(2) Free Writes 3/31/11 and (2) to Make Up Last Week.

I'm in a hurry, but I got no where to be. My tattered jeans scrape unforgiving cement while by duffle bag bounces on my back. It thumps to the rythm of my solitairy footsteps. I'm alone now, now that we're over. I can talk to nobody about it, because everytime I admit it aloud it gets worse. My keys jangle in my pocket. they go to nothing but make me feel like I actually have somewhere to go. I feel like I have more than the hobo walking next to me. But I bet he is a screw up, just like me. But hey--I have a duffle bag and a ring of keys. Things are looking up.
I've never had much, but I did have her. Her skin was soft and white,compared against mine. People talked...but ain't that why we do the junk we do? So people will talk? And we were serious as two kids could ever be. I  pretend now while I'm walkin' that I'm about to go meet her. I imagine that we're about to be reunited after a long days work from me and with her sparkely from hours of household chores. Lookin' like June Cleaver maybe. I imagine that she molds her thin lips to mine...murmers hello.
The mush on the street seeps into my shoes and makes my feet wet. I curse, and hurry, looking for a place to be. She ain't part of me anymore. I hate the crap about "two soulds becoming one" but I think it might have happened to me, cause I'm missing something. Missing her, and jacket, and an old baseball cap.
We talked a lot. We faught a lot. about her parents. They called me a thug. I'd fight that with all my guts back in those days. Right now, I'd have to agree with them. It really ain't that I'm a bad person...well maybe it is that. Maybe we're all bad people.
I was driving home from her parents. Just now I step in some indistinguishable crud on the street. I keep on walking so no one will see. But yeah, I was real mad at her when I shouldn't have been...she couldn't help that they hated me. I was driving too fast for sure...but I saw it coming. I saw the car. She called me a bastard, and idiot, some stuff I won't repeast cause I'm still trying to forget. I realize now she was just griping...being a woman and all. That car was coming fast around that curve. My fingers twitched. I jerked hard. My old baseball cap flew off her head and into the floorboard.

It didn't work. I'm still alive.

-This is creepy and weird..I don't know why I keep writing creepy and weird but it happens a lot these days. Anyway, I just want to say that the whole purppose of this piece is to illustrate what I believe about all people being born with immoral or "bad" tendencies. Anger builds, people explode. These emotions and actions have to be addressed. This is my representation of a situation where it isn't.


A few of the versions that I actually liked from Wednesday's exercise about the weather.

1. Original:

The shadowless day. Hynotized the world into a prolinged slumber, Slows the day and its quest. Like the elderly, everyone moves through the water infused air. Their hair grows while their eyes droop and they splash their rubber soled feet down the path.

2. Scholarly:

The day is lacking of sunlight, causing a devoid of shadows. This transfixes the earth, resulting in a prolonged slumber. The day moves at a slower pace, similar to an elderly person. Movement is delayed as the populace meanders through the water infused air. Strands of hair expand with the added moisture. Downcast eyes, indicators of a sleepless evening, as the people in gollashes traverse along.

3. Romantic

The shadowless dawn. Hypnotizes the world into a restless and lonely slumber. The day moves alarmingly slow...akeen to my hearts beating. My body harmonizes with it's thud as I stroll along the ruthless day. My locks become infused with the ungodly moisture. Dark circles around my eyes cast a shadowy ugliness across my face. My feet squeak with each step. Oh the tragic day.

4. 12 year old

It was gross outside. It was really dark so you couldn't see your shadows. It makes everyone move slowly because the weather makes them really tired. They walk around like old people. The girls hair get poofy and  it looks really funny. They walk by in annoying rainboots.

5. Bigfoot

Bigfoot made the weather icky. Bigfoot made the skt cry. Bigfoot not mean to make the sky cry. Now Bigfoot get wet. Bigfoot not like to get wet. Make Bigfoot fur pokey.


