Coffee Chatter
April 27, 2007
Updated April 28, 2007
She opens the plastic pantry door, finds the box of Go Lean cereal, measures a portion into an orange measuring cup, and then transfers it into a blue and white bowl. Cameron must have just left for the office and the children must have just caught the bus for school. The house stands still in the same sort of silence that happens each morning after most of the family leaves. And of course they hadn’t cleaned up anything from their breakfasts. She can trace the exact trail of each person’s breakfast. A few kernels of Rice Krispies scatter the kitchen counter and a greasy pan sits emerged in the kitchen sink along with a bowl of half eaten Lucky Charms. She settles herself comfortably at the breakfast table as she pours a cup of hot coffee. She is still wearing her purple cotton morning robe and fluffy slippers, but starts thinking about what to wear today. Maybe her red turtleneck.
In another house a few blocks down, a woman pushes the snooze button on her alarm clock. She turns over to her husband, but, as usual, finds that he already left for the day. After feeling around the bed stand for her glasses, she wobbles downstairs to the kitchen. Her daughter, Taylor, sits cross legged on a high stool at the counter, taking big gulps of coffee. Between gulps, she runs her fingers through her hair and adjusts her shirt.
“Honey, I haven’t changed my mind ‘bout what I said last night.”
“What?” Taylor says without looking up and after a few seconds passed.
“Taylor you heard me. I just, it’s gonna be sewed up by the time you get back from school and I don’t want a fuss about it. Girls like you shouldn’t be wearing things like that.”
The girl swooshes her long dark blonde hair over her shoulder as she cockily rotates her body to face her mother.
“And what exactly is a girl like me supposed to wear?”
“Something nice. No. I’m not talking about this. You just don’t be surprised though. Girls like you should look like you were raised good, and well you were.”
Usually, Taylor would start lecturing back to her mother about how what you wear is a matter of style and self-expression, not upbringing or manners. Today she just turns back towards the counter and takes another big gulp of her coffee.
“And you’re too young to be drinking coffee!” The mother scolds as she stomps upstairs and quickly dresses in her favorite blue jeans and shirt. She pulls her hair up in a pony tail, grabs her purse, and drives away.
“Mooooomm!” She hears the words pierce through the shower water as it pounds down on her head.
“Whhhhatttt,” she yells back. The bathroom door creaks open and her daughters face peeks in.
“Can you take me to school? I missed the bus.”
“I can’t, I have a meeting.”
“For what?”
“Just ask your Dad. I have a meeting.” She stays in the shower for another 10 minutes, so she could be sure that her husband and daughter left. The water turns her body red as a lobster, but she doesn’t care. When she gets out of the shower, she looks at the flashing red time on her alarm clock.
“I’m late,” she says to herself in surprise. She is never late. Dressing quickly, she pulls on the first sweater she finds and rushes off for her appointment.
In another house, a lady with graying hair finishes her morning gardening and leaves the house still wearing her black garden clogs.
The last lady arrives first to the meeting. She left the house after insisting on a kiss from each of her children. The day started out fine, until her oldest daughter announced that she would be going home with her friend Sarah that evening before the school dance. The mother and daughter argued back and forth. They directly faced each other and both of their strong jaws open and shut, open and shut to spit out their argument.
Two square, wooden tables line the right side of the tan walled coffee shop. Five women sit in spindly brown chairs at one of the tables. The tan and white speckled floor spreads beneath the chairs, each positioned slightly towards the far right of the table. At the head, the spot that the chairs angle towards, sits a woman with brownish red hair cut into a soccer mom bob. Her red ribbed turtle neck peaks out and tightly holds up her neck, her black rain coat hides her body, and its yellow and white checker trim perks up on both side like the ears of an attentive dog. To her right sits a woman with blonde hair, cut in that same style. She wears black clogs and a brown jacket. Beside her, a slender woman with tight blue jeans, a cream, long sleeved t-shirt, and blonde hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head, throws her hands forward, side to side, and glances in with dark eyes towards the lady at the head of the table.
Their talk cracks as thickly as cawing geese, but between the cracks forms some English.
“He lives across the street from me, and when he was over seas this time, he had one going down his chin, and he was like well, you see doctors and lawyers or need to become one or you’re nothing. But the doctors and lawyers don have that. It’s this long, and he looks like a tool, you know! And just have to go over seas and this is what’s stopping him from going to Richmond at school. That’s what I told him. Yep.”
“Yeah, yeah,” reassuring voices say from the side, above, and below.
“Yeah, I mean even the way your bodies gonna change, and everything, and they’re going to fade in the midst of them,” the woman at the head of the table said to the other women. When she speaks, they all listen and stop their side chatter, looking up at her with hopeful expressions.
“Well my friend got one on the shoulder.”
“Not a pretty picture,” another lady with wispy strawberry blonde hair, short and framing her face in little chunks, half questions and half confirms the quality of the thing on the shoulder, shaking her head. Her hot pink t-shirt wrinkles up to her neck in horizontal lines when she leans back into the wooden chair.
“No it’s not!”
”And she said to me, well, I’ll just wear a t-shirt.”
“And you know how your style will change. One year one outfit will be your favorite and then it changes and you say how did I ever wear that?” says the main woman with the red turtle neck, the head goose. Then, “Well, it’s like at my sisters 50th. They asked, you know, how many piercing does your daughter have, and do you have a tattoo. And, of course, she does, or they wouldn’t ask. And, you know, she’s announcing it, and I’m like why did you get it and did mommy knowwww?” Everyone laughs loudly. “50 years old, and she got it years ago when she was 26. And I’m thinking why she even told me now. It was a secret the whole time. And I know that she told our other sister. She has a tattoo! You know, but no one else. My dad wasn’t shocked, but she’s 50 and it’s like what are you doing. And my mom was like that was a wild time in her life. She was probably drinking, you know.”
“I know. Just how many of them were drinking at that time, right?” says the lady sittin to the right of red turtleneck. Outside, the rain streams the window in thick lines.
“Yea, when I was growing up my friend wanted one, and I said I’ll drink the beer with you and I’ll go with you.”
“But that’s where I draw the line, right!” All the women laugh in unison. Their laughter starts small and grows loud and high real quick.
“Well, my son has one. It’s this wide, just huge black, but this is at least outlined dark and then it’s shaded. Well, I don’t know, the part that comes out from it is black and its an intricate design.”
“He’s got a lot of muscle on his back,” one says, managing to catch her breath through her red turtle neck peeping up out of her checkered coat collar.
“He said the only part that comes up, I think the shirt covers it, but the only part that comes up is on the shoulder and the neck.
“And what about the dresses? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“My daughter, she goes now ‘Mom let me pick my owwwwn dress’, I have to stitch it a little, because it was a little low. She said oh yeah, that she has a brooch on the side, there’s like a brooch holding it on the side. It’s only going to fit on one leg some day.” Laughter that clinks like dishes getting washed in the sink.
“When is their prom?”
“It’s next weekend, the 5th.”
“And yours?”
“The week after that.”
“I’m sure it will be pretty. But it sure is something, that dress. It’s tiny.”
“Where does she go tanning?”
“This one up there over by rite aid?”
“Is it the one up by star bucks?”
“Yeah, yeah. Taylor carried it around in her purse though, in a can, and I asked her, how much is this? And it was thirty some dollars!”
“It’s like, what do you need that for. She goes to the bed and uses the can, what’s the purpose?” She cocks her head back and forth like a wobbling hen.
“Yeah, but still, 40 dollars for a lotion.”
“Well, she’s got to have a big can too cause she has to put it all over her body.”
“What’s that?” asks the one with the pony tail.
“A 36 dollar can of tanning lotion,” her friend proudly fills her in, stretching her torso up taller and nodding as she passes the information around the table.
“And what are they doing after the prom?”
“Well, she told me one groups going here, and one here, and she just might go with one first and the other one second.”
“Like what does that even meeeean?”
“They just expect that to be okay.”
“Mommmm, we’ll be fine, they say.”
“Oh there is no way, one boy will be driving a suburban, and she’ll come home smelling like cigars, and you’ll just know what happened.”
“It’s gonna be something, I cayn imagine.”
“I’ll take pictures.”
“Yeah, take pictures.”
“Bring the pictures next time.”
“Well they don’t even get dressed at their own house. Now they all go over in a group to one friend’s house and get ready there.”
“Well then how are you gonna get pictures?”
“Jessie said, I can’t do my hair. I need a salon. And I said no, get a friend.”
“And they get these wild hair styles up on their head, like something no one real wears.”
“And what do you do with that, how is that hard.”
“You just take a bunch of hair and put it on their head.”
“Well they want a little braid, and a little weave, and come on.”
“How much does that cost?”
“Oh come on, it’s like 40.”
“Oh, that’s just the coffee makin’ you chatter. It int that much.”
“I just don’t understand,” says the lady with the hot pink t-shirt, her bold jaw-line turned toward the woman to her right.
Tan, with buttons and a flat band that ties around the stomach, one woman’s coat relaxes on the chair as it waits for its owner, who wears a baby pink sweater that cuts low around the shoulders. Some extra padding covers her shoulders and her back, like she’s proving that, when she was young, her bones showed gracefully. Now they fought to show through the fat of the woman’s back. After she got in the car earlier that morning, she realized that the sweater she put on in such a rush belonged to her 18 year old daughter. Luckily, her daughter needed to loose some weight and the sweater fit them both perfectly.
