have done, and will try to do:
1. get a job. successfully. and therefore make money.
2. paint some stuff. like canvases. why have i not painted this summer?
3. write something else. anything. story, poem, something.
4. read more.
5. keep a doodle blog. i am starting it today.
6. try linolium printing.
7. be more active, i.e. be more consistent with tennis and walks. even jog? maybe?
8. go to a concert soon. the lack of music is disheartening.
9. actually get married, move into new place, and start that whole aspect of life.
10. cook more.
there. now there are lists, that means everything will be easier, right? self-help books always say "start with a list" but i disagree. lists are a waste of time. you spend so much time making the list that you never check things off.
but they make me feel better. if nothing else, i have accomplished the list part of the activity.
I have begun to have a written pen-pal. a friend of mine moved to Chicago last week, and we have decided to actually try to keep in touch with that archaic method: snail mail. what a brilliant idea for a back formation. we never needed "snail mail" until "email" was invented. remember when "email" had a hyphen? been a while, hasnt it? remember when the "i" in apple products stood for "internet"? who would have thought that the internet would literally take over the world?
anyway, so I wrote my first letter to Heather (chicago chick) today. and i was suprised at how strange it felt to not have things like "delete/backspace" and a spell checker. I am a big advocate for writing things out before typing. even my papers in school were all written by hand before i typed them. i believe that the thought process is different, and that by combining writing with typing, you get the benefit of both processes. but mos of those written papers were just drafts, so i never had to worry about anyone else reading them. i always fell back on spell check and the ability to easily delete. i need to write more by hand. such an odious task...since when has writing become a chore to me?
Sunday, August 24, 2008
a room with a view
"it all was a nothing, and a man was a nothing too"
I have had so much trouble reading this summer. I cant decide if it is because my body is still burnt out from school, or if it has something to do with my lack of health insurance and need for new glasses. at any rate, I have tried again and again to read the books that i have been waiting my entire college life to read, but have never had the time to read. i had big plans: read all of those books i have never been able to find the time for, like farewell to arms, catch22, the brothers karamazov, and many others. ive tried everything. i started some grimms fairytales, and couldnt get through more than one, i even tried to re-read some of my favorite jane austen books, and couldnt do it. when, in my life, have i not been able to read sense and sensability and enjoy it?
so what has happened is one of those strange instances in which i feel as though i have read more books than i actually have. i am a very well-read individial, having covered many of the philosophers, most of the victorian classics, as well as a great deal of the romantics, and even modern, post modern, and contemporaries. but now, after picking up one book, reading the first two pages, forgetting about it, and doing the same thing to a new book the following week, i now have the "did i already read this" syndrome.
there is something to be said about the first line, and subsequent first page of a story. it is the deciding factor, really, when choosing a book to read. if the first line does not grab the reader, the story will not be read (unless it is for school, and god knows how many bad first lines i have read just because it was in a book required by some horriffic professor for some painful class)
the first line is a "so what" of sorts, the reader gets the chance, right at the beginning, to demand of the writer: "why should i spend my time on this? is it even worth it?" and if the author does not provide a satisfactory answer, the reader has the choice to give up and use the book as a place holder on a dusty book shelf until it eventually makes it into the goodwill pile next month.
all of that is beside the point, though. my point right now is that, while i cannot remember ever reading A room with a view, I am having trouble believing myself. i recognize the opening scene. have i read it, or was it a one-page read that was abandoned for some valid reason? did i have to put it down to make time for required reading? did i just not feel up to it at the time? did i abhor it after those significant first lines?
or did i actually read it, and will i remember the whole plot half-way through and be frustrated, but still feel the need to finish it anyway?
and Jane Eyre, why can I never remember how it ends? i know i have read it multiple times, yet i do not remember the ending....i never do, not until i get to the last page, time and time again.
i need to start keeping notes. why did i stop writing in my novels?
oh, because i'm slightly obsessive compulsive when it comes to my books. thats right.
well, on this recent read, the first few lines were pleasing, and have left me with a bit of curiosity, so i am going to give the book another try. it better put out. or at least put me to sleep.
I have had so much trouble reading this summer. I cant decide if it is because my body is still burnt out from school, or if it has something to do with my lack of health insurance and need for new glasses. at any rate, I have tried again and again to read the books that i have been waiting my entire college life to read, but have never had the time to read. i had big plans: read all of those books i have never been able to find the time for, like farewell to arms, catch22, the brothers karamazov, and many others. ive tried everything. i started some grimms fairytales, and couldnt get through more than one, i even tried to re-read some of my favorite jane austen books, and couldnt do it. when, in my life, have i not been able to read sense and sensability and enjoy it?
so what has happened is one of those strange instances in which i feel as though i have read more books than i actually have. i am a very well-read individial, having covered many of the philosophers, most of the victorian classics, as well as a great deal of the romantics, and even modern, post modern, and contemporaries. but now, after picking up one book, reading the first two pages, forgetting about it, and doing the same thing to a new book the following week, i now have the "did i already read this" syndrome.
there is something to be said about the first line, and subsequent first page of a story. it is the deciding factor, really, when choosing a book to read. if the first line does not grab the reader, the story will not be read (unless it is for school, and god knows how many bad first lines i have read just because it was in a book required by some horriffic professor for some painful class)
the first line is a "so what" of sorts, the reader gets the chance, right at the beginning, to demand of the writer: "why should i spend my time on this? is it even worth it?" and if the author does not provide a satisfactory answer, the reader has the choice to give up and use the book as a place holder on a dusty book shelf until it eventually makes it into the goodwill pile next month.
all of that is beside the point, though. my point right now is that, while i cannot remember ever reading A room with a view, I am having trouble believing myself. i recognize the opening scene. have i read it, or was it a one-page read that was abandoned for some valid reason? did i have to put it down to make time for required reading? did i just not feel up to it at the time? did i abhor it after those significant first lines?
or did i actually read it, and will i remember the whole plot half-way through and be frustrated, but still feel the need to finish it anyway?
and Jane Eyre, why can I never remember how it ends? i know i have read it multiple times, yet i do not remember the ending....i never do, not until i get to the last page, time and time again.
i need to start keeping notes. why did i stop writing in my novels?
oh, because i'm slightly obsessive compulsive when it comes to my books. thats right.
well, on this recent read, the first few lines were pleasing, and have left me with a bit of curiosity, so i am going to give the book another try. it better put out. or at least put me to sleep.
Monday, June 2, 2008
interview
I have a job interview tomorrow. I'm pretty excited. My first real interview. I don't quite know what to expect, though. The position is supposed to start on June 9, which makes me a little worried. I have never had to impress anyone with myself, only with my writing and skills. I know I'm not the most professional sort of person, I am a bit too casual for my own good some times, but I like to think that my casual-ness makes me easier to relate to.
I know I can make myself sound better than I am, but I also wonder, if I land a really good job, will I be able to stay afloat? Am I actually qualified, I am able to do what a job entails? Is it any different from school? I guess it all depends on the job.
The interview is for a medical non-profit. That worries me a little bit. I am not used to being in a medically professional environment. Will I work with medical-ish scienc-y people? or my own type? I work well with all types of people, but I am not a white-walls type of person.
Even more exciting news, I finally saw a pdf of the issue of the Baltimore Sun with Welter in it. It is in the Sunday edition, May 18, under Voices in the Idea's section. pretty awesome. and my cover is printed in full color. thats kinda amazing. It shows how much they must have loved the cover. I feel like my work was really worth the trouble and stress.
I also got my grades. all A's. Summa Cum Laude, officially.
I guess life isnt as bad as it seems sometimes. Even if I dont get this job tomorrow, at least it was a reply back. Someone actually read my resume and thought it was worth something. And if one company feels that way, then there are others that might too.
I would be a bit nervous about accepting the first job I interview for, but as I was thinking about it earlier, I realized that it is pretty damn impressive, as a job goes. They offereall of the things I need, and boast a "competetive salary" which is better than most job listings. If I was offered the job, I think I would take it. someone told me yesterday: it is easier to find a new job once you already have one. I agree. and if the job is as good as it sounds/looks on paper, then it would be stupid of me to turn it down. Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Perhaps I should be so sure of myself. but I guess I should at least consider the possibility that someone might be impressed with me.
I am going to brush up on my copy-editing skills. See if I really can remember the skills I havnt used in a year or so. :)
if you want to see more info on Welter, or read the article in the sun, here is the link:
http://welter.ubalt.edu/welter/welcome.html
I know I can make myself sound better than I am, but I also wonder, if I land a really good job, will I be able to stay afloat? Am I actually qualified, I am able to do what a job entails? Is it any different from school? I guess it all depends on the job.
The interview is for a medical non-profit. That worries me a little bit. I am not used to being in a medically professional environment. Will I work with medical-ish scienc-y people? or my own type? I work well with all types of people, but I am not a white-walls type of person.
Even more exciting news, I finally saw a pdf of the issue of the Baltimore Sun with Welter in it. It is in the Sunday edition, May 18, under Voices in the Idea's section. pretty awesome. and my cover is printed in full color. thats kinda amazing. It shows how much they must have loved the cover. I feel like my work was really worth the trouble and stress.
I also got my grades. all A's. Summa Cum Laude, officially.
I guess life isnt as bad as it seems sometimes. Even if I dont get this job tomorrow, at least it was a reply back. Someone actually read my resume and thought it was worth something. And if one company feels that way, then there are others that might too.
I would be a bit nervous about accepting the first job I interview for, but as I was thinking about it earlier, I realized that it is pretty damn impressive, as a job goes. They offereall of the things I need, and boast a "competetive salary" which is better than most job listings. If I was offered the job, I think I would take it. someone told me yesterday: it is easier to find a new job once you already have one. I agree. and if the job is as good as it sounds/looks on paper, then it would be stupid of me to turn it down. Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Perhaps I should be so sure of myself. but I guess I should at least consider the possibility that someone might be impressed with me.
I am going to brush up on my copy-editing skills. See if I really can remember the skills I havnt used in a year or so. :)
if you want to see more info on Welter, or read the article in the sun, here is the link:
http://welter.ubalt.edu/welter/welcome.html
Friday, April 18, 2008
hello, blog
things are a bit crazy. havnt posted in a while. I dont know why i apologize for it since no one ever reads this, but there it is.
welter. oh, god...WELTER. the magazine is taking over my free time, along with the new hbo series john adams. the series is amazing, and welter is only going to own my life for another week.
sadly, my blog ends here because i feel guilty using my spare time for something as frivolous as a blog when there is a deadline to be met.
i feel like im cheating on welter or something. i hope it doesnt find out.
welter. oh, god...WELTER. the magazine is taking over my free time, along with the new hbo series john adams. the series is amazing, and welter is only going to own my life for another week.
sadly, my blog ends here because i feel guilty using my spare time for something as frivolous as a blog when there is a deadline to be met.
i feel like im cheating on welter or something. i hope it doesnt find out.
Monday, April 14, 2008
self-fulfilling prophecy
i am so sick of waiting on other people. my impatience on this particular occasion is brought to you by the Welter staff who are not doing what needs to be done so that my life is not miserable next week.
i have to fit a month's worth of work into one week, and i had no idea that that was the case until this weekend. press day is april23 and i have no cover art, no written work, much less author bios, order of appearance, or logo. now, if this was my magazine, and i could take care of all of that myself, it would be done by now. but no...i have to wait for a democratic decision on cover art that is apparently not even created yet. i also have to wait for 5 people to proof 43 stories, essays, and poems. they are supposed to have them to me by the 17, and as of yet, they havnt looked at them. i have to wait for someone to tell me that i can go ahead and create a logo, but that logo has to depend on the cover art that i dont have. how can i figure out how to incorporate the cover in the layout without first seeing the cover?
this impatience has extended to disliking people who do not immediately respond to text messages, phone calls that are not picked up on the first ring, being left waiting for a response on ichat, especially when the other person is the one who started the conversation, traffic, sitting in class and listening to a lecture when there are so many other things i would rather be doing with my time, havint to write papers instead of reading a book that i would love to read, slow windows computers in the computer lab at school, being in front of, behind, next to, or within a 50 mile radius of a cop while driving, email, having to be nice to people because they are in my class, when i would rather be in charge so that i can enforce the rules and deadlines in a way that ensures they will be done, not being in a position to step on toes when necessary, and having to move from my bed to my desk to connect my macbook to my external harddrive. thats it, for my birthday, i want some sort of wireless or bluetooth external!!!
i have to fit a month's worth of work into one week, and i had no idea that that was the case until this weekend. press day is april23 and i have no cover art, no written work, much less author bios, order of appearance, or logo. now, if this was my magazine, and i could take care of all of that myself, it would be done by now. but no...i have to wait for a democratic decision on cover art that is apparently not even created yet. i also have to wait for 5 people to proof 43 stories, essays, and poems. they are supposed to have them to me by the 17, and as of yet, they havnt looked at them. i have to wait for someone to tell me that i can go ahead and create a logo, but that logo has to depend on the cover art that i dont have. how can i figure out how to incorporate the cover in the layout without first seeing the cover?
this impatience has extended to disliking people who do not immediately respond to text messages, phone calls that are not picked up on the first ring, being left waiting for a response on ichat, especially when the other person is the one who started the conversation, traffic, sitting in class and listening to a lecture when there are so many other things i would rather be doing with my time, havint to write papers instead of reading a book that i would love to read, slow windows computers in the computer lab at school, being in front of, behind, next to, or within a 50 mile radius of a cop while driving, email, having to be nice to people because they are in my class, when i would rather be in charge so that i can enforce the rules and deadlines in a way that ensures they will be done, not being in a position to step on toes when necessary, and having to move from my bed to my desk to connect my macbook to my external harddrive. thats it, for my birthday, i want some sort of wireless or bluetooth external!!!
