To Be An American Pop Princess-the extended version
Backstage Jessica could hear the roar of the crowd. The noise of their hands colliding together and their voices straining for volume in order to get her back on stage was deafening. They chanted, “Encore, encore, encore!” Jessica could feel the exhaustion aching in every one of her muscles, but she quickly caught her breath before the various people controlling the show’s logistics acting as her shepherds, maneuvered her back onto stage like she was one from their flocks. She pasted on her million-dollar smile as she skip-ran back to her adoring fans. As she returned to center stage, Jessica saw hundreds of signs all saying the same thing, “I love you Jessica Spears!” or “I’m your #1 fan Jessica!” She gave her signal to the band and dancers, the drums began to rattle, the fans started to scream, and Jessica’s angelic voice started the first line of the last song.
Jessica Christina Spears, born some two decades ago, had always been told that she had the voice of an angel. Upon hearing her sing, friends and family would immediately be floating euphorically on a cloud somewhere high in the heavens. Just as marvelous was, and still is, her unparalleled beauty. Her blonde tresses were just like brilliant rays of sunlight, and her dazzling blue eyes were a portal for anyone who made eye contact with her, to the crystal blue sky or shimmering sapphire waters of the sea. Jessica definitely had a passion for singing, but it wasn’t as grand as the passion her parents had for her to become the most famous singer possible. Fast forward to today, and Jessica is at the tenth concert of her third world tour, and she’s the most famous pop “princess” from the USA, thus fully realizing the dreams of her parents.
Jessica stepped off the stage for the last time tonight and was whisked away to her dressing room by her team of people. She was dripping wet and her clothes stuck to her as if her sweat and make-up had fused together to become a permanent glue. Her faithful assistant, Candy took on the arduous task of continuously yanking at Jessica’s Dolce & Gabbana leather pants until they would finally release their grip from her perfectly toned thigh muscles. After she had been helped out of her performance clothes Jessica refreshed her aching body with a cleansing shower. While showering, she wondered to herself how she ever got to this place in life. Concert after concert, interviews after interviews, nightly show appearances. Life never seemed to stop and ask her what she wanted any more.
While under the soothing beads of the hot shower her mind took over, slipping into a fanciful state where she thought about her deepest, unfulfilled dreams: going to college; friends she wished she had, but was never in one place long enough to make; places in the world she wanted to go to and not remain a captive in the confines of a hotel room. Realizing her mind had run away with itself, Jessica shook her head in order to fling those fanciful ideas out of her mind, got out of the shower, got dressed, and braced herself for the hoards of people she still had to deal with in order for her night to be over.
Just as she was applying the pale green and brown eye shadows that were supposed to highlight her much admired blue eyes, her manager, Jonathan rattled the hinges of the door as he stormed into the room. He informed her that there were already critical reports surfacing that Jessica had lip-synched through the entire concert. Her eyes started to well up from the inside out, as if the weak damns in place were going to let the floodwaters break through. Jessica was so weary of these types of scandals always being brought against her. And for what…so that some ridiculous source could profit by slandering her reputation as an artist. Jessica had always been able to confront the press using her charm and self-confidant image to whole heatedly negate the accusations against her. Jessica exuded confidence to everyone around her, but inside she knew these criticisms constantly being brought against her didn’t help with her inner issues of self-consciousness. She felt like everyone-her fans, her family, her manager-presumed to know her, when she didn’t even know herself any more. Jessica’s world had become increasingly confusing to her as the years progressed.
Seeing that she was upset Jonathan started to caress her neck and weave his fingers through her golden locks. Jessica shrugged her shoulder indicating to him that it was even more upsetting for him to continue his ways of seduction. She turned around giving him an all-knowing glance so he would know it was over. She knew that he was taking advantage of their cozy little situation of mixing business with pleasure, by giving himself extras shares of her earnings when he thought she didn’t know. He needed to know that she didn’t need him to fix her problems any more. She was always the one charming her way out of these scandals the media kept projecting onto her. Things were finally starting to seem clear, after having been so unclear for so long. Jessica knew what she needed to do. Her mind, body, and heart ached from all that she was enduring just to appease the public that demanded everything of her. She wanted to fulfill those dreams she had fantasized about for way too long.
The week after that, Jessica had a television appearance schedule for an interview and a performance. Inside she felt unsettled about the allegations that she would have to address. The pit in her stomach ached like there was a firey coal that was burning inside the depths of her gut. A lot of stress tended to have this effect on Jessica. She had been dealing with stressful situations for so long, considering that she had to worry about things that were well beyond her years because of the business. Jessica had been anticipating this appearance a lot, especially in relation to her new found purpose of living her own life. After much contemplation and anxiousness, Jessica decided on a plan for herself. She was going to make her big move, the one that tells the world I am my own woman, I live my life for me and I will not be controlled any more.
The morning of the appearance, Jessica showed up to her make-up room looking like her perky, happy self; the way that everyone is accustomed to seeing her, the way everyone expected to see her. However, something was different this time, whether the people around her noticed it or not. She had a gleam in her eye that looked like a witty secret that only she understood; there was a spark of happiness and vibrancy in her demeanor that had not been present for as long as she could remember. Interestingly enough, no one had seemed to notice the strain in Jessica recently. No one cared any more about how Jessica was inside, so long as the outside looked primped, cute, and she danced while wearing the most fashionable outfit.
A person on the backstage crew came to Jessica’s dressing room to let her know that she need to be ready to go in ten minutes. She smirked and gave it her cutest, “Ok thanks” that she could. Jessica grabbed her bottle of high-end, imported water, took a swig to ready her vocal cords, and started heading out of the room with her whole face beaming at the thought of what she was about to do. She approached the stage, as it was time to get all set up.
Regis hollered to Jessica from his station, “How you doing sugar? Good to have you back on the show.”
Jessica replied, “Thank you for the opportunity. It’s great to be back.”
Kelly chimed in, “Oh sweetie it is so good to meet you finally. Ever since I joined the show I’ve been telling Reg that we just had to get you on so I meet America’s sweetheart.”
Jessica cringed inside at the thought of Kelly coming over and squeezing her cheeks like the endearing old grandmother type that can’t seem to pinch enough to her satisfaction.
“Oh, well it’s great to finally meet you too,” Jessica said, as she chuckled at Kelly’s own exaggerated sweetness.
“Five minutes people!” shouted one of the cameramen.
“Alrighty, let’s get ready to do this,” Regis clamored.
The cameramen gave the signal and the red recording light starting flashing. Regis jumped started the production by giving the same introduction that he gave every show.
“And as our special guest we have Miss Jessica Spears,” motioned Regis with his hands in the most celebratory way. The crowd screamed with excitement. Jessica smiled to herself.
When it was time Regis and Kelly began their interview, or rather their interrogation with Jessica. Of course the most recent scandal of lip-synching accusations was addressed, but Jessica managed to keep her cool, use her charm, and smooth over the situation quite painlessly; the way she always did.
Kelly asked, “So Jessica what else is new with you? Any boyfriends we should know about, recent movie offers that you’re thinking about, a new album even? What’s next for you?”
Jessica took a deep breath to psych herself up for what she was about to announce. “Well…I’ve actually made a big decision for myself recently. I…I…” Jessica paused to just for a second to make sure she really wanted to go through with what she was about to declare to the entire American public. Mentally scolding herself for even hesitating at all, Jessica passionately continued; she knew what she wanted and this was her chance to take it.
“Yeeeesssss,” Kelly said, thinking she was going to hear some great scoop about Jessica’s new love interest.
“I have decided that this tour is going to be my last tour. I’m going to retire from singing and acting in order to go live out my dream of going to college and traveling,” declared Jessica.
A gasp came from Regis and Kelly, the entire audience, as well as all the crewmembers.
“Wh…why? Is it because of the accusations? Why?” questioned Kelly.
“It’s not because of any of the accusations, or scandals, or because of anyone in the industry. This is just something I have to do for myself,” said Jessica proudly.
Once the hosts of the show had recovered from the shock of Jessica’s announcement and managed to wrap up the show, she headed backstage feeling weightless; her body could have floated effortlessly into the clouds because of the stress that had been lifted from her. Jonathan was backstage even though she had told him to back off; he still seemed to slither nearby since people were still under the impression that he was her manager.
“What are thinking? Are you crazy?” Jonathan screamed at her.
“Stop it,” she instructed. “You are not my manager any more, you don’t make my decisions for me, or help yourself to my money. This is my decision and it doesn’t concern you. I am going to do what I need to do for myself.”
With that Jessica’s fate had been sealed, for better or for worse. She applied and got into a good college. Jessica was happy. Her life was finally starting fulfill her deepest desires. She went to freshmen orientation, got a couple a funny glances and finger-pointing, but everything seemed to be going fine. No one seemed to bug her about who she was and her previous career. She moved into the dorms with one of her really good friends who was already attending the same college.
One day Jessica was sitting under an inviting cherry blossom tree that was parading its newest spring blossoms. A guy started to approach Jessica and she became nervous for a split second that it was going to be just another undying fan wanting to harass her for something. The guy was now standing in front of her now and he said, “Hey, I think we have Modern Political Theory together. Are you reading that book for Mackin’s class?”
She replied excitedly, “Yes…yes, I’m in that class.” Jessica smiled to herself.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Reading Journal-Assignment 9
Averno, by Louise Gluck
In which time period is Louise Gluck’s Averno set?
For the most part I think that Louise Gluck has set this work in a contemporary time setting. She makes reference to certain things such as trains, Hawthorne, electric chairs, a bus stop, which are things that would propel the setting of the story into a more contemporary time period.
What is the tone of this book?
I think the tone of this book is very contemplative, dark, troubled, inquisitive, and questioning.
Describe the narrator(s) and what is of value to them?
The primary narrator seems to be constantly evaluating her own life, death, and the changes and evolution that occurs while establishing identity within one’s lifetime.
What kind of relationship does the Persephone narrator have with the earth in Gluck’s work? Cite at least one passage to back up your argument.
The one thing that I took away from Gluck’s rendition of Persephone’s story is that Persephone becomes displaced as a result of her abduction. Once she is taken from earth and “ravaged” she is no longer the girl she once was and therefore doesn’t have a place on earth, and she most certainly doesn’t belong in the underworld. She belongs neither on earth nor in hell.
To what does the final verse on page 16 refer?
I actually don’t know what the final verses on page 16 are referring to. Obviously it’s a reference to something that would have happened to one of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s characters, but I’m not sure who and what Gluck is alluding to.
Cite a passage in the text where the narrator second guesses her own voice by reconsidering the way in which to describe something. Why would an author show such a thing?
I actually didn’t feel like there was a place in the text where the narrator has been portrayed by the author as “second-guessing” herself. I saw a couple of inconsistencies in the very first pages where she talks about the beauty in the world and how wonderful it is, only to say a couple pages later that “it is true there is not enough beauty in the world” (13). However, I did not how see this or anything else were a good example of the narrator contradicting or second-guessing herself. I felt like the book was progressive mental discussion/analysis/elaboration on the work’s major themes.
What are some key differences between Part I and II of the book?
Part I of the book seems to focus more on the development and childhood of the female narrator, in my opinion. Part II seems to focus more on the second half of life and the mortal death that we all face. Those are my initial impressions. I think she addresses both of these subject matters in either half of the book, but I felt like it was more pronounced in one half versus the other.
How do you understand the ancient myth differently after reading Gluck’s interpretation?
I actually didn’t like Gluck’s 2nd interpretation at all. I much more enjoyed the 1st interpretation better. I don’t know what it was, a stylist difference or what, but the 2nd interpretation was a total turn off. I don’t think that Gluck’s version are any more helpful to reading the myths. I think they were any interesting compliment to the subject matter of the rest of the book; I actually found myself wondering sometimes if the entire book is a contemporary version of the myth, with Persephone as the contemporary narrator. However, I just took Gluck’s versions to be another rendition, and not an aid to actually understanding the myths better. Maybe that would change if I reread the poems a couple more times.
In which time period is Louise Gluck’s Averno set?
For the most part I think that Louise Gluck has set this work in a contemporary time setting. She makes reference to certain things such as trains, Hawthorne, electric chairs, a bus stop, which are things that would propel the setting of the story into a more contemporary time period.
What is the tone of this book?
I think the tone of this book is very contemplative, dark, troubled, inquisitive, and questioning.
Describe the narrator(s) and what is of value to them?
The primary narrator seems to be constantly evaluating her own life, death, and the changes and evolution that occurs while establishing identity within one’s lifetime.
What kind of relationship does the Persephone narrator have with the earth in Gluck’s work? Cite at least one passage to back up your argument.
The one thing that I took away from Gluck’s rendition of Persephone’s story is that Persephone becomes displaced as a result of her abduction. Once she is taken from earth and “ravaged” she is no longer the girl she once was and therefore doesn’t have a place on earth, and she most certainly doesn’t belong in the underworld. She belongs neither on earth nor in hell.
To what does the final verse on page 16 refer?
I actually don’t know what the final verses on page 16 are referring to. Obviously it’s a reference to something that would have happened to one of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s characters, but I’m not sure who and what Gluck is alluding to.
Cite a passage in the text where the narrator second guesses her own voice by reconsidering the way in which to describe something. Why would an author show such a thing?
I actually didn’t feel like there was a place in the text where the narrator has been portrayed by the author as “second-guessing” herself. I saw a couple of inconsistencies in the very first pages where she talks about the beauty in the world and how wonderful it is, only to say a couple pages later that “it is true there is not enough beauty in the world” (13). However, I did not how see this or anything else were a good example of the narrator contradicting or second-guessing herself. I felt like the book was progressive mental discussion/analysis/elaboration on the work’s major themes.
What are some key differences between Part I and II of the book?
Part I of the book seems to focus more on the development and childhood of the female narrator, in my opinion. Part II seems to focus more on the second half of life and the mortal death that we all face. Those are my initial impressions. I think she addresses both of these subject matters in either half of the book, but I felt like it was more pronounced in one half versus the other.
How do you understand the ancient myth differently after reading Gluck’s interpretation?
I actually didn’t like Gluck’s 2nd interpretation at all. I much more enjoyed the 1st interpretation better. I don’t know what it was, a stylist difference or what, but the 2nd interpretation was a total turn off. I don’t think that Gluck’s version are any more helpful to reading the myths. I think they were any interesting compliment to the subject matter of the rest of the book; I actually found myself wondering sometimes if the entire book is a contemporary version of the myth, with Persephone as the contemporary narrator. However, I just took Gluck’s versions to be another rendition, and not an aid to actually understanding the myths better. Maybe that would change if I reread the poems a couple more times.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Writing Journal-Assignment 8
What are the implications of designing a piece which joins the imaginary (characterization) and the real (current event)?
Instinctively, I don’t really like the idea of combining the imaginary and the real. The implications are that an author can write something real without having ever experienced. For me, there seems to be lacking a certain ethos or authorial credibility. Then, again I’m sure that I’ve read many works that do just that, and it seems to work just fine; nothing too fishy about it.
Have you read any authors who do this regularly in their writing? If so, which authors?
I can’t think of any at this time.
As a reader, how can one determine how reliable the depictions are in a piece of literature which presents itself as autobiographical?
I honestly don’t know for sure. This is something I’m still trying to work out my own beliefs about. However, one way might be to use a very specific person as inspiration, as to try to conform somewhat to a real person’s experiences.
Are there more “reliable” forms for depicting/communicating real historical events, especially to future generations, than the personal account? If so, what might they be? If not, why not?
I don’t think so. I think personal accounts/memoirs/autobiographies are generally going to be the most realiable. I think someone who actually has experience in such events will be the best equipped to give reliable accounts of the historical events.
What impression did the writings on the walls of the Museo Storico della Liberazione di Roma have on you?
I thought the walls were astonishing. They made me feel like a was getting a real glimpse into the human elements of what happened to the people who were held there.
Why did you choose to write about the event you did for this piece?
I think the reason why I chose to write about this even is because I wanted to write about something I have been present for in my lifetime. September 11th would have been my first choice for the event, but I couldn’t think up a character situation that I wanted to elaborate on. So I chose the War in Iraq because it’s something that is present in my life all the time. You can't hang at all these days without it coming up in discussion. And I have seen the hostage videos on CNN, when journalists or reporters are captured. I found this to be a very interesting concept for a story, so I went with it.
Instinctively, I don’t really like the idea of combining the imaginary and the real. The implications are that an author can write something real without having ever experienced. For me, there seems to be lacking a certain ethos or authorial credibility. Then, again I’m sure that I’ve read many works that do just that, and it seems to work just fine; nothing too fishy about it.
Have you read any authors who do this regularly in their writing? If so, which authors?
I can’t think of any at this time.
As a reader, how can one determine how reliable the depictions are in a piece of literature which presents itself as autobiographical?
I honestly don’t know for sure. This is something I’m still trying to work out my own beliefs about. However, one way might be to use a very specific person as inspiration, as to try to conform somewhat to a real person’s experiences.
Are there more “reliable” forms for depicting/communicating real historical events, especially to future generations, than the personal account? If so, what might they be? If not, why not?