“And you know what else, why do they all have braces now?”
“No one had braces before.”
“Well, if you want perfect teeth, like the stars, then you gotta get braces.”
“That’s true, that’s true. Because some of these girls have just fine teeth, but they’re not straight enough, not white enough, whatever.”
“My daughter gets the whitening strips and puts them on her teeth every night. And I wonder why she’s doing that. People supposed to have different colored teeth. Not everyone’s born with teeth as white as egg shell.”
“Egg shell isn’t even good enough now. They want glowing, like white light, or a white fence. You know?”
“That’s never good”
“Is Anna going to the dance today?”
“I dun know,” her shoulders shrug up out of her cut off pink shirt.
“Andy didn’t have a clue about it”
“Yea, Anne sed the only one goin is Ryan.”
“Ugh, to be sixteen.”
“And that’s so young, and they think they’re so old.”
“I though I was old then.”
“Yeesss!”
“And all the boys do now is play the video games.”
“Last year, my son would stay in for the weekend. It was like someone was always there. And I miss my kids and the family time.”
“Cause now it’s like they’re all gone.”
“Even though they’re still there.”
“And in the summer we have to get used to it again, ‘cause now there’s family time.”
“And everyone needs to be apart still.”
“It is weird, you know it’s not like you walk around asking them to be with you, you know.”
“My daughter said last weekend, what Mom? You want me too?”
“Like she has too many people to please.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s not like we just disappear.”
“But they do.”
“They’re just gone all the time. Go to this friend’s house, then this one.”
“My daughter said to me, Mom, I could be away from home for months and months and I’d be fine. You might see me on holidays and I’ll be fine. And I said well I’d just die.”
“Does she want to go to Tech too? Well that’s a long time from now, let’s not talk about that.”
“It is a BIG deal.”
“It is a big deal.”
“Yeahhhh.”
“Now has she had a boyfriend before? No, this is the first one for her too?”
“Uuugh”, one of them screeches forming her hands like she’s strangling her neck, “and when they fall, they fall hard.”
“Can you believe it?”
“Well, I think my husband is clueless, because I said something to him about our daughter having a boyfriend. And he said what? And she wants to go jogging with her boyfriend, and my husband says, no, with us. He is going to DIE when she graduates.”
“Yeah, I see, I see.”
“It’s almost like they’re cool, and we’re just the mother. And the guys like to talk to Cameron, but they don’t even know who I am. But that’s fine, I’m just the mother, you know.”
“Well it will change.”
“Does he know you?”
“I mean I’m sure he does, but he doesn’t say anything”, her hand push forward with straight fingers like she’s saying stop.
“What I think is so shocking is that everything is so up front, and poof its just gone, and it’s just that person.”
“Well you were really close to Dan, are you still?”
“Well, no. Well, not really. It’s like he’s still the same kid, he’s still sweet. But it’s just the time. He’s always off doing other things. And what do you do with that? I do all the talking. I have to go find him in his room, he doesn’t find me.”
“With my daughter, she’s on the go a lot. But she’s always on the move. And I have to pull her in and say you know this is our house, and you need to be here. She’s always out somewhere.”
“And there’s no reason.”
“None!”
“What do you say, you know? They’re getting good grades, how do you stop them from leaving?”
“And she just says, you know, in college I’m gonna have more independence, you know. Especially in the summer, when they just keep going. And, last year the girls were on track together and they were just fine, and this year this is the first that the three of the girls aren’t going to be together.”
“Like Cameron, he’s the Dad, but you do the drop off, and you have to stay and watch them. You know they are our kids, but you don’t interact, you just do the drop off.”
“We went to Baltimore, because of the aquarium. I get a call at 8:10, and my son wasn’t feeling well and he had AP history, but I was kinda relieved because he was gonna have to get his sister on the bus and get her home, but now when he stays home there he’s fine. But anyways, he calls and says is there any other way to get in the house without a key.”
“Ohhhh no.”
“No!”
“And I said well, try grandma cause she’s got a key. He calls, he calls me back, she must be at the Y. Well, I say go to the Y. He said I can’t I’m in a T-shirt and boxers. So he calls Dad and Dad said I can’t come home I have a meeting in 10 minutes. But he ran home anyways. And he got the key and he was all right, but it’s just like you know, all this drama and I don’t need it.”
The coffee makes them talk.
“Ugh, but college. That Lauren girl got a full ride somewhere, ‘cause she was dating Dan. And Dan said he was going to try and maintain their long distance relationship. And they’re going to try to behave, you know.”
“Well Taylor’s boyfriend stayed at school back home, and they tried to maintain it again too. “
“This is the time to figure it out though.”
“This is the time, and you, you just have to figure it out, you know, and just try to find a relationship. I don’t know, I just told her to be careful. She just doesn’t worry about a thing.”
“Does she love him?”
“Well, that’s what she feels. But she’s in it, and she can’t see anything, and we can see everything.” “Well, that’s just learning the hard way. There’s just some things you have to do. You can’t pull them out of everything.”
The women throw their talk back in forth, leaning into the table, leaning out, opening their wide eyes and their mouths to talk. And making their words long to say that this really means something, and shortening their speech to show surprise. Their hands push forward in stop signs, and they shake their short hair back and forth, and they throw their chests in the air in surprise.
“These girls will just wear anything!’
“Or nothing!”
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Updated April 25, 2007
Note: My goal with this piece is to pay attention to minute detail. I hope to describe textural definition and shed light on the ability of the eye to focus in on the extraordinary.
The stone slate, broken in uneven slabs,
Cemented to form a courtyard floor,
By the town hall, in Ashland,
Is laid on by lime green needles
That fell from the shady trees whose
Leaves look like miniature, green, unpainted
Oriental fans. Or like giant algae,
The size of a baby’s hand.
Scaly chips of flowers
Who have passed from their youth at the end
Of a stem to this iridescent slate
Touch the stone delicately, like an old woman’s hand
Illuminated in the moonlight, touched to
Her lovers face.
In some cracks, brown green piles
Of the needles, and some mulch chips gather.
An ant zig zags.
He carries something: A bite of a fallen flower
(Oversized fly wings, but white and pink)
All crisp and flaky like paper, and dead.
He marches off with his prize.
And another one goes, frantically.
The ants move, more than before, the longer
The gaze holds, focusing in as binoculars, the more ants appear.
They skim the stone as uncontrolled
As Children driving bumper cars.
Note: My goal with this piece is to pay attention to minute detail. I hope to describe textural definition and shed light on the ability of the eye to focus in on the extraordinary.
The stone slate, broken in uneven slabs,
Cemented to form a courtyard floor,
By the town hall, in Ashland,
Is laid on by lime green needles
That fell from the shady trees whose
Leaves look like miniature, green, unpainted
Oriental fans. Or like giant algae,
The size of a baby’s hand.
Scaly chips of flowers
Who have passed from their youth at the end
Of a stem to this iridescent slate
Touch the stone delicately, like an old woman’s hand
Illuminated in the moonlight, touched to
Her lovers face.
In some cracks, brown green piles
Of the needles, and some mulch chips gather.
An ant zig zags.
He carries something: A bite of a fallen flower
(Oversized fly wings, but white and pink)
All crisp and flaky like paper, and dead.
He marches off with his prize.
And another one goes, frantically.
The ants move, more than before, the longer
The gaze holds, focusing in as binoculars, the more ants appear.
They skim the stone as uncontrolled
As Children driving bumper cars.
I wrote this a year and a half ago:
To feel pain. To feel love. To feel warmth. Summer rain beating against a dewy window. Crying until your eyes turn blue. The sizzle of walking on hot pavement. Diving into a freezingpool of water. Running in the crisp autumn air until your breath hurts. Turning over the silkycloth of a pillow in the deep night, feeling the underlying side’s cool refreshment. A meal. Waterstreaming off your body after standing up in the bath tub. Naked feet pressing into a richcarpet. Listening. Silence.
To feel pain. To feel love. To feel warmth. Summer rain beating against a dewy window. Crying until your eyes turn blue. The sizzle of walking on hot pavement. Diving into a freezingpool of water. Running in the crisp autumn air until your breath hurts. Turning over the silkycloth of a pillow in the deep night, feeling the underlying side’s cool refreshment. A meal. Waterstreaming off your body after standing up in the bath tub. Naked feet pressing into a richcarpet. Listening. Silence.
The Ants
(Draft 1)
The stone slate, broken in uneven slabs,
Cemented to form a courtyard floor,
By the town hall, in Ashland,
Is laid on by lime green needles
That fell from the shady trees whose
Leaves look like miniature, green, unpainted
Oriental fans. Or like giant algae,
The size of a baby’s hand.
Scaly, feather like chips of flowers
Who have passed from their youth
At the end of a stem to this iridescent slate
Touch the stone delicately, like a woman’s hand
Illuminated in the moonlight, touched to
Her lovers face.
In some cracks, brown green piles
Of the needles, and some mulch chips gather.
An ant zig zags.
He carries something, white and pink:
A bite of the pod like feather flowers
All crisp and flaky like paper, and dead.
He marches off with his prize.
And another one goes, frantically.
The ants move, more than before, the longer
The gaze holds, the more ants appear.