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
just because you cant see it...
i cant decide if it is because we, the people who write, are so caught up in our own lives, or if it has something to do with the irregular way life seems to happen lately, dotting time with strange instances and too much rape and pain for the world to breathe healthily again. i'm not certain if it is a trend, or a permanent ocurance, and i sure as hell cant figure out if it is happening all over the globe, or just in the tiny whore-house that is the charles royal building at my particular university.
but the truth, mapped out in so many fonts on too many pages to read in an hour, is that fiction has faded into a fifth genre. if the first is poetry, and the second is drama, and the third is fiction and the fourth is essay, then the fifth is that slurry line between fiction and essay, a fraction of writing, if you will, where the inexperienced writer writes about him or herself and tells a life story, plays with form, and labels it as fiction when it is actually memoir.
everything has become memoir. of all of the fiction submissions to the welter literary journal, only two are actually fiction and not memoir, one of which is mine.
where has fiction gone? has the imagination finally given in and admitted that it cant keep up with how screwed up life really is? or are all of the characters on vacation? living in a place where storys are written about fluffy kitty cats and unicorns? maybe theyre waiting like the romanticists did for the world to turn itself upright again and for the rain to stop falling up. gravity has to take over again and set things right.
in the mean time, do we let them go on thinking that memoir is fiction? perhaps they just dont see the difference, or cant believe what has happened to them. it must have happened to this character that has assigned itself a first person omniscient point of view with which to tell a true story in disguise as fiction.
at least there are submissions. amd im not complaining, im just happy to be around to see it happen. the genre that was not a genre 15 years ago, that is only now being accepted by the literary big wigs, is taking over like it owns the joint, building a work out room in the old nursery and tearing out the flower beds that old aunt eudora took so much pride in. It plans to open up some windows and air out the rooms, finally get rid of the smell of cigar smoke from grandpa earnest and uncle charles. but the carpet hasnt changed, and no one will ever knock down the giant oak in the front yard or dry up virginia's lake.
but the truth, mapped out in so many fonts on too many pages to read in an hour, is that fiction has faded into a fifth genre. if the first is poetry, and the second is drama, and the third is fiction and the fourth is essay, then the fifth is that slurry line between fiction and essay, a fraction of writing, if you will, where the inexperienced writer writes about him or herself and tells a life story, plays with form, and labels it as fiction when it is actually memoir.
everything has become memoir. of all of the fiction submissions to the welter literary journal, only two are actually fiction and not memoir, one of which is mine.
where has fiction gone? has the imagination finally given in and admitted that it cant keep up with how screwed up life really is? or are all of the characters on vacation? living in a place where storys are written about fluffy kitty cats and unicorns? maybe theyre waiting like the romanticists did for the world to turn itself upright again and for the rain to stop falling up. gravity has to take over again and set things right.
in the mean time, do we let them go on thinking that memoir is fiction? perhaps they just dont see the difference, or cant believe what has happened to them. it must have happened to this character that has assigned itself a first person omniscient point of view with which to tell a true story in disguise as fiction.
at least there are submissions. amd im not complaining, im just happy to be around to see it happen. the genre that was not a genre 15 years ago, that is only now being accepted by the literary big wigs, is taking over like it owns the joint, building a work out room in the old nursery and tearing out the flower beds that old aunt eudora took so much pride in. It plans to open up some windows and air out the rooms, finally get rid of the smell of cigar smoke from grandpa earnest and uncle charles. but the carpet hasnt changed, and no one will ever knock down the giant oak in the front yard or dry up virginia's lake.
Friday, March 28, 2008
manifesto for one's purpose
i like to think that there is a purpose to everything that every individual does. if not, then bring on the brave new world. but as a dreamer, i cant settle for what i get.
I have never been so deeply moved, disturbed, actually, by any class I have ever taken. My contemporary Literature class is slowly driving me crazy.
In the class, we are studying the common themes and concepts behind literature of all genres written in the past 20 years.
common themes include:
1. failure of a character to connect with other characters
2. inability to show emotion
3. disconnection with the world
4. rape, hate, crime, psychotic behavior, abuse, distrust, ect.
5. death
6. the acceptance of the inevitable, example: death is part of life, death makes life
7. the down side of liberation movements
8. selfishness
9. mistrust, and why mistrust is intelligent
10. the lack of value in love and human relationships
11. lack of hope
12. loss of faith, innocence, life, meaning
all of these topics are things that surface in one way or another throughout current writing.
as a writer (i.e., one who writes) I am discouraged. I never thought of my writing as adhering to any of the topics above, and yet I see, after looking at my writing through the lense of contemporary literature, that my writing is overflowing with many of those things.
After some consideration, I see that I have fallen into the trap of becoming a product of my environment. I write what I see and live through. I write about the ugliness of the human race. The downfall of education, the inevitability of death, and politics. I write about the same things that other people write about.
I cant allow myself to believe that this period in which I live will be defined as a theory of literature hundreds of years from now. Students will take some archaic class that covers my contemporaries. perhaps, instead of the Victorian, modern, post modern, renaissance, Marxist, structuralist, classical, post colonialism, semiotic, or new historicism, we will be called the "hopelessists" or "destructionists"
is there any way to change that? no. literature and art reflect the time in which it is created, but also change the time. Picasso painted in a time of great turbulence, and so his painting was chaotic. "guernica" is a perfect example. He painted a war in the most chaotic, and color-symbolic way he could. his painting reflected the war the way the war created the painting. literature is the same way. literature reflects the time, but also changes how people think.
I wish I could be so brave to think that I could change the way literature works. perhaps, in my own small way, I could.
after waking up at 4am this morning from a bad dream, i decided to consciously change my writing.
for a long time, i viewed writing as something that is very much a part of the self. i still think that way, but i understand that, like the self, writing must undergo change. static writing is boring and useless. so i want to change my writing to still follow the way of my contemporaries (because i have no choice in the matter, mostly) but in a way that allows hope.
I am at a point in my life where i refuse to settle into this American hopelessness. I cant do it. I cant look at the world as something ugly and full of hatred. I am a dreamer, and as such, i need to believe that there is a purpose, that there is meaning, that life is not defined by the absence of death.
I cant give up on hoping that the world is beautiful.
I want to write the way I want to think. but when the world around me is going to hell and people are becoming more hateful and self-centered, selfish, disconnected, i need to hang on to what i have and what i know to be possible.
I want to surround myself with beautiful things. I want to write beautiful things.
i cant avoid writing about how ugly the world is, because the world i live in is ugly. no way around it. and a story without conflict is a story without change, is a story without a story, is a story without purpose. i cant write empty stories. everything i write, fiction, nonfiction, poetry, or even expository writing, has to have a purpose. I have no time for stories about a cute little kitty or unicorns. i despise fiction about empty subjects.
i want my writing to have the weight of lead, but also a sense of hope. damn the contemporaries for creating a world of writing where denouement is not part of the plot line. nothing should end without some sort of resolution. i see the point of doing things that way, but it is sloppy, and it doesnt leave hope. there needs to be hope. i will not live in a world that has no hope.
so, i have thought about my writing and what i want to experiment with next. what is writing if not experimentation? i change my style every time i edit a story, why not change my style in terms of content? forget adding imagery and poetic device. i want to change my place in literary history. not that i expect to become part of literary history, but i feel that i need to take into account that my writing may (if i am lucky) one day reach beyond the small circle i live in. and if it does, god willing, what will people say about it. where will i fit? writing is something that can easily become a legacy. music is too plagued with luck, and art is too critical, but writing is a possibility for recognition, especially posthumously. the editor of the urbanite said that the first thing you have to do to become one of the greats is not to write fantastic pieces, but to give up the obsession you have with air. who knows where my writing will take me, or where it will go without me. but if it goes even as far as one small college lit magazine, or as far as the new yorker, or to whole books, or just my own portfolio, i do not want to be lumped into the same burlap sack with those who write about a lack of hope. they are dragging us down just as much as the topics they write about.
so. i want to write some stories where the situation is serious and the suffering is great, but the setting and description downplay it. i want to use that hemmingwayish understatement to hide the importance of the situation and to focus on the setting and characters. he was a master. perhaps he was much more ahead of his time than we thought.
I dont pretend that i will ever become a great writer, or that i will even be recognized for my writing. i actually doubt that i will. but the point is that i need to look at my writing more seriously, or else i have wasted my degree before i have even gotten it. and in that sense, i need to write something that makes me feel as though i have done something good. and if writing a story every now and then that has a little bit of beauty and hope in it is as far as i can go, then thats all i'll ever need.
I have never been so deeply moved, disturbed, actually, by any class I have ever taken. My contemporary Literature class is slowly driving me crazy.
In the class, we are studying the common themes and concepts behind literature of all genres written in the past 20 years.
common themes include:
1. failure of a character to connect with other characters
2. inability to show emotion
3. disconnection with the world
4. rape, hate, crime, psychotic behavior, abuse, distrust, ect.
5. death
6. the acceptance of the inevitable, example: death is part of life, death makes life
7. the down side of liberation movements
8. selfishness
9. mistrust, and why mistrust is intelligent
10. the lack of value in love and human relationships
11. lack of hope
12. loss of faith, innocence, life, meaning
all of these topics are things that surface in one way or another throughout current writing.
as a writer (i.e., one who writes) I am discouraged. I never thought of my writing as adhering to any of the topics above, and yet I see, after looking at my writing through the lense of contemporary literature, that my writing is overflowing with many of those things.
After some consideration, I see that I have fallen into the trap of becoming a product of my environment. I write what I see and live through. I write about the ugliness of the human race. The downfall of education, the inevitability of death, and politics. I write about the same things that other people write about.
I cant allow myself to believe that this period in which I live will be defined as a theory of literature hundreds of years from now. Students will take some archaic class that covers my contemporaries. perhaps, instead of the Victorian, modern, post modern, renaissance, Marxist, structuralist, classical, post colonialism, semiotic, or new historicism, we will be called the "hopelessists" or "destructionists"
is there any way to change that? no. literature and art reflect the time in which it is created, but also change the time. Picasso painted in a time of great turbulence, and so his painting was chaotic. "guernica" is a perfect example. He painted a war in the most chaotic, and color-symbolic way he could. his painting reflected the war the way the war created the painting. literature is the same way. literature reflects the time, but also changes how people think.
I wish I could be so brave to think that I could change the way literature works. perhaps, in my own small way, I could.
after waking up at 4am this morning from a bad dream, i decided to consciously change my writing.
for a long time, i viewed writing as something that is very much a part of the self. i still think that way, but i understand that, like the self, writing must undergo change. static writing is boring and useless. so i want to change my writing to still follow the way of my contemporaries (because i have no choice in the matter, mostly) but in a way that allows hope.
I am at a point in my life where i refuse to settle into this American hopelessness. I cant do it. I cant look at the world as something ugly and full of hatred. I am a dreamer, and as such, i need to believe that there is a purpose, that there is meaning, that life is not defined by the absence of death.
I cant give up on hoping that the world is beautiful.
I want to write the way I want to think. but when the world around me is going to hell and people are becoming more hateful and self-centered, selfish, disconnected, i need to hang on to what i have and what i know to be possible.
