reading, writing, listening, creating
27 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
in Uncategorized Tags: art, creating, Faulkner, feeling, Harry Potter, JK Rowling, love, MLA format, passion, reading, Sarte, soul, thinking, William Paterson University, writing
My mother read me books. She read not just one bedtime story, but books, plural. I would say for as long as I can remember, she read me about ten to twelve picture books a night. My memory of being four is fuzzy, but I recall sitting on her lap in an old brown armchair, watching her read. I remember feeling very warm. I do not know if it was her intention to synthesize connections in my brain or instill a love of reading in me or simply spend quality time with her daughter; she probably achieved all three. This love of reading brings us back to my love of dissembling literature. I truly believe the time my mom took to read to me was an early step on the journey to
where I want to be.
My mom made me the reader, writer, and person I am today. I love reading passionately. As a child, I read voraciously, devouring at least several books a week. Sometimes, the way reading is taught in school makes me upset: kids learn that reading is a chore that must be undertaken and completed (or ignored). Reading is not a chore to me. It is a great and beautiful privilege. Another thing that sometimes makes me sad is the way humanity seems to be a virus on our planet. The destruction and death we wage on one another and the earth is disheartening to say the least. Yet, when I read, I see the argument for our existence. Literature (and when I use that word, I do not mean the old white man’s canon alone, but the breadth of all written work, from blogs to poems
to magazines to 6 word memoirs to Faulkner to Sartre to cummings to JK Rowling) makes me see that humans can create something worthwhile. A wise William Paterson professor once taught me that the purpose of literature can be boiled down to a list of three things. Only one really sticks with me: literature heals the wounds of humanity. Most certainly, it has healed many of mine; that our culture could ever view reading as a chore is one of the wounds that writers must heal for me.
For me, the chore is writing. I love it and it’s cathartic but it takes the life out of me. Neruda’s “The Poet’s Obligation” heals the wounds of writing for me. The poem gives importance to the humanities, to artists, and to something that is often labeled by those who misunderstand it as superfluous. I used to write on my own, but the rigors of school have sucked the time and creativity from me and siphoned it into class work. Constantly, my boyfriend begs me to try to write a novel and get published. The closest I have gotten with this so far is this blog I recently started, where I post some things I have done on my own and guided by classes. It’s really nice to share some of the things I’ve written with people I know and the rest of the Internet, even if it does feel like another narcissistic internet fad. I just have to keep reminding myself that the novel and William Blake’s poems(which gave a voice to
the common people) were first written off as frivolous nonsense. Becoming a high school English teacher, I can express the passion I have for reading and writing; it is an opportunity to share my love of my subject with students, even if not every student will remember the information I try to leave them with. That doesn’t bother me much.
Personally, it has always been the love that I recalled of the greatest educators who taught me: their love for their given subject and their love for teaching. In regards to listening, I will challenge anyone to find a great writer that is not also a great listener. Listening before creating produces the most authentic and meaningful work. Listening, taking in one’s surroundings, allows the artist to make something that is shadow of reality. That is always my goal, to show everyone some shadow of what it means to be me. It is difficult to break students of the shackles of form and formality public school had chained them with.
When I edit peers’ work, there is so much soul bubbling below the surface, drowning in MLA format and thesis statements and garbage. A paragraph is anything you want it to be, if you do it well. Compell me, then edit. God, even if you never edit, I’d prefer soul.
lunes forever
24 May 2011 Leave a Comment
I wrote these lunes in high school: they’re goofy.
Lunes
Smart people know
colorful candy is not always
the most delicious
There is nothing
more exciting than the buzz
of a text message
Numbers make me
feel like a brain damaged
monkey, on drugs
step on my ankles
again and I’ll kill you
in your sleep
You look like
your stupid truck ran you
over. Again, dumbass.
i am not a sick man…in fact, i am not a man at all
22 May 2011 1 Comment
in Fyodor Dostoevsky Tags: associate, context, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Hunterdon County, insomnia, jargon, meaning, North Jersey, Notes from Underground, rant, retail
Read (or glance at quickly) Part One of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s “Notes from Underground.” My piece mimics the style and format of the very beginning of the novella and won’t really make sense otherwise.
That is all! Carry on with reading.
Notes from Underground*
Part One*
I am not a sick man…in fact, I am not a man at all. I am not a man in that I am a woman (perhaps girl would be a more fitting adjective here, I always struggle with the two when trying to describe myself), not in the sense that I am male that
has not achieved the child’s goal of morphing from “boy” to “man.” I am not sick, either, unless, of course, you mean in the sense that I often lie awake at night anxiously and silently dreading rapidly approaching morning. No, I will not get up and try to do something useful with the time spent awake; then I would potentially miss a moments chance at sleep. You probably do the same thing, lie awake and worry. Few people have probably gone without this ailment, but I choose to tell you this because I feel it is the highest form of torture, to worry, especially about the future and the unknown.