They skim the stone like uncontrolled
Children driving bumper cars, or like ice skaters.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Star Stories #2
Tall trees, tall like giants, stand in clusters. Their trunks are naked from winter, and their branches bend in curves and curl like corkscrews. They are willows and oaks. A ballerina stands beneath the open sky. The world is just the girl and the trees. Her skin is pale and she looks to the stars that dot the sky like sprinkles on an ice-cream cone. The stars glow brightly. Her skin glows as the stars, and when she dances her dress of iridescent blue and grey seashells shakes. The shells are cracked and just little chunks of clamshells, and they click like heavy rain beating against a glass window in a summer storm. The ballerina dances a smooth dance with many twirls and reaches to the stars. She shakes her seashell tutu, and, like hard rain, the stars drop slowly out of the sky into her hands and speed up like popcorn popping in the microwave. The stars then blend into her hands. The lights of her skin and of the stars blend together like a thumb smeared finger painting. She becomes one with the stars, dancing into the sky. Her sea-shell skirt still can be seen twinkling in the sky since she has taught the other stars her dance.
Tall trees, tall like giants, stand in clusters. Their trunks are naked from winter, and their branches bend in curves and curl like corkscrews. They are willows and oaks. A ballerina stands beneath the open sky. The world is just the girl and the trees. Her skin is pale and she looks to the stars that dot the sky like sprinkles on an ice-cream cone. The stars glow brightly. Her skin glows as the stars, and when she dances her dress of iridescent blue and grey seashells shakes. The shells are cracked and just little chunks of clamshells, and they click like heavy rain beating against a glass window in a summer storm. The ballerina dances a smooth dance with many twirls and reaches to the stars. She shakes her seashell tutu, and, like hard rain, the stars drop slowly out of the sky into her hands and speed up like popcorn popping in the microwave. The stars then blend into her hands. The lights of her skin and of the stars blend together like a thumb smeared finger painting. She becomes one with the stars, dancing into the sky. Her sea-shell skirt still can be seen twinkling in the sky since she has taught the other stars her dance.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Here is a poem I wrote in August, but that I just updated a few weeks ago. I tried to add in more textural definition and pay attention to detail.
Watching Water from the Bath and the Sky from the Porch
8/31/06
I sit in my bathtub
(It is white, smooth, and porcelain like)
Squishing bubbles through my fingers
(They are white, smooth, and porcelain like)
Watching one drop of water drip
(drip, then silence, drip, then silence, just like that)
Every few seconds from the faucet lip.
Before me
They sat here and wondered too
At all the mysteries
Behind time and water.
I sit on my porch
(We painted the wood green. White columns and white railings, too)
Dipping bread into steaming soup,
(The bread tasted sturdy, and the soup burnt my tongue)
Watching pale clouds on heavens floor
While beads of rain steadily pour
(Not night time yet)
And now night takes over
And I watch moon flowers open their faces.
The clouds move
(Have you seen clouds move too?)
And they’re dark with nights approach.
But I sit and watch.
Maybe if I do not move
(I stop)
I can stop the clouds.
The moon comes out
And I want to reach my hand to it
And grab onto it,
But, I know I’d be disappointed
That its closeness is an illusion.
In the morning, I know I will step out of my bed
And look into the mirror
And that I will look older than the night before
And that before me, they sat here and wondered too.
The Old Man Who Sang
3/22/07
I passed the old man. I ran the track and he walked. We ran or walked in opposite directions. I want to get this right. His face was like a hold. I did not notice it at first, or perhaps it had not started, not his face like a hole, but his song. I heard it after my fifth or sixth lap. Maybe my thoughts had quieted after five laps and I now could hear sounds outside myself, or maybe he started at this moment. I don’t know. I want to get this right. I ran the laps and passed him each time. The white shirt on his back clung to his neck, brown chest hairs stuck out beneath his throat, and folded into wrinkles where his stomach caved. The back hunched. His brown shoes peeked out and covered his ankles. But his face. The light and the dark folded into the creases and lines. He sang louder and louder and walked. He sang louder and walked and his song was vague but he held the hue of a monk’s chant. I remember the jealousy I felt in the gut of my stomach and that I ran faster to prove myself. He could express himself, but I use clichés in my conversations and in my expression. I recognized one song, “I’ve been working on the Rail Road.” It fell heavily and smoothly from the depth of his face that was the lines, the hole, the creases. I could be so old that I could sing and not look up, I made this my wish. He did not see me, or if he did he knew that he had to sing at that moment. He had to sing at that moment so the noise crept out of the hole of his mouth and into the world of the red track and the gym. I was in that world but he did not know. I want to get this right, I want to get this right, please please. I ran faster to release that thing that sat heavy in the gut of my stomach. My way and his way differed since mine was hidden in the gut of my stomach, but his way heard when he sang to the world. I knew I ran faster. He sang and sang and I ran and ran. My speed was my own, no? I decided to run, no? Like he decided to sing. Yes, we were the same; the old man and I were the same. Such is life anyhow. At least I tried. I do try, I do try. At least I tried.
3/22/07
I passed the old man. I ran the track and he walked. We ran or walked in opposite directions. I want to get this right. His face was like a hold. I did not notice it at first, or perhaps it had not started, not his face like a hole, but his song. I heard it after my fifth or sixth lap. Maybe my thoughts had quieted after five laps and I now could hear sounds outside myself, or maybe he started at this moment. I don’t know. I want to get this right. I ran the laps and passed him each time. The white shirt on his back clung to his neck, brown chest hairs stuck out beneath his throat, and folded into wrinkles where his stomach caved. The back hunched. His brown shoes peeked out and covered his ankles. But his face. The light and the dark folded into the creases and lines. He sang louder and louder and walked. He sang louder and walked and his song was vague but he held the hue of a monk’s chant. I remember the jealousy I felt in the gut of my stomach and that I ran faster to prove myself. He could express himself, but I use clichés in my conversations and in my expression. I recognized one song, “I’ve been working on the Rail Road.” It fell heavily and smoothly from the depth of his face that was the lines, the hole, the creases. I could be so old that I could sing and not look up, I made this my wish. He did not see me, or if he did he knew that he had to sing at that moment. He had to sing at that moment so the noise crept out of the hole of his mouth and into the world of the red track and the gym. I was in that world but he did not know. I want to get this right, I want to get this right, please please. I ran faster to release that thing that sat heavy in the gut of my stomach. My way and his way differed since mine was hidden in the gut of my stomach, but his way heard when he sang to the world. I knew I ran faster. He sang and sang and I ran and ran. My speed was my own, no? I decided to run, no? Like he decided to sing. Yes, we were the same; the old man and I were the same. Such is life anyhow. At least I tried. I do try, I do try. At least I tried.
Memories Like Film Clips
3/19/07
It was early spring. The snow barely glazed the ground. The snow glazed the ground thinly, like if a child smeared the icing of a cake with the finger. The snow that remained on the ground had the thinness of the spot where the child smeared the icing of a cake with the finger. Each horse grazed on the grass, crunching loudly. My Daddy grasped my hand the whole time. I looked at the grass, brown from winter and slowly becoming green again from the Spring time. All the world became green again in the Spring, and I knew it was good. In front of us, the horses grew bigger. If I kept walking , my head would just lightly scrape the fuzzy belly of a horse. I was short. We stopped in front of each horse, petting their soft nuzzles. My favorite horse was Zanzibar. He was the most beautiful and graceful. His head was as fine boned as the feet of a ballerina, and his nose curved like an archers bow. My Daddy lifted me onto Zanzibars back. His coat smelled of sweet hay and dust. My Daddy lifted my sister first, actually, and I sat behind her and held on to her waste. The horse stood, breathing, without a halter. My sister and I were then flying. Zanzibar saw a monster in the grass, we like to say. So he ran and ran so quickly. We held on. We could have fallen and hit the ground. We could have fallen and hit the ground and been killed by booming hooves. My sister gathered the silky, brown mane into her hands, and she squeezed her fingers to her palms to create a firm grip. My Daddy ran towards us worried as ever. And we laughed and laughed. The laughter bounces off this paper. The laughter seeps from this pen; it is breathed in and out. We could have fallen.
Anointing Prince With Oil
3/24/07
The pony was very sick and I thought he might die. His sickness is called colic, and it means he ate something and it hurt his stomach. Our horse doctor traveled to Prince to give him shots and to tell me about caring for my sick pony. Prince looked the same as he did in healthy, but I saw sorrow creep from his brown, round eyes. His brow furrowed, his head drooped; it was real bad. The sickness was real bad. The doctor said to walk Prince, to walk and walk and walk and walk him. I could even choose where I walked him, but I could not choose how often or when. This was because I must walk him very often and walk him and do this very often. For four days Prince and I went on quiet walks. He was small. He had a light chestnut coat. His hooves were dark. He had a dark, almost black, stripe sailing from the bottom of his mane to the top of his tail. This was called a dorsal stripe. I comforted him by explaining that he would be okay. I knew he would, I knew he would. Fat must have wanted to curl her long fingers aroung him. Fate must have wanted him, to taste him as she may savor a chewy cookie. So I prayed to God that he might save my pony. I put both of my hangs on Prince’s shoulders and prayed. I prayed and prayed and prayed. And then I prayed. And then, the next morning, I prayed, but he felt better. When I prayed in the morning, I then walked to the house. I found a bottle of olive oil in the cupboard. Its smooth, yellow surface felt firm and true in my hands. My hands knew the seriousness of this business. I looked at them. The hands were a creamy yellow like the olive oil. They were also glossy like oil. I was very young. My walk quickened. My hands received the oil and marked a cross on the chestnut head of Prince. I then marked a cross on each window of the house. The oil smeared and left marks on the windows that still can not be scrubbed away. This cured him. It was true that it would cure him. I did this, I really did. I marked every window of the house because God could save my pony.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
3/12/07
The Sister
The sister is a part of me
I can open a closet and she is the box
Of scraps: ticket stubs and letters and zooming memories
(Always the clear green and blue of an idealic day
And the motions and distant events of a childhood.