I want to surround myself with beautiful things. I want to write beautiful things.
i cant avoid writing about how ugly the world is, because the world i live in is ugly. no way around it. and a story without conflict is a story without change, is a story without a story, is a story without purpose. i cant write empty stories. everything i write, fiction, nonfiction, poetry, or even expository writing, has to have a purpose. I have no time for stories about a cute little kitty or unicorns. i despise fiction about empty subjects.
i want my writing to have the weight of lead, but also a sense of hope. damn the contemporaries for creating a world of writing where denouement is not part of the plot line. nothing should end without some sort of resolution. i see the point of doing things that way, but it is sloppy, and it doesnt leave hope. there needs to be hope. i will not live in a world that has no hope.
so, i have thought about my writing and what i want to experiment with next. what is writing if not experimentation? i change my style every time i edit a story, why not change my style in terms of content? forget adding imagery and poetic device. i want to change my place in literary history. not that i expect to become part of literary history, but i feel that i need to take into account that my writing may (if i am lucky) one day reach beyond the small circle i live in. and if it does, god willing, what will people say about it. where will i fit? writing is something that can easily become a legacy. music is too plagued with luck, and art is too critical, but writing is a possibility for recognition, especially posthumously. the editor of the urbanite said that the first thing you have to do to become one of the greats is not to write fantastic pieces, but to give up the obsession you have with air. who knows where my writing will take me, or where it will go without me. but if it goes even as far as one small college lit magazine, or as far as the new yorker, or to whole books, or just my own portfolio, i do not want to be lumped into the same burlap sack with those who write about a lack of hope. they are dragging us down just as much as the topics they write about.
so. i want to write some stories where the situation is serious and the suffering is great, but the setting and description downplay it. i want to use that hemmingwayish understatement to hide the importance of the situation and to focus on the setting and characters. he was a master. perhaps he was much more ahead of his time than we thought.
I dont pretend that i will ever become a great writer, or that i will even be recognized for my writing. i actually doubt that i will. but the point is that i need to look at my writing more seriously, or else i have wasted my degree before i have even gotten it. and in that sense, i need to write something that makes me feel as though i have done something good. and if writing a story every now and then that has a little bit of beauty and hope in it is as far as i can go, then thats all i'll ever need.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
the aforementioned poetry:
Hole in the Wall
A speck with depth
just a minor hiccup
on the smooth surface of institution.
A fissure of change trapped
within a cinder block prison.
Walls have to breathe too—
inhaling carbon dioxide thoughts
moist with scraps of textbook regurgitation.
If the school was a ship
our education would sink;
drown
one drip
at
a
time.
Edward Hopper Hotel Room Ekphrasis
(form was lost in online translation, sorry)
broccoli chair,
cherry dresser,
banana walls,
asparagus carpet
sheets
like the meat
of a coconut
freshly
crac ked
dri
p
p
i
n
g
with
milk.
International Terminal
His knuckles drain
pale and drip
with nervous response
to the reverberation of combat
boots trudging across
a crisp linoleum desert
scattered with camouflaged
tumble-weed bags.
Thirsty wives and dessicated mothers
muster cheek-to-cheek
to drink in the last
drops of rain
Presidential Vacation Pantoum
How do you live
in a yacht on the lake,
playing with toys
while the country suffers?
In a yacht on the lake
you govern the world
while the country suffers
and others fight your war.
You govern the world
and destroy the country.
Others fight your war
and they’re still fighting.
Destroy the country.
The children are soldiers
and they’re still fighting
a useless war.
The children are soldiers,
but you don’t care.
A useless war
is money in your pocket.
You don’t care
that cities are burning
money in your pocket
as people die.
Cities are burning
how do you live
as people die?
Play with your toys.
Some Poems Become Baggage
Some concepts bog down the mind
and thwart thoughts
from following their instinct
like the scent of cheese to the end of a maze.
To recuperate,
some stanzas must be hemmed
with scratches and eraser smudges.
Some lines make better
space
than Erector-set words protected by Lojack.
Some words might
sound good
and look pretty
but encumber the moment
like a sopping sponge.
Maryland Avenue
The parking meter flashes green, and mounds
of fresh reflection flank the sides, standing
like sentinels to an invaded door
deprived of dignity; its shattered window
destroyed by selfishness. The seat is left
exposed to wind, or rain, or prying eyes
with sticky, prying hands. A lump of grey
hoodie entraps the seat and pleads: “I’m still
in class. I still believe my car is safe.”
But on the center console, chiseled out
of murky travel dust, a palm-sized
rectangle draws the borders of the place
where music used to live. Remaining is
a tangled, white, electric artery.
Coach
Primped for market,
embroidered, branded, and buckled
bovine pose on glass pedestals
surrounded by mirrors.
Patched with pieces of snake
or zebra or snow leopard,
each cut of veal
tastes of exotic fashion.
Skirted ladies laced in gold
admire hides of dyed
pink or baby blue suede
sows with silver stitching.
Mint or white or bright red
patent leather doesn’t squeal
when tucked beneath a cashmere’d arm
and stuffed with money.
8. Writing
perhaps this one should be closer to the top of the list. Actually, it should be number two. I will not change it though, for I have a love-hate relationship with my writing.
I love to write more than I love to eat.
But writing is never easy, and has landed me in a dead-end cardboard box-major where I will graduate without a job and make no money.
I think that I am a good writer (dont judge me by my lazy blogging habits, please) but so are the thousands of other writers out there. My age, younger, older, working, unemployed, in college, published, not published, afraid to show their work. Too many writers.
Nothing is worse than when someone judges you as a good writer and asks you to read their writing. "be honest"
but it sucks, and if you tell them honestly that the writing needs work, they get defensive, and all of a sudden you must not know what you're talking about.
But lets not forget about the release. Thats why I blog, isnt it? I think so. Like finally getting to a bathroom after walking for a few miles with two cups of coffee in your bladder. its like spring cleaning for your mind.
I have a problem with fighting or having serious discussions with people. Unless I write my thoughts out first, I feel as though they never come out right. I have to write them first. I think through my hands.
I hate people who write stories and essays and poetry on the computer. It is called writing for a reason. Not typing. it shouldnt be done. it uses a whole different hemisphere of your brain. its the difference between preparing food and making food. between betty crocker and from scratch.
I think I shall post a second blog. I have not posted poetry to this blog before, have I? I dont think I have. Perhaps I shall. Lots of poems from last semester that I have just finished revising. I dont know if theyre done now or not.
I love to write more than I love to eat.
But writing is never easy, and has landed me in a dead-end cardboard box-major where I will graduate without a job and make no money.
I think that I am a good writer (dont judge me by my lazy blogging habits, please) but so are the thousands of other writers out there. My age, younger, older, working, unemployed, in college, published, not published, afraid to show their work. Too many writers.
Nothing is worse than when someone judges you as a good writer and asks you to read their writing. "be honest"
but it sucks, and if you tell them honestly that the writing needs work, they get defensive, and all of a sudden you must not know what you're talking about.
But lets not forget about the release. Thats why I blog, isnt it? I think so. Like finally getting to a bathroom after walking for a few miles with two cups of coffee in your bladder. its like spring cleaning for your mind.
I have a problem with fighting or having serious discussions with people. Unless I write my thoughts out first, I feel as though they never come out right. I have to write them first. I think through my hands.
I hate people who write stories and essays and poetry on the computer. It is called writing for a reason. Not typing. it shouldnt be done. it uses a whole different hemisphere of your brain. its the difference between preparing food and making food. between betty crocker and from scratch.
I think I shall post a second blog. I have not posted poetry to this blog before, have I? I dont think I have. Perhaps I shall. Lots of poems from last semester that I have just finished revising. I dont know if theyre done now or not.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
lets ramble.
i havnt written since the first day of school. it has been one of those weeks where alot happens but i dont feel like talking about anything, or nothing feels worthy of typing, so i have decided to just start typing and be done with it. i have to blog, right? any excuse? i told myself i was going to be all over this blog business to keep myself writing, so here i am, writing in my blog. but what about? i'll tell you one thing, i will not be grammar or spell checking this post. i simply do not feel like it.
how about the guy that was murdered at the video store on 140? pretty pathethic. so Tiffany is a girl i work with, and i found out that the guy was someone close to her. i dont know the relation, but what the paper isnt telling people is that the guy was beat to death with a fire extinguisher for a measly $1000. seriously. is it worth it? is that money so important that people must die over it? the guy's wife and son were waiting for him that night. he didnt come home at the normal time so they went to his video store to see what was up. they found him dead. can you imagine? i cant. i dont want to, and i never want to know what that is like.
i know i go on about this often, but i really do not understand people. as a whole. how can one human being feel that they are so much more important than others? do people think it is okay to do things like that? murder, scream at cops, hurt other people, destroy property, steal...do the people who do these things really think it is okay? or are they delusional? is there somethign wrong with them? i cant understand it.
i am sick of greed.
all i want is enough money to be comfortable: pay of my loan for school and not struggle to survive. thats not too much to ask. but i will not go out and destroy a family, take a life, and possibly land myself in jail for some extra cash.
i cant understand the things people do for a little bit of money. i am ashamed enough that i have to wait on people and serve them food for money. that is degrading enough. when someone murders for money, do they feel as though tthey are stooping really low? or is it something they enjoy?
do you have to enjoy killing to be a murderer?
i do the best i can to keep my temper under control because letting myself get angry is slightly embarrassing. are people embarrassed when they lose control to the point that they murder someone? do they feel good? do they feel anything? do murders feel bad for what they have done? do they regret it?
people make no sense.
but thats enough depressing news.
im pretty happy about my classes. i find myself having trouble getting into the swing of the semester, but then again i have only had two days of class so far. i guess it will be easier. i dont feel like doing work though, thats for sure. i like the classes, but im getting lazy. senioritis? seriously. i still have to buy two textbooks. and pay my application fee for graduation. and buy a cap and gown. though i wish i could find a way to see the cap and gown and compare it to the cap and gown i already have. oh, and i still havnt paid the sigma tau delta fee. gotta get on that. everyone wants money. i hate money.
im worried about filing taxes. i want to do it and get it over with. i just dont want to owe. thats all i really care about. i wish there were people who could direct you at tax time but not charge you hundreds of dollars. I have quite a few questions that i would love to ask. complicated, personalized questions. everyone gives me different answers. i think the whole thing is designed to be misleading. im convinced there are no answers. that even the irs has no idea what people should do. its just funny how each person does what they can and cheats the best they can to get as much money back as possible. meanwhile, the irs tries to cheat us out of as much money as they can. the only difference is that if a person gets too much money, the irs can chase them down and punish them. if the irs cheats me out of money, all i can do is hold a grudge against them and be angry that tehy are such a ripoff. how unfair.
i have alot of reading to do. too bad i have to wait till tomorrow to buy one of the books i need to read. i will buy it tomorrow, and then i need to read through chapter 33 of said book by tuesday. this is what i dont like about college: everything is excessive. they dont just make you pay money, they make you pay excessive amounts of money. they dont make you read, they make you read tooooo much. and writing wouldnt be bad if i just wrote alot. but i write more than alot. i write non-stop. excessively, if you will.
but the world is still spinning, and there is supposed to be an ice storm tomorrow. im not sure how thats related, but im hungry.
how about the guy that was murdered at the video store on 140? pretty pathethic. so Tiffany is a girl i work with, and i found out that the guy was someone close to her. i dont know the relation, but what the paper isnt telling people is that the guy was beat to death with a fire extinguisher for a measly $1000. seriously. is it worth it? is that money so important that people must die over it? the guy's wife and son were waiting for him that night. he didnt come home at the normal time so they went to his video store to see what was up. they found him dead. can you imagine? i cant. i dont want to, and i never want to know what that is like.
i know i go on about this often, but i really do not understand people. as a whole. how can one human being feel that they are so much more important than others? do people think it is okay to do things like that? murder, scream at cops, hurt other people, destroy property, steal...do the people who do these things really think it is okay? or are they delusional? is there somethign wrong with them? i cant understand it.
i am sick of greed.
all i want is enough money to be comfortable: pay of my loan for school and not struggle to survive. thats not too much to ask. but i will not go out and destroy a family, take a life, and possibly land myself in jail for some extra cash.
i cant understand the things people do for a little bit of money. i am ashamed enough that i have to wait on people and serve them food for money. that is degrading enough. when someone murders for money, do they feel as though tthey are stooping really low? or is it something they enjoy?
do you have to enjoy killing to be a murderer?
i do the best i can to keep my temper under control because letting myself get angry is slightly embarrassing. are people embarrassed when they lose control to the point that they murder someone? do they feel good? do they feel anything? do murders feel bad for what they have done? do they regret it?
people make no sense.
but thats enough depressing news.
im pretty happy about my classes. i find myself having trouble getting into the swing of the semester, but then again i have only had two days of class so far. i guess it will be easier. i dont feel like doing work though, thats for sure. i like the classes, but im getting lazy. senioritis? seriously. i still have to buy two textbooks. and pay my application fee for graduation. and buy a cap and gown. though i wish i could find a way to see the cap and gown and compare it to the cap and gown i already have. oh, and i still havnt paid the sigma tau delta fee. gotta get on that. everyone wants money. i hate money.
im worried about filing taxes. i want to do it and get it over with. i just dont want to owe. thats all i really care about. i wish there were people who could direct you at tax time but not charge you hundreds of dollars. I have quite a few questions that i would love to ask. complicated, personalized questions. everyone gives me different answers. i think the whole thing is designed to be misleading. im convinced there are no answers. that even the irs has no idea what people should do. its just funny how each person does what they can and cheats the best they can to get as much money back as possible. meanwhile, the irs tries to cheat us out of as much money as they can. the only difference is that if a person gets too much money, the irs can chase them down and punish them. if the irs cheats me out of money, all i can do is hold a grudge against them and be angry that tehy are such a ripoff. how unfair.
i have alot of reading to do. too bad i have to wait till tomorrow to buy one of the books i need to read. i will buy it tomorrow, and then i need to read through chapter 33 of said book by tuesday. this is what i dont like about college: everything is excessive. they dont just make you pay money, they make you pay excessive amounts of money. they dont make you read, they make you read tooooo much. and writing wouldnt be bad if i just wrote alot. but i write more than alot. i write non-stop. excessively, if you will.
but the world is still spinning, and there is supposed to be an ice storm tomorrow. im not sure how thats related, but im hungry.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
first day and beyond
Yesterday was my first day of school. I had a good day, but it was the start of my last semester, and I am nervous.
