Unjust Appetites

Slightly different version of the poem I read in class. 

I can see it, through his guise,
The look of moral compromise.
His gaze, it lurks, it greasy slides
The slope of carnal want, reprised.
On her back, a burning light.
A glare of unjust appetite.

Filed lies grow his case.
His stare reflects absence of grace
All his charm, his wit and guile
Her nervous face, predation smile
She all her life was gullibized.
But I can see it, through his lies.
A wolf, in wait, to terrorize.

Revised

Civilization    

I’m lying on a warm boulder. My motorcycle, a particularly old Honda specimen, sits resting on its kickstand beside. The weather has been immaculate all day; not a wisp of cloud has shown itself and the overlooks on Mount Cheaha were having their intended calming effect. Sometimes I came out here just to catch a breath. When things got a little intense it was nice having a place to go where the air was clean and the cell phone reception was bad. This time was a little different though. There wasn’t really anything in particular that was bothering me when I left. That was the problem; there wasn’t anything wrong, but there wasn’t anything right either. It was like I was living in an old folk’s home. They try to make every day seem different, a different menu, a different activity maybe, but the actuality of the repetition is numbing. The fluorescent bulbs; someone dies occasionally.

I had just moved into a different, yet equally shitty apartment before I decided to take off, before I decided that I was done being stagnant. I was still in the process of getting rid of all my things. What I hadn’t been able to sell immediately I left in my unlocked apartment. Thank God everything was still boxed, that would probably help it go faster. I was planning on putting a craigslist ad reading: “free shit” up next time we got somewhere with some wireless internet. However, I didn’t want to stop in civilization until we at least got through Chattanooga.

            My buddy Sam is parked next to my bike. He hasn’t uttered a word in a few hours, God bless him. This is the sort of retreat Sam is used to. He’s always had family money and he’s a rambler. Sam has always been a good drinking buddy but he’s become my best friend of late.  He knows I don’t want to talk, so we don’t. He’s never bought me anything besides the occasional drink until today when he bought me a helmet with a full visor. I had been bitching about eating bugs for a while. Maybe he got sick of it.

I’m belly down, spread eagle, looking sideways off my perch like some kind of despondent lizard. The boulder seems to be tentatively overlooking the expanse, like its standing on its tip toes to get a better view. Directly north, the distant pale hills look interesting from my prone perspective. Their faces have the blue-green stubble of pine and are intermittently scarred with the pockmarks of rock outcroppings. I readjust to alter my perspective, and Sam cranks his bike. I reluctantly roll over and slide slowly off the boulder, dropping next to my Honda. I’ll admit, we have been here too long. I crank it up and listen to the burble as I strap on my helmet and backpack. We had been sitting for a couple of hours, so we sit for a few minutes more while my old bike warms up. There’s something ethereal about the low rumble of a motorcycle idle in the absence of all other noise. I click my bike into gear and Sam deftly follows suit.  

“We need gas, you know.”

Ah, the brevity of real friendship.

After rolling off the mountain we eventually find a gas station. Gas stations don’t necessarily count as civilization. You get out of them what you put in. You can either go in, buy a few things and make nice with the cashier or you can easily pay at the pump and leave without seeing a soul. We didn’t really need gas immediately, but if we were making a straight shot through Chattanooga without stopping at another station we would need it. We both pull up to the pumps and begin the process of refueling. I swipe my card and get the message, “PLEASE SEE ATTENDANT.”  Sam’s transaction goes off without a hitch. Ugh, I guess this is civilization. I trudge towards the entrance and see the eyes of an attendant peeking through the window. He looks to be a pale young kid, probably not even twenty. The door jingles with bells as I cross the threshold. I hate that.

“You here to ride the mountain, huh?”  

Great, I have to answer questions.

“Yup,” I lied.

Apparently this mountain is a big destination for motorcyclists. What with its twisty roads and its recognition as being the highest point in Alabama, I could see why, but we were just passing through. After looking down for a moment, the pale kid spoke again.

“Well, your card’s been declined, sir. Do you have another card or something?”

I didn’t. Shit.

“Hold on,” I muttered, as I jingled out the door. “Dude, Sam. My card just got declined.” Sam stared at me blankly.

“And?” 

“Could you help me out until I figure out why?” Sam stared again.

“Man, you’re never going to figure anything out. Just use your cash for now. I already bought you a two hundred dollar helmet today.”

“All right, fine. Thanks, Sam.” I said the last part with sincerity, and Sam caught it. I glanced at my visored helmet sitting on the bike and reflected on how all those bug splatters would have felt on my bare face. Seriously. I reset the pump and filled her up; it didn’t take more than thirty seconds.

After paying the pale kid, we cruised down the road for another hour or two until dusk. Sans any verbal communication, we pulled into a camp site and began making camp. We had done this before. I pitched the tent and hung up our supplies where the animals couldn’t get to them while Sam set about building a camp fire and preparing dinner. I occupied myself with collecting firewood until dinner was ready. We ate in silence. My fork scraped the plate and then Sam said,

“So what are you going to do when the cash runs out?”