What a mystery memory is).
My days are recorded in her face
The laughter echoes
Rapidly as rocks being thrown at a window
When the child looks down at a hopeful face.
The soul is quiet with the sister
It is the quiet earth throughout time,
With shatters and sand,
Eroded into a formation
Of sisterhood.
I saw the sister just recently
And we were the same reflection in the mirror
And the same pattern of rippling sand
Of crimped hair and plaid skirts
And hacking jackets.
We are quite beautiful together,
And peaceful,
The sisters.
3/13/07
Last night I had a dream that you and I were in a field at night. I was teaching you how to fly. We only could fly for a few seconds at a time and then our bodies would smoothly bounce back to the ground. I felt close to the ground but must have been high up because I gathered stars into my hands, thousands of stars like buttons or seashells or petals, do you see it? We ran quickly. And we glanced at each other with gleeful smiles as we ran. I took your hand and told you to crouch and then to jump. “You will fly”, I told you. We ran quickly through a field of green grass, green grass glowing turquoise in the night. I saw no other landscape, but I saw the green grass glowing turquoise in the night and I saw the sky that shined like the back of a whale moving through the cold ocean. But the stars shined in a true way. The stars shined like tin foil. We really did fly. In the night, in my dream, we really did fly, but it felt more like gliding. I could feel us gliding because the wind tickled my body. I showed you to crouch, to then use your legs for the muscle to push you into the sky. When we flew we were the backs of whales moving through the ocean. As we moved we hit the tin foil stars that went cling clang as they shattered against our sides. The stars dipped into my hands. They dipped like silver coins dropping into an offering plate and making that same generous noise. They held their form; they did not dissolve. The sun did not come upon us but rather we were in continual night and kept flying and landing.
The Sister
The sister is a part of me
I can open a closet and she is the box
Of scraps: ticket stubs and letters and zooming memories
(Always the clear green and blue of an idealic day
And the motions and distant events of a childhood.
What a mystery memory is).
My days are recorded in her face
The laughter echoes
Rapidly as rocks being thrown at a window
When the child looks down at a hopeful face.
The soul is quiet with the sister
It is the quiet earth throughout time,
With shatters and sand,
Eroded into a formation
Of sisterhood.
I saw the sister just recently
And we were the same reflection in the mirror
And the same pattern of rippling sand
Of crimped hair and plaid skirts
And hacking jackets.
We are quite beautiful together,
And peaceful,
The sisters.
3/13/07
Last night I had a dream that you and I were in a field at night. I was teaching you how to fly. We only could fly for a few seconds at a time and then our bodies would smoothly bounce back to the ground. I felt close to the ground but must have been high up because I gathered stars into my hands, thousands of stars like buttons or seashells or petals, do you see it? We ran quickly. And we glanced at each other with gleeful smiles as we ran. I took your hand and told you to crouch and then to jump. “You will fly”, I told you. We ran quickly through a field of green grass, green grass glowing turquoise in the night. I saw no other landscape, but I saw the green grass glowing turquoise in the night and I saw the sky that shined like the back of a whale moving through the cold ocean. But the stars shined in a true way. The stars shined like tin foil. We really did fly. In the night, in my dream, we really did fly, but it felt more like gliding. I could feel us gliding because the wind tickled my body. I showed you to crouch, to then use your legs for the muscle to push you into the sky. When we flew we were the backs of whales moving through the ocean. As we moved we hit the tin foil stars that went cling clang as they shattered against our sides. The stars dipped into my hands. They dipped like silver coins dropping into an offering plate and making that same generous noise. They held their form; they did not dissolve. The sun did not come upon us but rather we were in continual night and kept flying and landing.
I listen to the dancing of sounds
Spinning each other with wispy tulle
And shaking, shaking their skirts of leaves
Clicking their heels, the earth rewords
Quickly to the heart- the autumn wind blows
To tell the tale of the land below
Where each life falls with a breeze
Swiftly caressing the silky fool
From the heights to the dirt floor.
To walk outside through the changing woods;
To feel a part of the earth: the unspoken place
Where all were born.
But looking down to covered feet with synthetic
Forms and cushioned beats, separating from the crispy dry leaves which
Lie like gold in a Pirates treasure heap.
And try to think the real thoughts of worth
Of origin, order, or of birth
No thoughts will conjure from the dark stew
Because the soles of synthetic mark
The separation of form from earth.
It does indeed cure the shell
To lie and walk and feel the
Uncontained wild and finally
The heart can roam and
Simply breath, pulsing and
Reaching to the deepest dirt like
Ancient trees with digging roots.
Fallen trees look to the sky
Of bursting stars, licking the night like an inextinguishable fire;
Fallen, fallen to the ground
Where crunching leaves mindlessly surround
And every weather, rain and wind and sun and heat
And cold and dark and shining
Can seep into the veins of wondering men and
Give them life.
But I return to my machine
Which tells me when to breath.
I throw this book of white
Parched paper and find some bark
Where all philosophy is recorded.
The grass sways, the wind shakes it;
The trees bend, upon the mountain
And it moves, slowly consuming.
Does the morning glory, in
Its closure, wish the opening back again?
Does the apples’ heart weep when
A bruise appears on its skin- and ponder
Its youthful days on the branch?
Does the golden rod plan out the day-
And now I glimmer, and now I fade,
And here I’ll go, and there I’ll sway?
Spinning each other with wispy tulle
And shaking, shaking their skirts of leaves
Clicking their heels, the earth rewords
Quickly to the heart- the autumn wind blows
To tell the tale of the land below
Where each life falls with a breeze
Swiftly caressing the silky fool
From the heights to the dirt floor.
To walk outside through the changing woods;
To feel a part of the earth: the unspoken place
Where all were born.
But looking down to covered feet with synthetic
Forms and cushioned beats, separating from the crispy dry leaves which
Lie like gold in a Pirates treasure heap.
And try to think the real thoughts of worth
Of origin, order, or of birth
No thoughts will conjure from the dark stew
Because the soles of synthetic mark
The separation of form from earth.
It does indeed cure the shell
To lie and walk and feel the
Uncontained wild and finally
The heart can roam and
Simply breath, pulsing and
Reaching to the deepest dirt like
Ancient trees with digging roots.
Fallen trees look to the sky
Of bursting stars, licking the night like an inextinguishable fire;
Fallen, fallen to the ground
Where crunching leaves mindlessly surround
And every weather, rain and wind and sun and heat
And cold and dark and shining
Can seep into the veins of wondering men and
Give them life.
But I return to my machine
Which tells me when to breath.
I throw this book of white
Parched paper and find some bark
Where all philosophy is recorded.
The grass sways, the wind shakes it;
The trees bend, upon the mountain
And it moves, slowly consuming.
Does the morning glory, in
Its closure, wish the opening back again?
Does the apples’ heart weep when
A bruise appears on its skin- and ponder
Its youthful days on the branch?
Does the golden rod plan out the day-
And now I glimmer, and now I fade,
And here I’ll go, and there I’ll sway?
The Grasshopper
“A Leaf”
A leaf, one of the last, parts from a maple branch:
It is spinning in the transparent air of October, falls
On a heap of others, stops, fades. No one
Admired its entrancing struggle with the wind,
Followed its flight, no one will distinguish it now
As it lies among other leaves, no one saw
What I did. I am
The only one.
Bronislaw Maj
I sat down in a fraying beach chair to look at the water and slowly sip my coffee. Rain from a few hours earlier soaked the morning, and the lake blended entirely into the sky in pale grey with hints of blue. I felt a light tickle on the back of my neck and turned to see a small grasshopper perched on the chair. I watched it as quietly as an observing scientist. The grasshoppers long legs stepped slowly and deliberately and I realized I was examining one of nature’s most beautiful dances. It gradually bent its front legs and rubbed the underside of its entirely grass green body against the chair and rubbed its rounded nose against each front leg, dusting the last drops of sleep from its body; the movement reminded me of a just waking cat. Leaning in closer, I saw its green tranquil eyes shaped like little rain drops and as sweet as a child. I watched it’s gracefully movements, the way it swayed ever so slightly in the morning breeze. The rain tap tapped harder then before, and soon a down pour soaked my skin. I ran to the lake and dove swiftly into the water marked by a billion rain drop dimples, swam to a sand bar and sat down in it, pushing my hands through the thick lake bottom. The experience was exquisite. Delicate tones of blues and hardly visible greens swish swashed through water and sky. So God was painting a water color this morning, blending the colors of the world with tender water drops.
Finding the Sea Glass 7/21/06
Bending down in a smooth swoop, I clasp the new treasure in my hand. Unlatching my fingers, I toss the glistening stone from palm to palm, allowing its misty tones to remind my skin of soft loving touch. Holding the stone between my thumb and pointer finger, I try to gaze through its hazy complexion, but what once was a broken piece of glass now lay a stone resembling the polished emerald city. I imagined a sailor throwing a useless bottle over board without a second thought. It splinters against the side of the boat and sinks to the bottom of the lake, grinding against rock and sand. This churning continues for a few weeks or less, speeding the process with the harshness of each storm. Tossing back and forth, back and forth, the glass eventually ends up on the beach. A broken piece of glass with sharp edges. Harsh weather and the hurling of waves. A faultless gem.