In spite of being such a good student, inspite of my accomplishments as a student, I have major misgivings about my ability to function outside of the academic world.
I have been a student for as long as I can remember. Like most of my peers, I have never known a world without school. Now, I face having to find and succeed at a job after graduation. Scary.
I watch so many people pick up and move on to the perfect job and I wonder if I can do the same. I have worked so hard for so long to ensure that I can get a job, but I honestly wonder if I ever will.
Employers do not care about my accomplishments as a student. They only want to know if I am qualified for the position. Most employers seem more worried about years of experience in the field than an actual degree. I have no experience.
Times like this I feel the need to override my goals and plans and just jump into Grad school to avoid the struggle of making it in the real world. But that goes against everything I want.
I was looking at Grad School possibilities last night. I am still stuck on Emerson for some reason. They have two parallel programs that look awesome. I love the location. I love the city. I love the idea of going to a school that centers around the arts. I am sick of going to a business and Law school.
But I want things before Grad school. Things like kids and a job and a house and travel experience.
But I also want the security of having a higher degree than most people in the market. I want to know that I can do whatever I want.
I really just hope I can land a great job. Maybe my first one will suck, but I want a job. Without that, I can kiss Grad school goodbye.
This blog has depressed me. I'm gonna go clean something.
As a side note, I think I am going to use my blog for class assignments. That seems like a good excuse to write.
In other news, I am working on a pretty big project. I hope to finish it in time. In time for what, you ask? just in time is all. It has not left the planning stage, but when all is said and done it will be a compilation of those things I love to do most.
So it goes.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Serving Chat Book Idea
I work at the Olive Garden. I admit it. This hateful place has become the fuel for my writing fire. My memoir class was the most inspiring and useful writing class I have ever taken, and I learned that creative writing does not have to be fiction.
By the second week of the class, I decided that I would begin constructing personal essays based on my experiences in serving and food service. Most people think it has been done before, but few people have written about the restaurant industry in an unbiased and constructive manner. Movies and books on this topic are written by bitter servers who want to 'get back' at restaurant patrons.
I want to tell the truth. The unbiased truth from a fly-on-the-wall point of view. I want to leave m opinions and feelings in the kitchen, so to speak, and write in the same way that I serve.
Serving tables takes quite a bit of patience, creativity, and the ability to put your own feelings and opinions aside long enough to feed a group of people and get them out of the restaurant quickly with a smile on their face and as much food as possible in their belly. Servers are self-less, servile actors and actresses. We really don't care about your day or your problems, or the weather, or even what you thought of the food. we care about the wallet that you usually do not open wide enough to pay us. An objective view of this 'caring to not care' phenomenon would be much more important than a personal essay about how servers hate their jobs.
I strongly believe that I must follow through with this idea. I have to publish it, if only because no one else can. Though, as a student with no previous publication experience, I'm just a bit intimidated by the idea that i might not be good enough to do it.
If I'm not good enough to have my work published, perhaps I should chose a new career path.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
ten books to read this year
Since winter break only lasts so long, I am going to condense my reading list to one book: The Brothers' Karamazov.
I read constantly during the semester, but never what I want to read. I get stuck with things like Logic of Language, Writing and Reading Across the Curriculum, and The MLA Handbook. Not my favorite things to read. For Christmas, I asked for and received quite a few books, including Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland and the complete collection of Fairytales from the Brothers’ Grimm. Sure, these sound like children’s’ books, but they really aren’t. Any Writing Major or Writer, for that matter, who has not read those books should be ashamed.
Writing is about telling stories, and a writer who does not read is probably not a good writer. One does not understand the art of good story telling unless one first investigates the classics.
I have an extensive library ranging from current best sellers to classics, to self-help and chat books. I have read…. most…. of my books, but there are a particular few volumes that continually hide from me and avoid being read. I have made a list of the next ten books that I will read no matter what. Excepting those required texts for the coming semester, I will read no other books until I have completed the list. (Perhaps I will be lucky enough to find one or two from my list on the textbook list this semester. Doubt it, but it is possible)
1. The Brothers’ Karamazov
2. Don Quixote
3. Garden of Eden
4. House of Mirth
5. Galapagos
6. Mrs. Dalloway
7. West Side Story
8. Les Miserable
9. Catch 22
10. The Catcher in the Rye
How, you might ask, have I survived as an English/Writing student for so long without reading some of theses books??!! I really must be a poor excuse for an English major, having not read The Catcher in the Rye. Non-readers accost me all the time and try to get the best of me by telling me how they ready TCitR and Animal Farm for their Freshmen Composition class. I am perfectly happy having skipped over that class altogether.
I find that I have developed a horrible habit: I do not read the required reading for class; I wait and read it the week after the semester ends. I never have enough time to devote to each book, so I wait. Otherwise, I read sections of the book and have no interest to read the whole thing later. I just wish professors understood this instead of thinking that I am lazy. It never occurs to them that I simply take my education more seriously than they do.
I read constantly during the semester, but never what I want to read. I get stuck with things like Logic of Language, Writing and Reading Across the Curriculum, and The MLA Handbook. Not my favorite things to read. For Christmas, I asked for and received quite a few books, including Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland and the complete collection of Fairytales from the Brothers’ Grimm. Sure, these sound like children’s’ books, but they really aren’t. Any Writing Major or Writer, for that matter, who has not read those books should be ashamed.
Writing is about telling stories, and a writer who does not read is probably not a good writer. One does not understand the art of good story telling unless one first investigates the classics.
I have an extensive library ranging from current best sellers to classics, to self-help and chat books. I have read…. most…. of my books, but there are a particular few volumes that continually hide from me and avoid being read. I have made a list of the next ten books that I will read no matter what. Excepting those required texts for the coming semester, I will read no other books until I have completed the list. (Perhaps I will be lucky enough to find one or two from my list on the textbook list this semester. Doubt it, but it is possible)
1. The Brothers’ Karamazov
2. Don Quixote
3. Garden of Eden
4. House of Mirth
5. Galapagos
6. Mrs. Dalloway
7. West Side Story
8. Les Miserable
9. Catch 22
10. The Catcher in the Rye
How, you might ask, have I survived as an English/Writing student for so long without reading some of theses books??!! I really must be a poor excuse for an English major, having not read The Catcher in the Rye. Non-readers accost me all the time and try to get the best of me by telling me how they ready TCitR and Animal Farm for their Freshmen Composition class. I am perfectly happy having skipped over that class altogether.
I find that I have developed a horrible habit: I do not read the required reading for class; I wait and read it the week after the semester ends. I never have enough time to devote to each book, so I wait. Otherwise, I read sections of the book and have no interest to read the whole thing later. I just wish professors understood this instead of thinking that I am lazy. It never occurs to them that I simply take my education more seriously than they do.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
questions to start the year
Something must be written. I really must write. Write must I, really. Really, I must write. I must really write. There are many topics to write about, yet I ain't got nuthin. New Years Day. And no topic sparks an idea. Nothing seems important enough to write. So, instead, I write nothing.
I went to Baltimore last night. That sounds like something worthy of my keyboard. There were hordes of people. The SWAT team circled Harbor Place, and I left. The lights and reflections and boats were pretty.
Nothing stays the same. Some people argue that change is good, but I must disagree in some instances.
As a child, I could roam the Inner Harbor for hours. My friends and I would walk the two miles to the Harbor and occupy ourselves with watching people and eating food. Back then, it is important to note, food would not take up all of our money; we might even have enough left over to buy a new scarf.
"Mayor Shelia Dixon" was plastered on every poster, truck, stage, instrument, building, boat, inanimate object within a mile of the Harbor. Before midnight, she yelled to her "multitudes" that she plans to make Baltimore the safest city in the world.
crack dreams.
Queen Elizabeth has more power over Baltimore than this woman.
And she was wearing a dead animal on her neck.
Not sure why I am personally offended by fur coats. I wear sheep skin UGG boots, and have several leather purses. What is the difference? Am I just a hypocrite? Probably.
Midnight was destroyed by a fight between myself and my boyfriend. I do wonder about this year. I was fine with 2007. Not a bad year, though they seem to get progessively worse. Is it the year? or is it my age? or is it my increasing pessimism? cant it be helped?
Why do people collect things? My mother obsesses over antique dishes. Obsesses. She never uses them, wont sell them to collect their monetary value. She just hordes them.
I collect items of no use that would ordinarily be thrown away. Not because I want to reclaim them, or give them purpose, or because I feel they have a value to anyone. I collect the items I collect because they are pleasing to my eye. They are pretty, or evoke some feeling.
What does a coin collector feel about his coin collection?
Without collections, items would be lost. Someone needs to collect old coins because of the historical value.
the same might be said about pottery and art.
Who decided that people should collect Holiday Barbie? Beanie Babies? Star Wars figurines? teapots?
Is it a race to see who can own the most items?
Why do we continue to make some things? we mass-produce so many things that no one wants.
everything is liked by someone. This is a point that fascinates me to no end. Somebody in the world likes the sound of breaking bones. Someone likes cabbage. Many people enjoy the smell of dog poop. why?
is it an appreciation for something strange that makes people like some things? Are masochists and sadists mentally unhealthy? or am I weird for being repulsed by such things?
I wonder, often, if I am the one who is wrong about life. Is my perception skewed?
I think it is wrong to drive 90mph on twisty roads while drunk. Am I the one who is wrong?
I find it repulsive to smear my feces on public toilets. Am I wrong?
I cannot bring myself to torture, hurt, maim, kill another living being. Should I try harder to do these things like other people? Are people who hunt for sport intelligent beings who have life figured out?
Do some people feel that they are more important than the other 99.9% of the world's population? what is the difference between this and selfishness?
Does the person speeding at 90mph have a much more important destination than the rest of us? what about the person they rear-end and kill? Was that newly-departed person simply in the way? does this qualify as "survival of the fittest?"
who are these bi-ped fiends I share a planet with?
should marijuana be legalized and alcohol banned? I'm beginning to think so.
I went to Baltimore last night. That sounds like something worthy of my keyboard. There were hordes of people. The SWAT team circled Harbor Place, and I left. The lights and reflections and boats were pretty.
Nothing stays the same. Some people argue that change is good, but I must disagree in some instances.
As a child, I could roam the Inner Harbor for hours. My friends and I would walk the two miles to the Harbor and occupy ourselves with watching people and eating food. Back then, it is important to note, food would not take up all of our money; we might even have enough left over to buy a new scarf.
"Mayor Shelia Dixon" was plastered on every poster, truck, stage, instrument, building, boat, inanimate object within a mile of the Harbor. Before midnight, she yelled to her "multitudes" that she plans to make Baltimore the safest city in the world.
crack dreams.
Queen Elizabeth has more power over Baltimore than this woman.
And she was wearing a dead animal on her neck.
Not sure why I am personally offended by fur coats. I wear sheep skin UGG boots, and have several leather purses. What is the difference? Am I just a hypocrite? Probably.
Midnight was destroyed by a fight between myself and my boyfriend. I do wonder about this year. I was fine with 2007. Not a bad year, though they seem to get progessively worse. Is it the year? or is it my age? or is it my increasing pessimism? cant it be helped?
Why do people collect things? My mother obsesses over antique dishes. Obsesses. She never uses them, wont sell them to collect their monetary value. She just hordes them.
I collect items of no use that would ordinarily be thrown away. Not because I want to reclaim them, or give them purpose, or because I feel they have a value to anyone. I collect the items I collect because they are pleasing to my eye. They are pretty, or evoke some feeling.
What does a coin collector feel about his coin collection?
Without collections, items would be lost. Someone needs to collect old coins because of the historical value.
the same might be said about pottery and art.
Who decided that people should collect Holiday Barbie? Beanie Babies? Star Wars figurines? teapots?
Is it a race to see who can own the most items?
Why do we continue to make some things? we mass-produce so many things that no one wants.
everything is liked by someone. This is a point that fascinates me to no end. Somebody in the world likes the sound of breaking bones. Someone likes cabbage. Many people enjoy the smell of dog poop. why?
is it an appreciation for something strange that makes people like some things? Are masochists and sadists mentally unhealthy? or am I weird for being repulsed by such things?
