Precariously piled,
implements of process,
sink to
bottomless depths
with a
residual sigh.
Their fate the
same
as yours.
Rinse
Soap
Scrub
Dry;
Repeat.
‘Til gleaming towers
emerge anew
with beaded
sweat and steam.
The tell-tale sign
of completion:
ripple marks,
flowing and fading,
on supple
fingertips.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Found Poem
PUTZHEAD.
Scrawled on the walls
by a legend
under
neath the porch –
– without hesitation.
Putzhead.
He’s a mad tyrant,
from opulent parties
and a
ferocious façade.
Oh!
The deceptive maze of
human relations,
like a
two-pronged
side-slip
corkscrew.
Scrawled on the walls
by a legend
under
neath the porch –
– without hesitation.
Putzhead.
He’s a mad tyrant,
from opulent parties
and a
ferocious façade.
Oh!
The deceptive maze of
human relations,
like a
two-pronged
side-slip
corkscrew.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Haiku
Tangerine sunset
Sweet enough to swallow whole
Melts on horizon.
Bliss is a blossom
Blushing in the springtime sun
Wistful and tender.
Sweet enough to swallow whole
Melts on horizon.
Bliss is a blossom
Blushing in the springtime sun
Wistful and tender.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
"Things I Learned Last Week" Poem
(with apologies to William Stafford)
Deer, within 20 minutes of being born,
take their first steps.
Sometimes, permanent marker can be erased
with a whiteboard pen.
A woman working in a factory makes a
shirt that will sell for $1000.
She won’t see that amount of money in
one year’s salary.
Henry the eighth beheaded his wives but
he did take pleasure in singing and music.
Christopher McCandless sought solitude.
His last words were, “happiness is only real when shared”.
If I ever die, I’d like it to be
in the forest. That way, I’ll have
the silence to go with me, and no one
to interrupt the tranquility.
In Montana, one person’s job is
to protect wild animals during the breeding season,
so that when they grow healthy,
they may be hunted for game.
Deer, within 20 minutes of being born,
take their first steps.
Sometimes, permanent marker can be erased
with a whiteboard pen.
A woman working in a factory makes a
shirt that will sell for $1000.
She won’t see that amount of money in
one year’s salary.
Henry the eighth beheaded his wives but
he did take pleasure in singing and music.
Christopher McCandless sought solitude.
His last words were, “happiness is only real when shared”.
If I ever die, I’d like it to be
in the forest. That way, I’ll have
the silence to go with me, and no one
to interrupt the tranquility.
In Montana, one person’s job is
to protect wild animals during the breeding season,
so that when they grow healthy,
they may be hunted for game.
Friday, May 7, 2010
"I Am" Poem
I am
Clouds, Waves, and Constellations.
I like berry picking and spontaneous dancing.
Humility, Benevolence, and Grace are important to me.
I am a perfectionist,
but only because I care that things are done right.
Like a lizard, I am solar-powered.
I wish to learn something new everyday.
I hope to see oneness in the world.
This is me, I am.
Clouds, Waves, and Constellations.
I like berry picking and spontaneous dancing.
Humility, Benevolence, and Grace are important to me.
I am a perfectionist,
but only because I care that things are done right.
Like a lizard, I am solar-powered.
I wish to learn something new everyday.
I hope to see oneness in the world.
This is me, I am.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Quote Reaction #6
The Lemon Tree, by Sandy Tolan
‘Bashir and his siblings breathed in the atmosphere of humiliation and defeat, and for Ahmad’s firstborn son, avenging the loss of Palestine became a singular goal, even in play. His siblings and neighborhood children would find pieces of wood to fashion as guns and play “Arabs and Jews,” like cowboys and Indians, in the dirt streets. “He insisted that he always play the Arab,” Khanom remembered. “He would be very angry if anyone would try to get him to play the Jew.”’ (Tolan 98-99)
I have just begun a new novel, a ‘non-fiction narrative’ as the author describes it, on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It presents the deeply rooted histories of two families, an Arab and a Jew, battling over the same ‘homeland’ at the height of the war. This quote gets to the heart of the inbred prejudices that even the youngest members of society are subject to. It caused me to pause, and reflect inwardly on those beliefs that I have accepted as an individual. Being submissive to another’s way of thinking grants them a power over you that can be dangerous and limiting. That frightens me, and I hope to always maintain a broad scope that is not ignorant, but liberating.