I have been living this way for a long time now-definitely less than 20 years, because I have only been alive for 21, but regardless, it seems like forever. I am still in the retail business, though I wish I no longer were. I am a spiteful associate (“associate” is what they call us, although I think it is one of those words that essentially have no meaning. Technically, I’ve been promoted to customer service coordinator, but that name is also hollow jargon, worthless to spend the time explaining. But I guess I’ve gone and explained it now, so I shall not turn back). When customers come into the store with returns, I initially wish to make the transaction between us as painless, and most importantly, as quickly as possible. Few of them are humble and they all treat me like a servant, an uneducated flea, placed upon the earth’s (not-so) green (anymore) surface (god damn, and I don’t capitalize the first letter in “god” because I think it is an archaic dig at all non-Christian religions and if we’re going to do it we should start capitalizing tree and sun and mall, too since people worship them as well, do I hate cities. I often drive through North Jersey, merging on and off of mammoth, crowded highways, saying aloud to myself, and whomever might be in the car at the time, “WHY WOULD ANYONE
CHOOSE TO LIVE IN NORTH JERSEY.” I repeat it often and loudly.) to serve their bloated, pasty-white middle class need for scant more than minimum wage. I’ve begun to resent their every word and action, carefully analyzing them for something, anything to piss me off and give me any excuse to spite them. I hate when people stand there, holding the money way to early while I try to process their transaction, when they tell disdainfully that the pen is out of ink, when it is clearly not and the waxy build-up from the receipt paper has gotten on the ball of the ballpoint pen, I hate when people tell me that someone, somewhere, once returned an item analogous to this one, that they’ve worn twice and decided against, for them and I, by some token, must engage in the same, anti-store policy behavior, when they walk in the wrong side of the line and tell me there’s no sign specifying “Returns” from “Purchases” when, actually, there are ten foot signs of exactly that nature and they are red and prominent, and I really, really hate way customers treat me like a low-class, uneducated, retail Barbie-bimbo with no future and no wit and no comprehension of their very important and specific retail emergency.
I was lying when I said just now that I’m a spiteful associate. I was lying out of spite. I was simply trying to hide the fact that my entry level position at a company that has no regard for the well-being of their staff is eating me alive from the inside out, but I could never really become spiteful. The word simply isn’t strong enough to convey what I am. I am furious. That even sounds weak and I feel the need to swear here, but I’m too conscious that it’s a school assignment that I feel uncomfortable doing so. Every moment I was conscious in myself that many, very many elements of how I felt were more than spiteful. I felt them positively teeming in me, these feeling of anger, brought to the surface by recalling these things carefully here. But they really do torment me until I am ashamed (this is only sometimes true, when I take out my anger on those who don’t deserve it. When I really zing the assholes, I glow with pride.) Well, are you not imagining that I am repenting for something now that I am asking you for forgiveness for something? I am sure you are imagining that. However, I assure you it does not matter to me if you are.
Not only can I not become spiteful, I cannot become anything: neither spiteful nor kind, neither good employee nor ex-employee, neither a hero nor an insect. I could live my life in a corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent human cannot become anything and that only a fool can become something (and I have, during my sleepless sessions that are my only “sickness”: why aren’t you doing something more with your time? you
could have finished college early if you made better choices, if you were braver…worked harder…less aware of your own limitations. I inherited this from my father and he calls it “rolodexing”) Must a person living in our era be either brainless or immoral? Surely, there is some sort of elusive meeting place for the two, somewhere between walking through a field of flowers humming, devoid of all intelligent thought and being holed up in a stainless steel laboratory, manufacturing biological weapons of the most vile sort. The evidence of the world shows support for both the claim that people are:
a) one or the other: innocent and idiotic OR cunning and despotic
AND THAT
b) there is a bell curve for human intelligence and morality.
The hilarity in this big joke is that the answer to preceding matter will never be more than an invention of the human mind(like time or religion: something we need but that is intangible). If we were dogs or gophers or parasitic worms, this
entire realm of thought wouldn’t exist. Why, then, does it exist for us? I do not elevate humanity above those creatures, by any means, which is part of the reason I cannot eat them. The bottom line here: I do not claim to know anything for sure. Anyone who does is on the wrong side of both the intelligence and the morality bell curve. So what can I talk about, if these abstract and lofty thoughts leave us better off as dogs?