I wonder, often, if I am the one who is wrong about life. Is my perception skewed?
I think it is wrong to drive 90mph on twisty roads while drunk. Am I the one who is wrong?
I find it repulsive to smear my feces on public toilets. Am I wrong?
I cannot bring myself to torture, hurt, maim, kill another living being. Should I try harder to do these things like other people? Are people who hunt for sport intelligent beings who have life figured out?
Do some people feel that they are more important than the other 99.9% of the world's population? what is the difference between this and selfishness?
Does the person speeding at 90mph have a much more important destination than the rest of us? what about the person they rear-end and kill? Was that newly-departed person simply in the way? does this qualify as "survival of the fittest?"
who are these bi-ped fiends I share a planet with?
should marijuana be legalized and alcohol banned? I'm beginning to think so.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Green
The Day Green Went Away
On the day that green went away, Oliver was swinging in the netted hammock between the two largest oak trees in the yard, repeatedly tossing and catching his favorite ball. The orange ball with green spots that Uncle Seth had given him on his 7th birthday.
Oliver liked to toss the ball in the air and watch the orange blend with the green spots as the ball spun back to his hand under the weight of gravity. His dog, purple, sat, tongue hanging out, tilting his head up and down with the movement of the ball, watching it every time it came down, waiting to retrieve it, should the duty befall him.
This particular day was no particular day at all. One of those days Oliver’s mom called a “lazy day”, which meant that the day had done so much work yesterday, that it took a vacation today. No storms or wind or car accidents or babies being born, or laws being passed. Just a quiet, sunny, pleasant day.
That’s why Oliver couldn’t understand what the day must have been thinking when it took green away. One second there was green, and then it was gone. The trees and grass and even the spots on the orange ball turned different shades of grey like the photographs of grandpa when he had hair. Purple didn’t seem to notice the change, he just continued watching the ball and when Oliver, startled, dropped the ball, purple rose to his duty of fetching it and then running around the yard with it.
Oliver would normally shout for purple to give it back, but he, instead, overcame his fear of stepping on the new grey grass and ran to the kitchen where his mom was washing perfectly yellow dishes. She hadn’t noticed the change, and had no time for Oliver’s silly stories.
“Go outside and play,” she said, and Oliver obeyed.
But when she turned on the news after dinner that night, she went straight outside and bent down to pick a blade of grass. She was pleased that the day had left the color on her flowers. She could do without grass, but the color of her flowers made them the healthiest and most beautiful in the county, and she had a trophy to prove it. She could do without green, green didn’t win trophies.
The day, after spending so much effort on taking away green, decided not to give it back right away. People were still surprised to find it gone when they woke up the net morning, like a dream that should disappear seconds after brushing your teeth. But the day went on. Adults went to work, children to school, and everyone collectively came home for dinner and worried about whether green would ever come back.
People began selling tee shirts and mugs and bumper stickers announcing “Save the Green” or “blue plus yellow does not equal grey”. There were entire shows and newscasts dedicated to discussing the cause and results of the missing green, and where it had gone.
One man in a country Oliver never heard of found a single blade of green grass hidden under his porch, and some other man bought it for a lot of money and put it in a museum where people from all over the world went to see it. People who lived in the desert said that this wasn’t such a big problem, but that’s because they barely had any green to begin with.
Scientists conducted big studies and lots of research to try and solve the green problem, and a few even tried to breed fresh grass from the museum grass.
Some people said it was because the world was going to end, and others said it was because people forgot to turn the lights out when they left a room. Other people thought it was because of the decrease in penguin population, and a few more thought it was a sign from god. Many people knew that it had to be because of the war. But Oliver knew that it was just because the day had decided to play a trick on the world.
Oliver’s mom even tried to scrub the leaves and grass and the green carpet in her bedroom, and Oliver’s ball, and purple’s collar. She said it might be because they were dirty, but even scrubbing couldn’t fix it.
When the day finally went back to work, it brought the first rainstorm in months. It lasted several days, and people were so happy that the water ban was over and they could fill their swimming pools and wash their cars, that green became a thing of the past. Oliver was the only person paying attention when the rain went away and took the grey with it, leaving green in its place. He spent that day in the Hammock between two large trees, throwing his ball in the air and watching the orange and green blend together as the ball spun above his head.
On the day that green went away, Oliver was swinging in the netted hammock between the two largest oak trees in the yard, repeatedly tossing and catching his favorite ball. The orange ball with green spots that Uncle Seth had given him on his 7th birthday.
Oliver liked to toss the ball in the air and watch the orange blend with the green spots as the ball spun back to his hand under the weight of gravity. His dog, purple, sat, tongue hanging out, tilting his head up and down with the movement of the ball, watching it every time it came down, waiting to retrieve it, should the duty befall him.
This particular day was no particular day at all. One of those days Oliver’s mom called a “lazy day”, which meant that the day had done so much work yesterday, that it took a vacation today. No storms or wind or car accidents or babies being born, or laws being passed. Just a quiet, sunny, pleasant day.
That’s why Oliver couldn’t understand what the day must have been thinking when it took green away. One second there was green, and then it was gone. The trees and grass and even the spots on the orange ball turned different shades of grey like the photographs of grandpa when he had hair. Purple didn’t seem to notice the change, he just continued watching the ball and when Oliver, startled, dropped the ball, purple rose to his duty of fetching it and then running around the yard with it.
Oliver would normally shout for purple to give it back, but he, instead, overcame his fear of stepping on the new grey grass and ran to the kitchen where his mom was washing perfectly yellow dishes. She hadn’t noticed the change, and had no time for Oliver’s silly stories.
“Go outside and play,” she said, and Oliver obeyed.
But when she turned on the news after dinner that night, she went straight outside and bent down to pick a blade of grass. She was pleased that the day had left the color on her flowers. She could do without grass, but the color of her flowers made them the healthiest and most beautiful in the county, and she had a trophy to prove it. She could do without green, green didn’t win trophies.
The day, after spending so much effort on taking away green, decided not to give it back right away. People were still surprised to find it gone when they woke up the net morning, like a dream that should disappear seconds after brushing your teeth. But the day went on. Adults went to work, children to school, and everyone collectively came home for dinner and worried about whether green would ever come back.
People began selling tee shirts and mugs and bumper stickers announcing “Save the Green” or “blue plus yellow does not equal grey”. There were entire shows and newscasts dedicated to discussing the cause and results of the missing green, and where it had gone.
One man in a country Oliver never heard of found a single blade of green grass hidden under his porch, and some other man bought it for a lot of money and put it in a museum where people from all over the world went to see it. People who lived in the desert said that this wasn’t such a big problem, but that’s because they barely had any green to begin with.
Scientists conducted big studies and lots of research to try and solve the green problem, and a few even tried to breed fresh grass from the museum grass.
Some people said it was because the world was going to end, and others said it was because people forgot to turn the lights out when they left a room. Other people thought it was because of the decrease in penguin population, and a few more thought it was a sign from god. Many people knew that it had to be because of the war. But Oliver knew that it was just because the day had decided to play a trick on the world.
Oliver’s mom even tried to scrub the leaves and grass and the green carpet in her bedroom, and Oliver’s ball, and purple’s collar. She said it might be because they were dirty, but even scrubbing couldn’t fix it.
When the day finally went back to work, it brought the first rainstorm in months. It lasted several days, and people were so happy that the water ban was over and they could fill their swimming pools and wash their cars, that green became a thing of the past. Oliver was the only person paying attention when the rain went away and took the grey with it, leaving green in its place. He spent that day in the Hammock between two large trees, throwing his ball in the air and watching the orange and green blend together as the ball spun above his head.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Change is Well
Change is Well
Novelist and Language professor, George Bernard Shaw, complained “The English have no respect for their language, and will not teach their children to speak it” (readprint.com 2006). Shaw may be directly referencing the people of England, but scholars and teachers of American English also identify with Shaw’s feelings about the English language. Educated people share the idea that, by allowing children to use slang, contractions, and “bad grammar”, the English language is being watered down and destroyed. However, linguists understand that this supposed “degradation” of English, or any other language, is a necessary change that all languages must undergo throughout time in order for the language to stay active. Mario Pei, a linguist, once accused the editors of Webster’s Third New International Dictionary of 1961, of confusing “to the point of obliteration, the older distinction between standard, substandard, colloquial, vulgar, and slang” (Pei 1961) . Upper class and educated speakers of English have developed a system of euphemistic phrases that sound more scientific or pleasant than simple and vulgar words. This practice has existed since the very beginning of the language. English is a “Creole” language; a language composed of other languages. The language was derived from a combination of several dialects of the Germanic tribes of the English isles, the most prominent of which was the Anglo-Saxon tribe. However, when the Normans invaded and conquered those tribes, they enforced a French/Latin government on the people, forcing them to use French-based words. The Anglo-Saxon vocabulary initially consisted of simple, descriptive words like father, land and work, whereas the Latin words represent abstract ideas and education, words like concentrate, crucifix, and primate.
Because the Latin Normans were a more educated and refined culture, their words became the words of the upper class, and the language of the working-class Anglo-Saxons became vulgar and taboo. A perfect example of that distinction is still common today, as modern English speakers prefer the scientific, refined sound of the Latin word vagina to the harsh, Anglo-Saxon word, cunt. The two words have the exact same meaning, but because one sounds better, and was enforced by upper class, the other became taboo, and vulgar. We still look down on lower classes that use simple words in place of scientific, or drawn-out verbiage, even though the difference is nothing more than sound and origin.
Those people who speak “proper” English perceive slang and bad grammar as a threat to the wellbeing of the English language. Educated persons tend to judge others on their accent and ability to use correct grammar, and society labels those people who are not well spoken and grammatically correct as linguistic degenerates. Persons who speak English with a heavy foreign accent are often looked down upon as uneducated and Neanderthal, regardless of their education and intelligence level.
While language purists fight the losing battle of forcing generation after generation to conform to the rules and anomalies of English, linguistic experts know that the “degeneration” of English is not necessarily a prediction of the language’s downfall, but a necessary change that every language must go through in order to stay active.
One of the most famous lines of a poem comes from Shakespeare’s sonnet116: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” While current speakers of English view Shakespeare’s English as proper and flawless, it is important to understand that Shakespeare wrote plays and sonnets for the poor people of England. He was known as a writer that everyone could enjoy, regardless of education. By that standard, Shakespeare did not use the educated, formal language of the aristocracy. He used common English. It is important also, to notice that His form of English is archaic, meaning is has changed and morphed in order to conform to the word in which it is spoken. For example, several common articles have been replaced, such as thee and thou. Perhaps language purists of the past were made uncomfortable when modern people began to say your instead of thine.
Shakespeare is known by English speakers as one of the most influential persons in the creation and change of the language. Shakespeare alone introduced hundreds of words to the language, including the infamous f-word. Without Shakespeare, the endless synonyms that English utilizes might not exist. What makes Shakespeare different from a modern rap musician? Several words and word modifications have recently been added to the English lexicon via rap songs and artists. The word Bling, recently added to the English lexicon by rap group Cash Money Millionaires, means excessive jewelry. While the word is considered a slang term, it fits the definition of an actual word. A word is a unit of language that carries meaning. Linguists consider a unit of language a word if it has a meaning understood by more than one person. bling is a word just as much as word is a word.
Words must be added to languages in order for a language to continuously adapt to changes in the physical world. For example, the name for an acoustic guitar was not formed until the invention of an electric guitar. With new words come new parts of speech and new ways to use the words that we already have. Few people understand that words do not have a specific part of speech. A noun is only a noun if it is placed in the noun part of a sentence. In other words, for a linguistic purist to correct someone for using a noun as an adjective is pointless. If the word is in the adjective place of a sentence, then that word is an adjective.
While some linguist purists understand and embrace the addition and subtraction of new words to our language, many have a hard time understanding that, like words, grammar and syntax must also change in a living language. English Teachers have spent the past century telling students to say “I am well” in place of “I am good” as if the language police will handcuff the grammatically incorrect children and lock them up for breaking a grammatical rule that the majority of society breaks. Of course teachers and linguistics alike feel that English should be taught properly, and that the rules of the language must be adhered to, but the problem is that students are being taught to use rules that are changing right under their noses.
A major problem with English grammar began, once again, when the Normans invaded the Anglo-Saxon tribes. After years of mixing the Anglo-Saxon vocabulary with French/Latin grammatical systems and vocabulary, the result is an amalgamation of suffixes, infixes, and prefixes—parts added to the beginning, middle, or end of a word to create a new meaning—that are mismatched and make little sense. Unlike classical languages, English does not follow any specific rule for prefixes or suffixes. In fact, in spoken English, the only phonetic rule that always works in every situation is the “mn” rule, which states three rules of pronunciation:
Because of the Creole nature of English, the rules that govern the language are complicated and easily confused. Even native speakers often make fundamental mistakes in their speech. The change, or “degradation” of our language is an attempt to simplify the rules and make the language uniform.
