the shoulder helper(s?)
whispered commands from left and right
litter! no, recycle!
Three weeks goes fast when you're writing creatively during a three week interim writing course. It was fun and went very well. It was an incredibly comfortable class which provided a safe environment to explore the creative side we were all able to get to show and share.
There's so much that can be done with the web, it's where it's at. With a dollop of creativity and some technical skill wonderfully new expressions of the mind can be constructed, and widely shared with ease. Creative web projects and development are going to be a primary focus for me moving forward. On my radar are maps, interactivity, animation, audio and video combined with text: multi-mixed-media. This along with making a good personal website.
I'll miss coming to class (a few minutes late each day, on average) and writing, responding, hearing stories from the class, reading and creating. And little Baby Quack Quack, who now happily resides at Tenny park. And tales of kidnapped students. Oh my.
Thanks John for a great class and to all of my classmates. To the future. Maybe I can make something of that 'cream cheese in a tube' idea. Have a great summer.
Additionally: I added a few small things recently:
This is me, waving. I got that trick down a long time ago.
If you'd like a video taken in class yourself or a good quality audio recording, just let me know!
Sonnet 29
William Shakespeare
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon my self and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least,
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think of thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate,
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
For years so quiet
Why doesn't he talk at all?
Nothing nice to say
Note: This is my final poem if its the better poem.
such wide gaps
counting the rings
many man-y years
between them
rough, stone-y wood
provides
and hides
pointed pain
fallen first
then to pieces
shiny shards (but only later)
down the cheeks
a trip out West
a solid shell preserved
a state carelessly deserved
a fallen forest
past that misnamed Canyon
(Photo can't be found)
It settled quickly, with wisps of wind carrying the particles from place to place. Coming up from the basement Leroy could see out the front window. Everything, the driveway, the lawn, the street, the sidewalk, even the roof, was completely covered with the substance. It looked like a light, fluffy blanket of snow but he knew it was nothing of the sort. If any one thing, it was closer to dust.
The device was conceptually quite simple. Any competent engineer could design such a device, if they had a reason to. It was, after all, basically just a microwave, except instead of being contained and calibrated to violently vibrate water molecules in food, it was directed outward and tuned to the frequency that would rip proteins and DNA apart. Everything alive was built from these tiny pieces, and depended wholly on them. That connection between all life was the key. Of course, something on such a large scale would take a lot of work, and it did. For years he carefully researched and tested, looking for anything that might prevent him from completing his task. But he never found any technical reason why it shouldn't work as he first envisioned it. He knew to accomplish his task would require an enormous amount of energy. For months now he had been storing the power from the electrical grid in a large bank of capacitors which filled the whole of his large basement, along with the emitter itself. The basement was the selling point three years ago when he bought the house, just what he needed.
He walked outside, grabbing an umbrella that was by the door. He wanted to see what he had done. He had to admit, it sure appeared remarkably like snow, even reminding him of playing in it as a boy. But it would not melt, although in time it would slowly disappear, taken away by the wind. It would have been an excellent fertilizer for the seeds that no longer could sprout. The distinctive crunch of snow was absent with each step, it made no noise at all as he packed it down with his boots. He'd walked only a few blocks down along the sidewalk when he noticed that his umbrella was getting harder to hold. The stuff was beginning to cover his umbrella and had an unusual stickiness to it, not easily shaken off. He had walked far enough though, coming to a stop along the sidewalk, peering out and all around his barren landscape.
He had always felt as empty as the world around him would now be. With one final triggering of the emitter he too would be gone, but that would hardly be a change for him. He thought about sticking around, at least for a bit. Naturally there were things he could do: catch up on his list of books to read, watch the movies he'd missed, write some short stories he never got around to. If only he wasn't so weary. No, he thought, better to end it now. With one little push of the remote trigger the device was activated. And thus he became the last warm heap, sheltered under his fallen umbrella.
My game
Good timing. I was nearing the last level. Sheesh Dad! I guess I could pause the Zelda game and return right away after I saw what he wanted.
"Michael, get down here!"
I suppose I had a minute, but only a minute. As long as it was quick, and as long as they knew that. Damn it's bright out, now my eyes are going to be all screwed up, I won't be able to see. That's why I close the curtains so not an inch of light gets in.
"Would you grab the camera and take a picture? Get all of us in it."
Okay, I suppose I could do that. I ran upstairs and got the camera, opening it and turning it on so it was ready to go.
"You know, it would be nice if you helped a bit." I easily ignored that request.
I took a panoramic shot of my parents and brother tearing up the sod. They were working on putting in a golf green in the north part of our spacious backyard. That certainly wasn't my bright, time-consuming idea. I wasn't even into golf. No, if Matt wanted a green he could do all the work himself. I'm sure he'll put in a tee-off area as well, just wait. And now the sled hill would be ruined. Besides I was busy, I have my own stuff to do and I wasn't going to be bothered. I had a video game to finish.
I wasn't planning on letting it be known that I had a little duck in my messenger bag, but the little thing had other plans. It stayed silent for a while, enough to get me thinking the class would be over before it starting making a fuss. I should have known better. But it's periodic chirps eventually got noticed with John exclaiming "Is there a dog in here?!" Not exactly. I had to reveal the extra class member when it wouldn't shut up. The class got a kick out of him though. How could they not?, such a cute little helpless creature. Hopefully all turns out well for the little guy thanks to Julia who is taking care of the feisty fellow. I would have crushed him on my bike ride home. I have plans for tomorrow, potentially a gosling but it might cost me some scrapes with their mother. Once I get my mind on something there's little that can stop me. I'm very impulsive. Oh dear.