‘Bashir and his siblings breathed in the atmosphere of humiliation and defeat, and for Ahmad’s firstborn son, avenging the loss of Palestine became a singular goal, even in play. His siblings and neighborhood children would find pieces of wood to fashion as guns and play “Arabs and Jews,” like cowboys and Indians, in the dirt streets. “He insisted that he always play the Arab,” Khanom remembered. “He would be very angry if anyone would try to get him to play the Jew.”’ (Tolan 98-99)
I have just begun a new novel, a ‘non-fiction narrative’ as the author describes it, on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It presents the deeply rooted histories of two families, an Arab and a Jew, battling over the same ‘homeland’ at the height of the war. This quote gets to the heart of the inbred prejudices that even the youngest members of society are subject to. It caused me to pause, and reflect inwardly on those beliefs that I have accepted as an individual. Being submissive to another’s way of thinking grants them a power over you that can be dangerous and limiting. That frightens me, and I hope to always maintain a broad scope that is not ignorant, but liberating.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Quote Reaction #5
Reading Lolita in Tehran, by Azar Nafisi
“The war came one morning, suddenly and unexpectedly. It was announced on September 23, 2980, the day before the opening of schools and universities: we were in the car returning to Tehran from a trip to the Caspian Sea when we heard about the Iraqi attack on the radio. It all started very simply. The newscaster announced it matter-of-factly, the way people announce a birth or a death, and we accepted it as an irrevocable fact that would permeate all other considerations and gradually insinuate itself into the four corners of our lives.” (Nafisi 157)
I can’t imagine myself in a position where the message of war is delivered so diffidently. Of course, the context in which the author lived in is diametrically opposite the culture I am currently immersed in. However, the war does manage to seep into every facet of her life, despite its subtle beginnings. It is interesting to hear the first hand account of the progression from stubborn resistance to completely succumbing to a force/fear-based regime. I know I would not tolerate it even remotely well with my sheltered Western upbringing.
“The war came one morning, suddenly and unexpectedly. It was announced on September 23, 2980, the day before the opening of schools and universities: we were in the car returning to Tehran from a trip to the Caspian Sea when we heard about the Iraqi attack on the radio. It all started very simply. The newscaster announced it matter-of-factly, the way people announce a birth or a death, and we accepted it as an irrevocable fact that would permeate all other considerations and gradually insinuate itself into the four corners of our lives.” (Nafisi 157)
I can’t imagine myself in a position where the message of war is delivered so diffidently. Of course, the context in which the author lived in is diametrically opposite the culture I am currently immersed in. However, the war does manage to seep into every facet of her life, despite its subtle beginnings. It is interesting to hear the first hand account of the progression from stubborn resistance to completely succumbing to a force/fear-based regime. I know I would not tolerate it even remotely well with my sheltered Western upbringing.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Quote Reaction #4
Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi
“Art is no longer snobbish or cowardly. It teaches peasants to use tractors, gives lyrics to young soldiers, designs textiles for factory women’s dresses, writes burlesque for factory theaters, does a hundred other useful tasks. Art is useful as bread.” (Nafisi 107)
This quote was not actually written by the author, but was quoted from a Mike Gold essay. In the book, Reading Lolita in Tehran, a group of female university students meets with a female professor to discuss great works of literature, book club style. This would seem entirely ordinary, except that the book takes place in Iran at the time of the country’s revolution in the late 70s and early 80s. The author uses this quote to bring out what purpose art, and literature, serve in their extremely conservative society. Even though I do not face anything like the oppressive challenges that these women did, it made me pause to think about what makes art essential to humanity.
“Art is no longer snobbish or cowardly. It teaches peasants to use tractors, gives lyrics to young soldiers, designs textiles for factory women’s dresses, writes burlesque for factory theaters, does a hundred other useful tasks. Art is useful as bread.” (Nafisi 107)
This quote was not actually written by the author, but was quoted from a Mike Gold essay. In the book, Reading Lolita in Tehran, a group of female university students meets with a female professor to discuss great works of literature, book club style. This would seem entirely ordinary, except that the book takes place in Iran at the time of the country’s revolution in the late 70s and early 80s. The author uses this quote to bring out what purpose art, and literature, serve in their extremely conservative society. Even though I do not face anything like the oppressive challenges that these women did, it made me pause to think about what makes art essential to humanity.