But incidentally, what can a decent woman speak about with the greatest pleasure?
Answer: About herself. (At least in the American socio-political climate, if not everywhere)
Well, then, I have talked here about myself.
*If by “Underground,” one might mean a messy bedroom, in the company of a dog that smells faintly of skunks due to an incident several months ago, brought back to my olfactory system by the damp weather
*if by “Part One” one means the only part.
Willa Cather vs. Ernest Hemingway, plus a free bonus Carl Sagan with order!
21 May 2011 Leave a Comment
in Ernest Hemingway, Willa Cather Tags: A Very Short Story, Carl Sagan, gonorrhea, hemingway, meaning, Neighbor Rosicky, personal fable, symbol, Willa Cather
Reading “A Very Short Story” and “Neighbor Rosicky” in close succession a pretty jarring experience. The two are pretty much each other’s foil story, if that exists. I know that there are foil characters, but these two stories bring out the striking traits in one another. Hemingway’s stark, sterile account of two lovers’ lives leaves the reader with the feeling that life and love for these people was just a blip on the radar, a story told in two columns, in small font. It highlights the concept that we, as humans, are no larger(or more important) than a mote of dust in a beam of light(Carl Sagan said that, I believe.)
It’s almost too realistic for me. In my life, I am constantly building my personal fable; the little story I tell myself again and again to help me along. My romance with my boyfriend, told back in my head like a cheesy high school drama on television. My dreams of becoming a teacher, of “making a difference.” My ideal relationships with my parents, my friends, my whole world a pretty fantasy I paint in my mind. I have enough of a clue to recognize that often, this painted myth is not reality. This story totally strips these characters of their personal myth. It’s difficult to even classify the story as a “love story.” Luz and the male pronoun she loved in Padua conclude their epic romance in a cab with gonorrhea. I am a highly empathetic and emotional human being, but I even I felt like I had just read a story in a newspaper. Maybe it was a tragic story, but tomorrow there will be another paper and another tragic story to read. Should we regard lives and love like this? I don’t think so. But I don’t know. Perhaps being numb would make things easier. If I didn’t turn my life into a epic tale. Hemingway seems to like that approach.
Yet, Willa Cather’s fairy tale of minute detail, is so attractive. It felt like Hemingway sliced me open and Cather the wound with “Neighbor Rosicky.“ Did I wince painfully more than once at the old-fashioned, overtly sexist notions of how people (‘wives’) should act? Oh, yes. But it just all seemed so…real. But in a way, Cather is presenting the reader
with the best versions of these people. Yes, overcome struggle, but as people, they seem to have few flaws. She presents a family that supports itself, emotionally and in the farm work that sustains it, without much outside influence or much resistance from their teenage boys. In my experience, that isn’t usually how it goes. I don’t live on a farm, but I do live in a rural area(Hunterdon County, specifically Frenchtown, NJ) and I’ve seen how brutal farm life can be. Most of the farmers I’ve known aren’t noble and “one with the Earth like Rosicky. Instead, they view the land as something that they can rape and rebuilt to make a profit. In Cather’s defense, Rosicky reminds me of my own father and out little garden out back. My dad seems so aware of the beauty of our world on six acres. He’s not a religious man, my father, but I can feel a reverence for nature in him that he never verbally expresses.
It reminds me of the description of New York City: “…this was the trouble with big cities; they built you in from the earth itself, centered you away from any contact with the ground. You lived in an unnatural world, like fish in an aquarium, who were probably much more comfortable than they ever were in the sea.” (Cather 1013)
The story outright condemns city life, preferring the simple life in the Czech farmland. This sentiment is one I share deeply; I’ve always lived where the skyline is of trees and stars, not manmade things. I cannot spend more than a day in the city without wanting to the stars. I feel like I want to stretch and the buildings are touching my fingertips and toes.
Often the fantasy of “good ol’ down home folks” terrifies me and reminds me of Sarah Palin shooting moose, especially when presented to me in my own time period, in my own country. Yet, after reading this story, I finally get the appeal! It was like a revelation. If people were all really like the Rosickys, this beautiful farm world would be perfect.