The average person learns to speak through listening and imitating other people. The change in language comes when generation after generation of children learn the same grammatical inconsistencies from their parents and, in turn, pass those inconsistencies on to their own children. This brings about a grass-roots change in the way English is both spoken and written. Language should not be a force to be feared, yet educated people across America seem afraid to break a grammatical rule, lest the language police snatch them up like the child who said good instead of well.
The truth is, however, that grammar is not a set entity. It is not carved in stone like the Ten Commandments. Most linguist experts cannot agree on most of the commonly disputed rules. The good vs. well rule, for example, is almost always used wrong by the very people who feel impressed upon to enforce it. Linguists often argue whether the words do not mean the same thing in the context of describing one’s self. Formally, all of those people who insist that saying I’m good or I feel good is wrong, may be incorrect, depending on what is being described. If someone says, I feel well, that could mean that he or she knows how to feel things skillfully. Rather, one would say I feel good, because good describes I, not feel.
Grammar was not even an issue until the invention of the printing press in the late 1450’s by Johannes Gutenberg. Before the press, written English varied across England as people spoke the language they were taught by their parents. Only after the press made printed language less expensive and time consuming, did the first rules of grammar begin to be enforced as printers attempted to make the language universal. At first, even common words were spelled differently according to the printer who printed them. After the discrepancies between spelling and word order became a problem, rules began to be formed, allowing printers and readers alike to come to a common agreement on the spelling and arrangement of words. The point of the rules was not to create a perfect, unified, pure language, but to prevent each printer from phonetically spelling words and arranging sentences according to his own ideas about the language. Without these rules, the spelling of many of the words we use today might be much different.
Centuries after the rules of English were agreed upon, and after English became the primary language of the new America, John Adams proposed a “national academy to be established…to standardize American English, but this view was roundly rejected as not in keeping with the goals of liberty and justice for all” (“National American?” 2005). John Adams was not the first person with ideas about purifying and standardizing a language. According to An Introduction to Lantuage, a popular textbook on Linguistics, the ancient Greek grammarians in Alexandria (200-100 B.C) tried and failed to purify their version of Greek, insisting that it was different, and therefore, less pure than the Greek spoken by Homer. Throughout time, linguists have tried in vain to purify one language or another to its original form, and all have failed. (456).
Regardless of the attempt made by linguists and scholars to enforce and maintain the rules and vocabulary of the English language, if enough people continue to misuse the rules, the rules will change. Language change is not an executive decision. It is a grass-roots change, meaning it changes from the common people and moves its way to the experts. No one person decides one day to add a word to the dictionary and then sends a memo to every English speaking person on the planet to explain the addition. The word must be used commonly enough that it almost adds itself to the lexicon.
The point is, the rules and constant debates over the rules have become so complicated, that the rules are beginning to change and simplify. People who speak English seem to assume that English came pre-packaged like a new laptop with a power cord, wireless card, and mouse, and everything needed, but that is not true, especially, without the constant change of our language, there would be no such words as cord, wireless, card, or laptop, and even mouse has developed a new meaning. No one person opened the box labeled English, read the manual, and found the power chord to plug the language in and use it; the English language evolved over thousands of years, and it is still evolving, simplifying itself as generation after generation of people subconsciously use “bad grammar” that is less complicated and makes more sense.
Because the Latin Normans were a more educated and refined culture, their words became the words of the upper class, and the language of the working-class Anglo-Saxons became vulgar and taboo. A perfect example of that distinction is still common today, as modern English speakers prefer the scientific, refined sound of the Latin word vagina to the harsh, Anglo-Saxon word, cunt. The two words have the exact same meaning, but because one sounds better, and was enforced by upper class, the other became taboo, and vulgar. We still look down on lower classes that use simple words in place of scientific, or drawn-out verbiage, even though the difference is nothing more than sound and origin.
Those people who speak “proper” English perceive slang and bad grammar as a threat to the wellbeing of the English language. Educated persons tend to judge others on their accent and ability to use correct grammar, and society labels those people who are not well spoken and grammatically correct as linguistic degenerates. Persons who speak English with a heavy foreign accent are often looked down upon as uneducated and Neanderthal, regardless of their education and intelligence level.
While language purists fight the losing battle of forcing generation after generation to conform to the rules and anomalies of English, linguistic experts know that the “degeneration” of English is not necessarily a prediction of the language’s downfall, but a necessary change that every language must go through in order to stay active.
One of the most famous lines of a poem comes from Shakespeare’s sonnet116: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” While current speakers of English view Shakespeare’s English as proper and flawless, it is important to understand that Shakespeare wrote plays and sonnets for the poor people of England. He was known as a writer that everyone could enjoy, regardless of education. By that standard, Shakespeare did not use the educated, formal language of the aristocracy. He used common English. It is important also, to notice that His form of English is archaic, meaning is has changed and morphed in order to conform to the word in which it is spoken. For example, several common articles have been replaced, such as thee and thou. Perhaps language purists of the past were made uncomfortable when modern people began to say your instead of thine.
Shakespeare is known by English speakers as one of the most influential persons in the creation and change of the language. Shakespeare alone introduced hundreds of words to the language, including the infamous f-word. Without Shakespeare, the endless synonyms that English utilizes might not exist. What makes Shakespeare different from a modern rap musician? Several words and word modifications have recently been added to the English lexicon via rap songs and artists. The word Bling, recently added to the English lexicon by rap group Cash Money Millionaires, means excessive jewelry. While the word is considered a slang term, it fits the definition of an actual word. A word is a unit of language that carries meaning. Linguists consider a unit of language a word if it has a meaning understood by more than one person. bling is a word just as much as word is a word.
Words must be added to languages in order for a language to continuously adapt to changes in the physical world. For example, the name for an acoustic guitar was not formed until the invention of an electric guitar. With new words come new parts of speech and new ways to use the words that we already have. Few people understand that words do not have a specific part of speech. A noun is only a noun if it is placed in the noun part of a sentence. In other words, for a linguistic purist to correct someone for using a noun as an adjective is pointless. If the word is in the adjective place of a sentence, then that word is an adjective.
While some linguist purists understand and embrace the addition and subtraction of new words to our language, many have a hard time understanding that, like words, grammar and syntax must also change in a living language. English Teachers have spent the past century telling students to say “I am well” in place of “I am good” as if the language police will handcuff the grammatically incorrect children and lock them up for breaking a grammatical rule that the majority of society breaks. Of course teachers and linguistics alike feel that English should be taught properly, and that the rules of the language must be adhered to, but the problem is that students are being taught to use rules that are changing right under their noses.
A major problem with English grammar began, once again, when the Normans invaded the Anglo-Saxon tribes. After years of mixing the Anglo-Saxon vocabulary with French/Latin grammatical systems and vocabulary, the result is an amalgamation of suffixes, infixes, and prefixes—parts added to the beginning, middle, or end of a word to create a new meaning—that are mismatched and make little sense. Unlike classical languages, English does not follow any specific rule for prefixes or suffixes. In fact, in spoken English, the only phonetic rule that always works in every situation is the “mn” rule, which states three rules of pronunciation:
1. Mn placed at the beginning of a word pronounces only the “n” - as in mnemonic.
2. Mn at the end of the beginning of a word only pronounces the “m” - as in hymn and damn
3. Mn in the middle of a word pronounces both letter sounds - as in gymnasium (Yarrison 2006).
In spite of the various rule for writing and pronunciation of the English language, none work for every instance. Children are taught in school that adding un- to the beginning of a word will make it negative, but what about the prefixes a-, dis-, or non-? How about words that simply have an opposite? For example, consider the word do. To make do negative, we add the prefix un- and create undo. A speaker of English, however, cannot create the same meaning by adding the other negative prefixes: ado, disdo, or nondo. We often add not after do to make the word negative, but it still has a different meaning. Observe how, by the rules of English, adding un- should have the same effect as adding not, but undo is not the same as not do or even as do not.2. Mn at the end of the beginning of a word only pronounces the “m” - as in hymn and damn
3. Mn in the middle of a word pronounces both letter sounds - as in gymnasium (Yarrison 2006).
Because of the Creole nature of English, the rules that govern the language are complicated and easily confused. Even native speakers often make fundamental mistakes in their speech. The change, or “degradation” of our language is an attempt to simplify the rules and make the language uniform.
The average person learns to speak through listening and imitating other people. The change in language comes when generation after generation of children learn the same grammatical inconsistencies from their parents and, in turn, pass those inconsistencies on to their own children. This brings about a grass-roots change in the way English is both spoken and written. Language should not be a force to be feared, yet educated people across America seem afraid to break a grammatical rule, lest the language police snatch them up like the child who said good instead of well.
The truth is, however, that grammar is not a set entity. It is not carved in stone like the Ten Commandments. Most linguist experts cannot agree on most of the commonly disputed rules. The good vs. well rule, for example, is almost always used wrong by the very people who feel impressed upon to enforce it. Linguists often argue whether the words do not mean the same thing in the context of describing one’s self. Formally, all of those people who insist that saying I’m good or I feel good is wrong, may be incorrect, depending on what is being described. If someone says, I feel well, that could mean that he or she knows how to feel things skillfully. Rather, one would say I feel good, because good describes I, not feel.
Grammar was not even an issue until the invention of the printing press in the late 1450’s by Johannes Gutenberg. Before the press, written English varied across England as people spoke the language they were taught by their parents. Only after the press made printed language less expensive and time consuming, did the first rules of grammar begin to be enforced as printers attempted to make the language universal. At first, even common words were spelled differently according to the printer who printed them. After the discrepancies between spelling and word order became a problem, rules began to be formed, allowing printers and readers alike to come to a common agreement on the spelling and arrangement of words. The point of the rules was not to create a perfect, unified, pure language, but to prevent each printer from phonetically spelling words and arranging sentences according to his own ideas about the language. Without these rules, the spelling of many of the words we use today might be much different.
Centuries after the rules of English were agreed upon, and after English became the primary language of the new America, John Adams proposed a “national academy to be established…to standardize American English, but this view was roundly rejected as not in keeping with the goals of liberty and justice for all” (“National American?” 2005). John Adams was not the first person with ideas about purifying and standardizing a language. According to An Introduction to Lantuage, a popular textbook on Linguistics, the ancient Greek grammarians in Alexandria (200-100 B.C) tried and failed to purify their version of Greek, insisting that it was different, and therefore, less pure than the Greek spoken by Homer. Throughout time, linguists have tried in vain to purify one language or another to its original form, and all have failed. (456).
Regardless of the attempt made by linguists and scholars to enforce and maintain the rules and vocabulary of the English language, if enough people continue to misuse the rules, the rules will change. Language change is not an executive decision. It is a grass-roots change, meaning it changes from the common people and moves its way to the experts. No one person decides one day to add a word to the dictionary and then sends a memo to every English speaking person on the planet to explain the addition. The word must be used commonly enough that it almost adds itself to the lexicon.
The point is, the rules and constant debates over the rules have become so complicated, that the rules are beginning to change and simplify. People who speak English seem to assume that English came pre-packaged like a new laptop with a power cord, wireless card, and mouse, and everything needed, but that is not true, especially, without the constant change of our language, there would be no such words as cord, wireless, card, or laptop, and even mouse has developed a new meaning. No one person opened the box labeled English, read the manual, and found the power chord to plug the language in and use it; the English language evolved over thousands of years, and it is still evolving, simplifying itself as generation after generation of people subconsciously use “bad grammar” that is less complicated and makes more sense.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
fish~revision.
fish
Elsa had always been a person of routine. She began every morning of her childhood leaving the house with her Papa just as the sun was rising. She followed him on the half-mile walk to the south end of the city where fishermen stood in groups around piles of the morning’s catch—smoking rich-smelling cigars, and blathering in broken languages.“Good morning, Mr. Fraust. Good catch! You want for us deliver to it for you?” Every morning was the same question.
“That would be very nice of you” was always the reply. Papa took his time each morning, selecting the best of the catch to sell at his market stall while Elsa wandered between giant mountains of silvery fish, mesmerized by the vibrant colors reflected on their shiny scales by the sun. Some fish looked cool and blue, while others turned bright red like rubies in the sunrise. She imagined that the colors came from the rubies and jewels hidden inside the belly of each fish. Perhaps the foreign fishermen with their dark skin and dark eyes were princes, exiled from exotic lands. They hid their treasures inside the fish incase of a pirate attack. She envisioned beautiful princesses waiting for their lovers to return safe, and dangerous madmen chasing them on the open sea.
“Lets go, Elsa.”
Elsa once asked her Papa where the fishermen came from.
“I’m not ‘zactly sure,” he replied once “I’d magine they come from afar away. Somewhere out near the equator by the looks ‘o their skin. The sun near the equator is so hot that people’s skin turns dark init protects ‘em from the heat.”