The Harmonious Flight 8/17/06
In the morning I saw tiny birds above the whisky waves flying towards the southern horizon. The flock flew in a single file line creating a constant line of flittering wings. Their flight continued for several minutes, thousands of birds in a row caressing the whole stretch of sky. Like Can Can girls, they methodically flapped their wings. Just below them, each bouncing wave danced also, and I saw the world in both poetry and a mathematical equation- with a perfect balance of rhythm and purpose.
The Morning 7/23/06
If in the first moments of looking in some ones eyes you see flickers of how they truly feel, the earth similarly shows its true nature in the earliest moments of sunrise, when the dark sky must stubbornly give way to light. In the early morning the sun breaks through and shatters the darkness, marking the sky with coral slits and fiery slashes. On this particular morning, dark midnight clouds settle like fat lazy men, budging slowly from the horizon. The lake, with waves crashing into foamy egg white, offered colors of steel and silver, bright whites, navy, ballet pinks, and lemon. Despite the soft undertones, the water looked ancient but constant, alluring but distant- like some untouchable and beautiful god. Cold and prehistoric in its steel texture, the water stood victim to the dominant sun. Slow and steady in its course, the sun stamped reds and oranges into a dark world.
A deep breath of air. I take it eagerly. With a crash of white foam the purples mix with the sandy browns and then fade away. Little bubbles sweep swiftly onto my toes, leaving a few to liger, absorb my peachiness, and reflect it in their globe of gleaming curvature. Honey yellows dance on the edges and I think of fireflies tangoing through the leaves of trees. The low set, lazy men clouds start rimming with soft pinks and golds, slowly bursting with the morning. I stand up to stroll over to a heron bird wearing garments as purely milk white as a bridal gown, pick up a piece of only slightly misty sea glass which I throw back into the water for further processing, turn and watch my footsteps imprint the balmy brown sand, and sit down by a hill of tiny seashells. Blinking wildly, I look to see syrup of pure gold reaching for my toes. I follow the gold across the lake to the huge yellow sun, and I am surrounded. By still and timelessness. By swirling colors of browns, pinks, blues, gold’s, all in every hue and texture.
I sit here. A deep breath of air. I am tiny in this scene, a dot of pale ink on the canvas. But I am here, and I am glad to be bathing in gold. And my hands, thankful to be basked in pink light. I imagine my face glowing like a white heron, made radiant in simplicity next to every other color. My toes creep over to the blues and greens, and they welcome me with chilled water and diamond bubbles. The new light is everywhere.
I let is smooth away my bitterness. I let it take my steel grays and push through in red slivers, to seep through my toes and fingertips and melt my cold dark soul. I wanted to be illuminated, to walk as the sun and melt everything in my path.
I stood up, heavily and filled to the brim. As I continued walking the stream of golden sun chased me. I remembered the moon at night, how I thought it followed me by the way it always magically appeared outside the car window no matter which way I’d go. I remember being so bitter at the moon, cursing it for failing me, hating it for watching but not protecting. Looking again at the gold, I felt tempted to return to my bitterness. “Will you protect me?” I asked this sincerely and out loud. I shook my head; sometimes God just needed to turn the volume up and talk to me. Then I heard it, a whisper in my soul- soft as the foamy egg white waves. I heard that I needed to listen to the silence. A deep breath of air. The wave’s crash: they ask me to remember the earth when it was new and untouched. They told me to remember that light always comes.
“A Leaf”
A leaf, one of the last, parts from a maple branch:
It is spinning in the transparent air of October, falls
On a heap of others, stops, fades. No one
Admired its entrancing struggle with the wind,
Followed its flight, no one will distinguish it now
As it lies among other leaves, no one saw
What I did. I am
The only one.
Bronislaw Maj
I sat down in a fraying beach chair to look at the water and slowly sip my coffee. Rain from a few hours earlier soaked the morning, and the lake blended entirely into the sky in pale grey with hints of blue. I felt a light tickle on the back of my neck and turned to see a small grasshopper perched on the chair. I watched it as quietly as an observing scientist. The grasshoppers long legs stepped slowly and deliberately and I realized I was examining one of nature’s most beautiful dances. It gradually bent its front legs and rubbed the underside of its entirely grass green body against the chair and rubbed its rounded nose against each front leg, dusting the last drops of sleep from its body; the movement reminded me of a just waking cat. Leaning in closer, I saw its green tranquil eyes shaped like little rain drops and as sweet as a child. I watched it’s gracefully movements, the way it swayed ever so slightly in the morning breeze. The rain tap tapped harder then before, and soon a down pour soaked my skin. I ran to the lake and dove swiftly into the water marked by a billion rain drop dimples, swam to a sand bar and sat down in it, pushing my hands through the thick lake bottom. The experience was exquisite. Delicate tones of blues and hardly visible greens swish swashed through water and sky. So God was painting a water color this morning, blending the colors of the world with tender water drops.
Finding the Sea Glass 7/21/06
Bending down in a smooth swoop, I clasp the new treasure in my hand. Unlatching my fingers, I toss the glistening stone from palm to palm, allowing its misty tones to remind my skin of soft loving touch. Holding the stone between my thumb and pointer finger, I try to gaze through its hazy complexion, but what once was a broken piece of glass now lay a stone resembling the polished emerald city. I imagined a sailor throwing a useless bottle over board without a second thought. It splinters against the side of the boat and sinks to the bottom of the lake, grinding against rock and sand. This churning continues for a few weeks or less, speeding the process with the harshness of each storm. Tossing back and forth, back and forth, the glass eventually ends up on the beach. A broken piece of glass with sharp edges. Harsh weather and the hurling of waves. A faultless gem.
The Harmonious Flight 8/17/06
In the morning I saw tiny birds above the whisky waves flying towards the southern horizon. The flock flew in a single file line creating a constant line of flittering wings. Their flight continued for several minutes, thousands of birds in a row caressing the whole stretch of sky. Like Can Can girls, they methodically flapped their wings. Just below them, each bouncing wave danced also, and I saw the world in both poetry and a mathematical equation- with a perfect balance of rhythm and purpose.
The Morning 7/23/06
If in the first moments of looking in some ones eyes you see flickers of how they truly feel, the earth similarly shows its true nature in the earliest moments of sunrise, when the dark sky must stubbornly give way to light. In the early morning the sun breaks through and shatters the darkness, marking the sky with coral slits and fiery slashes. On this particular morning, dark midnight clouds settle like fat lazy men, budging slowly from the horizon. The lake, with waves crashing into foamy egg white, offered colors of steel and silver, bright whites, navy, ballet pinks, and lemon. Despite the soft undertones, the water looked ancient but constant, alluring but distant- like some untouchable and beautiful god. Cold and prehistoric in its steel texture, the water stood victim to the dominant sun. Slow and steady in its course, the sun stamped reds and oranges into a dark world.
A deep breath of air. I take it eagerly. With a crash of white foam the purples mix with the sandy browns and then fade away. Little bubbles sweep swiftly onto my toes, leaving a few to liger, absorb my peachiness, and reflect it in their globe of gleaming curvature. Honey yellows dance on the edges and I think of fireflies tangoing through the leaves of trees. The low set, lazy men clouds start rimming with soft pinks and golds, slowly bursting with the morning. I stand up to stroll over to a heron bird wearing garments as purely milk white as a bridal gown, pick up a piece of only slightly misty sea glass which I throw back into the water for further processing, turn and watch my footsteps imprint the balmy brown sand, and sit down by a hill of tiny seashells. Blinking wildly, I look to see syrup of pure gold reaching for my toes. I follow the gold across the lake to the huge yellow sun, and I am surrounded. By still and timelessness. By swirling colors of browns, pinks, blues, gold’s, all in every hue and texture.
I sit here. A deep breath of air. I am tiny in this scene, a dot of pale ink on the canvas. But I am here, and I am glad to be bathing in gold. And my hands, thankful to be basked in pink light. I imagine my face glowing like a white heron, made radiant in simplicity next to every other color. My toes creep over to the blues and greens, and they welcome me with chilled water and diamond bubbles. The new light is everywhere.
I let is smooth away my bitterness. I let it take my steel grays and push through in red slivers, to seep through my toes and fingertips and melt my cold dark soul. I wanted to be illuminated, to walk as the sun and melt everything in my path.
I stood up, heavily and filled to the brim. As I continued walking the stream of golden sun chased me. I remembered the moon at night, how I thought it followed me by the way it always magically appeared outside the car window no matter which way I’d go. I remember being so bitter at the moon, cursing it for failing me, hating it for watching but not protecting. Looking again at the gold, I felt tempted to return to my bitterness. “Will you protect me?” I asked this sincerely and out loud. I shook my head; sometimes God just needed to turn the volume up and talk to me. Then I heard it, a whisper in my soul- soft as the foamy egg white waves. I heard that I needed to listen to the silence. A deep breath of air. The wave’s crash: they ask me to remember the earth when it was new and untouched. They told me to remember that light always comes.