Monday, March 8, 2010
SS Final Draft/Goals
Serendipity
The man in the suit drummed his fingertips irritably against the ticket counter. His moustache twitched on cue with the chirp of his programmed watch as the hour hand aligned with the neatly labeled number eight. He knew what the signal meant, but checked the wristwatch again anyways, just for good measure. Glancing at the pixilated screen overhead, he was reminded that his status still read “standby”. Its blaring block letters partnered with his initials.
Just then, the portly grey-haired woman reappeared waddling back to her seat behind the desk. “Mr. Ogega,” she announced, butchering his family name with a strong southern twang. Family. For whatever reason, the word struck him poignantly in that moment as it streamed across his radar. He could not let it pass. It was as if a barricade had suddenly materialized before his line of vision, bombarding him with the warning “Do Not Enter”.
How to even define the word? Did his family still exist? Would he still belong to them, even if they did? It was as if he were drowning in his own thoughts, gulping in mouthfuls of salty unanswered questions…
“Mr. Ogega,” the ticket lady repeated more sharply. He responded jerkily, his previously glazed eyes flickering as a response to her demand. “The best I can do for you is the double layover departing at six o’clock tonight.” Still recovering from his trance, he rubbed his weary eyes, but found himself incapable of protest at the time. Shaking off the last flooding sentiments, he emitted a deep exhale. Then firmly straightened the neck of his business tie, regaining a sense of his familiar selfhood. Not forgetting his manners, he managed a weak, “Thank you, ma’am.” He turned on his heel and strolled cautiously in the opposite direction from the gate marked N14.
His destination was yet unknown to him, although he made every effort to march deliberately. Promptly he decided it would be most logical to visit the men’s room, although not for the use of its facilities. When he reached the last stall, he made sure that the lock was secured and set down his black leather briefcase where it could not be reached by unprincipled wanderers. He briefly contemplated the virtue of banging his head against the wall, as he had seen acted out in movies. The situation deemed itself appropriate: firstly for losing his outward composure in a public scene, and secondly for something he himself could not quite put words to… He leaned towards the enticing tiled wall. But it was no use. Who are you to think yourself a movie star? he thought, instead lowering himself to a perch on the toilet seat.
He had been so unexpectedly aroused to think on the very subject that he had successfully rejected from his mind for nearly 27 years. The sudden exposure of this perturbing fact made him vulnerable. His knees trembled uncontrollably and he pulled them in tight to his chest as if to ensure that his legs wouldn’t fall off altogether. Caught off his guard, he began to weep like a child, messy and unashamed. He could not recall a time when he had displayed such intense emotion, but nor could it be suppressed.
Eventually, the tears did wane, and he blew his nose in finale. But before he could begin to rack his brain back to the topic that caused such great inner turmoil, he realized that he had spent the better part of an hour in the confines of a rather unpleasant space. He jumped to his feet immediately, and reentered the bustling airport looking slightly disheveled atop stiff legs. At first, all he could muster was to stand dumbfounded in the midst of the chaos. Blinking wildly as if inside the shutter of a paparazzi camera lens.
Everything he laid his eyes upon seemed to be cast in an altogether unfamiliar glow. It was as if he were seeing beyond the human spectrum of color. He no longer stared blindly ahead with tunnel vision, but perceived even the most ordinary objects in a fourth dimension. Each passerby was illumined with histories and agendas. He could sense each one’s purpose wafting by like a palpable odor. Time played no variable as it slipped slowly away with the preoccupied travelers. The man in the suit felt his own essence become swallowed in the sea of people.
Somehow, by some exterior force it seemed, he found himself in a quiet, empty place. Alone. Man versus conscience. It was the beginning of existence, as he knew it. He was transported to a rural village in the Okavango delta region of Botswana. There he was, a young boy with not yet a decade of experience. In his midst were his brother, sister, father, mother, and an elderly woman. Family. The one in closest proximity to him was his older brother, Jared. Pride and ambition were exuded merely through the intensity of his stare. Clearly this was the first child, a son nonetheless, the inheritor of property and fortune. It was equally evident that this was a man he admired with every fiber of his being.
As he scanned the room, all but one other figure appeared indistinctly. This character was his mother, Lilian Ogega. A robust lady, her bosom enlarged by a warm, full heart. Her smile cracked open, revealing a pearly ribbon set against her chocolate brown countenance. Lilian busied herself preparing the midday meal, but did not relent to show that she was intimately engaged in the family gathering. The single bedroom dwelling reverberated with the peace and laughter of even the undistinguished faces beneath the heat of the African sun.