Elsa couldn’t imagine a place so hot. She wanted to go and see for herself. The sun sometimes turned her skin red, but the fishermen were brown.
“Maybe you can go to places like that when you’re older. That’s an awful lot of travel’in for someone body yer size.” Her Papa’s voice was always full of warmth and laughter—as if everything was always pleasant. “Come on now, lets us get you to school.”
The morning trip to the docks was Elsa’s favorite part of the day, but the smell of fish and salty water lingered on her skin and clothes, earning her the lonely title of “fish girl”. The other children pinched their noses between their forefinger and thumb to let her know she smelled bad. Lunch and recess were both spent sitting on a rotting log at the far end of the school yard, dreaming about foreign lands and wishing that the fishermen would steal her away in the night and take her home with them where they would give her chocolate and dress her in fine silk and fur and make her a princess. The stories managed to make her forget the jeers and jokes of the other children, but dreams are just dreams, and at the end of the day, Elsa still smelled like fish.
* * *
As she grew older, Elsa began to understand and resent her loneliness. She spent her free time sitting on the front steps of the school watching the clean-smelling pretty girls play jump-rope and dress their lovely porcelain dolls. She began to regret her expeditions to the docks with Papa and blamed him for making her smell like fish.
She surprised her Papa one day by refusing to go to the dock with him. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table with her feet on the chair, hugging her knees, as her Mamma, on all fours, scrubbed the tile floor with a hard brush. The sound of the brush on the tile sent shivers down Elsa’s spine, as she tried not to think about what she might be missing at the docks.
As time wore on, Elsa allowed her morning routine with Papa to fade away.
“Why you wanna break your Papa’s heart?” Papa would ask the same question every morning, and Elsa would tell him that she was growing up—the docks were no place for a lady--but secretly, she knew it was the smell, and she regretted her decision every morning when Papa would smile, put his eyes to the ground, and leave after kissing her on the forehead.
She just wanted to make friends; to have someone to talk to.
“There are more important things to worry about” Mamma said when Elsa finally worked up the courage to ask for advice about making the fish smell go away. Mamma didn’t have time to “waste on silly things to amuse silly girls.”
Elsa even appealed to her next door neighbor who always had a remedy for anything.
“Tomato paste. Tomato paste and salt.” Neighbor Lady said. Elsa couldn’t believe that tomato paste could do anything but make soup, and she told the lady so.
“I had a run-in with a skunk when I was a little girl. I thought it was a kitten, so I tried to pick it up and the little bastard got me. All over my new Sunday dress.”
If tomato paste could get rid of skunk smell, it would surely make fish go away. Maybe there was hope, after all.
She left the woman and ran all the way to the market and asked Papa for some pennies to buy two fresh tomatoes. He looked at her funny, and thought about how little he knew his daughter now, but resolved to let her grow up. He gave her just enough money and told her to be home in time to help Mamma make dinner.
She didn’t waste time in choosing two of the brightest red tomatoes from the Italian man who told her they were the best she would ever see. He even gave her a piece of toffee for free when she promised to mind her Mamma. The sweetness of the toffee helped calm her excitement on the long trek from the market—all the way across town—to home. She hoped the remedy would work and resolved to never visit the docks again. She fantasized about how things would change once she smelled like other girls. Everyone would comment on how nice she smelled; they would line up to be her friend. She would be allowed to play games and amuse her new friends with stories of the foreign fishermen-princes.
When she arrived home, she dropped the tomatoes into her mamma’s stone bowl and used a heavy wooden spoon to crush them into a thick juice. She added some salt and quickly removed her shoes, stockings, and dress. With a deep breath, the smearing began. The neighbor made it clear that the paste must cover everything from her toes to the tips of her long blond braids. She covered everything, careful not to get tomato juice on the floor or Mamma would be angry.
Once everything but the bottoms of her feet was covered, Elsa stood in the middle of the floor wondering what to do next. Should she wait for it to dry? She waited a few minutes and then, impatient to see if the concoction would work, used a damp cloth to scrub the paste off of her body. She had to dunk her head in a bowl of water to clear tomato chunks from her hair. Finally clean, she put her dress and stockings back on and replaced her shoes before running to the yard where her mamma was cleaning the laundry in a tub.
She bounded up to Mamma and, shoving arms, legs, and braids in her face, asked if she smelled better.
“You smell like dinner” her mother said without looking up from the tub of mucky water “What have you been up to?”
Elsa quickly explained the purpose of the tomatoes—and for credibility— added that the neighbor lady promised it would work.
“You smelled good enough before.”
Her excitement fell down around her ankles.
“Shouldn’t be wasting food that’s good enough to eat.” Mamma’s face turned red and she scrubbed a white shirt extra hard.
Elsa deflated back into the house, doing what she could to keep the tears from dripping off her chin and leaving spots on her dress. She sniffed her arms to see for herself if the tomato paste worked, but she didn’t notice anything different. She would have to wait for school the next day to really know if there was a change.
She walked up to the lunch table the next morning with hope and confidence, but the pretty little girls looked at her and pinched their tiny little noses. “Fishy! Fishy!” Elsa turned and went back to the rotting log and covered her face with her hands so the other children wouldn’t see her cry.
* * *
When Elsa graduated from high school, she still couldn’t escape the smell of fish. She moved on to a public university in Pennsylvania where she managed to keep good grades and spent most of the wages she earned as a waitress at a local restaurant on expensive perfume. She often visited the up-and-coming coffee joints and bars, sure the strong smells of coffee beans and cigarette smoke would overpower the fish smell. At least no one ever mentioned the smell—but the maintenance was intense. Every day she washed with special brand-named soap and rubbed expensive lotion and perfume all over her body. Eventually, she developed a routine that, if followed closely every day, allowed her to live free of worry.
She continued the routine for many years, well after she had graduated from university and moved on to a job in a large office building in New York. Every morning she followed a routine of showering twice, brushing her teeth for 5 minutes, rubbing her entire body down with two different scents of lotion, applying the strongest possible deodorant, and spraying a continuous flow of heavy spritzes of perfume from head to foot.
The routine was cumbersome, but she understood that not following every step would cost her the few friends and successful position she had worked so hard to earn. If smelling good was a religion, Elsa was the most devout follower. She spent more money on new scents than clothes, food, and gasoline combined. She was on top of the latest designer scents the way a teenage girl keeps up with the latest happenings in Hollywood. She had a subscription to every major fashion magazine, and usually ripped out the perfume sample-cards and keep them in her dresser drawers, and threw the rest of the magazine in the trash. She spent hours in the cosmetic section of department stores, sniffing in a lungful of each new scent and comparing it to old favorites to decide which worked better. Elsa didn’t mind that she was still lonely; routine and her job filled the spare time, and she even had a few friends to go out with on occasion.
She tried several times to date men, but she could never get past the second or third date. She had a constant fear of letting a man get close enough to smell her. Even more, she could not let a man into her life; she could not let anyone know of her morning routine. She became self-conscious when people noticed any smell in her proximity, whether it be her or popcorn in the employee kitchenette at work. She could be in a chocolate shop, and if somebody commented on the smell, she would run home and take a shower.
* * *
When Elsa was in her late forties, she saw a commercial that would eventually change her life. She was skeptical at first of a product claiming to eliminate odors, but decided that, since she had tried crazier things, maybe it was worth a try. The commercial emphasized that the product worked just by spraying. This was just the answer Elsa had been waiting for her entire life. She debated for a month or so whether she should try the spray, afraid that the people at the grocery store would know that she wanted it for herself, not for her furniture or carpet. She finally elected to go to her local pet store and ask if they knew anything about the product, if it would really take out pet odors. The clerk was a young high school-aged girl who said her mom used it. It was amazing.
Elsa still debated.
She thought about the possibilities of not having to spend whole portions of her day in her routine and imagined the money she would save by not having to buy expensive perfume. But what if it was no different than the tomato paste she tried as a child? The memory of how her high hopes had been crushed when it didn’t work was still fresh. It might work, it might not, but how would she know unless she actually gave it a chance?
She would try the spray.
Elsa told herself not to expect much, but couldn’t stop the excitement welling up inside of her as she slipped invisibly into the big grocery store two streets from her apartment, and browsed a few aisles—purposefully avoiding the cleaning section at first—trying not to draw attention to herself. At the pet aisle, Elsa paused and contemplated buying some cat food. She didn’t own a cat, but since the product could eliminate pet odors, f she pretended to own a cat, the grocer wouldn’t think the product was for herself.
With a single tin of cat food in hand, Elsa forced herself to move in the direction of the cleaning aisle, examining each product as she passed. The periwinkle spray bottle caught her attention. It was exactly like the commercial; even the bottle was attractive and stood out from the other cleaning products. Skimming over the label, her eyes greedily drinking in the guarantees and promises… “No Scrubbing!”… “Eliminates odor with one spray”… “Guaranteed or your money back.” She thought she heard someone approaching and looking out of the corner of her eye. No one there. Her heart jumped in her chest as she thought about putting the product back and running from the store—just dropping the cat food in the middle of the aisle. No. There was no turning back. The product was already in her hand; nothing left but checkout.
She rushed to the cash-out line with a purpose in her step and feigned confidence in her eye. She made it to the line and stood, head down, trying to avoid eye contact. Almost free.
“This stuff is supposed to be amazing!” the clerk said as she passed the bottle over the scanner. The red laser from the price scanner reflected on the blue bottle like the morning sun used to reflect on the piles of fresh-caught fish. Elsa turned just as deep a shade of red at the cashier’s comment and mumbled something about the commercial as she gave exact change and snatched the bag.
At home, she sat the pretty blue bottle in the middle of the table and walked in circles around it, examining it from every angle. Could it really be this easy?
* * *
By the end of the year, Elsa had discarded most of her perfumes and lotions, keeping only her favorite scents. She cleared a cabinet in her kitchen and filled it with the miracle product. She made sure to have exactly forty full bottles in her home at all times. Eventually, as the company expanded, they began selling new scents and different versions specifically designed for individual purposes. She had a shelf organized according to scent: Lilac, Meadows and Rain, Fresh Air, Tropical Citrus, and Extra strength. The shelf below that one was laden with individual rows marked “Antimicrobial”, “Auto”, “Linen” and “Allergen Reducer”. She was pleased when she learned of new scents, and checked the company website daily for news and updates. She was overjoyed when the product was finally sold in portable sized bottles and plug-in air-fresheners.
Her routine changed drastically with the new product. She simply sprayed the magic spray all over her clothes and body every morning, sprayed her car every time she got in, and carried two portable bottles that she used only when she felt she needed it. She kept plenty stocked in her office. She knew that as long as she kept up with the spray, no one would notice the fish smell.
* * *
With the advent of the miracle product, Elsa became less uptight about her smell. She trusted the product because it did more than cover up the fish smell, it actually eliminated it; made it go away. She was smell free. The spray gave Elsa the confidence to not be afraid of offending people with her smell so that, when asked on a date by a very attractive coworker, she readily accepted.
They met at a local Italian restaurant for dinner. Elsa was surprised how easy she could talk to him. He was laid-back and confident. It was clear that he was looking for a good time—not an excuse to make fun of her. He told her how his son was graduating from college and showed her some pictures of his dog that he keeps in his wallet. By the time her fettuccine alfredo arrived, she was already looking forward to future dates.
Halfway through the meal, Elsa’s whole body broke into torrents of sweat and her heart pounded in her ears. She stopped mid-sentence and closed her mouth. Her date just stared at her, wondering what was wrong. She was sure he could smell the garlic on her breath—that he was trying to think up a polite excuse to leave her at the table alone. Something must be done. She excused herself as graciously as she could manage and hurried, stumbling, to the restroom.
She looked in the mirror and saw her panic covering her face. She would have to go home. No, she couldn’t be so rude. She rummaged in her purse for a solution and found it in the small blue spray bottle. She quickly darted her eyes across the label and let them rest on “do not ingest”. Surely a small amount would not harm her. It was an emergency, after all. Just a drop would fix the problem; she could finish the date, and then go home immediately to brush her teeth. Either that or she could just leave. She didn’t want to leave, she was having such a good time.
The choices smeared themselves across the mirror in front of her as the room started to spin and her heart pounded so hard her chest hurt.
“Just this once” she breathed the words out slowly as her shaky hand held one finger on the trigger pointed straight in her mouth. She sprayed the magic spray into the back of her throat, winced at the sour taste, and then breathed heavily to smell the results. Not satisfied, she took the cap off, almost dropping it to the hard tile floor, and held the lip of the bottle to her mouth. She swallowed a mouthful of the sour liquid, letting it linger over her tongue before dripping down her throat. That was better. She replaced the cap, put the bottle back in her purse, dabbed at her mouth with a tissue, and made her way back to the table.