I don’t think so. I think personal accounts/memoirs/autobiographies are generally going to be the most realiable. I think someone who actually has experience in such events will be the best equipped to give reliable accounts of the historical events.
What impression did the writings on the walls of the Museo Storico della Liberazione di Roma have on you?
I thought the walls were astonishing. They made me feel like a was getting a real glimpse into the human elements of what happened to the people who were held there.
Why did you choose to write about the event you did for this piece?
I think the reason why I chose to write about this even is because I wanted to write about something I have been present for in my lifetime. September 11th would have been my first choice for the event, but I couldn’t think up a character situation that I wanted to elaborate on. So I chose the War in Iraq because it’s something that is present in my life all the time. You can't hang at all these days without it coming up in discussion. And I have seen the hostage videos on CNN, when journalists or reporters are captured. I found this to be a very interesting concept for a story, so I went with it.
Writing Assignment #8
Identity
Is it something you create for yourself or are given?
Does it exist in a name, a degree, a profession, a place?
It’s there, whether you sense it or not.
You won’t know it truly,
Until one day someone tries to strip you of it.
They can veil it or try to remove it from you permanently,
They can even try to terminate it.
It is once you feel it slipping from you completely,
That you realize it fully and struggle dearly.
Struggle dearly to get back to that place where it exists truly and freely.
Memoir of a Journalist in Baghdad
My identity, as I knew it, revolved around a couple things in life. My name given to me at birth, Maggie Avery Graceson, my undergraduate degree from Yale University, and my graduate degree in Journalism from Columbia University. Before the spring of 2004, I was consumed with my ambitions and progressing in my career was all that had mattered. When the opportunity presented itself within my company’s publication, I immediately volunteered to be a correspondent covering the war in Iraq. I knew that I would be chosen; it wasn’t exactly everyone’s first choice to submerge themselves in that environment of international conflict, plus I was one of the top journalists working and no one was as obviously equipped to take on such an important job or subject matter as I was.
I boarded a plane, on March 9, 2004, eager and excited to prove myself as a journalist even more than I already had. My heart fluttered in my chest like a butterfly struggling to release from its cocoon; not because I was scared of the impending danger that I was about to encounter, but I was anxious to have adventures and produce some riveting material. I stepped off the plane and immediately wanted to go maneuver about the city, finding the dangerous, glorious stories that would seal my career as a journalist; I don’t know at that time that I was to become the story.
I met up with the team of people I was to work in the center of Baghdad. We were to stay at this hotel that the U.S. army had taken over and was protecting in order to provide a place for some of the media teams covering the current events of the war. I dropped off my luggage and immediately felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my entire body. I’m here, I’m actually here, I thought to myself. I couldn’t wait to defy all those people back home who said I shouldn’t come here, that I would be in grave danger, blah blah blah. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I would be fine and I’m going to break a great story. Filled with an energy that I could no longer suppress, I grabbed my worn-out messenger bag, my moleskin notebook, my Canon power-shot, and my hardy Nalgene water bottle, ready to explore and research. The daylight had only started to fade, so I figured I would utilize the sun’s last hours of productivity.
Covered in dust, my feet were experiencing unparalleled levels of grim after only thirty minutes of walking. The swarms of warm breezes propelled by dust were overwhelming. It was an entirely new feeling to be in the Middle East – not only were the sights, smells, and sounds completely foreign to me, but it was obvious that I was out of place. I didn’t adorn one of the black veils that cover my body head to toe, including my face. I was out in the open with my American attire and blonde hair waving in the desert air. I hadn’t actually considered it before I left my group, that maybe I shouldn’t have gone out in the city unaccompanied. I was starting to feel a little unsettled with all the attention I seemed to be getting. Two hours had passed and dusk was upon me, so I thought I had better head back to the sanctuary of my hotel.
As I headed back, I began to notice a couple of stragglers that seemed to be following me, but I thought I might just be getting a little paranoid (first day jitters and all). I walked a little more, but I cringed when I realized that I had lost track of how to get back. I reluctantly pulled out my map of Baghdad, betraying my foreigner identity even further. I had just found my location on the map, when a figure dressed in black startled me in my peripheral vision. Before I could act, a strange hand that smelled of earth smothered my mouth and another covered my eyes. I struggled as I felt myself being dragged away, but I was quickly encouraged not to do so by a smash atop my head that rendered my body unconscious.
I woke up after an unknown period of time, to find myself in what appeared to be a cave. How had I gotten there? Who had taken me there? I didn’t know. I sat alone, tied up, slouched against a stone wall for quite some time. My eyes were no longer covered so I could see what was around me, though it was not much since there was barely any light. The only light source dimly shone through a nearby tunnel. I could hear faint voices coming from the end of the tunnel. Rapid, foreign words, that seemed filled with anger came from the distant figures that I could not see.
Someone from the tunnel finally started to approach my direction. The person was tall, but completely covered in haunting black garments. Their head was completely wrapped in a turban as well. I was sure it was a man by the look of the sturdy, rough, thick hands that appeared to be holding another black garment. He started approaching faster, and by this time I thought I might die from heart failure due to the overwhelming amount of fear that I felt inside. I didn’t know who these people were, why they had taken me, what they were going to do with me, and where they had brought me.
The man in black started shouting at me, while making grand, intimidating gestures. I had no idea what he was saying. I just shook my head, but this seemed to infuriate him. I started crying, “Please, don’t hurt me. Please. Let me go. Don’t hurt me.” He yelled at me, “American…no belong here…you pay.” I started sobbing; I couldn’t control my emotions at this point. I felt entirely helpless and my fate was in the hands of someone who hated me or hated what I represented. Finally, he throw at me the black garment he had been waving in the air as he was ranting. I knew what he wanted me to do, but I just fell to the ground in fear and in pain. He shouted and another man came into the space where we were. The second man proceeded to untie my bonds and grab my body, forcing it to stand when I could no longer stand on my own. I was limp with an all-consuming fear, the kind I imagine you experience at the moment that you realize you are going to die.
The man let go as I stood, but they shoved the black burka in my face demanding that I strip myself of my American clothes, anything that retained a sense of my identity. I was to be unidentifiable to myself. But that didn’t mean that I was to loose all identity. I knew that my identity was the very reason these men had taken me in the first place. It had been done before and I fear it would continue to be done as long as the war was going on.
Some how I had been dressed in the burka. Had I dressed myself, did they strip me and dress me with the oppressive garment themselves? Did they mock my female form as I reluctantly acquired their native dress? I don’t remember. I could still remember my name, Maggie. I could remember the faces of my mom and dad. But how much of myself would I remember when I was released, if I was released. As I slumped back down to the floor, I peered through my tears to see what they were maneuvering. It was a tri-pod. Next, they brought in a video camera. I saw them setting it up and I saw as the record button started flashing red. They walked over to me and propped me up. I was going to have my 15 minutes of fame, but never did I guess it would be in a hostage video.
Is it something you create for yourself or are given?
Does it exist in a name, a degree, a profession, a place?
It’s there, whether you sense it or not.
You won’t know it truly,
Until one day someone tries to strip you of it.
They can veil it or try to remove it from you permanently,
They can even try to terminate it.
It is once you feel it slipping from you completely,
That you realize it fully and struggle dearly.
Struggle dearly to get back to that place where it exists truly and freely.
Memoir of a Journalist in Baghdad
My identity, as I knew it, revolved around a couple things in life. My name given to me at birth, Maggie Avery Graceson, my undergraduate degree from Yale University, and my graduate degree in Journalism from Columbia University. Before the spring of 2004, I was consumed with my ambitions and progressing in my career was all that had mattered. When the opportunity presented itself within my company’s publication, I immediately volunteered to be a correspondent covering the war in Iraq. I knew that I would be chosen; it wasn’t exactly everyone’s first choice to submerge themselves in that environment of international conflict, plus I was one of the top journalists working and no one was as obviously equipped to take on such an important job or subject matter as I was.
I boarded a plane, on March 9, 2004, eager and excited to prove myself as a journalist even more than I already had. My heart fluttered in my chest like a butterfly struggling to release from its cocoon; not because I was scared of the impending danger that I was about to encounter, but I was anxious to have adventures and produce some riveting material. I stepped off the plane and immediately wanted to go maneuver about the city, finding the dangerous, glorious stories that would seal my career as a journalist; I don’t know at that time that I was to become the story.
I met up with the team of people I was to work in the center of Baghdad. We were to stay at this hotel that the U.S. army had taken over and was protecting in order to provide a place for some of the media teams covering the current events of the war. I dropped off my luggage and immediately felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my entire body. I’m here, I’m actually here, I thought to myself. I couldn’t wait to defy all those people back home who said I shouldn’t come here, that I would be in grave danger, blah blah blah. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I would be fine and I’m going to break a great story. Filled with an energy that I could no longer suppress, I grabbed my worn-out messenger bag, my moleskin notebook, my Canon power-shot, and my hardy Nalgene water bottle, ready to explore and research. The daylight had only started to fade, so I figured I would utilize the sun’s last hours of productivity.
Covered in dust, my feet were experiencing unparalleled levels of grim after only thirty minutes of walking. The swarms of warm breezes propelled by dust were overwhelming. It was an entirely new feeling to be in the Middle East – not only were the sights, smells, and sounds completely foreign to me, but it was obvious that I was out of place. I didn’t adorn one of the black veils that cover my body head to toe, including my face. I was out in the open with my American attire and blonde hair waving in the desert air. I hadn’t actually considered it before I left my group, that maybe I shouldn’t have gone out in the city unaccompanied. I was starting to feel a little unsettled with all the attention I seemed to be getting. Two hours had passed and dusk was upon me, so I thought I had better head back to the sanctuary of my hotel.
As I headed back, I began to notice a couple of stragglers that seemed to be following me, but I thought I might just be getting a little paranoid (first day jitters and all). I walked a little more, but I cringed when I realized that I had lost track of how to get back. I reluctantly pulled out my map of Baghdad, betraying my foreigner identity even further. I had just found my location on the map, when a figure dressed in black startled me in my peripheral vision. Before I could act, a strange hand that smelled of earth smothered my mouth and another covered my eyes. I struggled as I felt myself being dragged away, but I was quickly encouraged not to do so by a smash atop my head that rendered my body unconscious.
I woke up after an unknown period of time, to find myself in what appeared to be a cave. How had I gotten there? Who had taken me there? I didn’t know. I sat alone, tied up, slouched against a stone wall for quite some time. My eyes were no longer covered so I could see what was around me, though it was not much since there was barely any light. The only light source dimly shone through a nearby tunnel. I could hear faint voices coming from the end of the tunnel. Rapid, foreign words, that seemed filled with anger came from the distant figures that I could not see.
Someone from the tunnel finally started to approach my direction. The person was tall, but completely covered in haunting black garments. Their head was completely wrapped in a turban as well. I was sure it was a man by the look of the sturdy, rough, thick hands that appeared to be holding another black garment. He started approaching faster, and by this time I thought I might die from heart failure due to the overwhelming amount of fear that I felt inside. I didn’t know who these people were, why they had taken me, what they were going to do with me, and where they had brought me.
The man in black started shouting at me, while making grand, intimidating gestures. I had no idea what he was saying. I just shook my head, but this seemed to infuriate him. I started crying, “Please, don’t hurt me. Please. Let me go. Don’t hurt me.” He yelled at me, “American…no belong here…you pay.” I started sobbing; I couldn’t control my emotions at this point. I felt entirely helpless and my fate was in the hands of someone who hated me or hated what I represented. Finally, he throw at me the black garment he had been waving in the air as he was ranting. I knew what he wanted me to do, but I just fell to the ground in fear and in pain. He shouted and another man came into the space where we were. The second man proceeded to untie my bonds and grab my body, forcing it to stand when I could no longer stand on my own. I was limp with an all-consuming fear, the kind I imagine you experience at the moment that you realize you are going to die.
The man let go as I stood, but they shoved the black burka in my face demanding that I strip myself of my American clothes, anything that retained a sense of my identity. I was to be unidentifiable to myself. But that didn’t mean that I was to loose all identity. I knew that my identity was the very reason these men had taken me in the first place. It had been done before and I fear it would continue to be done as long as the war was going on.
Some how I had been dressed in the burka. Had I dressed myself, did they strip me and dress me with the oppressive garment themselves? Did they mock my female form as I reluctantly acquired their native dress? I don’t remember. I could still remember my name, Maggie. I could remember the faces of my mom and dad. But how much of myself would I remember when I was released, if I was released. As I slumped back down to the floor, I peered through my tears to see what they were maneuvering. It was a tri-pod. Next, they brought in a video camera. I saw them setting it up and I saw as the record button started flashing red. They walked over to me and propped me up. I was going to have my 15 minutes of fame, but never did I guess it would be in a hostage video.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Reading Journal-Assignment 8
How does the poem opening the work affect how you read the main body of the text?
For my personal reading experience, the most effective result of the poem opening the story was that it gets you thinking about all those little things that we so often taken for granted.
Sum up what the poem is saying in one sentence.
Appreciate the things of life that we normally take for granted, and if you do not you should be cursed.
What are the key characteristics of the narrator which Levi chooses to present in this work; how would you describe the narrator?
Key characteristics-cynical, not foolishly hopeful, very matter of fact
Cynical (“Only a minority of ingenuous and deluded souls continued to hope…” p. 20)
I would say that the narrator is a great observer of things as they actually happen. I feel like I get all the minute details, as well as the overarching issues, relayed to me in such a way that I have a really clear vision of what is taking place in the text.
Does this add to or take away from your ability to sympathize with the narrator?
I still sympathize with the reader even though he’s not this innocent, naïve, hopeful figure. He is explaining the type of torture and mistreatment that he had to endure and I feel like there’s no way that I wouldn’t be able to sympathize with him. He seems very real to me and I understand the mentality that he’s adopted in order to survive.
Which moment(s) in the text stand out or make the strongest impact on you? Why?
p. 21 “…neither Italian nor German, had the courage to come and see what men do when they know they have to die…But the mothers stayed up to prepare the food for the journey with tender care…Nor did they forget the diapers, the toys, the cushions and the hundred other small things which mothers remember and which children always need. Would you not do the same? If you and your child were going to be killed tomorrow, would you not give him to eat today?”
--This part of the story really impacted me because for one, it shows that it is a disturbing display to watch someone prepare to die, and second, because Levi touches on a really interesting concept; the concept that mothers, good mothers, are still going to provide their children with the things they need even if it’s a “waste” in a sense because next they will be dead.
p. 22 “Dawn came on us like a betrayer; it seemed as though the new sun rose as an ally of our enemies to assist in our destruction. The different emotions that overcame us, or resignation, of futile rebellion, of religious abandon, of fear, of despair, now joined together after a sleepless night in a collective, uncontrolled panic.”
--This moment gives the idea that time is not your friend a whole new meaning. The idea that the “dawn” is the betrayer, bringing with it inevitable death seemed very profound to me. And that this inevitability of destruction instills a panic was very haunting for me when I was reading this.
p. 28 “But there is also a tap – and above it a card which says that it is forbidden to drink as the water is dirty. Nonsense. It seems obvious that the card is a joke, ‘they’ know that we are dying of thirst and they put us in a room, and there is a tap, and Wassertrinken Verboten. I drink and I incite my companions to do likewise, but I have to spit it out, the water is tepid and sweetish, with the smell of a swamp.”
--I love to drink a lot of water all throughout the day. I had a full bottle of water with me when I was reading this. So when I read of these people’s undying thirst my heart truly went out to them. I felt so much physical anxiety and pain for these people at the thought of being taunted with a source of water they could not utilize. I thought the portrayal of their continuous thirst was actually one of the most horrible things to read about (considering how tragic that would be for me if I were in their position).
p. 30 “But by now my belief is that all this is a game to mock and sneer at us. Clearly they will kill us, whoever thinks he is going to live is mad, it means that he has swallowed the bait, but I have not.”
--This moment is so powerful, yet so sad when he realizes that he must accept death and reject all hope of living because that would inevitably lead to his death (the death of his mental sanity, which is death according Levi’s ideas of survival).
p. 43 “We Italians had decided to meet every Sunday evening in a corner of the Lager, but we stopped it at once, because it was too sad to count our numbers and find fewer each time, and to see each other even more deformed and more squalid.”
--I thought this moment that we see that their sense of community and fellowship end, due to the disheartening effect their meetings had on their morale, was so sad. I felt very impacted at this moment reading how they had to stop coming together as a people because they could physically see their own demise.
For my personal reading experience, the most effective result of the poem opening the story was that it gets you thinking about all those little things that we so often taken for granted.
Sum up what the poem is saying in one sentence.
Appreciate the things of life that we normally take for granted, and if you do not you should be cursed.
What are the key characteristics of the narrator which Levi chooses to present in this work; how would you describe the narrator?
Key characteristics-cynical, not foolishly hopeful, very matter of fact
Cynical (“Only a minority of ingenuous and deluded souls continued to hope…” p. 20)
I would say that the narrator is a great observer of things as they actually happen. I feel like I get all the minute details, as well as the overarching issues, relayed to me in such a way that I have a really clear vision of what is taking place in the text.