Maybe somewhere between the two stories, is reality, which includes my personal fables and the simple truth.
a poem about bird poop
20 May 2011 Leave a Comment
in Uncategorized Tags: bird shit, moving on, not super-awesome canonical poets, poem, poerty, Poetry by me
there’s still
bird shit on
the driver’s side mirror.
but, you
in the passenger seat.
we are the captains of this vehicle:
and when i glance back
the car
tailgating us
doesn’t make me mad.
the demise of my unfounded hatred of Robert Frost
19 May 2011 Leave a Comment
in Robert Frost Tags: angst, gym class, high school, meaning, real meaning, Robert Frost, Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening, symbol, The Road Not Taken
It is astonishing how severely a poor high school education can fuck you up, not even considering the deep emotional scarring that gym class can leave. Focusing specifically on my English classes, I think I had one teacher that didn’t
outright tell her pupils that she hated her job. One of the things that came out of these experiences was a severe and completely unfounded hatred of Robert Frost. Don’t crucify me yet! After three consecutive years of hearing “The Road Not Taken” read aloud and praised for its inspirational qualities, it became my least favorite poem. One instance in particular sticks with me, even now that I have seen the Frost light. My senior year, I took a creative writing class, in which every marking period was devoted to a type of writing. Second semester was poetry and we were asked to bring our favorite poem to class. Out of 21 kids, 14 brought in “The Road Not Taken.” And as we all read our selections out loud( I read “For the Anniversary of my Death” by W.S. Merwin; I liked to fancy myself a dark individual in high school, full of synthesized angst) I began to hate it more and more. Hearing the words, which I had been told by more than one teacher were some cheesy slogan for picking the less obvious choice of profession (“Frost was supposed to be a doctor, but he chose to be a writer. Isn’t that moving?”), I got really angry. It pushed me over the edge when the last student read it. He was a huge overachiever and got really great grades and always told everyone that he was going to be a doctor like his dad and “really do something that matters” and treated me like garbage in the majority of our interactions. As he read the final lines, “I shall be telling this with a sigh/Somewhere ages and ages hence:/Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–/I took the one less traveled by,/And that has made all the difference,” the whole class simultaneously misinformed about the true meaning of the poem, I decided that I never wanted to hear it again. From that moment on, I couldn’t think of the poem without seeing
his pompous lips forming the words and his ridiculous explanation for his choice(“my dad wants me to be a doctor, but sometimes I don’t care about having as much money as my family does.”)
Then in Methods of Literary Analysis last semester, my professor gave us the poem and asked us to interpret it. I, of course, was repulsed by it and wrote a long tirade in class about how it was a disgrace to American literature and, of course, looked like an idiot because what I had always thought was the meaning, was of course, not at all what Frost intended. When I learned the poem was mocking his indecisive hiking partner/friend, I was so shocked.
Everything I thought I knew about Robert Frost was shattered and I was able to appreciate the poem so much more. If I hadn’t learned that, I probably would have never read the assigned poems for my Modern Am Literature class, which would have been such a shame. I love so many of them, so much. Frost is dark and poignant, two qualities that I appreciate in poets. The last lines of “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” are famous for a reason; they’re so haunting and relatable. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep./But I have promises to keep,/And miles to go before I sleep,/And miles to go before I sleep.” I often find them on repeat as I go through my day, wishing that I could just “sleep” myself.
i am a human being
17 May 2011 1 Comment
in Nathaniel Hawthorne Tags: high school, Matilda, meaning, philosophy of teaching and learning, Roald Dahl, symbolism, Young Goodman Brown
“You look like Miss Honey!” Mom coos at me, as I pass through the kitchen on my way out.
All the maternal pride and Roald Dahl references in the world cannot squelch the worms of insecurity that are inching from my heart, outward to my unstable extremities. When I offered to volunteer at a local school, it never occurred to me that I would be assigned to the high school I had graduated from two brief years ago. My experiences lead to my decision to become a high school English teacher.
I never want another student to feel as lost and hopeless as I did.
Pulling into the familiar parking lot, anxiety floods my body. In it float memories of high school; sitting the front of the class, back twitching with each judgmental word whispered from behind, my freshman self begs me, “Give me something to believe in.”
This gives me the strength to walk through the doors and down the achingly familiar halls. Students fill the crooked seats, jabbering and laughing. A redhead in the front row of this English class catches my eye. Human beings always look for themselves in the crowd. I do not have red hair.
Most people would not throw a college freshman in front of a group of rowdy, remedial English students. Most people are nothing like my cooperating teacher. I step to the front of the room, which has no windows, and the class settles for a moment. Wondering whom this intruder on the ordinary might be, no doubt.
Breathe in.
“Hello, everyone.”
Breathe out. Breaths are not supposed to be manual. Automatic is not an option right now. I am searching these faces for all the powerful, cruel kids who made this place unbearable. I look for the victim. Human beings always look for themselves in the crowd.