The next scene Mr. Ogega found himself immersed in entirely juxtaposed the sentiment of the first. It was not a photographic memory, but a smattering of chaotic sensations. First came the initial petrifying shock, bursting in all directions at once like a tsunami wave. Its retreat came as rapidly as its arrival in the form of a devastating disconnect. He felt barren, lost in a wasteland wilderness. All that remained of the passing wave was the unnerving feeling of gloom and distrust.
This brought Mr. Ogega back to present day, walking again past the departure gates. This time the figures that surrounded him were as before, tangible and clear. It astounded him to think that he had not traveled more broadly than a radius of five miles from his current position all day. Virtually, it seemed he had transgressed multiple oceanic and continental boundaries. He pondered the things he had witnessed, the Congo civil war that had brutally agonized his own country of origin. His separation from the village, his family. The refugee camp and relocation is where he lost track. Lost language, community, culture, pride, vitality. Here he found himself, 27 years later, still suffering from the aftermath of immense lack.
Reflecting on his life in real time, he regarded the hundreds of civilians milling through the airport, greeting and parting. As if detached from his own personality, he saw with transparency where he had gone amiss. He had submitted to the grooves of society, mastered them in fact, as was certified by his functional American lifestyle. He was the stark image of success, an inspiration to others, but still felt engulfed in an unforgiving void.
Now he knew with certainty that his Tswana roots were an integral part of his identity. Never again would he abandon the hope of a culture whose future lay in the hands of intelligent minds and vibrant souls. Purpose effused him, reawakening his youthful nature. Looking outward with eager eyes, he was directed pointedly to a currency exchange booth. Approaching the kiosk, he inquired after the Botswana pula. A vocabulary word that meant both money and blessing in his native tongue. The salesman was able to retrieve the small sum of 100 pula for the suited man, who gratefully purchased the notes and pocketed them with childlike glee. Mr. Ogega flashed a glinting smile at all those who crossed his path and proceeded to stride cheerfully through the terminal, liberated at last.
Goals
1. I am proud of my ability to develop characters. I felt that I was successful in portraying a distinguished business man and how he becomes lost in his own nostalgic history. I was satisfied with my introduction, which set the tone of this piece, allowing the reader to gain some insight into the anonymous suited man's present life.
2. My writing tends to go downhill shortly after the exposition. I struggle with arriving at a sense of conclusiveness by the end of any story, and this is certainly something to work on. Also, I am certainly aware the I overkill the adjectives, which can be tedious to read at any length.
3. I would like to learn more extensively the techniques that can be used to "show" (as opposed to "tell"). I know there are segments in my writing that are plain narrative, but was unable to find a better way to engage the reader. Perhaps more exercises in this practice would be helpful, since we briefly discussed the article in class.
The man in the suit drummed his fingertips irritably against the ticket counter. His moustache twitched on cue with the chirp of his programmed watch as the hour hand aligned with the neatly labeled number eight. He knew what the signal meant, but checked the wristwatch again anyways, just for good measure. Glancing at the pixilated screen overhead, he was reminded that his status still read “standby”. Its blaring block letters partnered with his initials.
Just then, the portly grey-haired woman reappeared waddling back to her seat behind the desk. “Mr. Ogega,” she announced, butchering his family name with a strong southern twang. Family. For whatever reason, the word struck him poignantly in that moment as it streamed across his radar. He could not let it pass. It was as if a barricade had suddenly materialized before his line of vision, bombarding him with the warning “Do Not Enter”.
How to even define the word? Did his family still exist? Would he still belong to them, even if they did? It was as if he were drowning in his own thoughts, gulping in mouthfuls of salty unanswered questions…
“Mr. Ogega,” the ticket lady repeated more sharply. He responded jerkily, his previously glazed eyes flickering as a response to her demand. “The best I can do for you is the double layover departing at six o’clock tonight.” Still recovering from his trance, he rubbed his weary eyes, but found himself incapable of protest at the time. Shaking off the last flooding sentiments, he emitted a deep exhale. Then firmly straightened the neck of his business tie, regaining a sense of his familiar selfhood. Not forgetting his manners, he managed a weak, “Thank you, ma’am.” He turned on his heel and strolled cautiously in the opposite direction from the gate marked N14.
