Well this certainly isn't a typical love story. One would imagine it is what happens after the end of the story book; real life, and real life isn't all that fun. Truly her husband got on my nerves as did she. He was seemed to be deeply critical of her every move and thought, and she was never sure about herself. Every time that she said he threw a temper, I got a little more aggravated. It would seem that her husband is controlling and demeaning and a jerk. He does have some good qualities, for he is open to many different types of culture and experiences, and drags her into them. She on that note follows, trying to be supportive. It just gets tiresome to hear that they argue about little things that could be passed over and are always critical of each other.
But this is close to a true life love story than most that are written. For even though they argue and criticize one another, they have been together for twenty years. That's hard to say for most couples, granted this was written in the 90s. Considering this, both husband and wife have learned to take the flaws in each other and live with them. Not just live with the flaws but learn to accept them. It seems as though the wife accepted her husband's flaws better than he with hers.
I don't think that I'd like a relationship like this. I've witnessed too many relationships in which the spouses argue. It disrupts the home and is just not pleasant to be in. There is a way to live in peace without arguing and still accepting flaws. I can't really say what that is since I'm not married, though my grandparents, who have been married for almost 50 years, claim that it is to cut each other a bit of slack especially when you are about to get mad. It seems like good advice to me, for we can't really help our flaws; they are apart of what makes us, us. So when we accept each other's flaws it's more of confirmation of accepting them.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Monday, December 3, 2012
Death and Actors...Tropmann
This essay was a bit different than anything that I have read before. It immediately reminded me of a behind-the-scenes type view of execution. Almost as if it were a play. Just the way that the people were showing up ahead of time and talking with the executioner as he was "rehearsing" and the small group waiting to meet Tropmann. It all seemed as though it was staged. Tropmann himself seem like an actor, he was too happy. The narrator even points that out.
I was also reminded of the book The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy; really it's just the beginning of the book that reminded me of this. In the book, there are executions happening in which people are gathered around as if it's a grand event. There are even women described, come to find out one is the hero dressed as a woman looking for information, that are sitting near the guillotine platform sewing and gossiping as if nothing unusual was happening. Granted Tropmann's death and The Scarlet Pimpernel weren't written or around the exact same time, 1870 and 1903 (set in 1792) respectively; but they do show similar themes. People like a show, they like to be entertained by a gruesome event. It's a sad thing to say but it seems to be true, for the most part.
Take when Saddam Hussein was finally captured and put to death; there were many that wanted to see his body die. That could partly be because of what he did and they wanted revenge but he was hung, there were most likely a large number of people that watched him die just because he was to die. There seems to be a correlation between death and the desire to watch life leave the body. I'm not saying that it's a psychopathic tendency and that everyone is going to go kill someone, but it may be a bit deeper than that. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that everyone dies and those that are living are curious about death and what comes after it. For death is truly a curious thing. People die, we know that but what happens when we die, what are the last stages of people's life, what do they do. These are aspects that are addressed by Turgenev.
I was also reminded of the book The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy; really it's just the beginning of the book that reminded me of this. In the book, there are executions happening in which people are gathered around as if it's a grand event. There are even women described, come to find out one is the hero dressed as a woman looking for information, that are sitting near the guillotine platform sewing and gossiping as if nothing unusual was happening. Granted Tropmann's death and The Scarlet Pimpernel weren't written or around the exact same time, 1870 and 1903 (set in 1792) respectively; but they do show similar themes. People like a show, they like to be entertained by a gruesome event. It's a sad thing to say but it seems to be true, for the most part.
Take when Saddam Hussein was finally captured and put to death; there were many that wanted to see his body die. That could partly be because of what he did and they wanted revenge but he was hung, there were most likely a large number of people that watched him die just because he was to die. There seems to be a correlation between death and the desire to watch life leave the body. I'm not saying that it's a psychopathic tendency and that everyone is going to go kill someone, but it may be a bit deeper than that. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that everyone dies and those that are living are curious about death and what comes after it. For death is truly a curious thing. People die, we know that but what happens when we die, what are the last stages of people's life, what do they do. These are aspects that are addressed by Turgenev.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Coal Mining and Floor Problems: Photographs
Ben Shahn: Boys who salvage coal...
Sitting in shards of coal the two boys tried to find the piece that was the roundest. They had been digging all day in the soot, their faces and clothing now black. It was a game, collect the most pieces of tiny coal as possible before sundown. Really there was nowhere else for them to play in their small backwoods town; here they were able to get dirty and get away from home. The mine, which the coal had slipped away from, lay a few miles down the road over a hill. Both of the boy's fathers worked in the dark hole; so in a way they were connected to them. Picking up black rocks and shoving them in their pockets, similar to the way the older men would take the same stones and put them in wheelbarrows.
This photograph instantly reminded me of my grandfather. He lived in a coal mining town and tells stories of how he and his cousin would go to the outskirts of the mine and pick up pieces of coal. In his town there really wasn't much to do, so they explored the mines and eventually became miners themselves. This photograph to me showed two boys that were having a great time playing piles of coal while their parents were working in the mines.
Edwin Locke: Walker Evans
The problem of the day is a big one. He slides to the floor in his office, ignoring his chair that stands mere feet away. As he runs a hand through his hair he stares at the white wall in front of him. This problem should have an easy solution, but for some reason he just can't see it. His hand drifts up to his cheek, his pinky finding its way in between his teeth. He'll bite his nail off before he solves this problem if he's not careful.