Does this add to or take away from your ability to sympathize with the narrator?
I still sympathize with the reader even though he’s not this innocent, naïve, hopeful figure. He is explaining the type of torture and mistreatment that he had to endure and I feel like there’s no way that I wouldn’t be able to sympathize with him. He seems very real to me and I understand the mentality that he’s adopted in order to survive.
Which moment(s) in the text stand out or make the strongest impact on you? Why?
p. 21 “…neither Italian nor German, had the courage to come and see what men do when they know they have to die…But the mothers stayed up to prepare the food for the journey with tender care…Nor did they forget the diapers, the toys, the cushions and the hundred other small things which mothers remember and which children always need. Would you not do the same? If you and your child were going to be killed tomorrow, would you not give him to eat today?”
--This part of the story really impacted me because for one, it shows that it is a disturbing display to watch someone prepare to die, and second, because Levi touches on a really interesting concept; the concept that mothers, good mothers, are still going to provide their children with the things they need even if it’s a “waste” in a sense because next they will be dead.
p. 22 “Dawn came on us like a betrayer; it seemed as though the new sun rose as an ally of our enemies to assist in our destruction. The different emotions that overcame us, or resignation, of futile rebellion, of religious abandon, of fear, of despair, now joined together after a sleepless night in a collective, uncontrolled panic.”
--This moment gives the idea that time is not your friend a whole new meaning. The idea that the “dawn” is the betrayer, bringing with it inevitable death seemed very profound to me. And that this inevitability of destruction instills a panic was very haunting for me when I was reading this.
p. 28 “But there is also a tap – and above it a card which says that it is forbidden to drink as the water is dirty. Nonsense. It seems obvious that the card is a joke, ‘they’ know that we are dying of thirst and they put us in a room, and there is a tap, and Wassertrinken Verboten. I drink and I incite my companions to do likewise, but I have to spit it out, the water is tepid and sweetish, with the smell of a swamp.”
--I love to drink a lot of water all throughout the day. I had a full bottle of water with me when I was reading this. So when I read of these people’s undying thirst my heart truly went out to them. I felt so much physical anxiety and pain for these people at the thought of being taunted with a source of water they could not utilize. I thought the portrayal of their continuous thirst was actually one of the most horrible things to read about (considering how tragic that would be for me if I were in their position).
p. 30 “But by now my belief is that all this is a game to mock and sneer at us. Clearly they will kill us, whoever thinks he is going to live is mad, it means that he has swallowed the bait, but I have not.”
--This moment is so powerful, yet so sad when he realizes that he must accept death and reject all hope of living because that would inevitably lead to his death (the death of his mental sanity, which is death according Levi’s ideas of survival).
p. 43 “We Italians had decided to meet every Sunday evening in a corner of the Lager, but we stopped it at once, because it was too sad to count our numbers and find fewer each time, and to see each other even more deformed and more squalid.”
--I thought this moment that we see that their sense of community and fellowship end, due to the disheartening effect their meetings had on their morale, was so sad. I felt very impacted at this moment reading how they had to stop coming together as a people because they could physically see their own demise.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Writing Journal-Assignment 7
What is the reason you chose the option (a, b, or c) you did?
I chose to write my dialogue between the three characters in the painting because I didn’t feel knowledgeable enough to compose a believable conversation between the artist and someone else. I would have wanted to know Artemisia even better before I tried to emulate her, mostly because I have so much respect for her and wouldn’t want to portray her in an inaccurate light.
What is challenging about writing dialogue, especially when you are reliant on it for character development?
The trouble with being reliant on dialogue for character developing is that it makes the “showing, not telling” process even more challenging and time-consuming. For me, I’m the kind of person who gets restless pretty easily when writing and if the process is taking too long, it makes me not want to follow through with the story.
Do visual works add to or detract from your ability to be imaginative in your writing and why?
The visual element of this project actually really inspired me to be more creative. Considering the assignment, I didn’t feel the need to closely adhere to the actual story that is depicted in the painting. I had a lot of fun coming up with an entirely different interpretation of what was going on between the characters.
What are some of the most notable differences between the cities of Rome and Naples; do you think place has an effect on how you write? If yes, how so, and if not, why do you think it is irrelevant?
Naples is most definitely different than Rome. I could sense their character differences immediately. Naples had its own unique qualities and identity apart from Rome. However, I wouldn’t say that this necessarily affected my writing. Although, this was the most violent piece I’ve ever written, and Naples, to me, will always be the city that “violently mugs.”
I chose to write my dialogue between the three characters in the painting because I didn’t feel knowledgeable enough to compose a believable conversation between the artist and someone else. I would have wanted to know Artemisia even better before I tried to emulate her, mostly because I have so much respect for her and wouldn’t want to portray her in an inaccurate light.
What is challenging about writing dialogue, especially when you are reliant on it for character development?
The trouble with being reliant on dialogue for character developing is that it makes the “showing, not telling” process even more challenging and time-consuming. For me, I’m the kind of person who gets restless pretty easily when writing and if the process is taking too long, it makes me not want to follow through with the story.
Do visual works add to or detract from your ability to be imaginative in your writing and why?
The visual element of this project actually really inspired me to be more creative. Considering the assignment, I didn’t feel the need to closely adhere to the actual story that is depicted in the painting. I had a lot of fun coming up with an entirely different interpretation of what was going on between the characters.
What are some of the most notable differences between the cities of Rome and Naples; do you think place has an effect on how you write? If yes, how so, and if not, why do you think it is irrelevant?
Naples is most definitely different than Rome. I could sense their character differences immediately. Naples had its own unique qualities and identity apart from Rome. However, I wouldn’t say that this necessarily affected my writing. Although, this was the most violent piece I’ve ever written, and Naples, to me, will always be the city that “violently mugs.”
Writing Assignment #7
Dialogue within Judith and Holofernes
On this particularly chilling winter evening, the moon glowed, full of mischievous intent. The wind whipped violently through trees and against the nearby tents, jostling emotions and stirring up trouble. Holofernes, Judith, and Abra were having a casual evening hanging out in Holofernes’ tent; playing cards, drinking, joking with one another, just like they did any other night. But something was different this time, maybe it was the wind, maybe it was the devilish, instigator ways of Abra that led things to go gone too far.
“You cheater, I slapped the deck first, those cards were mine,” shouted the defiant Abra at the cheating Holofernes.
“Whatever woman, those cards belong to me, I am the doubles-slapping master,” declared Holofernes. Taunting the women of the card game, he held his arms in the air as if cheering for his own victories falsely won.
“Why must we always have these feuds when playing Neapolitan Mouse Snatch,” whimpered Judith with her concerned brow.
“Just relax, Judith we’re just having some fun, as usual. I thought you liked this game,” replied Abra.
“I…I do…it’s just I hate when you and Holofernes are so competitive,” Judith sheepishly answered.
“Stop your ridiculousness, Judith. There always seems to be something plaguing you,” exclaimed Holofernes. “Try to have a bite more fun. Now pass me the wine and lets keep enjoying ourselves shall we.”
Judith reluctantly took a deep breath to perk herself up for the rest of the evening she would be spending with an intoxicated Holofernes and the always boisterous Abra. She could feel the anxiety looming over her, the way it always did when she would hang out with the two of them. Judith suffered greatly from a lack of self-confidence and tended to get pushed around by her bold friends. Nevertheless, these were two of her best friends and she tolerated their negative qualities in the hopes that the good would make an appearance every so often.
“Some day I am going to be the…ahhh…bestest…ahhh…greatest general ever, juuussst you girls wait and see,” stammered the progressively more inebriated Holofernes. “You see that sword, I am the best swordsmen you two would ever be lucky enough to see.”
Holofernes stumbled from out of his seat, weaving to the left and to the right as he walked over to get his sword.
“See look at how good I am with my sword.” Holofernes swung his sword around as he paced about the tent, almost losing his balance as well as the grip on his weapon several times.
“Sit down you big shot before you hurt someone,” scolded Abra. “Let’s finish this card game already. I am totally going to beat you,” she said with a cocky smile on her face.
Abra and Holofernes were different from Judith in a sense. The three of them had been friends for so long and were similar in many ways. However, Judith lacked the same boldness that Abra and Holofernes seemed to completely possess. Judith was the meekest of the three and was always easily coxed into doing things that were not of her own design.
Judith quietly started to chime into this discussion of future careers. “I want to be a model for a great painter some day. Maybe a painter like Caravaggio or Artemisia.”
“What,” Holofernes scoffed.
“Well…I think that’s what I would like to do. Dress up, be portrayed as someone completely different…than myself,” Judith replied.
“You could never be a model,” stated Holofernes.
“Why…why not?” she asked.
“Please, Judith, you don’t have the faintest clue what a model really does.”
“I…I don’t?”
“And…seriously…you might want to rethink your diet if you’re actually going to pursue being a model. You’re looking a little on the softer side.”
Then Abra finally decided to chime in. “Why the hell are you being so rude, Holofernes, you jackass?”
“Abra, I’m just telling her the truth, unlike you, who would sugar coat every thing for your poor, innocent friend, Judith.”
Abra turned to Judith and said to her under her breath, “Are you going to let him speak to you that way?”
“What?” responded Judith, with tears welling in her eyes and shame smeared all across her face.”
“I asked you if you are going to let him speak to you that way. You should stand up for yourself.”
“I…I should?” replied Judith.
“Yes goddamn it!” Abra said with her teeth grinding and her face completely tensed with furious passion. “You should make him sorry for what he said.”
Judith asked as she sniffled, “But how?”
“If I were you I would make him feel my pain, feel the pain physically. He says mean things to you all the time. Now it’s your turn. Slap him or something. Do it, just do something,” Abra insisted.
“I…I…” Judith stuttered quietly to her scheming friend. And then she started to look around the room for ideas of pay-back. Judith thought to herself about how mad and hurt Holofernes always made her feel. She glanced at him as he was now lounging on his bed chuckling to his-drunken-self; he was thinking he was so cleaver and had got her down for good. “Not any more,” Judith thought to herself.
She had become uncontrollably enraged. She swiftly grabbed Holofernes sword with a look of determination and rage in her eyes. She whipped around with the sword in her right hand and proceeded to attack Holofernes while he was lying helplessly on his bed.
“What are you doing?” screamed Abra.
“Getting my revenge! Help me!” cried Judith.
“Oh God,” gasped Abra.
“If you’re truly my friend, then help me.”
Knowing it was too late for Judith to turn back, as she had already started to strike Holofernes with his own sword, Abra rushed to restrain him. She couldn’t very well have both of her friends die from this situation (wasn’t she the one who suggested the revenge in the first place?).
“Hold his arms down,” Judith demanded. Suddenly the meekest one of their group was now the most aggressively demanding. Maybe there was something in the air of the night.
On this particularly chilling winter evening, the moon glowed, full of mischievous intent. The wind whipped violently through trees and against the nearby tents, jostling emotions and stirring up trouble. Holofernes, Judith, and Abra were having a casual evening hanging out in Holofernes’ tent; playing cards, drinking, joking with one another, just like they did any other night. But something was different this time, maybe it was the wind, maybe it was the devilish, instigator ways of Abra that led things to go gone too far.
“You cheater, I slapped the deck first, those cards were mine,” shouted the defiant Abra at the cheating Holofernes.
“Whatever woman, those cards belong to me, I am the doubles-slapping master,” declared Holofernes. Taunting the women of the card game, he held his arms in the air as if cheering for his own victories falsely won.
“Why must we always have these feuds when playing Neapolitan Mouse Snatch,” whimpered Judith with her concerned brow.
“Just relax, Judith we’re just having some fun, as usual. I thought you liked this game,” replied Abra.
“I…I do…it’s just I hate when you and Holofernes are so competitive,” Judith sheepishly answered.
“Stop your ridiculousness, Judith. There always seems to be something plaguing you,” exclaimed Holofernes. “Try to have a bite more fun. Now pass me the wine and lets keep enjoying ourselves shall we.”
Judith reluctantly took a deep breath to perk herself up for the rest of the evening she would be spending with an intoxicated Holofernes and the always boisterous Abra. She could feel the anxiety looming over her, the way it always did when she would hang out with the two of them. Judith suffered greatly from a lack of self-confidence and tended to get pushed around by her bold friends. Nevertheless, these were two of her best friends and she tolerated their negative qualities in the hopes that the good would make an appearance every so often.
“Some day I am going to be the…ahhh…bestest…ahhh…greatest general ever, juuussst you girls wait and see,” stammered the progressively more inebriated Holofernes. “You see that sword, I am the best swordsmen you two would ever be lucky enough to see.”
Holofernes stumbled from out of his seat, weaving to the left and to the right as he walked over to get his sword.
“See look at how good I am with my sword.” Holofernes swung his sword around as he paced about the tent, almost losing his balance as well as the grip on his weapon several times.
“Sit down you big shot before you hurt someone,” scolded Abra. “Let’s finish this card game already. I am totally going to beat you,” she said with a cocky smile on her face.
Abra and Holofernes were different from Judith in a sense. The three of them had been friends for so long and were similar in many ways. However, Judith lacked the same boldness that Abra and Holofernes seemed to completely possess. Judith was the meekest of the three and was always easily coxed into doing things that were not of her own design.
Judith quietly started to chime into this discussion of future careers. “I want to be a model for a great painter some day. Maybe a painter like Caravaggio or Artemisia.”
“What,” Holofernes scoffed.
“Well…I think that’s what I would like to do. Dress up, be portrayed as someone completely different…than myself,” Judith replied.
“You could never be a model,” stated Holofernes.
“Why…why not?” she asked.
“Please, Judith, you don’t have the faintest clue what a model really does.”
“I…I don’t?”
“And…seriously…you might want to rethink your diet if you’re actually going to pursue being a model. You’re looking a little on the softer side.”
Then Abra finally decided to chime in. “Why the hell are you being so rude, Holofernes, you jackass?”
“Abra, I’m just telling her the truth, unlike you, who would sugar coat every thing for your poor, innocent friend, Judith.”
Abra turned to Judith and said to her under her breath, “Are you going to let him speak to you that way?”
“What?” responded Judith, with tears welling in her eyes and shame smeared all across her face.”
“I asked you if you are going to let him speak to you that way. You should stand up for yourself.”
“I…I should?” replied Judith.
“Yes goddamn it!” Abra said with her teeth grinding and her face completely tensed with furious passion. “You should make him sorry for what he said.”
Judith asked as she sniffled, “But how?”
“If I were you I would make him feel my pain, feel the pain physically. He says mean things to you all the time. Now it’s your turn. Slap him or something. Do it, just do something,” Abra insisted.
“I…I…” Judith stuttered quietly to her scheming friend. And then she started to look around the room for ideas of pay-back. Judith thought to herself about how mad and hurt Holofernes always made her feel. She glanced at him as he was now lounging on his bed chuckling to his-drunken-self; he was thinking he was so cleaver and had got her down for good. “Not any more,” Judith thought to herself.
She had become uncontrollably enraged. She swiftly grabbed Holofernes sword with a look of determination and rage in her eyes. She whipped around with the sword in her right hand and proceeded to attack Holofernes while he was lying helplessly on his bed.
“What are you doing?” screamed Abra.
“Getting my revenge! Help me!” cried Judith.
“Oh God,” gasped Abra.
“If you’re truly my friend, then help me.”
Knowing it was too late for Judith to turn back, as she had already started to strike Holofernes with his own sword, Abra rushed to restrain him. She couldn’t very well have both of her friends die from this situation (wasn’t she the one who suggested the revenge in the first place?).
“Hold his arms down,” Judith demanded. Suddenly the meekest one of their group was now the most aggressively demanding. Maybe there was something in the air of the night.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Reading Journal-Assignment 7
Juvenal is very critical of those who struggle to obtain a great amount of wealth and the exaltation of wealth. The narrator (or Juvenal) immediately starts out on a rant explaining why he satirizes things at all and a huge reason why is because of this infuriating behavior, such as worshipping wealth. He states, “Weatlh has the prior claim, and the badge of the sacred office…Wealth, in our hearts, is set in the veriest Holy of Holies, Though we have not yet built temples in honor of Money” (p. 21). This shows how the population he’s talking about worships money just as if it was a deity or god to be honored in a building resembling something as sacred as a temple.
In Innocents Abroad, Twain creates a more dynamic narrator who is critical of wealth, for example his criticism of the Medici family, but at the same time he appreciates all the products of wealth and it is the measurement by which he judges the value of anything. Through a series of thoughts you eventually come to understand the dichotomy of Twain’s narrator’s ironic concepts regarding wealth, whereas, Juvenal’s narrator is more obvious is his disdain for concerns of wealth.