A poem I wrote a couple weeks ago--

Cryptic and descrete,
tell me, but don't say it.
Yet, do not hide
your emotions from my eyes.
Tell me, but don't
use your words.
They won't hold the flame,
it's inside glass.
I can see through it.
Write it on a napkin,
read it to me later.
It's better when you can't describe,
your words too weak for the weight.


In class a while back--it's embarrassing.

Loft language. Laced hose laying gently along her lengthy legs. The lady is a lioness on the prowl for a lad with a longing to be loved. Someone to tangle in her lusterous locks that lilies of the vally previosly adorned. No longer is she gallant. Lovely in all respects. Polite, Prim, and lovingly languid. The lengthy evenings led her against their evolving length. Gentlemen with long walking canes left her with a leftover feeling. Longing to be loved legitimate. A man, lacking a wallet with a knowledge of a lady.

Classmate Response 3/31/11

Slowly she walks by watching all the people.  Her head is held high but she twirls her hair and looks ever so down everytime she is near any one person.  Eighty degrees outside and she covers her skin in baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt.  She hides her eyes and most of her face behind big dark sunglasses, and scuries just a little bit faster through the crowd.  Obviously she is sad, as she makes her way to the library unnoticably, to go sit in silence, alone, and bury her head into her books in order to avoid her truth.


I assume this was written in class the day that we were watching the people walk by. I like a lot about it, but there are a few things I would change.

Like: Descriptions-I really like the images of someone literally "covering their skin in baggy jeans and an oversized shirt" in 80 degree weather. And then the over sized sunglasses are like icing on the cake. Really, really good...it reads so well.

What I would consider editing/changing: "Head held high" does not fit this time of person that is described later. Also the word "she" is used a lot. It would be great to have some variety there. Also, if it's "obvious that she is sad" I would like to know why, and a little more background information...be creative! Make up something totally crazy tragic that this person is trying to forget or hide from! If that's too cliche. try writing something opposite. Maybe she is under cover for something. It kind of sounds like it from her description. The possibilities are endless...and the decription you have of the girl is really great! Keep working on it and I think that something totally awesome can be born.

Junkyard Quotes 3/31/11

All from the book of Proverbs. (New Living Translation)

To learn you must love discipline; it is stupid to hate correction.
Proverbs 12:1

Guard your heart above all else, for it determines the course of your life.
Proverbs 4:23

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a dream fulfilled is the tree of life.
Proverbs 13:12

Just as the rich rule the poor, so the borrower is servant to the lender.
Proverbs 22:7

Rumors are dainty morsles that sink deep into one's heart.
Proverbs 26:22

Classmate Response 3/26/11

Charlene stood looking out the window, holding back the blinds. She wore a calico dress and her was in a bun. The day was warm and sunny like July. She had 4 American flags around her house. She had one on the flag stand, a flag pole in the yard, and two hanging off of opposite sides of the porch. Her husband sat down in front of the TV. He was reading the paper and was not paying attention to the box.

“What time is he s’posed to be coming, John?”

“S’posed to be here about four.”

“What time is it?”

He looked at his watch.

“3:52.”

“Oh. He’ll be here any minute.”

“Should be.”

He went back to reading the paper.

In the kitchen was feast of food. A smoked ham and macaroni and cheese. Mashed potatoes and green beans. Two pies were in the oven and biscuits sat on top of the stove on a plate underneath a napkin. 

“You think he’ll be hungry?”

“Prolly.”

“I made all of his favorite. I bet he’s starving for some home cooking.”

“I know I am.”

“Aw shush.”

“Just sayin’.”

There were pictures on the mantle. A candle of prayer glowed next to a picture of a muscular boy with a crew cut and a smile. Next to that was the black and white picture of less muscular man in uniform with a crew cut. Next to that was the picture of a little boy with a white plaster cast on his right arm. The boy smiled and had a backpack on his back as he stepped onto a yellow school bus.

Charlene saw the boys circling their bikes in the road. The Swanson girl was brushing her doll’s hair on the porch. A bus came up and stopped in front of the house.

“He’s here! He’s here!”