As I scan the intrigued faces, I find nothing and everything I was looking for. I see myself in each face. There are no oppressors, nor are there victims. I launch into an explanation of Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown”, my words humming with energy, humming with the all the intentions of my heart. .
Since then, I have volunteered at the high school in different classrooms and subjects for about a year. Every time, it breathes life into me. Automatically.
Miss Honey I am not. Yet, when the students are listening, I can almost see the teenage cynicism melting away.
I do not have the language to convey how much this means to me.
Human beings find themselves sometimes, in front of the crowd. I am a human being.
don’t judge Hemingway by the old man and the sea
15 May 2011 Leave a Comment
in Ernest Hemingway Tags: a clean well-lighted place, hemingway, in our time, Indian camp, meaning, pacificism, Regina Spektor, soldier's home, symbolism, war
I am a strange reader in that I listen to music while I read (and write. Yes, I am listening now.) My thoughts are like bad pets that wander unless I fill their space with something to occupy them. Their favorite toy is Pandora radio, a website where I can chose an artist and my station plays songs based on my preference for that particular artist. Almost always, my artist of choice for reading and writing is Regina Spektor.
Today, as I reread from the stories in our time, the songs on Regina Radio were strangely fitting, like a well-orchestrated film accompaniment. I won’t bore you with a list of songs, but sitting on the crappy mattress in my boyfriend’s dorm, I was there in Nick’s world.
The succession of vignettes and stories takes the reader through the stripping of this child’s hope, progressively making him more and more aware of the horrors of the world that might push someone to suicide. Just as I was reading the first line of “Soldier’s Home” an ad for the Army played on the radio station I was listening to. The thoughts in my head were no longer properly occupied by the music and, honestly, the way the ad was done made me angry. I guess propaganda evolves alongside society because it makes use of sounds and images from popular video games to sell the group’s lifestyle. And it made me shiver again, because now that I had assigned Nick to my brother as the little boy, I imagined my brother, seventeen and too jaded in real life, without experiencing war, coming back, as Krebs, from seeing the darkest parts of humanity to a “home” that no longer matters or makes sense, numb and unable to love. When I think about an experience robbing my brother, or anyone really, of his ability to love, I have to question whether any end is worth those means. Hemingway’s style allows for this type of association, leaving the heartbreak to the reader. It is one of the more emotive Hemingway stories I’ve read, especially in the dialogue with the mom and sister. When he tells his mother “no” when she asks if he loves her, you know he is telling the truth.
“‘I’m your mother,’ she said. ‘I held you next to my heart when you were a tiny baby.’” That line is the real kicker.
Time and time again I reacted physically to parts of the stories, a blanket of shivers down my arms. Particularly, I connected the father-son conversation at the end of “Indian Camp” and the old man’s suicide attempt in “A Clean Well-Lighted Place.” The little boy asking his father about suicide and death, so unaware of what could make a man incapable of standing his life showcased his gleaming innocence.
So, when I reached the last story in the packet, I immediately flashed back to that conversation. When I imagined the man hanging from the rope, the father’s words in “Indian Camp” kept repeating in my head:
“Is dying hard, Daddy?”
“No, I think it’s pretty easy, Nick. It all depends.”
Which was hard to read, when the little boy, the terrified boy at war, the soldier with no place, and the old man who wants to die, have been personified as your little brother. When I held young Nick and the old man in my mind like that, I couldn’t hear the music anymore and Hemingway had my mind’s full attention.
my brother is cool. inspirational, even.
15 May 2011 Leave a Comment
in Faith Tags: chemistry, faith, meaning, nature, science as faith, teachers
As I progress through life, I have come to understand that transmission of knowledge breathes life into the mundane. More than a decade of public school education had dragged me through more science classes than I wish to recount. For the most part, my interest in science has served me to do well in all of them. However, achieving “good grades” in the classes never left me in with the feeling that I had actually acquired something marvelous and new. Then I met Mr. Gessner, my chemistry teacher junior year. An unassuming man, many students did not appreciate his methods nor his subject but for me, his class literally changed the way I viewed my world, life, and what it meant to learn about science. Mr. Gessner made me realize how complex and remarkable even the smallest, seemingly unimportant parts of our world are. Often, we breeze through life, preoccupied with the seemingly necessary routine, never stopping to examine the art that is science. Paradoxical as it may sound, Mr. Gessner taught me that everything from quarks to string theory to the construction of cells follows a beautiful pattern, perfect for its purpose. In this perfection, strange as it may sound, I find hope. That nature can form such perfect pieces of a puzzle; I find my faith in science, a gift from Mr. Gessner.
whale coutesy of:
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