I think Twain values free speech and depicts his narrator as someone who is annoyed at the Roman people for not taking advantage of this very powerful form. His narrator doesn’t want to be bothered by the impoverished people hanging around the attraction to bother him because it’s really their own fault for not taking charge within their government. I’m pretty confused as to what Juvenal thinks about free speech, but I think he shows his lack of confidence for the people to ever stand up for themselves and be truthful; therefore, this value of free speech is lost on them. Twain represents a very playful attitude about the arts in his story. The narrator mocks St. Peter’s as being too “bulky,” and yet he loves it as well. There’s a certain sarcastic attitude towards Michelangelo and how he was your basic “over-achiever” designing half of Rome, it seemed. Juvenal does not have this playful affection/mocking tone towards the arts, artists, and patrons. He sees the whole system as being corrupt and nasty. I think Juvenal would value “truth” and “control over one’s greed” to be the most noble qualities. He says that, “Virtue alone is proof of nobility” and I think that truth and elimination of greed are two characteristics of nobility that Juvenal is lobbying for.
First Satire: “Meanwhile, all by himself, on a couch unshared, their good king will/Gobble and guzzle the choicest products of land and ocean. Down goes a whole estate; from such luxurious tables,/Broad and antique, down goes a whole estate at one sitting” (p. 22).
I liked this quote because it made me think of the king as sitting down and consumed an entire house. He eats a quantity the size of an entire property/estate/house! I think this is a good use of hyperbole in order to get the idea across that these rich men are consuming so much in excess that it equates an entire household.
Fifth Satire: “To the main event, a battle royal, the freedmen/ Versus the rest of you, with goblets and crockery flying./You stop a jug with your face, pick up a napkin to wipe it” (p. 56).
This quote is crazy because the thought of having your face smashed in with a jug and then wiping yourself off with a napkin, and then for everything to fine and dandy is absurd. I think this is definitely a use of burlesque, since having your face broken is serious and giving it a wipe of the napkin to fix it is silly and ridiculous.
Seventh Satire: “What big lies they puff out as they heave and pant like a bellows/Drooling all over their chins and halfway down to their navels!” (p. 95).
I believe this quote employs some hyperbole and some irony. This quote’s funny because it makes you wonder how any of the lawyers succeed if all we’re to see them as are these drooling idiots in court.
Eighth Satire: “how does he dare be/Proud of the conqueror’s title bestowed, or of the Great Altar,/Hercules’ own, if he’s silly, and avaricious, and softer/Than a Euganean lamb? The chests of his forebears were hairy;/Look at him, though, with his butt all smootherd by Catanian pumices!” (p. 102).
I definitely think this is Juvenal’s use of mock-heroics, parody, and irony all in one. This passage amused me because I can’t image myself looking up to this heroic figure after the humorous physical description that is given. I think that’s the whole point.
In Innocents Abroad, Twain creates a more dynamic narrator who is critical of wealth, for example his criticism of the Medici family, but at the same time he appreciates all the products of wealth and it is the measurement by which he judges the value of anything. Through a series of thoughts you eventually come to understand the dichotomy of Twain’s narrator’s ironic concepts regarding wealth, whereas, Juvenal’s narrator is more obvious is his disdain for concerns of wealth.
I think Twain values free speech and depicts his narrator as someone who is annoyed at the Roman people for not taking advantage of this very powerful form. His narrator doesn’t want to be bothered by the impoverished people hanging around the attraction to bother him because it’s really their own fault for not taking charge within their government. I’m pretty confused as to what Juvenal thinks about free speech, but I think he shows his lack of confidence for the people to ever stand up for themselves and be truthful; therefore, this value of free speech is lost on them. Twain represents a very playful attitude about the arts in his story. The narrator mocks St. Peter’s as being too “bulky,” and yet he loves it as well. There’s a certain sarcastic attitude towards Michelangelo and how he was your basic “over-achiever” designing half of Rome, it seemed. Juvenal does not have this playful affection/mocking tone towards the arts, artists, and patrons. He sees the whole system as being corrupt and nasty. I think Juvenal would value “truth” and “control over one’s greed” to be the most noble qualities. He says that, “Virtue alone is proof of nobility” and I think that truth and elimination of greed are two characteristics of nobility that Juvenal is lobbying for.
First Satire: “Meanwhile, all by himself, on a couch unshared, their good king will/Gobble and guzzle the choicest products of land and ocean. Down goes a whole estate; from such luxurious tables,/Broad and antique, down goes a whole estate at one sitting” (p. 22).
I liked this quote because it made me think of the king as sitting down and consumed an entire house. He eats a quantity the size of an entire property/estate/house! I think this is a good use of hyperbole in order to get the idea across that these rich men are consuming so much in excess that it equates an entire household.
Fifth Satire: “To the main event, a battle royal, the freedmen/ Versus the rest of you, with goblets and crockery flying./You stop a jug with your face, pick up a napkin to wipe it” (p. 56).
This quote is crazy because the thought of having your face smashed in with a jug and then wiping yourself off with a napkin, and then for everything to fine and dandy is absurd. I think this is definitely a use of burlesque, since having your face broken is serious and giving it a wipe of the napkin to fix it is silly and ridiculous.
Seventh Satire: “What big lies they puff out as they heave and pant like a bellows/Drooling all over their chins and halfway down to their navels!” (p. 95).
I believe this quote employs some hyperbole and some irony. This quote’s funny because it makes you wonder how any of the lawyers succeed if all we’re to see them as are these drooling idiots in court.
Eighth Satire: “how does he dare be/Proud of the conqueror’s title bestowed, or of the Great Altar,/Hercules’ own, if he’s silly, and avaricious, and softer/Than a Euganean lamb? The chests of his forebears were hairy;/Look at him, though, with his butt all smootherd by Catanian pumices!” (p. 102).
I definitely think this is Juvenal’s use of mock-heroics, parody, and irony all in one. This passage amused me because I can’t image myself looking up to this heroic figure after the humorous physical description that is given. I think that’s the whole point.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Writing Journal-Assignment 6
So I have changed my mind...I really like writing in first person, for the most part. I find that I tend to use my characters to tell of my own anecdotes, but at the same time changing them in some ways for purposes of the story. However, in this case, I think that my character might be pretty flat. The narrator doesn’t really change at all by the end of the story. I tried to satirize the narrator to a certain extent, but I didn’t really see a way to create a problem or conflict for them to resolve. And the most challenging part of writing the satirical piece was the entire assignment. I mean come on, how can we follow an amazing act like Twain. I didn’t know how to present humor appropriately for this piece. I tried to satirize a couple of figures in this piece, but I just don’t know if I was able to fully satirize one figure in the same way that Twain would have.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Writing Assignment #6
An American Tourist Grocery Shopping in Rome
I enjoy grocery shopping and cooking immensely. So when I managed to book my first trip to Rome, Italy I of course became extremely eager to experience the wonders of shopping at Italian grocery stores with the locals and savor the delectable Italian cuisine. As soon as I arrived at the airport I tracked down a taxi, gave the driver my destination, and headed on to the city. The drive into Rome was absolutely enchanting. The streetlights’ muted glow of yellow illuminated the buildings in the dark night just enough so that I knew they were there and they appeared beautiful in a way that I suppose only Roman buildings could. As the taxi approached the heart of Rome we crossed the Tiber River, which seemed to have the moon glazing its water as it danced upon the crystal lined surface.
My taxi finally arrived at the Campo di Fiori and the driver told me the total cost was 60 euro, which I found to be confusing since the meter in the car read 40.07 euro exactly. As I gestured to the meter, my advocate for an honest price, and presented my driver with a puzzled look he startled to wave his hands and said, “Night fare, night fare.” “Oh ok, I guess that makes more sense,” I thought to myself and just before I started to move for my wallet he said, “I give you special price, I give you special price…50 euro.” How sweet, he was offering me a better price and not trying to scam me at all. I paid the driver without any question of his moral integrity or sincerity. I was excited if this was to be a good foreshadowing of how all the other Italians were going to treat me while visiting their city.
The next morning, I set out determined to resolve my ever-increasing hunger for some really phenomenal Italian food. I wandered down the alleys, with my Eyewitness travel book in hand, wide eyed, looking for something that would resemble a grocery store. With a couple of turns down random alleys in the Campo, some of which seemed to take me in a circle, I found my “Mecca;” I had found a grocery store, named Punto. Granted it was the smallest little hole in the wall establishment I had ever seen and I had expected something a little grander in stature (I thought Italians were suppose to be really serious about their food), but I was so excited all expectations completely escaped from my mind.
I entered, grinning, even drooling a little at the thought of some delicious Italian treats, and then my euphoria was enhanced as I intersected with the strong aroma of something incredibly fishy. The fragrance was so strong I could feel the flesh peeling off from inside my nasals. I have to say it was the most enjoyable burning sensation I had ever experienced. I suppose I have always delight in a bite of physical pain when I’m commencing grocery shopping. I proceeded to commandeer a shopping cart and then continue on into the rest of the store.
As I strolled through the first aisle I took note of the petite size of the store and its adorably dwarfed aisles. This had to be the most claustropho-bically comfortable grocery store I had ever been in. I felt like the other shoppers and I were snuggled together in the aisle of dairy and bread. Considering the size of the aisle, we might as well be camping out somewhere and cramming oh cozily into the same airtight sleeping bag. Grocery shopping here was going to be a great way to get to know the Roman people, and fast.
Next, I perused the aisle swarming with the vast pasta selection. As I pondered my different choices - farfelle, spaghetti, tortellini, linguine – I seemed to be pushed around by the determined Italian shoppers. They grazed and clipped my cart in such routine way; they truly made me feel at home. There’s really nothing like a little battery at the grocery store to make you feel accepted and loved. This hustle and bustle activity continued throughout the rest of the store, all 36 square feet of it. Every time I reached for something someone else was right behind me trying to help themselves to the supplies they obviously needed to have more instantly than myself. When in Rome, I guess people are in more of a hurry. Their pushing and shoving around me couldn’t possibly be a sign of their dislike for me or of their inherently rude natural. This is not even possible.
Finally, it was time to check out after profusely weaving my cart around in order to allow those eager Roman shoppers to pass along their way. Besides my task of shopping is always accomplished in a more efficient manner when I let someone’s or some people’s pushiness guide my every move. I got to the check out line and then it was my turn to pay for my stuff. The clerk rang up my total, 21.38 euro. All I had was one of the 50 euro bills the atm has spit out to me that morning. When I handed the bill to the check out woman, her eyes seemed to radiate a certain hatred for my very existence and her chin curled up as her bushy brows started to severely furrow. Apparently she wanted me to give her some smaller change, but I simply threw my arms up in the air out of helplessness to demonstrate to her that I had no other way to pay, other than that 50 euro bill that was so outrageously unacceptable to her. As she reluctantly counted out the change she need to give to me, I saw that she was so kindly giving me back all of my change in coins alone. Thankfully she was doing this so that my wallet would way at least a metric ton, thus making me feel rich and fully prepared to pay someone in smaller change when the need should arise again.
I enjoy grocery shopping and cooking immensely. So when I managed to book my first trip to Rome, Italy I of course became extremely eager to experience the wonders of shopping at Italian grocery stores with the locals and savor the delectable Italian cuisine. As soon as I arrived at the airport I tracked down a taxi, gave the driver my destination, and headed on to the city. The drive into Rome was absolutely enchanting. The streetlights’ muted glow of yellow illuminated the buildings in the dark night just enough so that I knew they were there and they appeared beautiful in a way that I suppose only Roman buildings could. As the taxi approached the heart of Rome we crossed the Tiber River, which seemed to have the moon glazing its water as it danced upon the crystal lined surface.
My taxi finally arrived at the Campo di Fiori and the driver told me the total cost was 60 euro, which I found to be confusing since the meter in the car read 40.07 euro exactly. As I gestured to the meter, my advocate for an honest price, and presented my driver with a puzzled look he startled to wave his hands and said, “Night fare, night fare.” “Oh ok, I guess that makes more sense,” I thought to myself and just before I started to move for my wallet he said, “I give you special price, I give you special price…50 euro.” How sweet, he was offering me a better price and not trying to scam me at all. I paid the driver without any question of his moral integrity or sincerity. I was excited if this was to be a good foreshadowing of how all the other Italians were going to treat me while visiting their city.
The next morning, I set out determined to resolve my ever-increasing hunger for some really phenomenal Italian food. I wandered down the alleys, with my Eyewitness travel book in hand, wide eyed, looking for something that would resemble a grocery store. With a couple of turns down random alleys in the Campo, some of which seemed to take me in a circle, I found my “Mecca;” I had found a grocery store, named Punto. Granted it was the smallest little hole in the wall establishment I had ever seen and I had expected something a little grander in stature (I thought Italians were suppose to be really serious about their food), but I was so excited all expectations completely escaped from my mind.
I entered, grinning, even drooling a little at the thought of some delicious Italian treats, and then my euphoria was enhanced as I intersected with the strong aroma of something incredibly fishy. The fragrance was so strong I could feel the flesh peeling off from inside my nasals. I have to say it was the most enjoyable burning sensation I had ever experienced. I suppose I have always delight in a bite of physical pain when I’m commencing grocery shopping. I proceeded to commandeer a shopping cart and then continue on into the rest of the store.
As I strolled through the first aisle I took note of the petite size of the store and its adorably dwarfed aisles. This had to be the most claustropho-bically comfortable grocery store I had ever been in. I felt like the other shoppers and I were snuggled together in the aisle of dairy and bread. Considering the size of the aisle, we might as well be camping out somewhere and cramming oh cozily into the same airtight sleeping bag. Grocery shopping here was going to be a great way to get to know the Roman people, and fast.
Next, I perused the aisle swarming with the vast pasta selection. As I pondered my different choices - farfelle, spaghetti, tortellini, linguine – I seemed to be pushed around by the determined Italian shoppers. They grazed and clipped my cart in such routine way; they truly made me feel at home. There’s really nothing like a little battery at the grocery store to make you feel accepted and loved. This hustle and bustle activity continued throughout the rest of the store, all 36 square feet of it. Every time I reached for something someone else was right behind me trying to help themselves to the supplies they obviously needed to have more instantly than myself. When in Rome, I guess people are in more of a hurry. Their pushing and shoving around me couldn’t possibly be a sign of their dislike for me or of their inherently rude natural. This is not even possible.
Finally, it was time to check out after profusely weaving my cart around in order to allow those eager Roman shoppers to pass along their way. Besides my task of shopping is always accomplished in a more efficient manner when I let someone’s or some people’s pushiness guide my every move. I got to the check out line and then it was my turn to pay for my stuff. The clerk rang up my total, 21.38 euro. All I had was one of the 50 euro bills the atm has spit out to me that morning. When I handed the bill to the check out woman, her eyes seemed to radiate a certain hatred for my very existence and her chin curled up as her bushy brows started to severely furrow. Apparently she wanted me to give her some smaller change, but I simply threw my arms up in the air out of helplessness to demonstrate to her that I had no other way to pay, other than that 50 euro bill that was so outrageously unacceptable to her. As she reluctantly counted out the change she need to give to me, I saw that she was so kindly giving me back all of my change in coins alone. Thankfully she was doing this so that my wallet would way at least a metric ton, thus making me feel rich and fully prepared to pay someone in smaller change when the need should arise again.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Reading Journal-Assignment 6
Reading Journal – The Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain
Institutions and figures satirized:
Bankrupt government/Italy: killing people with taxation to salvage itself, starving people to create wonderful churches, full of beggars (compared to America), evil eye and treasury,
Churches of Italy: rich, uselessly decadent,
Medici: tyrannical, indulgent, self-centered
Beggars: friendless orphan
Dominican friars: barefooted rascals, ignorant or illiterate,
Civitavecchia and its people: hot, dirty, disgusting, deathly smelly, populated with stupid, unclean, and talentless people, full of bugs, as advanced as Turkey
America: populated with people that can actually read, lacking in soldiers and priests, much wiser and knowledgeable compared to Romans, provides convicts with duel roles
Modern Romans: boundlessly ignorant, illiterate, simple,
American politicians: must be rich, “ignorant asses,”
Jews: dogs in Italy, humans in America
St. Peter’s: bulky, uncomprehendably large, turns full-grown men into insignificant school boys,
Roman Christians: “good” by torturing, brutal when it comes to converting (the Barbarians)
Pantheon: beautiful, pagan, tricked into a Christian establishment, has pagan elements disguised as Christian (i.e. Venus statue as Mary)
Colosseum: isolated, was the theater of Rome and the entire world
Michelangelo: designed a scary amount of Rome
Tour guides: “know enough English to tangle everything up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it”
Six moments of word choice with humor (identify the humorous word/s):
“The people here live in alleys two yards wide, which have a smell about them which is peculiar but not entertaining. It is well the alleys are not wider, because they hold as much smell now as a person can stand, and of course if they were wider they would hold more, and then the people would die” (193).
---The words “peculiar, entertaining, and die” add the humorous element because it’s funny to think of a smell ever being entertaining. It’s even more so when Twain abruptly says that more of the smell would kill the people, when in actually this would never happen.
“These alleys are paved with stone and carpeted with deceased cats and decayed rags and decomposed vegetable tops and remnants of old boots, all soaked with dishwater, and the people sit around on stools and enjoy it” (193).