She ran to the mirror and checked herself. John heaved himself off of the chair and was behind her.

“Aw don’t fuss. He’s your son. Not your date.”

“I just wanna look good for our soldier boy.”

They stood holding hands in front of the closed door. They heard the offbeat sound on the steps. The heard the creeks of the porch. They heard it stop in front of the door. They held their hands tighter. He knocked. John said:

“Come on in.”

He was having trouble with the door handle. John unlocked from Charlene. He opened the door with a smile on his face. It quickly fell. He blocked the outside with his body.

“Who is it John?”

John didn’t answer.

“Is that our soldier boy?”

John said after a few seconds:

“Go into the kitchen, Charlene.”

“What?”

“Go to the kitchen. I’ll call you in a second.”

“What are you talking about, John? I wanna see my son.”

“Charlene, please.”

“No, John. Let me see my son.”

John sank his head and moved out of the doorway. Charlene saw her son. His left arm was made of metal as was his leg. She could say nothing, nor could John. Their soldier boy stood at the doorway.

This is one of my favorites of Lucas’ short stories. The beginning is great; I love the setting of the warm July day, the four American flags, the mother in a calico dress—it was fantastic, screaming “patriotic.”

Lucas talks about liking to write dialogue in class, and the way he does it in this piece is amazing. I love how is so beautifully descriptive, and yet that doesn’t get in the way of his spurts of dialogue. Lucas has a distinct writing style that I can really appreciate. The way his characters converse seems genuine, not scripted. I could really take lessons from some of his pieces.

I like the mother’s name, Charlene, but I wasn’t as thrilled with “John.” I felt that Charlene was more unique that the average “John.” Also, when I heard “military” and the name “John,” I immediately thought of the movie/book “Dear John.” I am 100% positive that Lucas does not want to be compared with Nicholas Sparks, so in the next draft of this I might change the dad’s name if I weren’t extremely attached to it.

Other than the one minor detail, I loved this! The ending was a punch very emotional. Maybe it could be a little longer?  :)

Junkyard Quotes 3/26/11

These are just some of my favorite quotes:


Our Creator would have never made such lovel days and given us the deep hearts to enjoy them, above and beyond all though, unless we were meant to be immortal.
-Nathanial Hawthorne

The fullness of our heart is expressed in our eyes, in our touch, in what we write, in what we say, in the way we talk, the way we recieve, the way we need.
-Mother Teresa

To love by freely giving is its own reward. To be possessed by love and to in turn give love away is to find the secret to abundant life.
-Gloria Gaither

When we do the best we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another.
-Helen Keller

Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy.
-Anne Frank

Reading Response 3/23/11

A Good Man is Hard to Find:

I really enjoyed reading this short story in Engl 1102; however, I liked it even more when I read it the second time for this class. It's one of those stories that has so many details that it takes more than one reading to take them all in. This time when I read it, I noticed that O'Connor gave a very visual description of what each character was wearing. I thought it was interesting that the Misfit did not have on a shirt...maybe like he was misssing something that the rest of society seemed to have--something that is "ordinary" or "normal" was impossible for him to attain. He apologizes to the Grandmother for it, and then agrees to take one of Baily's shirts. As he puts it on, the grandmother "couldn't name what the shirt reminded her of," but then moments later exclaims, "Why you're one of my babies! You're one of my own children." I think this simple act of putting on Baily's shirt shirt made the Grandmother really able to see the Misfit as more like a person that she could relate to. This is an amazing use of a physical sign that has deeper meaning. There are countless other symbolic meanings in this short story, and that is one of the reasons that I enjoyed it so much.

Reading Responses 3/20/11

1/3 1/3 1/3

This story was interesting. I love how decriptive it is written. One line that really stodd out to me was, "I was standing in from of my shack, eating an apple, and staring at a black ragged toothache sky that was about to rain." There are plenty of other lines that I could pull too that are equally as beautiful descriptively. I was really liking the story until I got to the end. I didn't understand the last line, "Howdi ther rins said Maybell blushed like a flouare whole we were all sitting there in that rainy trailor, pounding at the gates of American Literature." I'm confused as to how I was reading part of the story the man was writing, and then thrown back into the typewritters prospective...at least I think that's what happened there. However, I believe the enitre story is about how American Literature is sometimes written by people who can't even write, edited by people who can't edited...ect.

