Satya is still kicking my ass. It's showing up everywhere. Isin't that how it is though. Once i bought my Chevy Cavalier i found that like 7 billion people in the world have gold chevy cavaliers exactly like mine. Awesome, and i thought i was so original.
When i read Winter Wheat i couldn't help but focus on the notion of truth. I've been having a really hard time dicerning truth from fiction lately. The way that the Grandfather and Father's stories overlap and pick up on each others gaps feels like my struggle with the truth. I start telling a story and then i realize, well shit, that's really not how it happened. So how did it happen? Did it even happen at all? Ahhh anxiety kills the women in my family quicker than our terrible tendency towards menthol cigarettes. ... wow must write now, will return to homework later.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Water
This first time i read through the 'water essay' in Short Takes I have to admit i was a little confused. Okay, she has these really vivid memory from when she was a kid. Cool. So, what does it mean?
When Landon, Megan and I unpacked the extremely short essay during class we noticed some things i would have probably not picked up on on my own. For instance, we got stuck on the line "artist unglued on a scrap of glued wood." Not only is this beautifully poetic and fun to say, but, it's almost a paradox in itself. The boy riding the raging current is called an artist because why? I think it's because he was the only one brave enough to attempt to surf the water. The author even says, a few lines later, how they all wanted to be him. Everyone in some way or another wishes to be an artist. I don't mean this in a literal sense. I just think everyone wants to be original. I mean, no one looks at themselves in the mirror and says 'good i will not be noticed for a single thing today.' Wow, talk about digressing. Anyway, this artist is unglued on glued wood. He is crazy for trying to surf the wave, and yet, it's not that crazy of an idea really. It seems doable. I think this line can be analogous to a writers dream of being published. It's crazy and we all at one point in our lives think we are complete idiots for doing it, but we still try.
If i were to take the entire meaning of the essay in the way that i like to look at that line however, it would be very depressing. I think the intending meaning of the work as a whole is to symbolize youth to the flow of a river. Water, like time, is constantly moving and rushing past. Time doesn't care who it leaves in its wake or who doesn't make it.
The style of the piece helps to define the meaning of it. The beginning is composed of very short choppy sentences that are pretty constant in form. Then, the body of the piece contains long run-on-esk sentences that fuel the story forward. The end reverts back to the short chop language used in the beginning. It's like childhood. There is the beginning, which none of us really remember and is pretty simple. Then there is the growing up part. Which, for the most part, sucks and is really confusing and difficult. Then it ends--super quick, almost like it never started.
I have a hard time with the ending. Is he dead? Or will he collect the shards of his torn red shirt and start laughing? I want to know, but at the same time i don't think it matters. The piece is all about the parts when life and time is moving. Not when it's stilled. The writers offers no internal dialogue after the boy runs into the wall and the water rushes past him. It's just over. The story, and the moment. I think it adds more than it detracts from the story because it follows the short story with a short abrupt ending. I have whiplash. I think I'm supposed to though. Someone once told me (this was in reference to music) "everything you need to hear is in the reverb of the strings." I want to apply that notion here. Everything that is important is in what is not said or known. Like life.
When Landon, Megan and I unpacked the extremely short essay during class we noticed some things i would have probably not picked up on on my own. For instance, we got stuck on the line "artist unglued on a scrap of glued wood." Not only is this beautifully poetic and fun to say, but, it's almost a paradox in itself. The boy riding the raging current is called an artist because why? I think it's because he was the only one brave enough to attempt to surf the water. The author even says, a few lines later, how they all wanted to be him. Everyone in some way or another wishes to be an artist. I don't mean this in a literal sense. I just think everyone wants to be original. I mean, no one looks at themselves in the mirror and says 'good i will not be noticed for a single thing today.' Wow, talk about digressing. Anyway, this artist is unglued on glued wood. He is crazy for trying to surf the wave, and yet, it's not that crazy of an idea really. It seems doable. I think this line can be analogous to a writers dream of being published. It's crazy and we all at one point in our lives think we are complete idiots for doing it, but we still try.
If i were to take the entire meaning of the essay in the way that i like to look at that line however, it would be very depressing. I think the intending meaning of the work as a whole is to symbolize youth to the flow of a river. Water, like time, is constantly moving and rushing past. Time doesn't care who it leaves in its wake or who doesn't make it.
The style of the piece helps to define the meaning of it. The beginning is composed of very short choppy sentences that are pretty constant in form. Then, the body of the piece contains long run-on-esk sentences that fuel the story forward. The end reverts back to the short chop language used in the beginning. It's like childhood. There is the beginning, which none of us really remember and is pretty simple. Then there is the growing up part. Which, for the most part, sucks and is really confusing and difficult. Then it ends--super quick, almost like it never started.
I have a hard time with the ending. Is he dead? Or will he collect the shards of his torn red shirt and start laughing? I want to know, but at the same time i don't think it matters. The piece is all about the parts when life and time is moving. Not when it's stilled. The writers offers no internal dialogue after the boy runs into the wall and the water rushes past him. It's just over. The story, and the moment. I think it adds more than it detracts from the story because it follows the short story with a short abrupt ending. I have whiplash. I think I'm supposed to though. Someone once told me (this was in reference to music) "everything you need to hear is in the reverb of the strings." I want to apply that notion here. Everything that is important is in what is not said or known. Like life.
Ross McElwee: Time Indefinite
I missed the beginning of the movie so as i slunk into my seat and pulled my feet up under me in a comfortable position i heard him say "and so i accompanied her to her gynecologist appointment." I think it's safe to say the movie at me at the word 'gynecologist.'