I only had about four hundred dollars left. Total.

“I dunno, man. I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Well you have think about it at some point, you don’t want me paying your way, do you?”

“You know I don’t,” I said.

“Well then think. What are you going to do?”  

Sam was pressing me, but I needed it. I’ve been moping for two days now, not speaking and trying not to think. Now I had to.

“I don’t know. Move somewhere? Keep riding?” I replied, desperate for an answer that didn’t involve returning to that stale retirement home of a town. Sam continued,

“Man, you know you can’t do that. You have no money. You can’t just move somewhere. You have an apartment with the next two months’ rent paid back home. Maybe if you went back and sold the rest of your stuff you would have enough to move, eh?”

I sat silently for a while, weighing this idea against the pleasant thought of never going back. I didn’t have that much stuff. I spoke, breaking the silence, but just audible over the crackle of the dying fire.

“I just know that if I go back I’ll probably get stuck there again.”

“Aw, poor little guy,” Sam jeered.

I don’t like being mocked, and Sam didn’t understand anyways. He can leave any time he wants, and he does so often. If I could drop everything and just leave every once in a while maybe I wouldn’t be so damn morose.

“You’re a dick, Sam.”

I didn’t mean it. He really wasn’t that far off the mark by making fun of me. I mean, I see the people around me settling into this routine, perfectly content to repeat the same cycle over and over. I don’t know. Maybe they’re not content. Maybe they’re just better at this than I am. Maybe I am being a bit of a child by acting out and running away. It was like I was a groom who gets cold feet the day of his wedding, realizing the finality of his decisions, the monotony of his future. Sam sat watching me while I thought; eventually the fire burnt out. Sam flipped one of the bigger logs and blew on it. Flame slowly grew along its length.

“I’m sorry, dude,” He said.

“It’s cool,” I affirmed, as Sam rose towards the tent.

As Sam lay snoring in the tent, I sat staring vacantly, searching myself for strength, an easy answer, anything. It is times like this that I wish I was religious. By the next morning I had resigned myself to my fate. I would return to that god-awful town, but I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself get drawn into the cycle that everyone else seemed content to perpetuate. I would pare my living expenses down to a minimum and save enough to actually go somewhere, permanently. Hopefully somewhere where there were no fluorescent lights. I wished that I could skip the dreary period of frugality and monotony, but in my experience I’ve never seen a wish granted. Sam rose early and we silently cooked breakfast on the fire I had kept all night. He led the way as we left, and as he turned back in the direction of home on the way out, I figured he either had inferred my resignation or he was leaving me to figure it all out for myself; I liked to think the former. The ride home was a little more brisk. Sam rode the twisties with a fervor I hadn’t seen before, and I had to push my old Honda and myself just to keep up. Sam was a skilled rider, and there were a few harrowing moments during my efforts to make up some distance where I came close to eating some pavement. At a few points I felt like he really was trying to lose me, but once we hit the interstate he slowed down to a steady cruise and we made the ride home without any problems. Sam rode with me all the way to my dull apartment. I guess to make sure I was actually going home; maybe he was worried I would do something stupid. I wouldn’t. I knew the value of life; I was just having trouble attaining it. It was Sunday. He hung around for a while before heading home. We agreed to meet for drinks later, on me. I would go to work the next day, and as miserable as it may be, sitting under the huge banks of fluorescent lights, at least now I had something worth working towards.

Response to Megan

And They Say, "Äll's Fair, In Love and War" is story where Megan in high school, dealing with her mom (who is struggling with her role as a single mother) and a relationship with a delinquent. The story reaches a climax when Megan fights her mom in the parking lot outside her high school. I wasn't sure how I felt about the opening paragraph. It worked fine, but I feel like the story would have been served better by starting after the first line break. It still sets up the story, but doesn't give away the climax and it also grabs attention more since there are things happening/characters being introduced and not just a personal reflection. The description of Shawn's crimes is pretty funny, very dry humor. I couldn't really figure out the relationship with Shawn, however. There are times when Megan mentions romanticism and love and even an engagement, but there is no display of emotion between the two. She even says "There weren't any tears of happiness, or even a joyous embrace."
The build to the climax was well done, it took two nearly and a half pages of build from when I realized they were going to fight until the initial strike landed, but it was all a good rise. I do wish there had been a bit more dialogue surrounding the mom's confrontation with Shawn as once again, I feel like this is a strength here that is under-utilized. I really liked how the fight doesn't play out at all like how she thought it would in her head. There is a lot of weak attempts at strikes, and as Megan begins scraping her mother with her cleats, her mom grabs her by the hair. This was my favorite part. Megan realizes, "Oh, shit. This is why girls pull hair in fights..." I got a little confused towards the end when she's talking about the Spanish teacher, but I liked the story overall