Steering the Craft

Chapter 1. Playing with the sound of my writing comes more naturally when I'm writing prose as opposed to poetry. For some reason, poem scared me when I started this class. But now I find myself trying to convert some of my prose into poems. Ursula K. Le Guin says, "We think of poetry as getting to be gorgeous and prose as having to be plain." I haven't ever thought that, really. I thought poetry was boring. Now I see that both can be "gorgeous."

Chapter 2. I love my punctuation. I love it too much to let it go. When doing the exercise in class, I actually came up with a decent idea for a short story. The problem is, I didn't have time to finish it and I basically forgot the ending. So the 3/4's that I have written is now just word vomit in its most extreme form. I'm wary of tackling it now because none of it really makes sense now. I'll keep my commas, thank you.

Classmate Response 3/20/11

Inspiration

I wanna play
Just as good as you, but better
I wanna stroke the strings
Talk about intimate things
Almost like you, but better.
I wanna get lost in the song
Let my body roam where it doesn't belong
And put my fans out of their misery
Have their hearts, their minds
Have their bodies for one night
And keep them wanting more forever
I wanna make people feel the way
You made me feel
Like you wrote these tunes and sang the blues
With intentions to make me ecstatic and cry
How do you do it...make me melt?
How do your stories come out so heartfelt?
I wanna be that good
Exceed limitations
If that then happens
MAybe i'll go out on tour
Maybe i'll see you there
Maybe there could be a table and meal that we
both share.
Maybe our minds could cross paths
And our souls intertwine
You'll tell me your dreams
And i'll tell you mine
I can't tell you that for years, you've been my inspiration
Or just how much you've contributed to this talented creation.


I think this is a good poem! With some work, I think it could be great.
I'm pretty sure the lowercase "i's" are unintentional. If not, I think you should change it. Also the puntuation is a little all over the place, so pull it back together! That will make it more cohesive. Also, the rhyme scheme doesn't really flow so well for me. If you want to play with different schemes in one poem, maybe you should break it up into seperate pieces instead of one long stretch.

I really liked a lot of the lines in the poem: "I wanna stroke the strings/Talk about intimate things" was my favorite part. The sensuality of this poem is really awesome without being extremely obvious, and I really like that. In fact, I love the whole beginning so much that I think you should go back and make sure that it connects all the way through because it's really awesome. Compared to the beginning, the end is a little weak--"I can't tell you that for years, you've been my inspiration/Or just how much you've contributed to this talented creation." I found it entirely too predictable. However, I really love the rest of the poem so I think it you make a few ,(especially there) it will be really awesome!

Free Write 3/20/11

1.
I grabbed him by the neck and wrung til I heard it snap. The body lay limp in my old weathered hands; its warmth still uncomfortable on my skin.  Holding him by his neck, I took him out behind the barn. That's when the dirty work began. I prepared him well. I pulled at him til he was bald all over. Trimmed him up, made him look nice for the missus. It was her turn to get at him next. She'll get him cleaned up real nice and poke at him til he's just tender. Man, I can't wait for dinner.

3.
She watched him hobble up the beaten pathway toward the house. Smiling at his torn britches, she made mind to mend them later. The wife walked into her kitchen to prepare for her job. A large pot of boiling water, the biggest knife from the drawer, sterile white rages to mop up the blood...
Her husband sloshed in the back door holding it by its neck. Its head lay lopsided and flopped against her husband’s hand. You know I like it when you cut his head off before you bring it in, she said. The husband shrugged and stepped back out to finish it off. The wife pulled some spices out of the cabinet and her mouth began to water.