---“carpeted with deceased cats” and “people…enjoy it” are so ironically funny together in this sentence.
---People would never “enjoy” alleys that are composed of all these disgusting elements. It’s surprising when Twain adds this fact at the end of a most repulsive description of the city’s streets.
“They have other kinds of insects, but it does not make them arrogant. They are very quiet, unpretending people. They have more of these kind of things than other communities, but they do not boast” (194).
---“arrogant” and “do not boast” provoke the most humor and surprise because you would never consider bragging about have an ample supply of bugs in the city that you live in.
“…if a man be rich he is very greatly honored, and can become a legislator, a governor, a general, a senator, no matter how ignorant an ass he is—just as in our beloved Italy the nobles hold all the great places, even though sometimes they are born noble idiots” (198).
---“ignorant” and “ass” make this idea funny because it’s ridiculous, but true that a stupid man can get into practically any position of power, so long as he has the money; and people will honor and praise him for the things he does out of his own ignorance because he is in this position of power/control
“In that country you might fall from a third-story window three several times, and not mash either a soldier or a priest” (198-199).
---“several times” and “mash” are the funniest part of this sentence. Twain is emphasizing the shocking small amount of soldiers and priests in American compared to Rome, while at the same time making fun of both places for their extreme quantities, or lack there of. He does this using a funny image for the reader so they can his point and have a bizarre image running through their minds at the same time.
“…it is said they even have the privilege of buying land and houses, and owning them themselves, though I doubt that, myself…” (199).
---“privilege” and “I doubt that, myself” are what make Twain’s point so humorous; this idea that Jews are actually treated as people, and have normal (inherently deserved) civil rights, as opposed to how they are treated in Rome. And since Twain is evoking the Roman traveler’s voice it makes it very funny that he would doubt the actual possibility that Jews would be treated so well in America. How could that ever be true (from the view point of the Roman)?
Devices Twain employs to achieve this effect:
In order to achieve the effects of this thoroughly humorous and entertaining satire, Twain uses a lot of irony or an element of surprise and illustrates stereotypes, mundane truths, as well as exaggerations. I found that as the reader I was laughing the most when wrote of ideas that would never actually be true and facts of life that were greatly exaggerated.
Institutions and figures satirized:
Bankrupt government/Italy: killing people with taxation to salvage itself, starving people to create wonderful churches, full of beggars (compared to America), evil eye and treasury,
Churches of Italy: rich, uselessly decadent,
Medici: tyrannical, indulgent, self-centered
Beggars: friendless orphan
Dominican friars: barefooted rascals, ignorant or illiterate,
Civitavecchia and its people: hot, dirty, disgusting, deathly smelly, populated with stupid, unclean, and talentless people, full of bugs, as advanced as Turkey
America: populated with people that can actually read, lacking in soldiers and priests, much wiser and knowledgeable compared to Romans, provides convicts with duel roles
Modern Romans: boundlessly ignorant, illiterate, simple,
American politicians: must be rich, “ignorant asses,”
Jews: dogs in Italy, humans in America
St. Peter’s: bulky, uncomprehendably large, turns full-grown men into insignificant school boys,
Roman Christians: “good” by torturing, brutal when it comes to converting (the Barbarians)
Pantheon: beautiful, pagan, tricked into a Christian establishment, has pagan elements disguised as Christian (i.e. Venus statue as Mary)
Colosseum: isolated, was the theater of Rome and the entire world
Michelangelo: designed a scary amount of Rome
Tour guides: “know enough English to tangle everything up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it”
Six moments of word choice with humor (identify the humorous word/s):
“The people here live in alleys two yards wide, which have a smell about them which is peculiar but not entertaining. It is well the alleys are not wider, because they hold as much smell now as a person can stand, and of course if they were wider they would hold more, and then the people would die” (193).
---The words “peculiar, entertaining, and die” add the humorous element because it’s funny to think of a smell ever being entertaining. It’s even more so when Twain abruptly says that more of the smell would kill the people, when in actually this would never happen.
“These alleys are paved with stone and carpeted with deceased cats and decayed rags and decomposed vegetable tops and remnants of old boots, all soaked with dishwater, and the people sit around on stools and enjoy it” (193).
---“carpeted with deceased cats” and “people…enjoy it” are so ironically funny together in this sentence.
---People would never “enjoy” alleys that are composed of all these disgusting elements. It’s surprising when Twain adds this fact at the end of a most repulsive description of the city’s streets.
“They have other kinds of insects, but it does not make them arrogant. They are very quiet, unpretending people. They have more of these kind of things than other communities, but they do not boast” (194).
---“arrogant” and “do not boast” provoke the most humor and surprise because you would never consider bragging about have an ample supply of bugs in the city that you live in.
“…if a man be rich he is very greatly honored, and can become a legislator, a governor, a general, a senator, no matter how ignorant an ass he is—just as in our beloved Italy the nobles hold all the great places, even though sometimes they are born noble idiots” (198).
---“ignorant” and “ass” make this idea funny because it’s ridiculous, but true that a stupid man can get into practically any position of power, so long as he has the money; and people will honor and praise him for the things he does out of his own ignorance because he is in this position of power/control
“In that country you might fall from a third-story window three several times, and not mash either a soldier or a priest” (198-199).
---“several times” and “mash” are the funniest part of this sentence. Twain is emphasizing the shocking small amount of soldiers and priests in American compared to Rome, while at the same time making fun of both places for their extreme quantities, or lack there of. He does this using a funny image for the reader so they can his point and have a bizarre image running through their minds at the same time.
“…it is said they even have the privilege of buying land and houses, and owning them themselves, though I doubt that, myself…” (199).
---“privilege” and “I doubt that, myself” are what make Twain’s point so humorous; this idea that Jews are actually treated as people, and have normal (inherently deserved) civil rights, as opposed to how they are treated in Rome. And since Twain is evoking the Roman traveler’s voice it makes it very funny that he would doubt the actual possibility that Jews would be treated so well in America. How could that ever be true (from the view point of the Roman)?
Devices Twain employs to achieve this effect:
In order to achieve the effects of this thoroughly humorous and entertaining satire, Twain uses a lot of irony or an element of surprise and illustrates stereotypes, mundane truths, as well as exaggerations. I found that as the reader I was laughing the most when wrote of ideas that would never actually be true and facts of life that were greatly exaggerated.
Monday, February 5, 2007
Writing Journal-Assignment 5
I chose the character I did because I was having a difficult time beginning the assignment, since I kept getting distracted by my music. And then I just decided to let my distraction be my inspiration. I had a really hard time creating a convincing character by “showing and not telling.” This is always my greatest challenge because I find it difficult to not let my writing get hindered by this type of logistical constraint. I felt like because I was trying to show so much, that some of her more substantial characteristics were left behind because I couldn’t just come and tell the reader that she was “x” of “y.” I wrote my story in a completely contemporary setting/circumstance that anyone, especially my peers, would recognize. I find it much more difficult to write in past time periods, rather than the contemporary. To be totally honest I was so completely fatigued by this assignment, it took me hours to try and show versus tell.
Writing Assignment #5
To Be An American Pop Princess
Backstage Jessica could hear the roar of the crowd. The noise of their hands colliding together and their voices straining for volume in order to get her back on stage was deafening. They chanted, “Encore, encore, encore!” Jessica could feel the exhaustion aching in every one of her muscles, but she quickly caught her breath before the various people controlling the show’s logistics acted as her shepherds, maneuvering her back onto stage like she was one from their flocks. She pasted on her million-dollar smile as she skip-ran back to her adoring fans. As she returned to center stage, Jessica saw hundreds of signs all saying the same thing, “I love you Jessica Spears!” or “I’m your #1 fan Jessica!” She gave her signal to the band and dancers, the drums began to rattle, the fans started to scream, and Jessica’s angelic voice started the first line of the last song.
Jessica Christina Spears, born some two decades ago, had always been told that she had the voice of an angel. Upon hearing her sing, friends and family would immediately be floating euphorically on a cloud somewhere high in the heavens. Just as marvelous was, and still is, her unparalleled beauty. Her blonde tresses were just like brilliant rays of sunlight, and her dazzling blue eyes were a portal for anyone who makes eye contact with her, to the crystal blue sky or shimmering sapphire waters of the sea. Jessica definitely had a passion for singing, but it wasn’t as grand as the passion her parents had for her to become the most famous singer possible. Fast forward to today, and Jessica is at the tenth concert of her third world tour, and she’s the most famous pop “princess” from the USA, thus fully realizing the dreams of her parents.
Jessica stepped off the stage for the last time tonight and was whisked away to her dressing room by her team of people. She was dripping wet and her clothes stuck to her as if her sweat and make-up had fused together to become a permanent glue. Her faithful assistant, Candy took on the arduous task of continuously yanking at Jessica’s Dolce & Gabbana leather pants until they would finally released their grip from her perfectly toned thigh muscles. After she had been helped out of her performance clothes Jessica refreshed her aching body with a cleansing shower. While showering, she wondered to herself how she ever got to this place in life. Concert after concert, interviews after interviews, nightly show appearances. Life never seemed to stop and ask her what she wanted any more.
While under the soothing beads of the hot shower her mind took over, slipping into a fanciful state where she thought about her deepest, unfulfilled dreams: going college; friends she wished she had, but was never in one place long enough to make; places in the world she wanted to go to and not remain a captive in the confines of a hotel room. Realizing her mind had run away with itself, Jessica shook her head in order to fling those fanciful ideas out of her mind, got out of the shower, got dressed, and braced herself for the hoards of people she still had to deal with in order for her night to be over.
Just as she was applying the pale green and brown eye shadows that were supposed to highlight her much admired blue eyes, her manager, Jonathan rattled the hinges of the door as he stormed into the room. He informed he that there were already critical reports surfacing that Jessica had lip-synched through the entire concert. Her eyes started to well up from the inside out, as if the weak damns in place were going to let the floodwaters break through. Jessica was so weary of these types of scandals always being brought against her. And for what…so that some ridiculous source could profit by slandering her reputation as an artist. Jessica had always been able to confront the press using her charm and self-confidant image to whole heatedly negate the accusations against her. Jessica exuded confidence to everyone around her, but inside she knew these criticisms constantly being brought against her didn’t help with her inner issues of self-consciousness. She felt like everyone-her fans, her family, her manager-presumed to know her, when she didn’t even know herself any more. Jessica’s world had become increasingly confusing to her as the years progressed.
Seeing that she was upset Jonathan started to caress her neck and weave his fingers through her golden locks. Jessica shrugged her shoulder indicating to him that it was even more upsetting for him to continue his ways of seduction. She turned around giving him an all-knowing glance so he would know it was over. She knew that he was taking advantage of their cozy little situation of mixing business with pleasure, by giving himself extras shares of her earnings when he thought she didn’t know. He needed to know that she didn’t need him to fix her problems any more. She was always the one charming her way out of these scandals the media kept projecting onto her. Things were finally starting to seem clear, after having been so unclear for so long. Jessica knew what she needed to do. Her mind, body, and heart ached from all that she was enduring just appease the public that demanded everything of her. She wanted to fulfill those dreams she had fantasized about for way too long. She didn’t know how, but she was going to remedy this problem of her not running her own life.
Backstage Jessica could hear the roar of the crowd. The noise of their hands colliding together and their voices straining for volume in order to get her back on stage was deafening. They chanted, “Encore, encore, encore!” Jessica could feel the exhaustion aching in every one of her muscles, but she quickly caught her breath before the various people controlling the show’s logistics acted as her shepherds, maneuvering her back onto stage like she was one from their flocks. She pasted on her million-dollar smile as she skip-ran back to her adoring fans. As she returned to center stage, Jessica saw hundreds of signs all saying the same thing, “I love you Jessica Spears!” or “I’m your #1 fan Jessica!” She gave her signal to the band and dancers, the drums began to rattle, the fans started to scream, and Jessica’s angelic voice started the first line of the last song.
Jessica Christina Spears, born some two decades ago, had always been told that she had the voice of an angel. Upon hearing her sing, friends and family would immediately be floating euphorically on a cloud somewhere high in the heavens. Just as marvelous was, and still is, her unparalleled beauty. Her blonde tresses were just like brilliant rays of sunlight, and her dazzling blue eyes were a portal for anyone who makes eye contact with her, to the crystal blue sky or shimmering sapphire waters of the sea. Jessica definitely had a passion for singing, but it wasn’t as grand as the passion her parents had for her to become the most famous singer possible. Fast forward to today, and Jessica is at the tenth concert of her third world tour, and she’s the most famous pop “princess” from the USA, thus fully realizing the dreams of her parents.
Jessica stepped off the stage for the last time tonight and was whisked away to her dressing room by her team of people. She was dripping wet and her clothes stuck to her as if her sweat and make-up had fused together to become a permanent glue. Her faithful assistant, Candy took on the arduous task of continuously yanking at Jessica’s Dolce & Gabbana leather pants until they would finally released their grip from her perfectly toned thigh muscles. After she had been helped out of her performance clothes Jessica refreshed her aching body with a cleansing shower. While showering, she wondered to herself how she ever got to this place in life. Concert after concert, interviews after interviews, nightly show appearances. Life never seemed to stop and ask her what she wanted any more.
While under the soothing beads of the hot shower her mind took over, slipping into a fanciful state where she thought about her deepest, unfulfilled dreams: going college; friends she wished she had, but was never in one place long enough to make; places in the world she wanted to go to and not remain a captive in the confines of a hotel room. Realizing her mind had run away with itself, Jessica shook her head in order to fling those fanciful ideas out of her mind, got out of the shower, got dressed, and braced herself for the hoards of people she still had to deal with in order for her night to be over.
Just as she was applying the pale green and brown eye shadows that were supposed to highlight her much admired blue eyes, her manager, Jonathan rattled the hinges of the door as he stormed into the room. He informed he that there were already critical reports surfacing that Jessica had lip-synched through the entire concert. Her eyes started to well up from the inside out, as if the weak damns in place were going to let the floodwaters break through. Jessica was so weary of these types of scandals always being brought against her. And for what…so that some ridiculous source could profit by slandering her reputation as an artist. Jessica had always been able to confront the press using her charm and self-confidant image to whole heatedly negate the accusations against her. Jessica exuded confidence to everyone around her, but inside she knew these criticisms constantly being brought against her didn’t help with her inner issues of self-consciousness. She felt like everyone-her fans, her family, her manager-presumed to know her, when she didn’t even know herself any more. Jessica’s world had become increasingly confusing to her as the years progressed.
Seeing that she was upset Jonathan started to caress her neck and weave his fingers through her golden locks. Jessica shrugged her shoulder indicating to him that it was even more upsetting for him to continue his ways of seduction. She turned around giving him an all-knowing glance so he would know it was over. She knew that he was taking advantage of their cozy little situation of mixing business with pleasure, by giving himself extras shares of her earnings when he thought she didn’t know. He needed to know that she didn’t need him to fix her problems any more. She was always the one charming her way out of these scandals the media kept projecting onto her. Things were finally starting to seem clear, after having been so unclear for so long. Jessica knew what she needed to do. Her mind, body, and heart ached from all that she was enduring just appease the public that demanded everything of her. She wanted to fulfill those dreams she had fantasized about for way too long. She didn’t know how, but she was going to remedy this problem of her not running her own life.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Reading Journal-Assignment 5
Middlemarch, by George Eliot
Dorothea - idealist, naïve, selfish, romantic, neglected/unfulfilled
shows: “all this vast wreck of ambitious ideals, sensuous and spiritual, mixed confusedly with the signs of breathing forgetfulness and degradation, at first jarred her as with an electric shock, and then urged themselves on her with the ache belonging to a glut of confused ideas which check the flow of emotion.” p. 181
shows: “…Dorothea’s ideas and resolves seemed like melting ice floating and lost in the warm flood of which they had been but another form.” p. 186
tell: This is showing her idealistic ideals colliding with reality.
Mr. Casaubon - oblivious, misunderstood, dull, routine-stricken, unimaginative
shows: “ ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Casaubon, with that peculiar pitch of voice which makes the word half a negative.” P.187
tell: This tells that Mr. Casaubon says one thing, but means another; he’s not always entirely honest.
Will Ladislaw - charming, arrogant, questionable, unrestrained, competitive
shows: “Will Ladislaw’s smile was delightful, unless you were angry with him beforehand: it was a gush of inward light illuminating the transparent skin as well as the eyes, and playing about every curve and lines as if some Ariel were touching them with a new charm, and banishing for ever the traces of moodiness.” p. 192
tell: This tells the reader that he’s a man who is immediately charming upon meeting him. He has smile that radiates and will make people happy and feel up-lighted by being in his “smiley” company
In Eliot’s opinion (found in On Realism) what are some of the author’s most important responsibilities when designing characters for fiction?
Do you think she “practices what she preaches” in Middlemarch? Why or why not?
Yes, I think her characters feel very real to the reader. The conflict is realistic and complicated. Dorothea seems especially real to me because there are times in the story where I truly sympathize with her, even like her, and other times I really don’t like who she is. I think characters seems the most real when they are conflicted and have multiple qualities about them that are viewed as both positive and negative.