Response to Callie

Another Stage is a memoir account of a fourteen year old girl whose mother is diagnosed, and subsequently treated and cured, of stage four lymphoma cancer. The opening of the story is interesting, because I was trying to figure out why Callie was crying so much. I thought initially that it must be because she was nervous about cutting her mom's hair, but it seemed like it was something more serious. As soon as the shaved head was mentioned, I got the picture. It was an effective way to keep a reader reading.
I liked the mention of the orthodontist and the rubber bands. I feel like getting checked out for appointments is a fond memory that everybody has, and as someone who also had braces when they were young I can relate to the selection of the cheesy, stupid holiday themed rubber bands.
Dialogue was sparse, but well done. I never caught myself thinking about the dialogue, which is good because usually the only time I ever stop to think about dialogue is when it's awkward or doesn't fit. There was a big problem with this story though. There isn't much to it besides a story of a mother who overcomes cancer, and her story is kind of distant. We never really see much of the mother's struggle, emotional or otherwise. Likewise, we see Callie cry a couple times but there is no description of the emotional turmoil behind it. I found myself not very emotionally invested in a story that has the potential to be very poignant and dramatic. Not bad overall, but maybe we could use a few more scenes of interaction between mother and daughter, maybe a sweet moment between husband and wife Callie witnesses, and definitely more dialogue as I feel that dialogue is potentially an untapped strength for Callie in this paper.

Response to Paige

Beatrix is a story about Paige's experience in dance class as a young girl. She writes about her coveting of the older girls, her friendship with one of the girls in class, and the interesting relationship she shares with her instructor, Beatrix. I immediately liked the writing style and voice, and even though I'm not particularly interested in ballet, the description of how memory tends to view childhood was an observation that kept me interested. The first "scene" was well set. The description of the studio, the familiar ambient piano, the previous class of older girls filing through the door really gave me a good mental image. Also, her adulation of the older girls was funny. One of my favorite scenes was when Paige accidentally makes eye contact with Miss Bea. I think we've all been there. I do wish I had known earlier in the story that Miss Bea was going to be the focus. I understand the title probably should have done that, but it didn't for me. Maybe if her entrance into the story had been as dramatic as the idolized older girls, I would have taken more notice? The ending I really liked, how you paralleled your memories of her with your memories of the summer, but it was a little brief. I felt like after the demotion to the lower ballet class, we rush through to the end. Maybe this has some parallel with how your memory was, how after ballet, that next year was just a blur of different activity because it was so different from the others. Maybe this element could be brought in to make the quick ending fit a little better.

Response to David Shamp

Hurry Up and Wait is about Davids experience during his deployment in Iraq and the sometimes unexpectedly slow pace of warfare. While my experience in the Air Force (I caught your gibe... always with the AF jokes) has certainly been different, as I'm certainly not on the front lines by any means, I can definitely relate to the common military mantra of "Hurry up and wait." As stated in his story, the majority of one's time is uneventful but is spattered with infrequent spikes of intense activity. I certainly liked his story, and I could definitely tell it had influences from Tim O'Brien, especially in the way the characters were introduced and the description of the gear. I can imagine to some, the descriptions of gear went over their heads, but that's okay because they aren't soldiers, right? I wish there had been some dialogue or some sort of additional character building to help get more of a feel for the atmosphere of his deployment. The guys you're out there with really are the only thing that makes or breaks a deployment. It seemed like the author enjoyed these moments of solitude and quiet, partly because of the spare time to decompress and reflect, and partly because the silence could be shattered at any moment by explosions and gunshots and death. I feel like this dichotomy could have been played up more... the reflective waiting contrasted to the potential explosive action. I really felt the author's nervousness outside the gates when the clack-clack of the Iraqi machine gun froze the platoon in their tracks. The distrust of the country's people, even when they're considered allies is a theme that rings true through any war with an occupation. My only real complaint is I wish we had more information about the author at the time of the story and maybe some more character building and dialogue. Overall an enjoyable read, I feel like throughout the story, I would have done many of the same things. I've actually found myself in a similar position when I first used a radio, trying to seem competent yet accidentally calling out the wrong numbers. Except I was calling in job numbers for work on a tanker jet and not the position of my OP.

Mr. Green Jeans - the rumored father of Frank Zappa

This is an interesting collection of information pertaining to fatherhood, touching on everything from genetics to poor parenting to a sentimental description of the parenting methods of the emperor penguin. For being so short and choppy it seems quite ambitious, but then it peters out at the end. It seems like there is no overall, pervasive message to be gleaned, but rather the information gathered is just the authors reflections on fathers and fatherhood. Using the alphabet as a catalyst is an interesting way to produce results. Fortunately the material was written well enough and was mature enough that the whole alphabet concept didn't make it seem childish and elementary. I really enjoyed that the topic was explored in such a varied way. In other words, there wasn't just one take on parenthood. Included among the ideas was a lot of negative information, abusive fathers, fathers who abandoned their children, and Tim Allen. The recurring topics was a nice touch.