His destination was yet unknown to him, although he made every effort to march deliberately. Promptly he decided it would be most logical to visit the men’s room, although not for the use of its facilities. When he reached the last stall, he made sure that the lock was secured and set down his black leather briefcase where it could not be reached by unprincipled wanderers. He briefly contemplated the virtue of banging his head against the wall, as he had seen acted out in movies. The situation deemed itself appropriate: firstly for losing his outward composure in a public scene, and secondly for something he himself could not quite put words to… He leaned towards the enticing tiled wall. But it was no use. Who are you to think yourself a movie star? he thought, instead lowering himself to a perch on the toilet seat.
He had been so unexpectedly aroused to think on the very subject that he had successfully rejected from his mind for nearly 27 years. The sudden exposure of this perturbing fact made him vulnerable. His knees trembled uncontrollably and he pulled them in tight to his chest as if to ensure that his legs wouldn’t fall off altogether. Caught off his guard, he began to weep like a child, messy and unashamed. He could not recall a time when he had displayed such intense emotion, but nor could it be suppressed.
Eventually, the tears did wane, and he blew his nose in finale. But before he could begin to rack his brain back to the topic that caused such great inner turmoil, he realized that he had spent the better part of an hour in the confines of a rather unpleasant space. He jumped to his feet immediately, and reentered the bustling airport looking slightly disheveled atop stiff legs. At first, all he could muster was to stand dumbfounded in the midst of the chaos. Blinking wildly as if inside the shutter of a paparazzi camera lens.
Everything he laid his eyes upon seemed to be cast in an altogether unfamiliar glow. It was as if he were seeing beyond the human spectrum of color. He no longer stared blindly ahead with tunnel vision, but perceived even the most ordinary objects in a fourth dimension. Each passerby was illumined with histories and agendas. He could sense each one’s purpose wafting by like a palpable odor. Time played no variable as it slipped slowly away with the preoccupied travelers. The man in the suit felt his own essence become swallowed in the sea of people.
Somehow, by some exterior force it seemed, he found himself in a quiet, empty place. Alone. Man versus conscience. It was the beginning of existence, as he knew it. He was transported to a rural village in the Okavango delta region of Botswana. There he was, a young boy with not yet a decade of experience. In his midst were his brother, sister, father, mother, and an elderly woman. Family. The one in closest proximity to him was his older brother, Jared. Pride and ambition were exuded merely through the intensity of his stare. Clearly this was the first child, a son nonetheless, the inheritor of property and fortune. It was equally evident that this was a man he admired with every fiber of his being.
As he scanned the room, all but one other figure appeared indistinctly. This character was his mother, Lilian Ogega. A robust lady, her bosom enlarged by a warm, full heart. Her smile cracked open, revealing a pearly ribbon set against her chocolate brown countenance. Lilian busied herself preparing the midday meal, but did not relent to show that she was intimately engaged in the family gathering. The single bedroom dwelling reverberated with the peace and laughter of even the undistinguished faces beneath the heat of the African sun.
The next scene Mr. Ogega found himself immersed in entirely juxtaposed the sentiment of the first. It was not a photographic memory, but a smattering of chaotic sensations. First came the initial petrifying shock, bursting in all directions at once like a tsunami wave. Its retreat came as rapidly as its arrival in the form of a devastating disconnect. He felt barren, lost in a wasteland wilderness. All that remained of the passing wave was the unnerving feeling of gloom and distrust.
This brought Mr. Ogega back to present day, walking again past the departure gates. This time the figures that surrounded him were as before, tangible and clear. It astounded him to think that he had not traveled more broadly than a radius of five miles from his current position all day. Virtually, it seemed he had transgressed multiple oceanic and continental boundaries. He pondered the things he had witnessed, the Congo civil war that had brutally agonized his own country of origin. His separation from the village, his family. The refugee camp and relocation is where he lost track. Lost language, community, culture, pride, vitality. Here he found himself, 27 years later, still suffering from the aftermath of immense lack.
Reflecting on his life in real time, he regarded the hundreds of civilians milling through the airport, greeting and parting. As if detached from his own personality, he saw with transparency where he had gone amiss. He had submitted to the grooves of society, mastered them in fact, as was certified by his functional American lifestyle. He was the stark image of success, an inspiration to others, but still felt engulfed in an unforgiving void.
Now he knew with certainty that his Tswana roots were an integral part of his identity. Never again would he abandon the hope of a culture whose future lay in the hands of intelligent minds and vibrant souls. Purpose effused him, reawakening his youthful nature. Looking outward with eager eyes, he was directed pointedly to a currency exchange booth. Approaching the kiosk, he inquired after the Botswana pula. A vocabulary word that meant both money and blessing in his native tongue. The salesman was able to retrieve the small sum of 100 pula for the suited man, who gratefully purchased the notes and pocketed them with childlike glee. Mr. Ogega flashed a glinting smile at all those who crossed his path and proceeded to stride cheerfully through the terminal, liberated at last.