Dorothea - idealist, naïve, selfish, romantic, neglected/unfulfilled
shows: “all this vast wreck of ambitious ideals, sensuous and spiritual, mixed confusedly with the signs of breathing forgetfulness and degradation, at first jarred her as with an electric shock, and then urged themselves on her with the ache belonging to a glut of confused ideas which check the flow of emotion.” p. 181
shows: “…Dorothea’s ideas and resolves seemed like melting ice floating and lost in the warm flood of which they had been but another form.” p. 186
tell: This is showing her idealistic ideals colliding with reality.
Mr. Casaubon - oblivious, misunderstood, dull, routine-stricken, unimaginative
shows: “ ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Casaubon, with that peculiar pitch of voice which makes the word half a negative.” P.187
tell: This tells that Mr. Casaubon says one thing, but means another; he’s not always entirely honest.
Will Ladislaw - charming, arrogant, questionable, unrestrained, competitive
shows: “Will Ladislaw’s smile was delightful, unless you were angry with him beforehand: it was a gush of inward light illuminating the transparent skin as well as the eyes, and playing about every curve and lines as if some Ariel were touching them with a new charm, and banishing for ever the traces of moodiness.” p. 192
tell: This tells the reader that he’s a man who is immediately charming upon meeting him. He has smile that radiates and will make people happy and feel up-lighted by being in his “smiley” company
In Eliot’s opinion (found in On Realism) what are some of the author’s most important responsibilities when designing characters for fiction?
Do you think she “practices what she preaches” in Middlemarch? Why or why not?
Yes, I think her characters feel very real to the reader. The conflict is realistic and complicated. Dorothea seems especially real to me because there are times in the story where I truly sympathize with her, even like her, and other times I really don’t like who she is. I think characters seems the most real when they are conflicted and have multiple qualities about them that are viewed as both positive and negative.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Writing Journal-Assignment 4
What did you learn from writing this piece?
What I learned from this piece is that I actually feel uncomfortable writing in first person. It feels easier, as far as composition is concerned-I usually can write faster in first person, but I feel like my writing is much less formal and polished. I had the unique experience of writing both my fables in first person, since I wrote my first fable without knowing that we would be required to write our second fable only in first person. I chose to write my first fable in first person just as a challenge, since I never write anything in first person, always in third person. It’s definitely a completely different experience. Also, both the stories that I’ve told in my fables were personal anecdotes (so it made sense for me to write these in first person). So ultimately what I’ve learned from writing this piece is that I don’t really enjoy or think that my work is of the same quality when I write in first person.
What I learned from this piece is that I actually feel uncomfortable writing in first person. It feels easier, as far as composition is concerned-I usually can write faster in first person, but I feel like my writing is much less formal and polished. I had the unique experience of writing both my fables in first person, since I wrote my first fable without knowing that we would be required to write our second fable only in first person. I chose to write my first fable in first person just as a challenge, since I never write anything in first person, always in third person. It’s definitely a completely different experience. Also, both the stories that I’ve told in my fables were personal anecdotes (so it made sense for me to write these in first person). So ultimately what I’ve learned from writing this piece is that I don’t really enjoy or think that my work is of the same quality when I write in first person.
Writing Assignment #4
The Worse Plane Ride Ever
I love flying on planes. I have never been afraid of plane rides due to a fear of heights, small spaces, strange people, airlines’ incompetent tendencies, or any other reasons why people dislike flying. So when I was at the airport on the first day of the new year of 2007, awaiting my flight that would whisk me away to Rome for the next three months, I felt no anxiety whatsoever. I had always had the best experiences on all of my previous flights. I had been especially fortunate to have such enjoyable flights when I previously traveled with British Airways; which is why I made sure to book my ticket with them – so I could assure myself the best possible conditions for such a long flight across the Atlantic Ocean.
At 6:15 pm I boarded, what would end up being, the fatefully horrible flight (my good luck with flights was bound to come to an end at some time, right?). I quickly found my seat, anxious to commence yet another wonderful trip far up in the sky. As I sat down I noticed that I was seated next to a family of three – a mother, young daughter, and even younger son, but my attention was diverted from the ones who would be sitting next to me for the next ten hours when I noticed that my television screen was not working. Everyone else around me had television screens that were flashing images of green and blue and white, while mine hopelessly sat there with a lame black screen. I flagged down the next flight attendant that I saw and proceeded to tell her of my problem. She informed me that the flight was completely full which didn’t allow her to give me another seat and that all the consolation she had to offer me was a comment card. Upon hearing the situation the mother I had previously noticed sitting three seats down from me offered to switch me seats. Not able to speak much English she just gestured as if to say “it doesn’t matter” when I showed my expression of surprise and questioned the certainty of her offer. She conveyed to me that all she wanted to do was sleep and she was fine so long as her two children had a functioning television to keep them occupied on the long flight. So we made the switch and I had a working television for the flight I had so looked forward to.
From then on the flight seemed to continue on just fine. I was very excited to watch a couple of movies I hadn’t seen before and sleep a couple hours before transferring planes in London. Half way through my first movie I began to become very drowsy. It was beginning to be late at night and I had stayed up very late the night before packing and bringing in the new year. So I started to drift off to sleep, but just then the young boy, who had been so peacefully sleeping beforehand, woke up and was immediately upset about something. His mother couldn’t seem to do anything that would comfort and, more importantly, silence the child. He cried for what seemed like forever. Finally, I offered him a lollipop I had tucked away in my carry on. This worked as a solution, but only temporarily. He eventually went back to sleep after comforting his pallet with my delicious red lollipop and visions of Shrek on his t.v. screen. But without fail he would wake up ever hour it seemed, thus waking me up with his fits of wailing. The even greater problem at hand with my seating situation is that ever time he was asleep and I myself was attempting to fall into a slumber, his sister who was sitting next to me would manage to elbow me in the side as soon as I had just dozed off into an inevitably impossible sleep. This is the pattern I experienced for the whole duration of my not so wonderful flight on British Airways. And the child’s crying only managed to get worse when we were landing.
I was so happy to get off of my flight. I felt like I had been released from a jail cell of airline torture. I couldn’t believe how badly my flight ended up being. Now, instead of fearing the flying portion of my flights I knew that I was going to forever fear little children, with their incessant crying, screaming, intrusive motion, and corruption of everything I “enjoyed” about flying. Trying to shake off my horrible flight I focused on getting my luggage and moving onward to the Eternal City with a bunch of my new friends. We all waited and one by one, everyone’s bags arrived on the baggage claim track, except mine. After watching everyone, aside from me, reclaim their suitcases my program director told me is was time for me to face the fact that my luggage had been delayed or lost. I went and waited to speak with the man in charge of the lost/delayed baggage, who only spoke Italian. Luckily, my program director’s friend who was traveling us was able to speak for me and figure out what the problem was. The airline had somehow not managed to get my baggage on the right flight. This was good because it meant that my luggage wasn’t lost, but it did most unfortunately mean that I would be without my things until late the next day.
After I had my delayed baggage claim and delivery for the next day all arranged, I set off with my fellow program attendees on the bus that we had arranged to take us into Rome. The drive into Rome was an adventure in itself, with all the dazzling sites of the city at night. The visions of the Tiber River or the Piazza Venezia, illuminated at night, were just enough to wet my thirst for the Rome I had dreamt about for the past several months. We got to our hotel, ate some dinner, and then immediately got some much needed rest. The thought about sleeping in the same clothes I had been traveling in for the past eighteen hours was most unpleasant, but I was so tired that nothing was going to ruin this opportunity to finally sleep.
The next day, we set off for the Rome Center well rested and exhilarated. We made it to our apartments in the Campo de Fiori, after putting down a deposit for our keys and as well as our apartment. I definitely felt saddened to be going to my new apartment without my things, but I tried to take comfort in the assurance that my bags were supposed to show up around 1:30 in the afternoon. Sure enough they were at the Rome Center when I went back that afternoon. I immediately inspected my bags hoping that everything would be just as I had left it when I checked them in Seattle. Unfortunately, I discovered that a perfume of mine had been stolen from my belongings, but I was glad to get my things back as opposed to them being lost, that I was able to move on from this loss and enjoy what had been safely returned to me.
I love flying on planes. I have never been afraid of plane rides due to a fear of heights, small spaces, strange people, airlines’ incompetent tendencies, or any other reasons why people dislike flying. So when I was at the airport on the first day of the new year of 2007, awaiting my flight that would whisk me away to Rome for the next three months, I felt no anxiety whatsoever. I had always had the best experiences on all of my previous flights. I had been especially fortunate to have such enjoyable flights when I previously traveled with British Airways; which is why I made sure to book my ticket with them – so I could assure myself the best possible conditions for such a long flight across the Atlantic Ocean.
At 6:15 pm I boarded, what would end up being, the fatefully horrible flight (my good luck with flights was bound to come to an end at some time, right?). I quickly found my seat, anxious to commence yet another wonderful trip far up in the sky. As I sat down I noticed that I was seated next to a family of three – a mother, young daughter, and even younger son, but my attention was diverted from the ones who would be sitting next to me for the next ten hours when I noticed that my television screen was not working. Everyone else around me had television screens that were flashing images of green and blue and white, while mine hopelessly sat there with a lame black screen. I flagged down the next flight attendant that I saw and proceeded to tell her of my problem. She informed me that the flight was completely full which didn’t allow her to give me another seat and that all the consolation she had to offer me was a comment card. Upon hearing the situation the mother I had previously noticed sitting three seats down from me offered to switch me seats. Not able to speak much English she just gestured as if to say “it doesn’t matter” when I showed my expression of surprise and questioned the certainty of her offer. She conveyed to me that all she wanted to do was sleep and she was fine so long as her two children had a functioning television to keep them occupied on the long flight. So we made the switch and I had a working television for the flight I had so looked forward to.
From then on the flight seemed to continue on just fine. I was very excited to watch a couple of movies I hadn’t seen before and sleep a couple hours before transferring planes in London. Half way through my first movie I began to become very drowsy. It was beginning to be late at night and I had stayed up very late the night before packing and bringing in the new year. So I started to drift off to sleep, but just then the young boy, who had been so peacefully sleeping beforehand, woke up and was immediately upset about something. His mother couldn’t seem to do anything that would comfort and, more importantly, silence the child. He cried for what seemed like forever. Finally, I offered him a lollipop I had tucked away in my carry on. This worked as a solution, but only temporarily. He eventually went back to sleep after comforting his pallet with my delicious red lollipop and visions of Shrek on his t.v. screen. But without fail he would wake up ever hour it seemed, thus waking me up with his fits of wailing. The even greater problem at hand with my seating situation is that ever time he was asleep and I myself was attempting to fall into a slumber, his sister who was sitting next to me would manage to elbow me in the side as soon as I had just dozed off into an inevitably impossible sleep. This is the pattern I experienced for the whole duration of my not so wonderful flight on British Airways. And the child’s crying only managed to get worse when we were landing.
I was so happy to get off of my flight. I felt like I had been released from a jail cell of airline torture. I couldn’t believe how badly my flight ended up being. Now, instead of fearing the flying portion of my flights I knew that I was going to forever fear little children, with their incessant crying, screaming, intrusive motion, and corruption of everything I “enjoyed” about flying. Trying to shake off my horrible flight I focused on getting my luggage and moving onward to the Eternal City with a bunch of my new friends. We all waited and one by one, everyone’s bags arrived on the baggage claim track, except mine. After watching everyone, aside from me, reclaim their suitcases my program director told me is was time for me to face the fact that my luggage had been delayed or lost. I went and waited to speak with the man in charge of the lost/delayed baggage, who only spoke Italian. Luckily, my program director’s friend who was traveling us was able to speak for me and figure out what the problem was. The airline had somehow not managed to get my baggage on the right flight. This was good because it meant that my luggage wasn’t lost, but it did most unfortunately mean that I would be without my things until late the next day.
After I had my delayed baggage claim and delivery for the next day all arranged, I set off with my fellow program attendees on the bus that we had arranged to take us into Rome. The drive into Rome was an adventure in itself, with all the dazzling sites of the city at night. The visions of the Tiber River or the Piazza Venezia, illuminated at night, were just enough to wet my thirst for the Rome I had dreamt about for the past several months. We got to our hotel, ate some dinner, and then immediately got some much needed rest. The thought about sleeping in the same clothes I had been traveling in for the past eighteen hours was most unpleasant, but I was so tired that nothing was going to ruin this opportunity to finally sleep.
The next day, we set off for the Rome Center well rested and exhilarated. We made it to our apartments in the Campo de Fiori, after putting down a deposit for our keys and as well as our apartment. I definitely felt saddened to be going to my new apartment without my things, but I tried to take comfort in the assurance that my bags were supposed to show up around 1:30 in the afternoon. Sure enough they were at the Rome Center when I went back that afternoon. I immediately inspected my bags hoping that everything would be just as I had left it when I checked them in Seattle. Unfortunately, I discovered that a perfume of mine had been stolen from my belongings, but I was glad to get my things back as opposed to them being lost, that I was able to move on from this loss and enjoy what had been safely returned to me.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Writing Journal-Assignment 3
My process simply involved recalling a certain Roman shopping trip that had happened recently; I definitely thought it seemed like the perfect anecdote for the fable formula. The moral is “good things come to those who wait and preserve in times of trial.” Believe me, searching for the right pair of boots is a trying endeavor. I don’t know how much of a surprise my reversal is. I think the reader can sense it building to a sort of “happily ever after” type of ending. It’s cliché, but I think it works. I didn’t actually return to Machiavelli’s text during the writing process. I just tried to follow the formula that we learned during our in class exercise. The most challenging part of the assignment, for me, was maintaining a certain element of surprise. I really liked how Machiavelli’s story had lots of twists in the plot. I would like to better emulate that if I were to write another fable. I think writing this story will help me to think/construct about my action points better in my next piece.
Writing Assignment #3
Quest for the perfect pairs of boots
This week a quest of mine finally came to an end. This quest was my search to find the perfect pair of boots. Black, leather, knee-high, rounded-toe, low heel, hard sole, size ten (or size 41 while in Italy) - these were the necessary qualities if my criteria of perfection were to be satisfied. This quest had begun five years ago when my former pair of perfect boots was compelled to retire due to an extensive amount of usage and their failing status of fashion. Ever since then, my longing and hunt for a new pair was an ongoing journey, expedition, or “quest” to find my new pair of perfect boots. At not point, during this quest did I want to settle for a pair that was less opulent and ideal than what I had conjured up in my desires; however, a lack of success often made me think I would inevitably be forced to compromise or completely forego my impossibly selective, but perfectly crafted image of my ideal boots. Nevertheless, all my fears of a failed quest were ended on a fateful Friday.
At approximately one in the afternoon, after a deliciously satisfying meal of Chinese food, I set out on yet another expedition that would hopefully bring my quest to its completion. The sun shone brightly as if it were my beacon of divine guidance; its rays of gold illuminated the promising shops that lined this particular street of shoppers’ hopes and dreams. And for some reason I felt more encouraged than usual. I felt the predisposed feelings of failure and incompletion dissipate, while the sense of invigorated excitement and thrilling optimism flowed throughout my entire body. I knew that there were many stores waiting for my surveying eye and the chances of a triumphant find were high than usual.
As Paige and I began walking I literally feel my euros burning a whole in wallet. We entered our first store, hoping a serious conquest of might occur. My eyes quickly scanned the merchandise waiting behind the protective glass windows. Brown, pointed-toe, high-heels, synthetic materials - I felt my heart sink. Without delay, Paige and I took our leave of that particular store, concluding that it was not here that we would find my boots. We stepped out of the store with our heads hanging a little lower than before we visited the store.
Even though our shopping ambitions had been slightly injured, we trudged forward on the street that promised us so much possibility. We went from store, to store, to store, and had no luck. Each time we left another store unsuccessful I could not help, but apologize to my shopping partner profusely that she had to endure my extremely picky nature. We had already passed half of the afternoon, searching in everyday store we passed that had any sort of shoe display. Eventually, we arrived at a store called, Blue Fly. As I stepped in I was awed by the metallic, futuristic grey walls. I could feel the clerk’s glance continuously locked on me while I browsed the selection of merchandise. Neither Paige nor I seemed to be able to find a pair of boots that would fulfill the daunting criteria I had strictly crystallized.
Then, out of nowhere that I had foreseen, a hidden nook of shelves with more boots appeared. My elation was only spurred on more when I saw them – the boots that I thought would bring it all to an end. I took them into my hands and rubbed the ravenous black leather. They had all the qualities I wanted in my perfect boots, except that they didn’t have a solid sole (which was the one criterion I was willing to compromise). But, regrettably I saw the price tag, and they cost much more than I was ready to pay on a pair that had a flawed quality (the sole). I made a mental note that I could always come back to this store if I should become weak in my quest, and choose of pair that was not ideal.