In Class - Cast Iron Skillet

There's something about cast iron skillets. I don't think anyone knows exactly what it is, but there's definitely an appeal. Maybe it's the way memories of meals build up as a greasy black crust of seasoning on the pan bottom. Or it could be the significant, reassuring heft of the pan. It could be the trace amounts of iron leached into each meal. Most people don't get enough.
Anyways, I lived with my brother for a year and in his immense ignorance, he ran my skillets through the washing machine. Never wash a cast iron skillet in the machine. Ever. Memories removed, my skillet looked up at me from the bottom rack of that machine through a layer of rust. It hurt me to see my skillet, which I had been cooking with for seven years, stripped of its greasy patina. I removed it from the rack immediately, scrubbing angrily with a brillow pad. There was only one way to replace those layers lost and make myself feel better at the same time. I had to fry immense amounts of bacon in this pan. After a thorough scrubbing and a few rinses, I began. The skillet sat hungrily preheating as I removed the entire slab of bacon from it's packaging. I was cooking all of it after all. I fried piece after piece, periodically draining the bacon grease out so it would quit popping in my face. As I was cooking the last four pieces, my brother returned home. I stood cooking bacon as I cussed him for wrecking my pans. After a thorough scolding, convinced his ignorance was sincere and that he wasn't intentionally ruining my things, we shared a gigantic plate of bacon and watched TV together. From there my memory is clouded with bacon, but I believe I took a nap.

Response to "Living Like Weasels"

Living Like Weasels is about someone who frequents a natural area near some suburbs and has a moment of clarity when they startle and are startled by a weasel. The experience seems almost spiritual for the narrator. The two of then lock eyes for what seems like eternity, and the narrator describes it almost as a mind meld or mind swap, where they were exploring each others minds and everything else falls away. I like how she uses this unique experience to explore a topic that, at least for me, is not an uncommon thought. The thought of living wild as a human, the idea that there is a certain dignity and freedom that comes with living only for survival. I felt like the description of what happened when they locked eyes was a little overly dramatic. She describes the world around them falling away, dismantling itself, and falling into the small black eyes of the weasel. I understand that it was a cool experience, but it's just a weasel, and as gnarly as weasels are I still don't think they merit such a dramatic experience.
The descriptions of nature are beautiful, and show the author's obvious love for it. This description is particularly vivid, and puts a clear image in one's mind:

"it covers two acres of bottomland near Tinker Creek with six inches of water and six thousand lily pads. In
winter, brown-and-white steers stand in the middle of it, merely dampening their hooves; from the distant shore they look like miracle itself, complete with miracle's nonchalance. Now, in summer, the steers are gone. The water lilies have blossomed and spread to a green horizontal plane that is terra firma to plodding blackbirds, and tremulous ceiling to black leeches, crayfish, and carp."

Weasels are f#$@ing gnarly

Response to Succulents

Succulents is a story about a guy named Michael and his relationship with a man named Armie and how their relationship affects Michael's apartment and desert plants in the window. The apartment and the plants are really characters in and of themselves and are an effective medium for developing characters and showing dramatic changes in attitude throughout the story.
Right off the bat, I liked the style. The first paragraph read almost like poetry. I actually used to collect desert plants and cacti, so I caught many of the plant names, but I feel like they should be capitalized to indicate they are Genus'. This may confuse some readers initially. I also like how the common name for Crassula is succulents; this works well as a title first of all because the plants are a main character in the story, and secondly because it's a word that has a lot of implications in relation to a new relationship. It's a seductive, fresh, juicy word. I think my favorite line in that opening paragraph though was the last: "Safe behind their glass, sheltered from the storms, they lavish far beyond their natural cycles."
I thought it was interesting that we were introduced first to the plants, then the apartment, then the newcomer to the home, and then finally the owner. It was interesting and refreshing and done in such a way that didn't seem forced.
I enjoyed the way the characters were introduced, because many times when homosexual characters are introduced, it is one of the first things you find out about them and it can alter a first impression. In Succulents, the characters already had their own personality and I already had images in my head for them before knowing that they were gay, which allows a reader to get to know the character before slotting them into stereotypes (which many people do). I very much liked the unique writing style and interesting way of developing setting, and how the setting adapted to the characters as their habits changed.

Response to A Summer Almost Wasted

Eva's story is about a kid in college who is unappreciative of his family. After meeting and getting to know an intriguing girl named Margie who has undergone intense tragedy and loss of her family, Aaron comes to appreciate his family and the story ends on a happy note. I liked the initial description of the girl, her oversized Greek shirt, the computer and phone shining on her expressionless face, but where Aaron finds her interesting and unusual, I find her very typical and boring. I would have immediately written her off as stuck up and moved on, so I couldn't really relate to Aaron's pursuit of this girl. I liked the description of the family, especially the father, but a little more detail about the parents could have brought a lot more to the scenes about Aaron's home life. The jump in perspective from Aaron to Margie was a little off-putting.