2.
The smell engulfs you--a pasture of cows, dirt, a chicken coop. The rocks under your feet crunch as you walk to the old coop. You see a gangly old man with a limp walking several paces ahead of you. He opens the screen door to the cop and the rusty hinges call hello to you. You follow him inside and his process begins. Who will Hans' next victim? You have no choice, no way to save any of them as you watch Hans choose the plumpest chicken and wring it with an emotionless stare. You flinch at the brutality, but there is no going back. Hans clean the chicken up a little behind the barn, and you watch him trudge up to his old house to deliver dinner to his wife.

-This is what I wrote in class. The number indicates what person I'm speaking in (first person, second person, ect.). So, I do know how to count... though it doesn't look like it by the way this is written but it is imperative that the paragraphs are lined up this way. Sorry ;-)
I know it's pretty creepy...maybe too creepy with not enough depth? Let me know.

Free Write 3/20/11

Breathing

Below sea level I hurry. The salt infects my nose, eyes, taste. My lips emblazoned with crystals, my body adorned in scales. Tendrils of light cadence through my hair. My lower body arches and curves with the current, propelling me along. Stirred sand blurs my vision; I quickly maneuver through, longing to catch one last glimpse. We didn’t have long, yet that’s what propelled us to fall in love. He didn’t mean to come here; didn’t intend to be one of us. It happened when he saw me. We don’t know why. Maybe that’s what Triton does when two people are meant to be. Maybe it was because of the green anchor tattooed on his forearm. Either way, his two legs morphed into one. His short hair grew to shoulder length golden curls. I taught him how to breathe, how to swim in the currents, how to enjoy the grottos. And we lost it. I grit my pointed teeth as I hurry. He is on a ship now. Curiosity. Earlier, he bobbed his head to the surface and when he did, his legs grew back. Triton changed his mind today. His merman made a mistake. We found him. We saw the ship rescue him, pull him aboard. With his human lips he yelled my name in our language. Despite my people urging me not to, I swam to the surface and prayed to the ocean to make my fin be two. When it didn’t, my salt tears mixed with the ocean. He cried my name I again. I wanted him to see that I was there, but he didn’t. I said nothing, and that’s what I regret now. I imagined his lips of fleshed wedding mine of diamonds. How they would now feel soft and tender on my body opposed to the rough rock that I knew before.

The ship is sinking. Triton is mad. He feels that he was deceived; his new merman wasn’t content enough. He never should have ventured above the surface. Now we are paying. There will be no way for him to return to me. We all can feel the vibration of the sinking ship. There is fire, we taste the ash as it mingles in our air. I keep going, throw my pearl adorned wrist back and move faster. It is too late when I reached the scene. I look for him everywhere and pieces from the ship sink lower, searching for a final place to rest. I see his arm, I see the anchor, and his body turned back to merman—what he really was. This time it’s different. The light from his hair is gone, his face is placid. He’s gone. I breath in the debris, smoke, and blood.

Don’t say his name, then he isn’t real. Don’t say love, because it wasn’t. The deepest are what words can’t illuminate.

  

Junk Yard Quotes 3/20/11

Junkyard Quotes:

I stole all of these of of people's Facebook Status'. Enjoy!

"Just a few feet away, but we're miles apart."

"The past was lurking, but you made it stop."

"If this is the best time of my life, then I am really dissappointed."

"The answer's in the books. Read enough of them, and you'll never go wrong."

"I have often wondered what is to become of me. Then I stop to look at the world and I suddenly see a much bigger picture that deserves my undivided attention."