Thus, the quest continued and we forced our weary selves to finish shopping in all the shops on that street. Our eyes had glazed over into a zombie like state. The shoes and stores had blended into blur of sights and places. I no longer remembered what we had seen or could comprehend exactly what we were looking at. Eventually, we came to the end of the extensive road of shoppers’ dreams and sadly had not concluded with success. Exhausted, our bodies propelled us homeward bound so that we might relieve ourselves from one of the longest days of shopping. I consoled myself with thoughts of some day finding my, what seemed to be imaginary, perfect pair of boots. “Good things come to those who wait, right?” I told, yet questioned myself. As we neared the Campo de’ Fiori, I had vague glimmer of hope come to mind. I remembered a certain shoe store a friend had told me about. I turned to Paige with a sheepish and concerned look in my eye and proceeded to ask her if we might make one more stop. All the while thinking how we would just be adding insult to our shopping injuries. I did not expect success, but I knew that I had to give any possible option a go.
We tiredly and quickly surveyed the selection for anything that might resemble this pair of boots that I had sought out for so long. Again, I still did not see anything that could intrigue my desire to purchase. Paige seemed to be having some luck in finding a pair of boots that were to her liking. I took a seat to rest my feet that were crying out to me in desperation. Waiting patiently for my fellow shopper to test out her find, I still browsed with my eyes in order to pass the time. The next thing I knew I saw them – the boots, my boots! I could only see the toe peeking out from atop a high self that I had not seen until just then. The clerk brought them down to the ground, I slipped my foot into the first boot, and it was as if I was Cinderella sliding on her long, lost glass slipper. I had finally found my perfect pair of boots; they were black, leather, rounded at the toe, had a hard (not rubbery) sole, and were as size 41. I walked around just a little bit to make sure they were a good fit, but I already knew that my quest was finally at its end. My patience for more than five years had paid off. I had found the best pair Italian boots a shopper could ever want; at last, my waiting and efforts had been completely validated.
This week a quest of mine finally came to an end. This quest was my search to find the perfect pair of boots. Black, leather, knee-high, rounded-toe, low heel, hard sole, size ten (or size 41 while in Italy) - these were the necessary qualities if my criteria of perfection were to be satisfied. This quest had begun five years ago when my former pair of perfect boots was compelled to retire due to an extensive amount of usage and their failing status of fashion. Ever since then, my longing and hunt for a new pair was an ongoing journey, expedition, or “quest” to find my new pair of perfect boots. At not point, during this quest did I want to settle for a pair that was less opulent and ideal than what I had conjured up in my desires; however, a lack of success often made me think I would inevitably be forced to compromise or completely forego my impossibly selective, but perfectly crafted image of my ideal boots. Nevertheless, all my fears of a failed quest were ended on a fateful Friday.
At approximately one in the afternoon, after a deliciously satisfying meal of Chinese food, I set out on yet another expedition that would hopefully bring my quest to its completion. The sun shone brightly as if it were my beacon of divine guidance; its rays of gold illuminated the promising shops that lined this particular street of shoppers’ hopes and dreams. And for some reason I felt more encouraged than usual. I felt the predisposed feelings of failure and incompletion dissipate, while the sense of invigorated excitement and thrilling optimism flowed throughout my entire body. I knew that there were many stores waiting for my surveying eye and the chances of a triumphant find were high than usual.
As Paige and I began walking I literally feel my euros burning a whole in wallet. We entered our first store, hoping a serious conquest of might occur. My eyes quickly scanned the merchandise waiting behind the protective glass windows. Brown, pointed-toe, high-heels, synthetic materials - I felt my heart sink. Without delay, Paige and I took our leave of that particular store, concluding that it was not here that we would find my boots. We stepped out of the store with our heads hanging a little lower than before we visited the store.
Even though our shopping ambitions had been slightly injured, we trudged forward on the street that promised us so much possibility. We went from store, to store, to store, and had no luck. Each time we left another store unsuccessful I could not help, but apologize to my shopping partner profusely that she had to endure my extremely picky nature. We had already passed half of the afternoon, searching in everyday store we passed that had any sort of shoe display. Eventually, we arrived at a store called, Blue Fly. As I stepped in I was awed by the metallic, futuristic grey walls. I could feel the clerk’s glance continuously locked on me while I browsed the selection of merchandise. Neither Paige nor I seemed to be able to find a pair of boots that would fulfill the daunting criteria I had strictly crystallized.
Then, out of nowhere that I had foreseen, a hidden nook of shelves with more boots appeared. My elation was only spurred on more when I saw them – the boots that I thought would bring it all to an end. I took them into my hands and rubbed the ravenous black leather. They had all the qualities I wanted in my perfect boots, except that they didn’t have a solid sole (which was the one criterion I was willing to compromise). But, regrettably I saw the price tag, and they cost much more than I was ready to pay on a pair that had a flawed quality (the sole). I made a mental note that I could always come back to this store if I should become weak in my quest, and choose of pair that was not ideal.
Thus, the quest continued and we forced our weary selves to finish shopping in all the shops on that street. Our eyes had glazed over into a zombie like state. The shoes and stores had blended into blur of sights and places. I no longer remembered what we had seen or could comprehend exactly what we were looking at. Eventually, we came to the end of the extensive road of shoppers’ dreams and sadly had not concluded with success. Exhausted, our bodies propelled us homeward bound so that we might relieve ourselves from one of the longest days of shopping. I consoled myself with thoughts of some day finding my, what seemed to be imaginary, perfect pair of boots. “Good things come to those who wait, right?” I told, yet questioned myself. As we neared the Campo de’ Fiori, I had vague glimmer of hope come to mind. I remembered a certain shoe store a friend had told me about. I turned to Paige with a sheepish and concerned look in my eye and proceeded to ask her if we might make one more stop. All the while thinking how we would just be adding insult to our shopping injuries. I did not expect success, but I knew that I had to give any possible option a go.
We tiredly and quickly surveyed the selection for anything that might resemble this pair of boots that I had sought out for so long. Again, I still did not see anything that could intrigue my desire to purchase. Paige seemed to be having some luck in finding a pair of boots that were to her liking. I took a seat to rest my feet that were crying out to me in desperation. Waiting patiently for my fellow shopper to test out her find, I still browsed with my eyes in order to pass the time. The next thing I knew I saw them – the boots, my boots! I could only see the toe peeking out from atop a high self that I had not seen until just then. The clerk brought them down to the ground, I slipped my foot into the first boot, and it was as if I was Cinderella sliding on her long, lost glass slipper. I had finally found my perfect pair of boots; they were black, leather, rounded at the toe, had a hard (not rubbery) sole, and were as size 41. I walked around just a little bit to make sure they were a good fit, but I already knew that my quest was finally at its end. My patience for more than five years had paid off. I had found the best pair Italian boots a shopper could ever want; at last, my waiting and efforts had been completely validated.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Reading Journal-Assignment 3
In Machiavelli’s “The Devil Who Took a Wife” the set up for the story includes the use of standard European “three context elements.” For example, the wife, Onesta, chosen by Roderigo (the devil) has three sisters and three brothers. Also, Machiavelli uses three possessed girls to propel the fable’s plot. In my opinion, the “turning point” in the story is when we read of Roderigo’s financial troubles (caused by the extravagant lifestyle he was living and his brothers-in-law who squandered his investments) that quickly compel him to run away. From that point, Roderigo makes a deal with a man, named Gianmatteo, which stimulates the rest of the story. Some general core “actions” of the main character consists of: Roderigo running away from his problem of his debt and his wife, who was making him mad; making a deal with Gianmatteo to make him a rich man in return for saving his life; Roderigo possessing two girls to fulfill his promise to Gianmatteo. Gianmatteo being forced to come exorcise the third girl and risking his life could most likely be considered the “reversal” in the story. The “resolution” is that Gianmatteo manages to save his own life by tricking Roderigo out of the third girl’s body. This happens because Roderigo returns to Hell in order to avoid the alternative of being forced to live with his wife again. As far as I can tell, the “moral” that Machiavelli is trying to convey is this: women do in facet make men’s lives miserable and everything will work out fine for the person who is upright and keep’s his vow. I particularly like the ending of Machiavelli’s piece because I think the way in which Gianmatteo succeeds over Roderigo is very humorous (scares him back to Hell with the thought of his wife). I thought the various twists in plot were entertaining and organized in a nice way for the reader. The one think I didn’t like is Machiavelli’s concept (if he’s being sincere) that women are responsible for the miserable qualities of men’s lives. However, I tend to think that this is more of a satire, rather than Machiavelli’s actual opinion of the relationship between men and women.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Writing Journal-Assignment 2
To preface, I wanted to disclose that I find myself thinking about my family, although not out of homesickness, since being in Rome. Thoughts of home (Seattle) and family tend to provide a lot of inspiration for my creative works. I think it’s the unique dynamic of being abroad for an extended amount of time. I chose to write about these specific characters or "gods" because they were all so diverse and they reminded me of people in my own family. I did find it very challenging to employ a metaphor in a myth. I could think of tons of present day truths that I might like to write about, but no characters that would fit the storyline. Then I would choose characters that I really wanted to write about, but then no present day truth was fitting enough. Having to convey a truth metaphorically felt like a real challenge to me. I expect the combination of dialogue and narrative to enable a sort of humor within this piece. I thought the dialogue was funny, simply because it might remind readers of an instance of bickering with a sibling. Starting the composition of my myth was by far the most difficult part of the assignment.
Writing Assignment #2
Family: Can’t Live With Them, Can’t Live Without Them
Once upon a present-day time there lived an average Greek family. There was a father, named Zeus, a mother, named Hera, a older son, named Ares, an older sister, named Aphrodite, a younger son, named Apollo, and a younger daughter, named Medusa. This family loved to take road trips together, however, family feuding always erupted in such close quarters due the drawn out periods of time in the mini van and sibling rivalry. Here is a story of one such trip...
The family was off to a great start on this particular road trip to Yellowstone, in the great state of Montana. They already had two hours of driving under way and John Travolta fans, Zeus and Hera were enthusiastically, but very poorly, belting their favorite “Grease Lighting” medley in the front seats of their rustic Toyota Chariot.
“Grease Lighting, Go Grease Lighting” sang Zeus and Hera.
“Are we there yet?” shouted Apollo frantically in attempt to get them to stop singing.
Apollo was always particularly offended by his parents’ ear cringing singing, being the god of music that he was.
Soon, the apparent tranquility of the family’s happy car ride would dissipate entirely once the real quarreling between the siblings was unleashed.
“What!” screeched Medusa. “I thought he was in love with me.”
Medusa had yet again found out that one of her boyfriends had betrayed her for the love of her sister, Aphrodite, the most beautiful girl at their high school.
“Oh my god, I didn’t know that the two of you were together,” Aphrodite claimed in her most angelic tone.
“Oh, when we get back Eros is going to be tasting some serious limestone.”
“Don’t turn him into stone, Medusa. You’re just jealous that all the boys like me, instead of you. Maybe they would like you better if you wore your hair differently, cause dreadlocks were so 1990’s.”
“Dad,” whined Medusa. “Why did Aphrodite have to be so beautiful? Couldn’t you have shared the wealth just a little?”
“Sweetie, don’t be upset, the other guys will be head over heels for you; when you’re older that is. If any of those boys lay a hand on you...I’ll strike them dead,” said declared doting father, Zeus.
“Stop it,” screamed Apollo, who was getting fed up with Ares trying to strike up a slapping fight, as usual. “Mom, dad, make him stop.”
“Ok, I think it’s time for a pit stop,” Hera, said as she gave her husband a very insistent nudge.
The family then pulled off at the next gas station to fuel up and grab some snacks, which would hopefully silence the kids for a while longer.
Being the curious younger brother, Apollo had wandering off into the rural forest that was just beyond the gas station. He was admiring the beautiful sunlight that was peering through the tall fir tress when a band of armed gypsies jumped out and began to encircle him. Fearing for his life and not wanting them to steal his delicious treats, Apollo cried out for help.
Medusa and Aphrodite were at Apollo’s rescue in the next split second. Medusa flashed her eyes at some of the men and they were immediately turned to stone. Some of the others merely saw Aphrodite’s beautiful face and were paralyzed.
Some of the gypsies persisted with their weapons, so Ares defeated them with one swing of his sword like a true warrior. But the ones that Ares didn’t manage to kill, were instantaneously burnt to a crisp when Zeus arrived with his thunderbolts for the rescue of his son.
Once all the gypsies had been conquered, the family safely reconvened at their mini van. Everyone embraced each other in a congratulatory hug. It was at this moment, that they individually pondered, as they had before, just how wonderful it was that they had one another should any of them have a need.
Once upon a present-day time there lived an average Greek family. There was a father, named Zeus, a mother, named Hera, a older son, named Ares, an older sister, named Aphrodite, a younger son, named Apollo, and a younger daughter, named Medusa. This family loved to take road trips together, however, family feuding always erupted in such close quarters due the drawn out periods of time in the mini van and sibling rivalry. Here is a story of one such trip...
The family was off to a great start on this particular road trip to Yellowstone, in the great state of Montana. They already had two hours of driving under way and John Travolta fans, Zeus and Hera were enthusiastically, but very poorly, belting their favorite “Grease Lighting” medley in the front seats of their rustic Toyota Chariot.
“Grease Lighting, Go Grease Lighting” sang Zeus and Hera.
“Are we there yet?” shouted Apollo frantically in attempt to get them to stop singing.
Apollo was always particularly offended by his parents’ ear cringing singing, being the god of music that he was.
Soon, the apparent tranquility of the family’s happy car ride would dissipate entirely once the real quarreling between the siblings was unleashed.
“What!” screeched Medusa. “I thought he was in love with me.”
Medusa had yet again found out that one of her boyfriends had betrayed her for the love of her sister, Aphrodite, the most beautiful girl at their high school.
“Oh my god, I didn’t know that the two of you were together,” Aphrodite claimed in her most angelic tone.
“Oh, when we get back Eros is going to be tasting some serious limestone.”
“Don’t turn him into stone, Medusa. You’re just jealous that all the boys like me, instead of you. Maybe they would like you better if you wore your hair differently, cause dreadlocks were so 1990’s.”
“Dad,” whined Medusa. “Why did Aphrodite have to be so beautiful? Couldn’t you have shared the wealth just a little?”
“Sweetie, don’t be upset, the other guys will be head over heels for you; when you’re older that is. If any of those boys lay a hand on you...I’ll strike them dead,” said declared doting father, Zeus.
“Stop it,” screamed Apollo, who was getting fed up with Ares trying to strike up a slapping fight, as usual. “Mom, dad, make him stop.”
“Ok, I think it’s time for a pit stop,” Hera, said as she gave her husband a very insistent nudge.
The family then pulled off at the next gas station to fuel up and grab some snacks, which would hopefully silence the kids for a while longer.
Being the curious younger brother, Apollo had wandering off into the rural forest that was just beyond the gas station. He was admiring the beautiful sunlight that was peering through the tall fir tress when a band of armed gypsies jumped out and began to encircle him. Fearing for his life and not wanting them to steal his delicious treats, Apollo cried out for help.
Medusa and Aphrodite were at Apollo’s rescue in the next split second. Medusa flashed her eyes at some of the men and they were immediately turned to stone. Some of the others merely saw Aphrodite’s beautiful face and were paralyzed.
Some of the gypsies persisted with their weapons, so Ares defeated them with one swing of his sword like a true warrior. But the ones that Ares didn’t manage to kill, were instantaneously burnt to a crisp when Zeus arrived with his thunderbolts for the rescue of his son.
Once all the gypsies had been conquered, the family safely reconvened at their mini van. Everyone embraced each other in a congratulatory hug. It was at this moment, that they individually pondered, as they had before, just how wonderful it was that they had one another should any of them have a need.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Reading Journal-Assignment 2
Ovid’s Metamorphoses has a very clear theme of transformation, in comparison to Calvino’s Invisible Cities. In Metamorphoses the dynamic on the heavens and earth is constantly changing, with a progressive decline to evil (Golden Age, Age of Silver, Age of Bronze, and Iron Age) that causes the gods to kill off almost all humans, to gods falling in love with people (Apollo and Daphne). In Invisible Cities transformation occurs more through the characters’ and readers’ perception. Usually when a person visits a city their thoughts and memories become confused and mixed, due to the contrasting characteristics of the city of the non-existence of the city. The intangibility of the city compels a certain transformation in thought, memory, or understanding.
All in all the gods seem to be really controlling and trouble me with their exploitive treatment of humans. The sentence that embodies what I disliked most about the god-human relationship was when Pyrrha “was still uncertain,/ And [Deucalion] by no means sure, and both distrustful/ Of that command from Heaven” (p. 971).
Metamorphoses seems to echo or resemble a lot of different mythical works to me. It immediately reminded me of Milton’s Paradise Lost because of the way they both retell or implement parts of the Bible’s creation story. I just recently took a course on the “Bible as Literature,” so I made a lot of connections with Ovid’s work and the Bible. Lines as subtle as “there were no judges,” are a nod to the judges that upheld justice and were figures of morality as written in the Bible’s book of Judges (p. 964). A more blatant connection that could be made between Metamorphoses and the Bible is the story of the flood. Not only is Ovid incorporating biblical elements, but there is also a close resemblance to Greek myths; which makes sense considering the epic Greek poems, like Homer’s Illiad and Odyssey would have been dominant influences for Ovid.