Response to Killing Katherine

Rozzy's story is about a woman whose entire life has been plagued by the shadow of her first cousin Katherine. At a family reunion, the main character Joan decides she is going to kill Katherine that very night. After the reunion, Joan attempts to perform the homicide but upon seeing Katherine bawling her eyes out in tears of loneliness, she loses heart and leaves without revealing herself.
I liked how the story started out, where we immediately know the speakers very dark and shocking intentions. It was definitely an attention grabber. I wish we had a little bit of description about Katherine at the reunion before we leapt into the backstory of Joan and Katherines rivalry. I was wondering if maybe at the beginning, where it says Stephanie, Katherine was meant? The back story was well explained, but there was a bit too much repetition with her being reminded how great Katherine was and how miserable she was. Maybe show how miserable she was through action, maybe a cry-for-help suicide attempt that Katherine "heroically" rescues her from. I really liked the touch about the wedding photographer taking more pictures of Katherine than of the actual couple, it really lets it sink in how she really is the center of attention all the time. Also, when Katherine confronts Joan outside, I half expected a knife fight to break out. I liked the tension building elements: Katherine's dark tone, her proximity to Joan while her back is turned, the lighting elements, and the anger. I'm glad there wasn't a confrontation at the end when Joan found Katherine crying, it kept the story from being too tidy, and a normal person wouldn't offer a shoulder to cry on for someone who had been such a bitch for so long. Good on ya

Response to Benji

In Benji, the speaker is a victim of a car crash. Her parents have died, she is paralyzed, and no one has told her little brother what really happened. She wishes that other people could feel how miserable she feels, but by the end of the story she realizes she could take this wish back.

I liked the delayed entry of the wheel chair, which is a significant element of the story, and the initial foreshadowing of the chair. Just recognizing it as "It." One thing that struck me as odd was why no one could tell Benji what was happening. I understand why the Aunt and Uncle would delay telling him until the sister got out of the hospital, but the week or two after that is a bit ridiculous. It becomes a bit unrealistic. The descriptions of the Aunt, Uncle, and Benji are good, especially the Aunt. I definitely have a solid mental picture of this character in my head, with her clingy nasty purple dress and her overbearing yet tired demeanor. I do wish we had more details about the main character though, the character is relatively one dimensional, only really expressing self pity and spite. The only real change in behavior is around Benji, which I really liked. It made the relationship between the speaker and Benji more significant. Also, does the speaker not have any friends? Obligations? A job? The impression I got was of a highschool or college student, yet the speaker is envious of Benji for his ability to go to school. Why can't the speaker go to school? At first I thought they were fully paralyzed, but later in the story they wheel themselves around. 

Response to Talking to Her Grandmother

This story is about a younger (probably highschool age) girl named Kimi who is scared about her mother's condition. Her mother is diagnosed with a severe terminal illness and much of Kimi's conflict revolves around memories she has with her mother on the path in their yard and her sadness in reminiscing. Eventually Kimi comes to understand the significance of the "path" in its many forms, both physical and metaphorical, and she comes to grips with her mother's death and even embraces it as the continuation of a cycle.

One thing I really liked was the way the mother talked. I personally would have trouble writing in a way that  sounds Native American, motherly, and sing-songy all at once. It really does sound like a mother bird cooing to her offspring comfortingly. Unfortunately, one aspect that took away from the dialogue for me was the fact that the characters are calling themselves "Indians." In my experience, Native Americans either call themselves "Natives" or whatever tribe they are. Instead of saying "You are an Indian, and there's nothing wrong with that," the mother would more likely say "You are Blackfoot." I understand that may be a bit nitpicky, but I feel like pride in heritage is an integral part of any Native American character. I feel the doctor’s office was a bit distracting, with the cute young doctor and his semi-confrontational assistant. I think if their characters had been a bit less intrusive and the office scenes had been a little shorter it would have helped the overall feel of the story. I really liked the descriptions of the house and the memories stored there, so I feel like maybe more concentration on that aspect of the story would have gone over well. The ending was very good, everything really came together nicely. There was acceptance of the mothers death, the metaphor of the path became clear, and the nurtured accepts the role of nurturer.