Goals
1. I am proud of my ability to develop characters. I felt that I was successful in portraying a distinguished business man and how he becomes lost in his own nostalgic history. I was satisfied with my introduction, which set the tone of this piece, allowing the reader to gain some insight into the anonymous suited man's present life.
2. My writing tends to go downhill shortly after the exposition. I struggle with arriving at a sense of conclusiveness by the end of any story, and this is certainly something to work on. Also, I am certainly aware the I overkill the adjectives, which can be tedious to read at any length.
3. I would like to learn more extensively the techniques that can be used to "show" (as opposed to "tell"). I know there are segments in my writing that are plain narrative, but was unable to find a better way to engage the reader. Perhaps more exercises in this practice would be helpful, since we briefly discussed the article in class.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Quote Reaction #3
The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls
“What was most important to us was who ran fastest and whose daddy wasn’t a wimp. My dad was not only not a wimp, he came out to play with the gang, running alongside us, tossing us up in the air, and wrestling against the entire pack without getting hurt. Kids from the Tracks came knocking at the door, and when I answered, they asked, ‘Can your dad come out and play?’” (Walls 59)
There are some qualifications that parents are (or should be) required to fulfill. But it’s often the alternative actions that leave their mark on a child. In my case, it was the days my dad would take my siblings and I down to the dunes for the day. We would play endlessly, splashing among the waves, excavating shells along the shore, until we were caked in sand inside and out. The fun was always amplified when my dad joined in. The key difference between my experience and Jeanette’s, is that her parents failed to accomplish the necessary tasks, yet excelled at the extra ‘important’ ones. It makes me pause to think about the what makes a ‘good’ parent by anyone’s standards.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
SS Rough Draft/Reflection
Serendipity
The man in the suit drummed his fingertips irritably against the ticket counter. His moustache twitched on cue with the chirp of his programmed watch as the hour hand aligned with the neatly labeled number eight. He knew what the signal meant, but checked the wristwatch again anyways, just for good measure. Glancing at the pixilated screen overhead, he was reminded that his status still read “standby”. Its blaring block letters partnered with his initials.
Just then, the portly grey-haired woman reappeared waddling back to her seat behind the desk. “Mr. Ogega,” she announced, butchering his family name with a strong southern twang. Family. For whatever reason, the word struck him poignantly in that moment as it streamed across his radar. He could not let it pass. It was as if a barricade had suddenly materialized before his line of vision, bombarding him with the command “Do Not Enter”.
How to even define the word? Did his family still exist? Would he still belong to them, even if they did? It was as if he were drowning in his own thoughts, gulping in mouthfuls of salty unanswered questions…
“Mr. Ogega,” the ticket lady repeated more sharply. He responded jerkily, his previously glazed eyes flickering as a response to her demand. “The best I can do for you is the double layover departing at six o’clock tonight.” Still recovering from his trance, he rubbed his weary eyes, but found himself incapable of protest at the time. Shaking off the last flooding sentiments, he emitted a deep exhale. Then firmly straightened the neck of his business tie, regaining a sense of his familiar selfhood. Not forgetting his manners, he managed a weak, “Thank you, madam.” He turned on his heel and strolled cautiously in the opposite direction from the gate marked N14.
His destination was yet unknown to him, although he made every effort to march deliberately. Promptly deciding it would be most logical to visit the men’s room, though not for use of its facilities. When he reached the last stall, he made sure that the lock was secure and set down his black leather briefcase where it could not be reached by untrustworthy passerby. He proceeded to slap himself forcefully on both sides of his face. First, for losing his outward composure in a public scene. Secondly, for something he himself could not put words to.
He had been so unexpectedly aroused to think on the very subject that he had successfully rejected from his mind for nearly 27 years. Now that it had resurfaced, he felt exposed and vulnerable. The next thing he did came as even more of a surprise than his previous course of action. Mr. Ogega wept. He could not recall the last time he had cried, or shown any sign of intense emotion for that matter. It was not uncontrolled, nor hysterical, but short, hot tears that dribbled in rapid streams from his eyes. This he found utterly perplexing, yet the more he worked to stop them, the blearier he became. So he dabbed tentatively at his welling lids and waited it out.