Classmare Response Makeup

I know you-with the house on the corner, the one with the white picket fence
two kids, a dog, a mommy, and a daddy.
I know you, but you don't know me.
I know that after everyone sleeps at night , daddy has a secret life-
an online fantasy life-I know your perfect family isn't so perfect.
I know the facade you put on for everyone
To hide the pain and bitterness of a life that is slowly going downhill
I know that beach vacation wasn't as perfect as the pictures you put on facebook
I know the kids are spoiled brats because you don't care
I know you, but you don't know me.
I know the facebook-picture perfect family you show the world
hides a problematic family
I know all about you but you don't know me
I know the foods you eat, the gym membership that goes unused
I know the fancy car you drive and beautiful mansion you live in
Is out of your budget and buries you in a hole of debt
Oh yea I know all about you
Where you shop, where you eat, when you go on vacation,
The route you take to work every morning.
How do I know so much about you?
Privacy doesn't exist in this world
Technology reveals the world's masquerade

I really like the concept of this poem. Social networking allows people to share so much information that I personally do not care about either. I didn't think the poem was too cryptic. There are great images like, "facebook-picture perfect family" and "with one click." It is obvious to me that it is about social networking. The part of the poem that I would make some changes to would perhaps be the ending line. I would cut it completely and possible change the title becuase I think it would be great if the poem just ended with "privacy doesn't exist." That line is pretty hard hitting and I feeling like it is even more effective than "Technology reveals the world's masquerade." The reason I feel this way is because I felt that the poem is specifically pointing to one person--so the ending became far too broad for me. Another line that also confused me is "I know you, but you don't know me." If you are "friends on facebook" they why don't they know who you are? Just something to consider. Otherwise, I really enjoyed the poem. Two thumbs up!

Free Write Makeup 3/13/11

-This still needs to be completed...but it's something that I started this week.

In the sweet town of Tallapoosa,
Papa and his new teeth live with Mawmaw, Alma.

Papa's new teeth
make him whistle and creak.

His slippery S's
similar to the snake he detests.

Papa's cheek bones look higher
and his back stands much straighter.

His sweet spirit is the same,
his loud personality is anything but tame.

Junkyard Quotes Makeup

"Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempest and is never shaken."
-Shakespeare

"There is something about death, like love itself."
-Spoon River

"To love would be an awfully big adventure"
-J. M. Barrie

You know that place between sleeping and awake, that place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always think of you."
- J. M. Barrie

And it would have been worth it, after all,
after the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Free Write Makeup 3/13/11

End of short story

She told me she loved me one night when we were walking through the forest. The leaves on all the trees had turned into a bright Autumn’s red. They loomed above us, swaying a whispering advice.  I felt rage build up inside of me. Why would “love” do this to a man? And why couldn’t I say it back? Cause I knew I loved her, I already told you that I did. But I am only a man, a selfish man at that. I took her soft white hand in mine. She smiled up at me, waiting for me to say something back. My lips and throat began to work together to try and process the words; yet if we had stayed in that thicket for a hundred years, I still don’t think I would have ever told her I loved her.

When the awkwardness crept upon us, we started walkin’. Somehow we ended up at Louisa’s place. I guess she was navigating, and maybe that was the problem with the whole relationship—I’d lost control. We walked up those lonely steps for the last time. She slowly released my hand and walked to the door. Without turning around she said, “I know there is good in you, Jett.”

That’s the last thing I ever did hear her say because I left down that day. I went to find my own path, my own journey without God or some women. I managed without God for a while, but not the women. There was this one lady who I held company with more often than other. She was the complete opposite of my Louisa. Black hair and eyes to match. She didn’t worry about love and stuff…and I thought that was pretty good for a woman. But one night when she was at my place, an emotion came over me and I started to cry. She kissed the tears off my face and held them on her tongue. Thinking they were for her, when really they were Louisa’s. Her prayers were not in vain. That night I sent that awful girl home and never saw her again, either. I came back to God and he took me, I think. But I never found myself going back to Louisa. My soiled body wasn’t fittin’ for her anymore. She didn’t deserve my stench—even though I sort of knew that she wanted my back anyhow.

I don’t know what I ever meant to Louisa, but I know what she meant to me. I learned that just because I’m a man doesn’t mean that I have to control. Louisa taught me how to love a woman, and not in the way that you’re thinkin’. She taught me to cherish, to enjoy just talkin’, to grow with someone. She loved me no matter what, and I still love her.  You prayers are not in vain, Louisa. They aren’t.