The Oz Farm
Today I rode my bike past an old farm. First, I noticed the quintessential red barn. It should be straight, perfectly painted, with box windows and a white picket fence around it. But chipped paint covered this barn, faded to shades of terracotta and pink. The carelessly cut windows tilt in crookedness, and blank slabs of soggy wood support a run down wire fence surrounding the pasture of tanned grass. A few more tilted buildings, slight and rotting, scatter randomly through a broad field. Beside a rusting tractor, countless brilliant flowers situated in perfectly groomed gardens surround the blindingly white house with respectable green shutters. Throughout the garden sit a myriad of strategically placed statues, perching and protruding, hidden in every possible spot like munchkins popping out through layers of gigantic flowers. The garden and house are exaggerated and immaculate and argue the effort of the woman of the house to cope with the habits of her farmer husband. She is splattering beauty, pouring buckets of effort to erase the chaos.
Today I rode my bike past an old farm. First, I noticed the quintessential red barn. It should be straight, perfectly painted, with box windows and a white picket fence around it. But chipped paint covered this barn, faded to shades of terracotta and pink. The carelessly cut windows tilt in crookedness, and blank slabs of soggy wood support a run down wire fence surrounding the pasture of tanned grass. A few more tilted buildings, slight and rotting, scatter randomly through a broad field. Beside a rusting tractor, countless brilliant flowers situated in perfectly groomed gardens surround the blindingly white house with respectable green shutters. Throughout the garden sit a myriad of strategically placed statues, perching and protruding, hidden in every possible spot like munchkins popping out through layers of gigantic flowers. The garden and house are exaggerated and immaculate and argue the effort of the woman of the house to cope with the habits of her farmer husband. She is splattering beauty, pouring buckets of effort to erase the chaos.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
"Ministering Angels"
I am but a shellWithout the earth and the sea
This is the place. This is the place with no name, with no character, with no energy. It is blank and careless, dark and heartless, cold and numb. It is a nondescript face with no expression: no eyes to witness, no nose to sense, no ears to listen, no mouth to communicate. This is the place; it is the room with no name and no face. Just an empty vacuum. The Tick Tock ticks.
This is the man. This is the man in the deepest despair, in the darkest, gloomiest misery. This man, in the darkest, gloomiest misery, sits on the floor in a cold blank jail cell brooding in anguish at his infected heart. The pits of Hell vehemently grip his skull causing it to sag wretchedly between two limp and hopeless knees. This man, feeling more alone than any man who lived, is undergoing a transition from anger and curses, from resentment and ill-wishes, to willingly allowing the cold blank jail cell to suffocate the vigor of each successive breath. The Tick Tock ticks.
At first glance his eyes appear weak, but hide a shyly kind man. With cheeks that hollow in like carved wood and thin lips which close as tightly as scissors, his silent face seems more gentle than harsh. His smooth skin, weathered only in patches, testifies to a life of harsh experiences. However, once his eyes showed only kindness and his face was as smooth as a sea pebble.
He came here on a day of unusual sunshine and beauty. This day knew no sorrow. It seemed to mock him, he now recalls, to bid him farewell with the most accurate tinge of irony.
In this jail cell he creates. Perhaps, he remarks, because the walls destroy him and eat at his core. Recreating through writing and drawing rebuilds his existence with an inky smear, becoming his only way to endure. He remembers music. He sits wearily searching for a note and begins humming a tune which he pulls by a fragile string from the depths of his memory. Music has not pacified his ears in countless days. He remembers a song, the beat gently sounds. “All that shimmers in this world is sure to fade away”, the all too appropriate lyrics of the Fuel song emerge eagerly. To pass the rhythm of the Tick Tock clock, he rewrites the verse. Creating:
All that glistens in this globe is sure to glide away, like golden arrows whistling through the dainty clean air. Everything that shines in this earth loses its color, like a fading, hazy, blurred silver spoon reflecting nothing of real consistency. Each glistening, gleaming, shining, shimmering, shocking thing in this world surely fades away, like some flowering, reaming, silkily soaring-and suddenly!- Dreary dream.
In the jail cell he sleeps. He sleeps to dream of heaven’s gala; countless thimbles of golden syrup dripping from the black cap sky and soaking life back through his fingertips. And he awakens, to see the true black cap of loneliness and solitude.
But one day, before the loneliness, the breeze mixed and turned the blood in his veins. In those days the birds’ clear twill transferred their potion into his lungs. He recognized his role as a human, he thought with guidance and clarity. He lived without cares; an unquestioning heart. He knew God, because he felt the forces of life quickening his body every moment.
For this man, the change to desperation happened through continually engaging in experiences which eliminate the recognition of the living air, the thudding breath, the evident God. He recognized change at its dying moment, at the beginning of his new ugliness, when reconciliation expired.
I hear an Angel!
When silence fills me.
Now, as the man sits in his jail cell with Hell pulling his thoughts between two bony knees, a knock knock on the door opens his eye lids with a jolt. Time stops- the door frozen half way open and the drab guard with a gaping mouth standing firm as a stone. The man hears the guard announce “A letter” in a cold, distant, booming voice, which makes time restart. The man hesitantly reaches over to the letter, which lies on the stone floor and glows with whiteness. First its’ glow frightens him. Then he opens the letter with as much vigor as a young boy on Christmas day. He feels the most wonderful joy. He wants to shout a joyous shout; for with the arrival of the letter his despair and anguish disappeared. The porous texture of the letter seemingly captured all the happiness floating around in the universe. The jail cell smiles at him, even the cracks in the stones adopt an upward curve. A breeze (in a windowless room) lifts him to his feet, and he walks, grasping the letter to his chest. An angel! he cries. An angel.
Flight is the productof God exhaling.
Her head tilts to the cream swirls in the sky (through the cascading trees with buds pregnant with new life).
“The air. The sun. A smile. The swaying meadow. To exhale. To walk slowly. The closed eye lids. A buzzing bee. Stinging cold water. To feel rain. Bubble clouds. To clear the throat. To search. A simple prayer. Hope. A crackling fire. A leaf which floats. A twilling bird voice. The soil. Blue. Ancient trees. Birth. Silence. To wipe sweat from the brow. A single tear.” The earth, so far below, looks quiet and peaceful and she envies the people walking quickly with places to go. “To be human.” She talks to God and thanks him for the day, for the world, for her life. She asks God to help the people in need, the people dying, and the people with no hope. Then she closes her journal, climbs down the tree, walks to her room, unlocks the door, and sets down her school bag.
Weeks have passed since she sent the letter.
She is 18 years old, in a tackily decorated college dormitory. In the mornings she brushes her teeth and goes to class. In the afternoons she works in the library, or reads in her room. And now at night, she hears a whisper. She remembers her old friend Tom, who she met several years ago one drunken night. He sold drugs. That night she talked to him about his life, and why he jeopardized everything with his habits. He cried. They kept in touch through emails ever since. He loved her. She was the girl he loved but hurt, a girl who should rightfully hate him.
The last email, which she sent almost a year ago, went unanswered. So she writes a letter. She sends it to his house, believing he still lives off the profit of drugs. She tells him he has a soul to hope, eyes to witness, a nose to sense, ears to listen, and a mouth to communicate. She tells him he is not an empty vacuum, and to remember stinging cold water, to feel rain, bubble clouds, hope. To be human.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
The leave flitters in the wind
Because the wind pulls it onto the dance floor.
A pebble is old
even when the earth reforms it.
I am but a shell
Until I lie in the grass or swim in the sea
A building is like the earth-
It is only a term, for a space filled with activity.
The birds' flight is the product
of God exhaling.
I hear an Angel!
When silence fills me.
To an ant
I am like the wind
It senses me but can not feel me
But through the tangible crush.
A petal without her flower
is still as silky as heavens' garments.
The air acts as a transporter
for sents and sounds and feelings.
Because the wind pulls it onto the dance floor.
A pebble is old
even when the earth reforms it.
I am but a shell
Until I lie in the grass or swim in the sea
A building is like the earth-
It is only a term, for a space filled with activity.
The birds' flight is the product
of God exhaling.
I hear an Angel!
When silence fills me.
To an ant
I am like the wind
It senses me but can not feel me
But through the tangible crush.
A petal without her flower
is still as silky as heavens' garments.
The air acts as a transporter
for sents and sounds and feelings.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
I Ponder This:
Am Not I Who I Was?
Am Not I Who I Was?
(A reflection on My Reflection)
I lift my hand in a slow buttery swish. My walls. They are cold and impersonal. I have lived here for a year and the memories seem as foreign as strangers passing on a smoggy street. Like friends of another life, like I have shed a shell and am me not her. My green eyes, they glance across the room and focus on a photograph on the wall. It is shiny and reflective. It is like a mirror. In this photography I see my reflection. The reflective is immediate and true, it does not lie. Yet it is bendable, flexible. What is this place, this college for? What has it made me? I am part mirror part photography. The photograph- a concrete specimen of a second. My body is a tangible specimen of the evolution of my soul. I am textured and shiny, and I am not alone. I am the photograph- in all its gumby nature it still preserves the past. I am not new, I am not recreated, I am my past, I am real, I am a memory, and I am tangible.
I am the mirror. I am a reflection, but not of me alone. I am this room, this space in the Universe. These walls, these tacky posters, these drawers, that bunk bed. I am the desk; I am the books thoughtfully strewn in organized chaos across the earth. I am the song I listen to. I am me, it is I. A photograph: a single second of college fun captured in infinity. I have stolen that moment and in return it has stolen me.