I had heard this piece before watching the movie in class. "This American Life" read the script on one of its pod casts last year and i was fortunate enough to listen to it while slinging back some red stripe.
Watching it was completely different than listening to it.
I never thought about the implications of showing someone exactly what you mean by providing visual evidence for them. I want to focus on the part in the movie where Charlene refuses to throw away the ashes. Hearing the scene was heart wrenching enough. The words used and the way she is described as being "painfully in between" (or something like that) of denial and acceptance is very raw for me. Then to not only hear her regret and refusal to toss them into the water but to also see it on her face and in the way she clutched the bag of ashes close to her chest was especially mind titillating. I had imagined it so differently in my head when i heard the story the first time.
Seeing the film made the piece more funny for me. When i listened to it i remember laughing but then feeling a little sadistic for thinking someone carrying around ashes is funny. When i saw it though, i laughed hard and with others. I thought 'see! i knew that was funny! I'm not sadistic!' The humor is what makes the movie relatable. Sometimes it's easier to laugh about the gross and twisty parts of life.
I dug the movie to say the least. I'm also really glad i went because, not that i didn't have faith in you Dr. Dave, i was afraid it was going to be boring. It was really cool though.
I had heard this piece before watching the movie in class. "This American Life" read the script on one of its pod casts last year and i was fortunate enough to listen to it while slinging back some red stripe.
Watching it was completely different than listening to it.
I never thought about the implications of showing someone exactly what you mean by providing visual evidence for them. I want to focus on the part in the movie where Charlene refuses to throw away the ashes. Hearing the scene was heart wrenching enough. The words used and the way she is described as being "painfully in between" (or something like that) of denial and acceptance is very raw for me. Then to not only hear her regret and refusal to toss them into the water but to also see it on her face and in the way she clutched the bag of ashes close to her chest was especially mind titillating. I had imagined it so differently in my head when i heard the story the first time.
Seeing the film made the piece more funny for me. When i listened to it i remember laughing but then feeling a little sadistic for thinking someone carrying around ashes is funny. When i saw it though, i laughed hard and with others. I thought 'see! i knew that was funny! I'm not sadistic!' The humor is what makes the movie relatable. Sometimes it's easier to laugh about the gross and twisty parts of life.
I dug the movie to say the least. I'm also really glad i went because, not that i didn't have faith in you Dr. Dave, i was afraid it was going to be boring. It was really cool though.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Sanders' Quote
"I choose to write about my experiences not because is it mine but because it seems to me a door through which others might pass" (Sanders, 38).
Holy wow! This quote is something that will change the way I write for forever. I have always had a problem with writing about my own experiences, not because I'm dark and twisty but because I never felt that anyone should care to know my personal experiences. I mean I think every writer has an issue with being vulnerable on the page, but this quote helps me rationalize that.
It is fun for me to think about my writing as something that is not about me. It is about me because it happened to me or they are my thoughts but it is not for me. My writing can be used as a function by the reader. They can identify with it because they have been there before, or they can understand how one would get into some situations. It is not about bearing my soul and embarrassing experiences to the world. It is simply about being honest enough that its happened somewhere else before and someone else can relate to it.
It also kind of puts a spin on the thought of how well written work is truly a gift to the people. I'm not thinking a gift in the heaven-choir-sing-songy gift but in the true "wow thank god someones been there before" gift.
I have not had any history of alcoholism in my family but when i think about Sanders' essay about his alcoholic father in relationship to his quote, i feel justified in understanding such a personal piece. I have never been there before and Sanders' is not asking me, as a reader, to have sympathy or even empathy for him. He is just asking me to listen and take from it what i will. Though, i have never been in his situation the piece did truly affect me. It made me think about my mother and how she would frantically clean the house for hours on end. How one time, when i was six, she was determined to get paint off of a door by scraping at it with her fingernails and ended up with a sharp shard of dried paint under her nail that bled for seemingly ever.
It's crazy that i conjured up those thoughts but i was only able to do that because i could relate to Sanders' emotion in the essay.
I want to write about my life so others can pass through a door of my world and hopefully theirs.
Holy wow! This quote is something that will change the way I write for forever. I have always had a problem with writing about my own experiences, not because I'm dark and twisty but because I never felt that anyone should care to know my personal experiences. I mean I think every writer has an issue with being vulnerable on the page, but this quote helps me rationalize that.
It is fun for me to think about my writing as something that is not about me. It is about me because it happened to me or they are my thoughts but it is not for me. My writing can be used as a function by the reader. They can identify with it because they have been there before, or they can understand how one would get into some situations. It is not about bearing my soul and embarrassing experiences to the world. It is simply about being honest enough that its happened somewhere else before and someone else can relate to it.
It also kind of puts a spin on the thought of how well written work is truly a gift to the people. I'm not thinking a gift in the heaven-choir-sing-songy gift but in the true "wow thank god someones been there before" gift.
I have not had any history of alcoholism in my family but when i think about Sanders' essay about his alcoholic father in relationship to his quote, i feel justified in understanding such a personal piece. I have never been there before and Sanders' is not asking me, as a reader, to have sympathy or even empathy for him. He is just asking me to listen and take from it what i will. Though, i have never been in his situation the piece did truly affect me. It made me think about my mother and how she would frantically clean the house for hours on end. How one time, when i was six, she was determined to get paint off of a door by scraping at it with her fingernails and ended up with a sharp shard of dried paint under her nail that bled for seemingly ever.
It's crazy that i conjured up those thoughts but i was only able to do that because i could relate to Sanders' emotion in the essay.
I want to write about my life so others can pass through a door of my world and hopefully theirs.
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