Eventually, the tears did wane, and he blew his nose in finale. But before he could begin to rack his brain back to the topic that caused such great inner turmoil, he suddenly realized that he had spent the better part of an hour in the confines of a rather unpleasant space. He jumped to his feet immediately, and reentered the bustling airport on stiff legs. At first, all he could muster was to stand dumbfounded in the midst of the chaos. Blinking wildly as if inside the shutter of a paparazzi camera lens.
Everything he laid his eyes upon seemed to be cast in an altogether unfamiliar glow. It was as if he were seeing beyond the human spectrum of color. He no longer stared blindly ahead with tunnel vision, but perceived even the most ordinary objects in a fourth dimension. Each passerby was illumined with histories and agendas. He could sense their purpose wafting by like a palpable odor. Time played no variable as it slipped slowly away with the preoccupied travelers. The man in the suit felt his own essence become swallowed in the sea of people.
Somehow, by some exterior force it seemed, he found himself in a quiet, empty place. Alone. Man versus conscience. It was the beginning of existence, as he knew it. He was transported to a rural village in the Okavango delta region of Botswana. There he was, a young boy with not yet a decade of experience. In his midst were his brother, sister, father, mother, and an elderly woman. Family. The one in closest proximity to him was his older brother, Jared. Pride and ambition were exuded merely through the intensity of his stare. Clearly this was the first child, a son nonetheless, the inheritor of property and fortune. It was equally evident that this was a man he admired with every fiber of his being. As he scanned the room, all but one other figure appeared indistinctly. This character was his mother, Lilian Ogega. A robust lady with a healthy bosom enlarged by her warm, full heart. Her smile cracked open, revealing a white sheen set against her chocolate brown complexion. Lilian busied herself preparing the midday meal, but did not relent to show that she was intimately engaged in the family gathering. The single room home reverberated with the peace and laughter of even the undistinguished faces beneath the heat of the African sun.
The next scene Mr. Ogega found himself immersed in entirely juxtaposed the sentiment of the first. It was not a photographic memory, but a smattering of chaotic emotions and sensations. First came the initial petrifying shock. But before it was allowed to settle, there was a devastating disconnect. It ravaged him body and soul, aching at his most tender spots, nearly running him aground. He felt barren, lost in a wasteland wilderness. It was followed by a hazy blue that washed all else away in a single wave. What was left was the unnerving feeling of gloom and denial.
This brought Mr. Ogega back to present day, walking again past the departure gates. This time the figures that surrounded him were as before, tangible and clear. He pondered the things he had witnessed, the Congo civil war that had brutally agonized his own country of origin. His separation from the village, his family. The refugee camp and relocation is where he lost track. Lost language, community, culture, pride, vitality. Here he found himself, 27 years later, still suffering from the aftermath of immense lack. He had submitted to the grooves of society, mastered them in fact, as was certified by his functional American life. He was the stark image of success, an inspiration to others, but still felt engulfed in an unforgiving void.
And yet, as he regarded the hundreds of civilians milling through the airport, greeting and parting, one thought became crystalline. His Tswana roots were an integral part of his identity. Never again would he abandon the hope of a culture whose future lay in the hands of intelligent minds and vibrant souls. Purpose effused him, reawakening his 10 year-old nature. Looking outward with eager eyes, he was directed pointedly to a currency exchange booth. Approaching the kiosk, he inquired after the Botswana pula. A vocabulary word that meant both money and blessing in his native tongue. The salesman was able to retrieve the small sum of 100 pula for the suited man, who gratefully purchased the notes and pocketed them with childlike glee. Mr. Ogega flashed a pearly smile at all those who crossed his path and proceeded to stride freely through the terminal.
Reflection
Although I am well aware of my writing blunders, it was helpful to hear feedback from students I don’t always work with and who offered multiple perspectives. They asked me thought provoking questions that made me rethink the message I was attempting to convey. They challenged me to write more concisely and if possible, with less description (it can be overwhelming at times!). They highlighted my strengths as good character development and good variation in sentence structure.