So I revisit the memories and they no longer seem as foreign as strangers passing on a smoggy street. We meet, we shake hands, and then explain “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
I lift my hand in a slow buttery swish. My walls. They are cold and impersonal. I have lived here for a year and the memories seem as foreign as strangers passing on a smoggy street. Like friends of another life, like I have shed a shell and am me not her. My green eyes, they glance across the room and focus on a photograph on the wall. It is shiny and reflective. It is like a mirror. In this photography I see my reflection. The reflective is immediate and true, it does not lie. Yet it is bendable, flexible. What is this place, this college for? What has it made me? I am part mirror part photography. The photograph- a concrete specimen of a second. My body is a tangible specimen of the evolution of my soul. I am textured and shiny, and I am not alone. I am the photograph- in all its gumby nature it still preserves the past. I am not new, I am not recreated, I am my past, I am real, I am a memory, and I am tangible.
I am the mirror. I am a reflection, but not of me alone. I am this room, this space in the Universe. These walls, these tacky posters, these drawers, that bunk bed. I am the desk; I am the books thoughtfully strewn in organized chaos across the earth. I am the song I listen to. I am me, it is I. A photograph: a single second of college fun captured in infinity. I have stolen that moment and in return it has stolen me.
So I revisit the memories and they no longer seem as foreign as strangers passing on a smoggy street. We meet, we shake hands, and then explain “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
The next two paragraphs of SG paper (scroll down to May 2nd for the beginning)
Civil war created an ideal environment to cultivate human rights violators. With the presidency of Jacobo Arbenz the United States viewed Guatemala as a communist threat. True to United States habit, in 1954 the Central Intelligence Agency investigated and eventually exiled Arbenz. With his exiling came horrific commotion which inspired human rights violations by guerilla forces, the succession of military juntas, and the indirectly even the CIA (Readers Digest). Aboriginal peoples experienced torture, targeted killings, disappearances, and displacement from their Mayan communities, increasing human violation towards indigenous groups (Readers Digest). Additionally women were denied healthcare, economic security, and political access, while children became malnutrition, received inadequate healthcare, and became victim to sexual abuse or child prostitution (Readers Digest). With only one doctor for every 10,000 rural Guatemalans, even infants experience an extremely high mortality rate and malnutrition among Guatemalan children is one of the worst in the world (Madre).
From a sociological perspective Guatemala’s structural adjustments have caused an increase in poor living conditions that lead to crime. The countries structure caused an increase in unemployment. Furthermore, living costs are three times the minimum wage, leaving eighty percent of the population impoverished and almost sixty percent of households without access to proper health facilities (Madre). Women searching for work raise the frequency of the maquila, or sweatshop, where poor wages and abusive conditions plague the workforce (Madre). Indigenous peoples residing in the Guatemalan highlands have been inundated with poverty and hunger after a huge drought in 2001 and a decline in the main export, coffee (Madre). Over 40 percent of Guatemalans are unemployed because of the coffee crisis and destructive World Bank policies (Madre). Although currently at its worst, violation of human rights historically plagued this country.
Civil war created an ideal environment to cultivate human rights violators. With the presidency of Jacobo Arbenz the United States viewed Guatemala as a communist threat. True to United States habit, in 1954 the Central Intelligence Agency investigated and eventually exiled Arbenz. With his exiling came horrific commotion which inspired human rights violations by guerilla forces, the succession of military juntas, and the indirectly even the CIA (Readers Digest). Aboriginal peoples experienced torture, targeted killings, disappearances, and displacement from their Mayan communities, increasing human violation towards indigenous groups (Readers Digest). Additionally women were denied healthcare, economic security, and political access, while children became malnutrition, received inadequate healthcare, and became victim to sexual abuse or child prostitution (Readers Digest). With only one doctor for every 10,000 rural Guatemalans, even infants experience an extremely high mortality rate and malnutrition among Guatemalan children is one of the worst in the world (Madre).
From a sociological perspective Guatemala’s structural adjustments have caused an increase in poor living conditions that lead to crime. The countries structure caused an increase in unemployment. Furthermore, living costs are three times the minimum wage, leaving eighty percent of the population impoverished and almost sixty percent of households without access to proper health facilities (Madre). Women searching for work raise the frequency of the maquila, or sweatshop, where poor wages and abusive conditions plague the workforce (Madre). Indigenous peoples residing in the Guatemalan highlands have been inundated with poverty and hunger after a huge drought in 2001 and a decline in the main export, coffee (Madre). Over 40 percent of Guatemalans are unemployed because of the coffee crisis and destructive World Bank policies (Madre). Although currently at its worst, violation of human rights historically plagued this country.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
First two paragraphs of a research paper in Social Geography on "Human Rights Violation in Guatemala"
A country no larger than Ohio and consisting of extreme diversity in climate and terrain, ranging from steep mountain ridges to the Peten rain forest, Guatemala is a country of a rich history buried amongst its physiographic qualities. Regrettably Guatemala’s history involves severe battles which sprang from the deep wounds of political conflict. About twenty-one miles outside Guatemala City sits the Pacaya volcano, a magnificent view that “when active, a deep orange ribbon” of lava skids down, vanishing into ash at the foundation (Simon 13). This beautiful picture turned gloomy when, in the mid-1960’s, the Guatemalan government declared Pacaya a dumping site for hundreds of victims of systematic repression. Since 1970 nearly tens of thousands of people have been murdered by the Guatemala government, reaching its peak in the 1980’s with the inauguration of President Vinicio Cerezo Arevalo (Simon 16). Since his inauguration, the country has somewhat improved, but still struggles with a highly controlling military force. Due to a historically shaky political system the Guatemalan people have incessantly undergone tremendous human rights violations in various ways and by various offenders.
By examining Guatemala’s geography, perhaps some understanding will result about the cultural influences on human rights violation. Guatemala is the third-largest country in Central America, with an area of 42,042 square miles and 8.5 million people. Of those 8.5 million people fifty-five percent of them are Mayan Indians, belonging either to the Quiche, Cakchiquel, Kekchi, Mam, or Pocomam ethnic group (Simon 19). Most of these people live in rural highlands, while non-Indians live in either Guatemala City or coastal and eastern lowlands (Simon 19). The country is geographically divided into twenty-two provinces and 329 municipalities (Simon 19). Only 1 percent of Guatemala’s people are considered to be elite, and the lowest income groups have worsened in recent decades (Nyrop 50). The lowest income groups live in the western Highlands, an area inhabited by about 70 percent of the nations Indians (Nyrop 50). Not only have these people survived poverty, but they have survived a history of continuous political tyranny. Although Guatemala has recently transitioned to democracy in recent decades, Indigenous and Non-Indigenous peoples have undergone extreme abuse from the rulers of this conflicted nation.
A country no larger than Ohio and consisting of extreme diversity in climate and terrain, ranging from steep mountain ridges to the Peten rain forest, Guatemala is a country of a rich history buried amongst its physiographic qualities. Regrettably Guatemala’s history involves severe battles which sprang from the deep wounds of political conflict. About twenty-one miles outside Guatemala City sits the Pacaya volcano, a magnificent view that “when active, a deep orange ribbon” of lava skids down, vanishing into ash at the foundation (Simon 13). This beautiful picture turned gloomy when, in the mid-1960’s, the Guatemalan government declared Pacaya a dumping site for hundreds of victims of systematic repression. Since 1970 nearly tens of thousands of people have been murdered by the Guatemala government, reaching its peak in the 1980’s with the inauguration of President Vinicio Cerezo Arevalo (Simon 16). Since his inauguration, the country has somewhat improved, but still struggles with a highly controlling military force. Due to a historically shaky political system the Guatemalan people have incessantly undergone tremendous human rights violations in various ways and by various offenders.
By examining Guatemala’s geography, perhaps some understanding will result about the cultural influences on human rights violation. Guatemala is the third-largest country in Central America, with an area of 42,042 square miles and 8.5 million people. Of those 8.5 million people fifty-five percent of them are Mayan Indians, belonging either to the Quiche, Cakchiquel, Kekchi, Mam, or Pocomam ethnic group (Simon 19). Most of these people live in rural highlands, while non-Indians live in either Guatemala City or coastal and eastern lowlands (Simon 19). The country is geographically divided into twenty-two provinces and 329 municipalities (Simon 19). Only 1 percent of Guatemala’s people are considered to be elite, and the lowest income groups have worsened in recent decades (Nyrop 50). The lowest income groups live in the western Highlands, an area inhabited by about 70 percent of the nations Indians (Nyrop 50). Not only have these people survived poverty, but they have survived a history of continuous political tyranny. Although Guatemala has recently transitioned to democracy in recent decades, Indigenous and Non-Indigenous peoples have undergone extreme abuse from the rulers of this conflicted nation.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Style Lesson 10: The Ethics of Style
In the previous chapters Williams discusses how to make a sentence structurally correct and stylish, and now he explains the ethical responsibility of writers and readers. Writers have a responsibility to write clearly enough that our readers understand us. Similarly, readers have a responsibility to read hard enough to understand the complexity of ideas. Therefore, Williams creates a golden rule: “Write to others as you would have others write to you.”
Williams also explains that some writers unintentionally write poorly. For example, writers may employ unintended obscurity, intended misdirection, rationalizing opacity, and salutary complexity. Finally, how do we decide what counts a “good” writing? What is more important: writing that is clear but does no good, or writing that does well but is unclear? Williams warns college students to take all of his lessons seriously, because in “the real world” bad writing is common and distasteful.