In general, Ovid’s tone is disconnected and almost aloof. It seems like he’s just recording stories that he knows, not ones he’s passionate about. Without fluid transitions between the stories, Metamorphoses lacks a cohesiveness that would, I think, illustrate the author’s personal attachment to the work’s creation.
The versions of the Demeter/Persephone myth are different because one is written as verse and one is written as prose. In one King Pluto is given a name and in the other he’s not. Also, Persephone is represented as younger and more naïve than in the other.
All in all the gods seem to be really controlling and trouble me with their exploitive treatment of humans. The sentence that embodies what I disliked most about the god-human relationship was when Pyrrha “was still uncertain,/ And [Deucalion] by no means sure, and both distrustful/ Of that command from Heaven” (p. 971).
Metamorphoses seems to echo or resemble a lot of different mythical works to me. It immediately reminded me of Milton’s Paradise Lost because of the way they both retell or implement parts of the Bible’s creation story. I just recently took a course on the “Bible as Literature,” so I made a lot of connections with Ovid’s work and the Bible. Lines as subtle as “there were no judges,” are a nod to the judges that upheld justice and were figures of morality as written in the Bible’s book of Judges (p. 964). A more blatant connection that could be made between Metamorphoses and the Bible is the story of the flood. Not only is Ovid incorporating biblical elements, but there is also a close resemblance to Greek myths; which makes sense considering the epic Greek poems, like Homer’s Illiad and Odyssey would have been dominant influences for Ovid.
In general, Ovid’s tone is disconnected and almost aloof. It seems like he’s just recording stories that he knows, not ones he’s passionate about. Without fluid transitions between the stories, Metamorphoses lacks a cohesiveness that would, I think, illustrate the author’s personal attachment to the work’s creation.
The versions of the Demeter/Persephone myth are different because one is written as verse and one is written as prose. In one King Pluto is given a name and in the other he’s not. Also, Persephone is represented as younger and more naïve than in the other.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
Writing Journal-Assignment 1
The theme of the first city, “having faith is believing in something you cannot see,” was easiest for me to implement into a story. I think this is because of the way I personally think about a lot of things in life. I am not the kind of person who always has to see something or someone physically to believe in them. This is probably most exemplified in my belief in God, the supreme ruler of the universe and my creator.
It was definitely easier and more enjoyable for me to create an invisible city centralized around a specific theme. I tend to think of things in life in themes anyway and I’m a fairly organized person who likes to think of things categorically or in groupings. It just felt natural to compose a story that is trying to convey a central idea/theme.
The most difficult part of the assignment for me was making sure I used the right imagery and diction choices to accurately illustrate what I was thinking. I am a sort of a novice when it comes to purely creative writing and I tended to focus on the artistic/symbolic elements of the story which relies heavily on the best word choices.
Some of the time I enjoyed the way Calvino used language and sometimes I did not enjoy it. I did not like the he used language to throw off the reader’s linear reading of the story, but I did like how he would contradictory ideas within the same story.
When writing I just did whatever would get my stories’ point across. I did not really think of whether I was sounding like Calvino or not. However, I did notice myself using one of my favorite styles of his, which was the contrasting elements and ideas to convey one thought.
So far, Rome does seem like an imaginary city to me. That is because I will experience certain themes that I pulled from his “Invisible Cities.” I think Rome possesses themes and qualities such as “unforgettable imagery,” “constantly being inconstant,” “fellowship,” and elements of “contradictory enjoyment.” These are all feelings I’ve experienced in Rome during my first and they themes I citied from Calvino’s work. If I had to choose a theme to write about in regards to Rome it would probably be “mysticism.”
It was definitely easier and more enjoyable for me to create an invisible city centralized around a specific theme. I tend to think of things in life in themes anyway and I’m a fairly organized person who likes to think of things categorically or in groupings. It just felt natural to compose a story that is trying to convey a central idea/theme.
The most difficult part of the assignment for me was making sure I used the right imagery and diction choices to accurately illustrate what I was thinking. I am a sort of a novice when it comes to purely creative writing and I tended to focus on the artistic/symbolic elements of the story which relies heavily on the best word choices.
Some of the time I enjoyed the way Calvino used language and sometimes I did not enjoy it. I did not like the he used language to throw off the reader’s linear reading of the story, but I did like how he would contradictory ideas within the same story.
When writing I just did whatever would get my stories’ point across. I did not really think of whether I was sounding like Calvino or not. However, I did notice myself using one of my favorite styles of his, which was the contrasting elements and ideas to convey one thought.
So far, Rome does seem like an imaginary city to me. That is because I will experience certain themes that I pulled from his “Invisible Cities.” I think Rome possesses themes and qualities such as “unforgettable imagery,” “constantly being inconstant,” “fellowship,” and elements of “contradictory enjoyment.” These are all feelings I’ve experienced in Rome during my first and they themes I citied from Calvino’s work. If I had to choose a theme to write about in regards to Rome it would probably be “mysticism.”
Writing Assignment #1
Invisible City 1
Theme: Having faith is believing in something you cannot see
I know a city, the city of Revery. It is the “dreamed-of city” where “desires are already memories.” I visit this city because it resides in the deepest crevices of my mind, where memories are stored and visions of things I have yet to experience are conjured up. It is a place more real than any other area I have visited by placing one foot in front of the other upon its land of reality. Revery is a place I can see any time without having captured it as my own using camera lenses and memory cards. Some people tell me that they know this city of mine and have visited it for themselves, but I know that they could never know it as well myself, someone who has never been there in the flesh. My mind tells me of its beauties and wonders. I can smell the familiar, which are actually the unknown fragrances of my favorite flowers that grow in the fields by my favorite downtown promenade. I feel the warmth of family and friends as their love embraces me in a place I call home.
How can this place be my home if I have yet to step foot in it? It is real because I know this city within my memories. Did I visit it once upon a dream? I’m sure I did not. In a place that is dark to others who cannot or will not see, there is light that illuminates my cherished city. The utmost contentment derives from my city of Revery. My fire of desire burns brightly for me and me alone. However, your fire of contentment burns there too. One day you will fall in love with a place like that of the one I love. On that day you will not come to this place, but it will come to you. For arrival to the city of Revery is inevitable. Everyone finds it eventually and the darkness turns into an unimaginable light that comforts and guides you. It is here you will see the romantic and timeless bridges where I walk over the cooling waters of enjoyment. But when you get there the waters will not be water as you have imagined and desired it. They will be as they will be.
Invisible City 2
Theme: Where there is good, there is always bad
I once went to a city that I had been looking forward to visiting for quite some time. I can tell you what I went there to do, but I cannot remember when it was that I went and I will tell you why. The streets were lined with magnificent shops where the figures are courteous and even though I had just met these vessels, they each seemed like they were friends I had never remembered having before then. I guess this was because they were trying to pass on their most sensational objects of value, and in exchange I was to give them some small token of mine that was seen as valuable to everyone. I walked away from each store feeling more and more delighted with my new possessions. My native society had always taught me that I was suppose to obtain all the possessions I could, preferably the most expensive items I could get, and then I would be happy.
What happened next continues to perplex me even now. I saw up in the distance of the avenue of promised happiness, a cluster of purple, black, and green with rays of sunlight bouncing off it perimeters. As I continued to approach closer, I realized that this object was in fact another vessel like the ones who had helped me in the stores. But there was something different about this lumpy object that seemed to have placed itself on the pavement. I noticed that it wore a tattered purple cloth resembling something that was probably once a sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans that were so soiled that what I had seen as black was actually the color blue covered in the harshness of their city. Just as I was noticing its shredded blanket of green and grey, the vessel suddenly shot up from a lying down position. It looked startled that it had apparently neglected his task of holding out a dirty and worn paper cup.
Then something happened which has removed any sense of time during that visit to the city. Our eyes met and there was an exchange of “glances like lines that connect one figure with another and draw arrows, stars, triangles.” Instantly I felt connected to this person. I wondered why he was lying on the ground, whether he had a home in this city, and if he didn’t why he had not yet left for somewhere better. “Did an outside not exist?” Did he find happiness in this city as I had, or did he just endure its elements of cruelty that were so evident in their eyes? By being in this place, would I just become another vessel, which ignores someone and their happiness in order to maintain my own happiness? I could no longer remember who I was, where I was headed, or when I existing at the moment that I truly saw this fallen vessel. I do, however, remember that this city was called Bifold.
Invisible City 3
Theme: Illusionary reality and identity
I have been to a city, called Bloom, where an area is inhabited solely by people of the same age. All these people are bright, glowy, eager, naïve, and knowledgeable, innovative, yet traditional. These people all conform to a predestined agenda of growing in their knowledge, but this usually makes them cling even more tightly to what they already know. When they are done with their day of expanding their minds, they expand their movement and flock to the youthful dancing of the midnight sanctuary.
Dancing with such vigor and grace, they get to believe that they are free from predestination and responsibility; however, this ideal can only be upheld temporarily through the cool, crisp dawn. As the moon settles in for bed and dusk approaches the city ambitiously, everyone re-establishes their mask, which they had removed for the night’s liberating festivities and are compelled to wear during the day. Why do these people wear the masks? No one can remember why, but rarely does anyone sincerely challenge the obligatory adornment of his or her mask.
All day they try to shine through their masks, while at the same time using their mask as a shield from the city and its inhabitants. For they know that they must either “erase the city or be erased by it.” Maybe they wear their mask so that the city does not wear down their true identity lurking behind this inanimate façade; or maybe the city has already won in erasing their identities by forcing them to wear a mask, causing the citizens to assume a foreign self. Are these people bright and eager because they wear the mask or are they that way no matter what they wear? The mask allows their youthfulness to sear through, but it denies the sincere relations they truly desire. They wish to be enlightened of one another’s identity during the daytime and not the darkness of the night, but they also wonder how things would be changed and/or worsened without the presence of their masks in Bloom.
Invisible City 4
No Theme
My favorite city in the world is called Home. It is there that I will find everything that I need. I seek my dearest Home when I am in need of the enrapturing company of my family. My family alone provides me with a necessary love and comfort, which every person longs for. They can also vex me to the utmost, but I find that no other city’s people are able to vex me more and still remain infinitely redeemable. Member of my family are the only people that I have met who can irritate and madden me the most, but be able to negate that entirely with our unique and unmatched bond. You may wonder who these people are that I call family and if they exist in any other city than that which I call Home. The answer is that they do not reside anywhere else except Home. For it is where my family is that Home exists, and where Home is that my family does as well.
I have known these people called family for as long as I have lived. I first visited Home during my first day of my life. Truly, throughout my lifetime I have been to many other cities outside of Home, but no matter where I go my cherished Home is always there for my return. Home is a city that can move just as readily as I move from city, but I never have a hard time finding my way back to this city. There is an invisible essence that makes it so I will never lose my way. I am endlessly connected to my given and chosen people, called family. I will go where they go and they will go where I go. Wherever I am, Home is there. Wherever they are, Home is there.
Theme: Having faith is believing in something you cannot see
I know a city, the city of Revery. It is the “dreamed-of city” where “desires are already memories.” I visit this city because it resides in the deepest crevices of my mind, where memories are stored and visions of things I have yet to experience are conjured up. It is a place more real than any other area I have visited by placing one foot in front of the other upon its land of reality. Revery is a place I can see any time without having captured it as my own using camera lenses and memory cards. Some people tell me that they know this city of mine and have visited it for themselves, but I know that they could never know it as well myself, someone who has never been there in the flesh. My mind tells me of its beauties and wonders. I can smell the familiar, which are actually the unknown fragrances of my favorite flowers that grow in the fields by my favorite downtown promenade. I feel the warmth of family and friends as their love embraces me in a place I call home.
How can this place be my home if I have yet to step foot in it? It is real because I know this city within my memories. Did I visit it once upon a dream? I’m sure I did not. In a place that is dark to others who cannot or will not see, there is light that illuminates my cherished city. The utmost contentment derives from my city of Revery. My fire of desire burns brightly for me and me alone. However, your fire of contentment burns there too. One day you will fall in love with a place like that of the one I love. On that day you will not come to this place, but it will come to you. For arrival to the city of Revery is inevitable. Everyone finds it eventually and the darkness turns into an unimaginable light that comforts and guides you. It is here you will see the romantic and timeless bridges where I walk over the cooling waters of enjoyment. But when you get there the waters will not be water as you have imagined and desired it. They will be as they will be.
Invisible City 2
Theme: Where there is good, there is always bad
I once went to a city that I had been looking forward to visiting for quite some time. I can tell you what I went there to do, but I cannot remember when it was that I went and I will tell you why. The streets were lined with magnificent shops where the figures are courteous and even though I had just met these vessels, they each seemed like they were friends I had never remembered having before then. I guess this was because they were trying to pass on their most sensational objects of value, and in exchange I was to give them some small token of mine that was seen as valuable to everyone. I walked away from each store feeling more and more delighted with my new possessions. My native society had always taught me that I was suppose to obtain all the possessions I could, preferably the most expensive items I could get, and then I would be happy.
What happened next continues to perplex me even now. I saw up in the distance of the avenue of promised happiness, a cluster of purple, black, and green with rays of sunlight bouncing off it perimeters. As I continued to approach closer, I realized that this object was in fact another vessel like the ones who had helped me in the stores. But there was something different about this lumpy object that seemed to have placed itself on the pavement. I noticed that it wore a tattered purple cloth resembling something that was probably once a sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans that were so soiled that what I had seen as black was actually the color blue covered in the harshness of their city. Just as I was noticing its shredded blanket of green and grey, the vessel suddenly shot up from a lying down position. It looked startled that it had apparently neglected his task of holding out a dirty and worn paper cup.
Then something happened which has removed any sense of time during that visit to the city. Our eyes met and there was an exchange of “glances like lines that connect one figure with another and draw arrows, stars, triangles.” Instantly I felt connected to this person. I wondered why he was lying on the ground, whether he had a home in this city, and if he didn’t why he had not yet left for somewhere better. “Did an outside not exist?” Did he find happiness in this city as I had, or did he just endure its elements of cruelty that were so evident in their eyes? By being in this place, would I just become another vessel, which ignores someone and their happiness in order to maintain my own happiness? I could no longer remember who I was, where I was headed, or when I existing at the moment that I truly saw this fallen vessel. I do, however, remember that this city was called Bifold.
Invisible City 3
Theme: Illusionary reality and identity
I have been to a city, called Bloom, where an area is inhabited solely by people of the same age. All these people are bright, glowy, eager, naïve, and knowledgeable, innovative, yet traditional. These people all conform to a predestined agenda of growing in their knowledge, but this usually makes them cling even more tightly to what they already know. When they are done with their day of expanding their minds, they expand their movement and flock to the youthful dancing of the midnight sanctuary.
Dancing with such vigor and grace, they get to believe that they are free from predestination and responsibility; however, this ideal can only be upheld temporarily through the cool, crisp dawn. As the moon settles in for bed and dusk approaches the city ambitiously, everyone re-establishes their mask, which they had removed for the night’s liberating festivities and are compelled to wear during the day. Why do these people wear the masks? No one can remember why, but rarely does anyone sincerely challenge the obligatory adornment of his or her mask.
All day they try to shine through their masks, while at the same time using their mask as a shield from the city and its inhabitants. For they know that they must either “erase the city or be erased by it.” Maybe they wear their mask so that the city does not wear down their true identity lurking behind this inanimate façade; or maybe the city has already won in erasing their identities by forcing them to wear a mask, causing the citizens to assume a foreign self. Are these people bright and eager because they wear the mask or are they that way no matter what they wear? The mask allows their youthfulness to sear through, but it denies the sincere relations they truly desire. They wish to be enlightened of one another’s identity during the daytime and not the darkness of the night, but they also wonder how things would be changed and/or worsened without the presence of their masks in Bloom.
Invisible City 4
No Theme
My favorite city in the world is called Home. It is there that I will find everything that I need. I seek my dearest Home when I am in need of the enrapturing company of my family. My family alone provides me with a necessary love and comfort, which every person longs for. They can also vex me to the utmost, but I find that no other city’s people are able to vex me more and still remain infinitely redeemable. Member of my family are the only people that I have met who can irritate and madden me the most, but be able to negate that entirely with our unique and unmatched bond. You may wonder who these people are that I call family and if they exist in any other city than that which I call Home. The answer is that they do not reside anywhere else except Home. For it is where my family is that Home exists, and where Home is that my family does as well.
I have known these people called family for as long as I have lived. I first visited Home during my first day of my life. Truly, throughout my lifetime I have been to many other cities outside of Home, but no matter where I go my cherished Home is always there for my return. Home is a city that can move just as readily as I move from city, but I never have a hard time finding my way back to this city. There is an invisible essence that makes it so I will never lose my way. I am endlessly connected to my given and chosen people, called family. I will go where they go and they will go where I go. Wherever I am, Home is there. Wherever they are, Home is there.
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