From the article, “Show Don’t Tell”, I was forced to consider the narrative style of my work. I recognized that for a large portion of the story, I was giving a detailed summary, which doesn’t necessarily engage the reader. Through the revision process, I definitely had to rework some of my sentences with the objective of “showing” in mind. There is still a long way to go before I will be satisfied with my story, but I feel that I am off to a good start anyway!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Postcard Reflection
I sent the postcard to my sister, who I’ve mentioned is my usual writing critique. I was comfortable sharing my work with her and it was well received on the other end. She replied, “My reaction was to laugh to myself, because this scenario is so relatable. You've captured the typical North American businessman on standby on some domestic flight to somewhere. As usual, the ticketing agent is less than inspired, and nameless.” There was the other typical comment about my adjective overdose, which I know is my tendency. However, I was glad to have delivered a message successfully within a few short lines. It was helpful to hear this feedback so that I now have the tools to expand and strengthen my story.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Quote Reaction #2
The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls
“Instead of beds, we kids each slept in a big cardboard box, like the ones refrigerators get delivered in. A little while after we’d moved into the depot, we heard Mom and Dad talking about buying us kids real beds, and we said they shouldn’t do it. We liked our boxes. They made going to bed seem like an adventure.” (Walls 52)
At this stage in her memoir, Jeanette is still only four years old. Ignorance is bliss. I recall being a young girl about her age and refusing to leave the house without an extravagant pink tutu around my waist. Although my mum may have endorsed the cutesy antic initially, it eventually became a point of minor embarrassment to her. However, she submitted to my childish ways, realizing it was merely a phase. It reminded me that even when parents think they know what is best for their child, sometimes kids have to get away with things at the merit of a good imagination.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Quote Reaction #1
The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls
“We were doing the skedaddle, usually in the middle of the night. I sometimes heard Mom and Dad discussing the people who were after us. Dad called them henchmen, bloodsuckers, and the gestapo. Sometimes he would make mysterious references to executives from Standard Oil who were trying to steal the Texas land that Mom’s family owned, and FBI agents who were after Dad for some dark episode that he never told us about because he didn’t want to put us in danger, too… Mom, however, told us that the FBI wasn’t really after Dad; he just liked to say they were because it was more fun having the FBI on your tail than bill collectors.” (Walls 19)
Walls sets the stage for her memoir describing the relationship between her parents through recollections from her early childhood. Like any good child, she speaks admirably of her parents and their decisions, perhaps out of her own ignorance. The differences she notes between her mother and father are subtle, though she delivers the point clearly. So far, the book moves at a steady pace; it’s full of thrill and easy to read. Walls writes honestly and with good humor, and even makes her wild adventures believable.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Writing Influences
I guess when it comes down to critical things, like the way I think, process information, read or write, my immediate family has had the greatest influence on me from the earliest stages through today. Starting with my dad, the engineer/science minded member of the family, I think I can put it shortly that he has impacted my literary career the least. Since high school, his own writing has been limited to lab reports and papers, which I find perfectly mundane on all accounts. My mum and brother I feel I can lump into one category. They both have an affinity for delivering a clearly outlined objective in an eloquent manner. I believe it is from the two of them that I have learned to write structurally and load (sometimes overload!) on the adjectives. Finally, my sister is the writer who I would aspire to emulate, if possible. She recently graduated from university as an English major, and it has served her well! Her style is very cohesive, direct, but artful in it’s own way. I often look to her for advice on editing an essay.
There are many authors whose work I respect and admire, but I know for myself that it isn’t anything like my “voice”. I can’t quite define my own voice, but it’s something I am continually developing. Also, I haven’t really had the opportunity to assess my own voice through much of high school, where the focus has largely been on writing the standard five-paragraph essay. I look forward to exploring more modes and techniques over the course of the next few months!
Friday, February 5, 2010
20/20
For some reason or other, this story reminded me of how the process of becoming comfortable with someone is often the most uncomfortable part of any relationship. Ruthie is introduced as a simple minded individual, but as the story unfolds, we see her thoughts develop imaginatively. Told from Bill’s perspective, I also noted a change in his character. At first, he describes Ruthie with skepticism and perhaps even distaste until she finally comments on her happiness to accompany him on the drive. His decision to “let it ride” seemed to mirror Bill’s hesitant acceptance of Ruthie’s quirkiness, almost as if they’d reached a common ground on something. This may be the first step in breaking down the awkward barrier between them, toward mutual respect and openness.
What can YOU make of the story’s title “20/20”?
Introduction
Hello reader! My name is Emily Osborne and I am entering the world of blogging through my high school’s Creative Writing class. This is a space for me to respond to works of literature, share my own writing pieces, and receive constructive feedback. Thanks for taking a peek at my “spot” and I hope you enjoy exploring it!
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