Response to Shattered

Shattered is about a mother of three whose husband has abandoned her and used their money to shack up with another woman in the Bahamas. This abandonment has caused severe financial difficulty for the mother and severe behavioral problems with her son. After some severe temper tantrums, the son's emotional problems are eventually overcome with medication. I wasn't really drawn into this story initially. The opening paragraph left something to be desired, with the confusingly placed "nestled" and the insinuation that if a husband wants to look at TVs while registering for gifts that there is something inherently wrong (although this did provide appropriate foreshadowing.) I like that she was so worked up that she forgot she had children to take care of. I feel like if this had been overdone, it could have come off as unbelievable, but the way the first child is introduced and the way the mother handles the situation make it work. In the next couple paragraphs there are some severe incongruities. The Narrator wonders whether the people at school or the other parents had noticed her children's shoddy appearance due to her stress and figured out what happened. She then states that it has been six months since the incident, yet they have moved twice. Unless these three different houses are in the same school district, which is unlikely due to the price discrepancies, no one would notice the change over the 6 months. The change in Jackson is described well, however the mothers reaction to it doesn't make much sense. While I got the feeling the mother didn't have much time for parenting, she insists on refusing his medication because she thinks she can fix him with her "constant love and attention." The ending is very curt and leaves me with many questions. Is everyone happy? Is this story "pro-medication" in some way? Why was Jackson convulsing? I left confused and unfulfilled.

Mmmm... Brownies

I didn't really like this story much until the very end when the truth about the white girls is revealed and Laurel tells the story about her father and the Mennonites. Otherwise I felt the story was narrated in an odd sort of way. The viewpoint was from a child, yet there are all these grown up similes and metaphors. Many of these similes also seemed kind of forced or out of place. A couple of examples that particularly bothered me are: "the voice one might expect from a shiny new earring," and "Ït demanded a few moments of silence in its wake, like the ringing of a church bell or the playing of taps" (505, 507). First of all, I have absolutely no reference for what a shiny new earring would sound like, and the reference to reverential silence is a bit lost on me when talking about a young bossy girls voice. There were also a few instances where I was confused about setting and had trouble getting any kind of image in my head. For instance, on page 506 she begins talking about how the sun was setting behind the trees, throwing lacy shadows, etc... But having no frame of reference for where they were, whether it be outside or inside, it was a little weird. There is even one point when they are walking directly into bright sunlight, then they turn around and see Daphne cleaning, her hair lit up as if it were back-lit. As someone who has tried to take pictures, back-lit or otherwise, I can tell you that this particular image and description don't really jive. Honestly, I did kind of like this story, I'm just being especially nit-picky. Overall I liked the plot and the twist, there were just a few (what I felt to be) sophomoric elements that detracted from the tale. I'm sure the Guggenheim and Granta would disagree with me, however. Thank goodness for personal opinion. The significance of the title being ""Brownies"was not lost on me either, since the story was about perceived racism.

Mmmmm... Brownies.

(Nutella Brownie Recipe)

Response to "The Things They Carried - The Gravity of War

I really enjoyed this story. I've been meaning to read the book for a while, and I'm glad I've finally been forced to at least read an excerpt. I noticed a couple of complaints about the specificity of his descriptions, how not everyone knows what all of these things are. I think that's intentional. Not only does war come with the overwhelming weight of all these things, but also war requires very specific knowledge and tools, tools that everyday people wouldn't or shouldn't know about. An average person at home may not know what a claymore mine is, or how it functions, and they don't need to, but a soldier damn well better. It comes with the territory, and although the average reader may not know what these items are, they should at least understand the inherent lethality and moral "weight" of carrying such an item. I really liked the way weight is used as a theme. Everything from the literal physical weight of things, to the weight of situational and moral strain, to the crushing weight of love. The connection between the weight of armament and the moral weight they added was a nice touch. It adds a significance to the fact that weapons typically make up a large portion of a soldiers gear.
The love story was interesting. The cold, mysterious virgin poet and the pining, day dreaming lieutenant. As a member of the armed forces, I can relate to his day dreaming on the job. On deployment I would sometimes catch myself zoning off thinking about my girlfriend at the time.

Response to "Take Your Bow" by Rozzy

I feel like this poem could be really good, but it lacks the feeling of a poem. It feels like a bunch of normal prose that has been placed in to a poem. There is a real lack of poetic language. The only places in the poem where I could find some interesting word choices was the crashing of applause through the silence, the subsequent crashing of reality, and the erasure of character, and I really liked these lines, I just wish there were more of it. Because of this, the "I remember, I remember" seems a little forced and out of place, although I do like how it splits the poem.
I really like the description of the friend on stage, it's easy to imagine the spotlight and the crowd and the happy actor, but again I just wish for a more unique description and a more vivid imagery. Also, maybe instead of I remember what it felt like, put "I remember what you looked like" or something similar. At first it seems like the speaker is the main actor and the main character. Maybe you were on stage at the same time, but it could potentially be a little confusing, and it takes away from the overall message. I would say that this poem has great potential, and with a little bit of careful wording and interesting description, could be very very good.