When she sat down again she took a deep breath and made a comment about forgetting to take some medicine. He had been making rings on the table with the condensation dripping from his glass. He looked up and reassured her with a bright smile.
“Is that all? I was afraid you were looking for an excuse to leave.” His slight Mediterranean accent was pleasant and charming, and the light from a candle on the table danced in his eyes.
She let herself laugh, sure now that he had not even noticed the smell. After a few minutes Elsa regained her composure and comfort. She managed to finish the meal, well aware that there was a second bottle of the spray in her purse and two or three in her car. Conversation started up again and after the dinner plates were taken away, he invited her back to his apartment for desert and coffee. Apparently he baked in his free time, what a remarkable man he was. She could not turn him down. They made arrangements for her to follow him in her own car.
She misted herself and her car with the spray as soon as she got in, and took another gulp for good measure before getting out and going into the apartment.
“Welcome to my little place in the world” he said with a nervous smile as she walked in and regarded the neat and clean over-sized studio apartment with its leather couch, dark-wood coffee table, and black and white photography framed across the walls. Masculine but classy. He invited her to have a seat and disappeared into the kitchen to prepare some desert and coffee. She sat silent and stiff, afraid to spoil his obviously expensive furniture. When he returned, he had hand-made clay mugs full of steaming hot coffee and some sort of chocolate-covered pastry. He sat the tray on the table and settled himself on the couch, inches from her.
She picked up the coffee and let it warm her hands before taking a sip. It was delicious, but scolding hot so she sat it back on the tray and, looking around, made a comment about the photography on the walls.
“All mine” he said with pride “I have a lot of hobbies…have to now that I live alone.”
She caught him looking at her and blushed as he diverted his eyes. He tried to cover it up by asking what she thought about the coffee, but Elsa was too busy trying to figure out why he had looked at her that way. Was it her breath again? She breathed deep and realized that her breath smelled like rotten fruit. She panicked again and asked where his restroom was.
Once inside, she fumbled with her purse to find the second little blue bottle. Her stomach tied itself in knots as she unscrewed the cap and dumped half of the clear liquid into her mouth, swished, and swallowed. Immediately, she felt sick. Her chest burned and she felt light-headed and nauseated. The mirror reflected a ghostly-white image. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall trying to recompose herself. The nausea only got worse. She felt a stinging in her throat and leaned over the toilet just in time to watch her date splash into the porcelain bowl. Now she smelled like vomit, but she felt better. One more sip of the spray would make the vomit smell go away and she would just have to make up an excuse to leave. She should have just gone home and brushed her teeth after the first incident.
She sprayed some of the miracle spray into her mouth this time and wiped it with a tissue. She opened the door and told her date that she was not feeling very good, that she thought it best to go home and maybe they could get together next weekend.
“You should have a seat and relax before you go,” his voice revealed sincere concern, “just for a minute to collect yourself and calm down.”
She sat back down, keeping her mouth closed, and tried to look calm.
“Would you like a glass of water?”
She nodded and watched his tall frame stand up and walk into the kitchen. Before she knew it, he was leaning over her, calling her name.
“Elsa, are you okay? I called an ambulance”
He was too close to her face, he would smell the vomit, but she couldn’t open her mouth. Her whole body hurt. She tried to lift herself up and fell back down, hitting her head hard against the wooden floor. She raised her hand to her head to feel if it was bleeding, but she couldn’t tell because her whole head was wet. The floor was wet. What was all over her? The vomit smell was intense. She needed to find the bottle—she couldn’t let him notice the smell.
“Can you hear me, Elsa? How do you feel?”
He was inches from her face but she could barely hear him, he sounded far away, like he was in the next room. How could he stand to be so close to her face? Didn’t the smell bother him? She tried to wipe the wet hair off her face, but only succeeded in smearing the red sticky paste across her eyes. She felt the burning in her throat and chest again but she couldn’t worry about that. She had to figure out how to make the smell go away and how to clean the tomatoes out of her hair before Mamma came into the kitchen and saw the messy puddles of tomato paste all over the clean floor.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
The Wait
“You told us it would be about 45 minutes and we have already been here for an hour,” a broad woman with a rigid grin says to the hostess, her teeth clicking together, annunciating each syllable carefully.
“I’m sorry ma’am. Your name is up next.” The short hostess looks up at the massive shoulders and forces a smile.
“How long will it be?”
“As soon as a table for eight clears, we’ll clean it and seat you.”
“Are we talking hours or minutes?”
“Probably only minutes.” She turns her smile on again, larger this time, showing her bright teeth.
The woman walks sour-faced back to her husband, four kids, and in-laws.
“She says we’re next.”
She returns to her spot against a wooden table where she places the round pager down and continues watching her youngest daughter twirl in circles around the center of the lobby, knocking into passersby and forcing the people gathered on the perimeter of the room to push their backs against the walls to avoid being hit. She doesn’t even notice when the pager lights up in a pattern of alternating red lights. People near her watch as the pager reflects in a wine bottle. No one calls her attention to it. They want her table.
“Is there a Parker party of eight?”
The woman snaps out of her reverie. “It’s about time!”
“Do you have your pager?”
“Little good it has done me.” She gropes around the table and picks up the disk. She narrows her eyes and clenches her jaw at the flashing lights.
“Ma’am, we’ve been paging you for five minutes. We almost gave your table up.”
It is nearing 6p.m. on a Friday night , and the lobby at this popular Italian restaurant is overflowing with people. Children are running in circles, babies crying, parents talking, the front door is opening and closing as those coming and going maneuver among people standing or sitting on benches and chairs, all hunkering down to sit out the hour wait for a table and dinner.
As soon as “Parker party of eight” is swooped away, an older woman with silver hair and matching earrings steals a glance at the chair where the older Mr. Parker had been sitting. She makes a lady-like dash for the chair and is narrowly beaten by two teenage girls who plop into the bench as if the music had just stopped in a particularly competitive game of musical chairs. The silver-haired lady redirects herself past the chair, pretending that she has no interest in it, and leans against a wall near the dimly lit bar where a little boy with freckles is pulling leaves from a plant on the floor and counting them.
“One, three, eight, severnneen, twenny, fives, three, six” He counts each one as he stacks them on top off one another. He smiles up at the silver-haired woman, who smiles back an angry, forced sort of smile before looking for an excuse to ignore him. Not affected, the little boy starts his counting game over, taking each leaf from the pile, folding it neatly, and dropping it in the woman’s purse that hangs conveniently at his eye level.
Meanwhile, a little girl in orange crocs and a purple dress is staring at the freckled boy between adult legs from across the room. She breaks away from her mom and clunks over to him, upsetting a new mother and her baby carrier.
“Hannah, be careful. Come back here,” a voice calls from the other end of the lobby. “Frank, go get Hannah, please!”
A hand reaches down from the sky and grabs Hannah by the back of her lilac dress. She is yanked up from the floor, and just in time; a man swollen with pasta and bread and sporting a marinara stain on his crisp blue shirt has almost stepped on her fingers. He smiles a big toothy grin at Hannah who starts bawling back at him from over her father’s shoulder. She inspects the pager in her father’s hand before snatching it away and putting it in her mouth.
Pasta Man holds the door for three women peacocking in from outside. They form a line by the hostess’ stand.
“Hello, how are you tonight?” the hostess asks.
The woman with the largest hair answers, “Three, non-smoking.”
“Can I have a name please?”
“Sherman.”
“It’ll be about 50 minutes. This will blink when we page you.”
“An hour? Are you serious? I’m not waiting an hour.”
The three women tromp out the door, but are immediately replaced by two elderly gentlemen in suits and ties. The first, a slightly balding, skinny man in a too-big suit makes a dash for the hostess.
“How long a wait for two?” he asks, out of breath
“50 minutes or so.”
“That’s not bad.”
Again, the exchange of pager and instructions, and the men survey the lobby in search of a place where two men might sit or stand comfortably together. The people who have already been sitting in the lobby for 40 or so minutes understand the surveying look and spread their legs, move their purses, and lean at a wider angle.
The men eventually find a small nook by a window just in time to hear two old women with penciled eyebrows complain about the wait. “You know, Barry and I were at Texas Road House two days ago, and the wait wasn’t this long. We got in and got sat real quick. I don’t know why this place takes so long,” the first woman wheezes to her friend who nods in agreement.
“They’re always slow here.”
“Maybe it has to do with the fact that the tables have people sitting at them. They can’t kick people out,” the oldest and biggest of the two men interjects good-naturedly.
“Well,” one of the women huffs. Both arch their indignant eyebrows and turn their backs to the man, unable to argue with common sense.
“I’m sorry ma’am. Your name is up next.” The short hostess looks up at the massive shoulders and forces a smile.
“How long will it be?”
“As soon as a table for eight clears, we’ll clean it and seat you.”
“Are we talking hours or minutes?”
“Probably only minutes.” She turns her smile on again, larger this time, showing her bright teeth.
The woman walks sour-faced back to her husband, four kids, and in-laws.
“She says we’re next.”
She returns to her spot against a wooden table where she places the round pager down and continues watching her youngest daughter twirl in circles around the center of the lobby, knocking into passersby and forcing the people gathered on the perimeter of the room to push their backs against the walls to avoid being hit. She doesn’t even notice when the pager lights up in a pattern of alternating red lights. People near her watch as the pager reflects in a wine bottle. No one calls her attention to it. They want her table.
“Is there a Parker party of eight?”
The woman snaps out of her reverie. “It’s about time!”
“Do you have your pager?”
“Little good it has done me.” She gropes around the table and picks up the disk. She narrows her eyes and clenches her jaw at the flashing lights.
“Ma’am, we’ve been paging you for five minutes. We almost gave your table up.”
It is nearing 6p.m. on a Friday night , and the lobby at this popular Italian restaurant is overflowing with people. Children are running in circles, babies crying, parents talking, the front door is opening and closing as those coming and going maneuver among people standing or sitting on benches and chairs, all hunkering down to sit out the hour wait for a table and dinner.
As soon as “Parker party of eight” is swooped away, an older woman with silver hair and matching earrings steals a glance at the chair where the older Mr. Parker had been sitting. She makes a lady-like dash for the chair and is narrowly beaten by two teenage girls who plop into the bench as if the music had just stopped in a particularly competitive game of musical chairs. The silver-haired lady redirects herself past the chair, pretending that she has no interest in it, and leans against a wall near the dimly lit bar where a little boy with freckles is pulling leaves from a plant on the floor and counting them.
“One, three, eight, severnneen, twenny, fives, three, six” He counts each one as he stacks them on top off one another. He smiles up at the silver-haired woman, who smiles back an angry, forced sort of smile before looking for an excuse to ignore him. Not affected, the little boy starts his counting game over, taking each leaf from the pile, folding it neatly, and dropping it in the woman’s purse that hangs conveniently at his eye level.
Meanwhile, a little girl in orange crocs and a purple dress is staring at the freckled boy between adult legs from across the room. She breaks away from her mom and clunks over to him, upsetting a new mother and her baby carrier.
“Hannah, be careful. Come back here,” a voice calls from the other end of the lobby. “Frank, go get Hannah, please!”
A hand reaches down from the sky and grabs Hannah by the back of her lilac dress. She is yanked up from the floor, and just in time; a man swollen with pasta and bread and sporting a marinara stain on his crisp blue shirt has almost stepped on her fingers. He smiles a big toothy grin at Hannah who starts bawling back at him from over her father’s shoulder. She inspects the pager in her father’s hand before snatching it away and putting it in her mouth.
Pasta Man holds the door for three women peacocking in from outside. They form a line by the hostess’ stand.
“Hello, how are you tonight?” the hostess asks.
The woman with the largest hair answers, “Three, non-smoking.”
“Can I have a name please?”
“Sherman.”
“It’ll be about 50 minutes. This will blink when we page you.”
“An hour? Are you serious? I’m not waiting an hour.”
The three women tromp out the door, but are immediately replaced by two elderly gentlemen in suits and ties. The first, a slightly balding, skinny man in a too-big suit makes a dash for the hostess.
“How long a wait for two?” he asks, out of breath
“50 minutes or so.”
“That’s not bad.”
Again, the exchange of pager and instructions, and the men survey the lobby in search of a place where two men might sit or stand comfortably together. The people who have already been sitting in the lobby for 40 or so minutes understand the surveying look and spread their legs, move their purses, and lean at a wider angle.
The men eventually find a small nook by a window just in time to hear two old women with penciled eyebrows complain about the wait. “You know, Barry and I were at Texas Road House two days ago, and the wait wasn’t this long. We got in and got sat real quick. I don’t know why this place takes so long,” the first woman wheezes to her friend who nods in agreement.
“They’re always slow here.”
“Maybe it has to do with the fact that the tables have people sitting at them. They can’t kick people out,” the oldest and biggest of the two men interjects good-naturedly.
“Well,” one of the women huffs. Both arch their indignant eyebrows and turn their backs to the man, unable to argue with common sense.
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