Immediately on seeing my photos of the little duck my mother brought up the 'Are You My Mother?' book, like members of the class. I suppose the children's book created a strong association between it and the helpless position we imagine that little duckie, or another cute animal, to be in. A little analysis here, like in class. The book is in the first person central perspective, and it has a close narrative distance, taking place in the present. But there's no internal dialog, we don't know what the duck is thinking besides what is indicated by his repeated 'Are you my mother?' This has a particular effect though of indicating it's single mindedness and simplicity of thought. Okay, I won't go on. Over analysis can be quite funny; I love this scholarly psychiatric article I recently came across diagnosing Winnie the Pooh and his friends with all sorts of pathologies. Fantastic.
Children's books are nothing to be scoffed at though. John Galligan highly recommended the 'youth' novel 'Bridge to Terabithia' which he mentioned has a main character, a young girl, drown. Wow. That says a lot right there. I look forward to reading it. There's such a long list though of so-called kids books that are just plain great books, better than whole swaths of 'adult' material. I'm currently enjoying the 'Harry Potter' books (strictly first person central throughout, close narrative distance, internal monologue...)by borrowing each in turn from a different friend; it seems everyone but me has read them already. I've got to catch up in time for the latest release of the final, the seventh, novel in July. I also have a kind of rediscovery project in mind to do something with the hundreds of children's books in the closet at home.
I am so enjoying this class, thanks to everybody. There's so much great stuff happening, too much perhaps to catalog, all of which I love.
Even a quick, cursory sifting through of boxes upon boxes of old photos raises a lot of mixed emotions, simply because there is so much there of a wide variety. But they are so very important, as with their loss I would lose any chance of regaining knowledge of certain moments of my life. There are probably key insights I could gain about myself, which seems quite worthwhile. Each one contains something probably quite elusive. Perhaps thinking and writing would work well for this kind of discovering, which I hope to do.
A quote shared in class:Poetry is the clear expression of mixed feelings.
-W.H. Auden
upon which the instructor added:So is short fiction.
- J.G. Galligan
They can do what other things can not, doing more with less.
As we try to write scenes it is crucial to have the scenes we choose, emphasis on choose, to elaborate on be ones that tell a lot in a small, intimate space. With only five hundred words you must summarize the stuff that doesn't show much. It's a hard task and will take a lot of thought and analysis and good deal of practice.
I intensely look forward to untangling myself, if that is even possible. I don't know what I'll find but the search is on. Something about a pony.
Flickr is one of the best photo sharing websites out there and may be very useful, although Blogger now has made it easier to upload photos with them for use on your blog. I've been using Flickr for about six months and have found it invaluable for sending emails with a link to photos, archiving photos that are available anywhere and happily sharing my photos with whoever is interested. They also have some very nice, cool features like creating sets and collections, adding little notes to specific regions of photos and placing photos on a map.
Additionally, if anyone in the class wants to take some photos during class I always have a nice camera on me.
Today we read through the well done photo descriptions done by the class and looked for descriptions that stood out, discussed objectivity and subjectivity and their desirability, and discussed how all of these descriptions influence the perception of theme and tone in a piece of writing.
Describing a photograph with only visual details is not as easy as it sounds. Our minds quite naturally go beyond just basic details to interpret what one is seeing. And often this is done rather subjectively, drawing from things not present in the image. So making a concerted attempt to be as objective as possible is an important first stage, which relates to narrative distance. All of the word choices for all of the details are profoundly critical, as it is the chains of details that create a certain mood, theme, a character. Then you can move on to adding the subjectivity that a writer brings to what they have before them.
The next assignment is to expand upon the first through the use of a sensory imagination thats required to show what the other four senses would extract from what's depicted in the chosen photograph. This is necessarily quite subjective, we are leaving the objective realm. We are to use figurative language to compare, using simile and metaphor.
In a change of plans to help keep the cost down the required books are no longer, well, required. The "Visual Quick Project: Publishing a Blog with Blogger" manual is apparently somewhat out of date with the recently improved Blogger software. Using Blogger myself just today I'm sure that everyone will have the basics down in no time, without need of a walk through as it's rather self-explanatory. The other title, "Self-Editing for Fiction Writers" (2nd edition) by Renni Browne and Dave King is also not required and the relevant sections will be photocopied for the class. But it is only $13.95 in the MATC Bookstore and John highly recommends it to fiction writers.
It also might be handy to have a flash drive, which are fairly close to dirt cheap these days. And a notebook and writing instrument usually aren't the worst idea for a writing course, even one that uses computers a lot.
We began right away with some malleable clay making an object that would represent something about us in our introductions to the class. There was an elephant, a cat playing the drums, a brain, a condenser, a person reading a book, a horse and that's all that I can recall.
By taking this course we have entered into a relationship, not simply a one directional, individual learning course, perhaps in contrast to a more traditional creative writing course, which this certainly is not. I probably would not have taken such a course. John told of us of the Japanese greeting "Yoroshiku onegaishimasu" which can be translated interestingly as 'Please take care of me, for I will be a burden for you.' We were encouraged to acknowledge, and share, our frailties right off the bat, and along with our written introductions we have begun sharing ourselves with the class.
I'll end with a quote from John: "The goal of writers is to make up shit that's true."