Those Hands - Analysis of Joshua Hutchinson's Poem

The structure of this poem was interesting as each stanza was kind of just a clump of a couple separate ideas.  I know that this is probably not good form, but I personally liked it. I feel like the structure lent a sense of independence to the poem, which is definitely what the author was going for, with each stanza standing on it's own. I feel like the idea of this independence goes a little too far though.Who doesn't have time to fix their child' boo boos? It's kind of harsh. Perhaps that is the point though, as the poem takes a very materialistic turn in the next couple stanzas, where the speaker begins to "count their own greenbacks" and change the tire of their "German-made" car. It feels like the speaker is just bragging, as German-made seems very forced into the poem. I understand the impulse to use these kinds of descriptions when talking about financial independence, but it comes off in the wrong way, and keeps the reader from relating to and liking the speaker. Another descriptor that seemed a little forced was "lime green". There really isn't a lot of description in the poem, and I feel like it would be stronger without it. I didn't really understand the choice of the two presidents either. Why Obama and Old Bush? I don't see the reasoning or political connection.

The Dog Following You Home - Response to Richard Tyler's Poem

I liked this poem a lot, but there was one thing that drove me crazy. The line breaks! Sometimes they were perfect, this stanza for instance, 

         I know better and

         I know best. For me

         that time is real. The truth

         is fossilized in the bedrock

         of my being

And sometimes they were a little confusing to me, like when a word would be left dangling at the end of a line. Sometimes it made sense there, like in the example above how "For me" works at the end of the previous line as well as the beginnning of the next. Unfortunately, sometimes it did not make sense: "I tuck it away, stuff / it out of sight. Again..." I often do the same thing in my poetry because it seems dramatic and poetic but it's often just confusing and makes it harder to read. This poem had some really awesome metaphors. The comparison of the story they tell as proof of past happiness to evidence for the trial was cool. Using the word proof here was a good choice. Another image and metaphor I liked was the image of the masked killer as a persistent dog following you home, something you can't shake. And in the final lines I thought the image of the ink from the picture flowing through his hands onto paper was really effective and a great ending.

Response to Curtis Mize's "Onward"

My dad was a super Civil War buff, so I got this right off the bat, although I'm sure someone unacquainted with civil war history would be able to easily figure out the subject matter as well (considering the bayonets, Virginia, etc.). In this way it was very clear what we were reading. Curt's poem is full of typical battlefield images, but he manages to keep them from being too played out by using very unique language to describe the scenes, such as, "nameless meat piled to absorb / searing lead meant for another." Still, maybe he could have described a few things that we usually wouldn't think of on a battlefield, or maybe something that would have made the scene more quintessentially "civil-war" or Irish. The imagery of "the field is more / bodies than grass / blood than dirt" was very effective in illustrating the horrible massacre, and I feel like the line breaks here also help chop up the image in such a way that makes it more effective. It was good how there was a sort of shift in the tone as the poem progressed. Initially, with the angrily snapping satin standard (Words not in this order, but I liked these two lines for their alliteration and consonance) the Irish seem proud, wrathful, and intimidating, but they come to be cowering behind a wall being picked off one by one. I think when Curtis speaks of the "fresh ice through frozen veins" he means the Irish are scared, but one could easily interpret them as being cool and fearless. Overall, I liked the poem, but maybe a little more description of unique battlefield images is in order.

Bastard Glue and Compromised Morals...

I've been neglecting the 'ol blog. Here's a couple poems. The first is the assignment from last Thursday. The second one I wrote with inspiration from some jerk I know and I probably would have brought it to the line-break workshop if I had been there. Also, I think I've created a new word: "gullibize"

Bastard Glue
My parents never knew what hit them.
Compressed into a coupling, an arranged marriage
Not in a traditional sense, by actions of their parents
But of their own, eager progeny
Who had yet to be, prescribed unexpectedly.
If they could see their golden years, perhaps
Their eagerness would wane. Perhaps
The rapid production of children would cease.
Perhaps the long hiatus, different cities, divorce
Would have remained just that.
I could have easily never been but for
The resumption of production, the reunion,
and the subsequent move.
I am the bastard glue

Morals Compromised
I can see it in his eyes
that look of moral compromise
they glint and glare they squeeze and slide
those eyes of moral compromise
On her back a burning light
the glare of unjust appetites
his life's story, assorted lies
one can hear his morals compromised
She all her life was gullibized
and you can see it in her eyes
all his charm, his wit, his guile
her nervous face, predation smile and
I can see it in his eyes
His intent to terrorize.

Poetry Assignment III

I like the way the Atwood describes her heart in a literal, visceral sense as opposed to the traditional rounded symbol of love. She makes the heart seem disgusting, especially with the lines: "wetblack and glimmering / their four mouths gulping like fish." She goes on to recognize that her heart is different form other's, more fickle and often contradicting itself. The poem comes to a close with Atwood implies that she has stopped trying to please her heart, that it is insatiable, and it will be a relief when it stops beating.

"Homage to My Hips" paints the image of a large, confident woman, powerful in her self-respect. Its obvious she doesn't care about what others think (and maybe even has some prejudice against smaller women) when she says in this assonant phrase, "they don't fit into little / petty places." The poem really shows how important self confidence can be and what it is capable of in the hands of a woman.