In the previous chapters Williams discusses how to make a sentence structurally correct and stylish, and now he explains the ethical responsibility of writers and readers. Writers have a responsibility to write clearly enough that our readers understand us. Similarly, readers have a responsibility to read hard enough to understand the complexity of ideas. Therefore, Williams creates a golden rule: “Write to others as you would have others write to you.”
Williams also explains that some writers unintentionally write poorly. For example, writers may employ unintended obscurity, intended misdirection, rationalizing opacity, and salutary complexity. Finally, how do we decide what counts a “good” writing? What is more important: writing that is clear but does no good, or writing that does well but is unclear? Williams warns college students to take all of his lessons seriously, because in “the real world” bad writing is common and distasteful.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Journal Reaction Part 2
Slaughter-House-Five
After finishing this book, another main point reaches my interest. I love Vonnegut’s use of language to push ideas into his reader’s brain. He uses repetition of phrases to signal different events and tones. I wonder is he’s the genius that thought this up, or if some past author served as his inspiration. The main phrase that Vonnegut repeats is “So it goes”. Billy Pilgrim says that the Tralfamadorians say “So it goes” every time some one dies, to imply that death is an inevitable part of life. Billy picks up this phrase, repeating it after death is mentioned. In some parts of the book, I was simply overwhelmed by the amount of times “so it goes” was repeated. This is such a clever method, and reminds me of the way architects design memorials.
The Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C. serves as a prime example of how architects design memorials to affect viewers in specific ways. This memorial is a long black wall, a couple inches at the beginning, and angling upward to several feet in the middle. Names are inscribed in the black background, and viewers can see their reflection as they walk along beside the memorial. The viewer is amazed at the amounts of names, because the wall is narrow and spreads the names over a long distance. Furthermore, by seeing ones reflection in the shiny black surface, the viewer feels connected to the people who died. Similarly Vonnegut use phrases to trigger emotion.
“So it goes” is a simple three letter phrase. It is not decorated, lacy, or profound. In fact, if it was only sprinkled lightly throughout the text the reader would take little notice of it, and certainly not consider it significant. However, after a death scene Vonnegut repeats this phrase. Its interesting how that phrase reminds you that someone actually died. Death is so frequent an occurrence in this book that without the phrase, the reader would be numb to its forces. By repeating a phrase, Vonnegut reminds his reader that some one actually died. Furthermore, with its repition comes recognition of the vast multitudes of people that die as war tragedies. Such a clever strategy!
Slaughter-House-Five
After finishing this book, another main point reaches my interest. I love Vonnegut’s use of language to push ideas into his reader’s brain. He uses repetition of phrases to signal different events and tones. I wonder is he’s the genius that thought this up, or if some past author served as his inspiration. The main phrase that Vonnegut repeats is “So it goes”. Billy Pilgrim says that the Tralfamadorians say “So it goes” every time some one dies, to imply that death is an inevitable part of life. Billy picks up this phrase, repeating it after death is mentioned. In some parts of the book, I was simply overwhelmed by the amount of times “so it goes” was repeated. This is such a clever method, and reminds me of the way architects design memorials.
The Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C. serves as a prime example of how architects design memorials to affect viewers in specific ways. This memorial is a long black wall, a couple inches at the beginning, and angling upward to several feet in the middle. Names are inscribed in the black background, and viewers can see their reflection as they walk along beside the memorial. The viewer is amazed at the amounts of names, because the wall is narrow and spreads the names over a long distance. Furthermore, by seeing ones reflection in the shiny black surface, the viewer feels connected to the people who died. Similarly Vonnegut use phrases to trigger emotion.
“So it goes” is a simple three letter phrase. It is not decorated, lacy, or profound. In fact, if it was only sprinkled lightly throughout the text the reader would take little notice of it, and certainly not consider it significant. However, after a death scene Vonnegut repeats this phrase. Its interesting how that phrase reminds you that someone actually died. Death is so frequent an occurrence in this book that without the phrase, the reader would be numb to its forces. By repeating a phrase, Vonnegut reminds his reader that some one actually died. Furthermore, with its repition comes recognition of the vast multitudes of people that die as war tragedies. Such a clever strategy!
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Journal Reaction Part 2
The Things They Carried
After finishing this book, I am inspired to adjust the way I write to closer look like O’Brien’s. He writes with such vitality, with such a life force, that events previously foreign to bystanders come alive. Each event breaths with unique rhythm and volume, and the readers eagerly consume it. After admitting my reaction to O’Brien’s writing style, I am now interested in examining my opinion of war.
I am convinced that each human is born with this gut instinct that screams of the immorality of war. Born innocent to the world, a child looks encouraged towards his neighbor. As the Bible teaches to “love thy neighbor as yourself” so a person newly born into this world respects his neighbor. How unnatural it would be if an infant devised a scheme to destroy a play mate that refused to share a toy. However, children are undeniably quite capable of manipulation. In Bill Cosby’s stand up comedy, he does a skit where a child climbs to the top of the refrigerator, grabs a forbidden cookie, and then, as the adult enters the room, says “I got you a cookie Mommy”. Thus, are adults similarly driven, that they will deceive to get what they want? One passage in particular stands out to me in The Things They Carried:
War is hell, but that’s not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead.
Evidently war is full of a multitude of ironies. For example, what is worse: idly standing by and letting people die at the hand of a dictator, or intruding into the matters of another country and determining the future of its citizens? What is more just: freedom to determine one’s own destiny, which means no interruption by other nations; or gaining freedom even if it means the invasion of countries such as America?
I suspect, in the near future, our nation has a lot of deciding to do. What does freedom mean to us? What does death mean? Is the loss of one life a justifiable cause for the loss of another? O’Brien means not to answer these questions but to raise them, challenging readers like me to do some serious soul searching on behalf of this nation.
Journal Reaction Part 1
Slaughter-House-Five
As soon as I began reading this book I saw undeniable similarities to Tim O’Brien’s novel. Kurt Vonnegut begins by discussing the truth of his novel, saying that some of it is true and some of it is not true. Vonnegut uses lies to reach the truth, similar to other writers. That’s the beauty of fiction: the words used are inaccurate, but they paint accurate pictures.
Vonnegut uses time travel throughout this novel, not only as a means to transport his reader through the chronology of Billy Pilgrims’ life, but as a means to discuss different theories. For example, the residents of Tralfamadore have different ideas about the consistency of time. They view time as already determined, like a string of spaghetti or Christmas lights. To them time is tangible, unable to be manipulated, stunted, or changed. It simply is. I find this theory fascinating. Billy Pilgrim uses the Tralfamadorians concept of time to cope with his own life. For a reader like myself, I view these time travel theories as a literary move. I think it’s a genius method: use time travel not only as a way to move a character from place to place, but as a way to interest the reader.
The Things They Carried
After finishing this book, I am inspired to adjust the way I write to closer look like O’Brien’s. He writes with such vitality, with such a life force, that events previously foreign to bystanders come alive. Each event breaths with unique rhythm and volume, and the readers eagerly consume it. After admitting my reaction to O’Brien’s writing style, I am now interested in examining my opinion of war.
I am convinced that each human is born with this gut instinct that screams of the immorality of war. Born innocent to the world, a child looks encouraged towards his neighbor. As the Bible teaches to “love thy neighbor as yourself” so a person newly born into this world respects his neighbor. How unnatural it would be if an infant devised a scheme to destroy a play mate that refused to share a toy. However, children are undeniably quite capable of manipulation. In Bill Cosby’s stand up comedy, he does a skit where a child climbs to the top of the refrigerator, grabs a forbidden cookie, and then, as the adult enters the room, says “I got you a cookie Mommy”. Thus, are adults similarly driven, that they will deceive to get what they want? One passage in particular stands out to me in The Things They Carried:
War is hell, but that’s not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead.
Evidently war is full of a multitude of ironies. For example, what is worse: idly standing by and letting people die at the hand of a dictator, or intruding into the matters of another country and determining the future of its citizens? What is more just: freedom to determine one’s own destiny, which means no interruption by other nations; or gaining freedom even if it means the invasion of countries such as America?
I suspect, in the near future, our nation has a lot of deciding to do. What does freedom mean to us? What does death mean? Is the loss of one life a justifiable cause for the loss of another? O’Brien means not to answer these questions but to raise them, challenging readers like me to do some serious soul searching on behalf of this nation.
Journal Reaction Part 1
Slaughter-House-Five
As soon as I began reading this book I saw undeniable similarities to Tim O’Brien’s novel. Kurt Vonnegut begins by discussing the truth of his novel, saying that some of it is true and some of it is not true. Vonnegut uses lies to reach the truth, similar to other writers. That’s the beauty of fiction: the words used are inaccurate, but they paint accurate pictures.
Vonnegut uses time travel throughout this novel, not only as a means to transport his reader through the chronology of Billy Pilgrims’ life, but as a means to discuss different theories. For example, the residents of Tralfamadore have different ideas about the consistency of time. They view time as already determined, like a string of spaghetti or Christmas lights. To them time is tangible, unable to be manipulated, stunted, or changed. It simply is. I find this theory fascinating. Billy Pilgrim uses the Tralfamadorians concept of time to cope with his own life. For a reader like myself, I view these time travel theories as a literary move. I think it’s a genius method: use time travel not only as a way to move a character from place to place, but as a way to interest the reader.
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