Poetry Assignment II

I had trouble today with finding a common thread between the readings. I want to say there is a common theme of creation, but its tenuous. "Loading a Boar" is a stream of consciousness poem about a particular person's creative (or not so creative) process. The moral of the story is really just what we've all heard a hundred times: write what you know.

"I Go Back to May 1937" was pretty dark. The language is very interesting because it is describing these young, innocent, beautiful college students but it does it in such a way that the feeling is one of ominous foreshadowing of a potentially bright future that will lead to a cruel life; it's very bitter in this way. The point of view is also strange, its as if the daughter of these doomed college students has some sort of control over her parents choices and even though she knows their lives will be sad and dark (as will her own) she still almost greedily chooses to "force" her parents to mate and have her. Her purpose in this seems to be a creative one in that she chooses to live in order that she can tell of her parents woe and use it as her muse.

"A Dog Has Died" is a eulogy for a simple beast. As a dog owner, I can relate. Some people try to attach these human qualities to their dogs but in this regard the author is a realist; his dog is simple, living happily, living simply. A silent companion who did no more than needed, just reminding the owner that he was, in fact, a dog. It's interesting though that even though the author is himself not religious and not a believer in a human "heaven", he does see his dog in dog-heaven, a place he will never enter, where his dog forever waits for him, tail wagging. I think his creation of this dog-heaven is a result of his feelings about his own negligence and his vanity. (I'm stretching here)

"DNA" creates an image of a child  playing with toothpicks and cardboard and glue, so close to culminating in the creation of the double-helix. The child is James Watson and he double-helix is, of course, DNA. It's really elegant the way the lines unfold, creating imagery of a form changing fluidly, striving to find the right shape. Its so achingly anticipatory, and the overall shape of the poem stanza by stanza is so beautifully symmetrical. The language is at once scientific, mathematical, religious, restless and fertile.

 My dog Ellie, who doesn't behave nearly as well as Pablo's dog.

Edit: In retrospect, the heading for our assignment "ideas/subjects for poetry and gaining insight" should give a jumping off point for finding themes...

In-class Assignment

Tiller

Roaring, rattling

Bucking wild

Uprooting life

Tines tangled with it

Tormenting the ground

Spinning holes for tines to turn

And fill again

Poetry Assignment I

I found that all the poems in this first assignment except for "Kitchen Maid" really challenged what poetry is or should be or how it should be interpreted. For instance, at first glance [so much depends] looks like something a child is capable of. It's a choppy, simplistic, vague poem. After looking at it a little deeper though, it becomes apparent how much imagery is captured in these short lines, and how much tension and anxiety can be created with simple imagery and the initial suggestion of reliance on the object of focus. It leaves one sincerely wondering what depends so heavily upon this wheelbarrow.

"Introduction to Poetry" likewise challenges the way one is supposed to experience poetry. He explains that poetry is meant to be experienced in ones own way and not necessarily meant to be studied and violently probed for meaning and intention. I particularly enjoyed the lines: "or walk inside the poem's room / and feel the walls for a light switch." It's such a weird, unique way to describe the way he wants people to experience poetry. It has the implication that one should blindly grope for meaning in the darkness of the poem. I feel like in this instance, scholarly study of a poem would be considered using a flashlight to find the switch and illuminate the room.

I really enjoyed "Photographs of the Interiors of Dictator's Houses". It was humorous and ridiculous and was like a caricature of a dictator's home, but I personally wouldn't really consider it poetry without hearing it read by the poet. The poem itself is entirely in non-metered, non-rhyming prose and with the exception of very few instances, I had a very hard time finding any sort of rhythm to the language. This would have had the exact same impact on me if it had been written in paragraph form. My favorite lines? "Of course the scepter is gold, but the horns / on the mounted stag head: do they need to be glided? / Yes..."

"Kitchen Maid with Supper at Emmaus, of The Mulata" is an entirely different sort of poem. First of all, it is descriptive of a work by another artist and the description is incredible. The metaphor comparing the Mulata to the mortar and pestle was my favorite bit, or maybe the description of her shadow as a bloody thumbprint on the wall. Before I even looked up the picture I had an image in my head of what it looked like that was very similar to the actuality. I've never thought of the use of poetry as a way to modernize a piece of artwork hundreds of years old, but that it exactly what this poem did. It made a painting I would never have looked at twice more relevant to me. I feel like every painting in a museum should have a companion poem. (Kidding)

Introduction

Hi, I'm Pierce. This will be my first experience with blogging. I'm glad the blogs aren't restricted strictly to posts for class and that we can post other bits of writing we find interesting... It should make it a little more fun and, I'm sure, a little more interesting to peruse.

Here is a bit of reading by actor Chris Cooper of Walt Whitman's Song of Myself from a PBS documentary... I remember watching this one time and the only reason I was able to find it to post on here is because I recognized the guys voice. Anyways, this is a great reading and gave me shivers the first time I heard it. It also gave me a better idea of how to read poetry.