This photograph made me think of myself. There are many days where sitting in a chair just won't help; where it becomes more of a floor-big-problem. Meaning that there are so many issues going on in my head, I need enough space to deal with them and a small chair and table aren't enough. Whatever Walker Evans was going through it must've been a hefty thing because he looks lost and in the midst of his thoughts. There are definitely days that I feel this way, as well as look that way.
Sitting in shards of coal the two boys tried to find the piece that was the roundest. They had been digging all day in the soot, their faces and clothing now black. It was a game, collect the most pieces of tiny coal as possible before sundown. Really there was nowhere else for them to play in their small backwoods town; here they were able to get dirty and get away from home. The mine, which the coal had slipped away from, lay a few miles down the road over a hill. Both of the boy's fathers worked in the dark hole; so in a way they were connected to them. Picking up black rocks and shoving them in their pockets, similar to the way the older men would take the same stones and put them in wheelbarrows.
This photograph instantly reminded me of my grandfather. He lived in a coal mining town and tells stories of how he and his cousin would go to the outskirts of the mine and pick up pieces of coal. In his town there really wasn't much to do, so they explored the mines and eventually became miners themselves. This photograph to me showed two boys that were having a great time playing piles of coal while their parents were working in the mines.
Edwin Locke: Walker Evans
The problem of the day is a big one. He slides to the floor in his office, ignoring his chair that stands mere feet away. As he runs a hand through his hair he stares at the white wall in front of him. This problem should have an easy solution, but for some reason he just can't see it. His hand drifts up to his cheek, his pinky finding its way in between his teeth. He'll bite his nail off before he solves this problem if he's not careful.
This photograph made me think of myself. There are many days where sitting in a chair just won't help; where it becomes more of a floor-big-problem. Meaning that there are so many issues going on in my head, I need enough space to deal with them and a small chair and table aren't enough. Whatever Walker Evans was going through it must've been a hefty thing because he looks lost and in the midst of his thoughts. There are definitely days that I feel this way, as well as look that way.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Death will Come to Us All
This little story of a moth is quite captivating. It's just about watching a moth, that happens to be out in the day, die but it contains great enough detail and simplicity that it holds attention. The moth itself even takes on a personality. Compassion is felt toward the moth as it struggles for life. The line "had he been born in any other shape" definitely makes one think about what kind of life the moth leads. Even if the moth is aware of its own being. Virginia Woolf makes the assumption that the moth is in fact aware of this. To think that the moth is aware of its own being makes the last line even more strong. Almost sadder but content.
In a way the moth is given the characteristics of being stronger than a human for it accepts death when Woolf would have tried to help it. The moth fought death and in the end let it come. Woolf even states that the moth was "uncomplainingly composed" as it lay rigid. Most humans try to fight death, after all there are so many ways to seem young; botox, lipo-suction, medication of all kinds, and general health foods. As humans it seems that we try to put off death, but this small moth who had all life against it, accepted its fate without a complaint. In a way it would seem that we, as humans, should be like the moth and not complain about our fate. For we are all going to die one day, whether we like it or not.
In a way the moth is given the characteristics of being stronger than a human for it accepts death when Woolf would have tried to help it. The moth fought death and in the end let it come. Woolf even states that the moth was "uncomplainingly composed" as it lay rigid. Most humans try to fight death, after all there are so many ways to seem young; botox, lipo-suction, medication of all kinds, and general health foods. As humans it seems that we try to put off death, but this small moth who had all life against it, accepted its fate without a complaint. In a way it would seem that we, as humans, should be like the moth and not complain about our fate. For we are all going to die one day, whether we like it or not.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Once was Blind but Now I See
So when I read this I started thinking about the idea of not just physical blindness but being blind to things mentally. As in not acknowledging that an item is there because of ignorance or just not wanting to. People are blind, and make themselves blind, all the time. I could walk into a room filled with people but only see one person because I've made myself blind to everyone else. I could even focus my attention to one subject, say english, and completely forget that math exists. This is a problem and there are many that have it, or so I believe. I feel as though Borges is talking about reintroducing oneself to subjects and breaking down the walls that create the blindness. Borges does this himself as he learns Anglo-Saxon and Scandinavian. He finds new sounds, new words that trigger emotions and meanings. It's a discovery that clears away blindness. It's also this discovery that he encourages his readers to do. For even those that can see are blind as the old hymn states; the way to clear our sight and help us see again is to reveal truths, and to spark our bored minds.
Now I'm not saying that it wasn't interesting that a blind man wrote poems and books, because it was. I really didn't know that some of those authors were in fact blind; nor the strange coincidence that librarians in charge of great stacks of books were also blind. The way he described his blindness was rather interesting; for there was still color but no blackness. It's like trying to understand how a deaf person hears. Do they hear nothing or do they at least hear mumbles and echoes? His description did keep me enthralled.
But why a person would want to voluntarily go blind is a matter that I haven't fully understood. He stated that Milton did that. In a fleeting line, Borges says that it is so that "reality would not distract" (384). This line is odd for I would think that reality would lend to fuel creativity but the line is also paired with a statement of castration. So would the reality be of pure distraction? This would possibly go back to my idea of perhaps they aren't blind at all. Perhaps they are just trying to seclude themselves from the common distractions of life to dive into the work that they have. Work of learning new things.
Now I'm not saying that it wasn't interesting that a blind man wrote poems and books, because it was. I really didn't know that some of those authors were in fact blind; nor the strange coincidence that librarians in charge of great stacks of books were also blind. The way he described his blindness was rather interesting; for there was still color but no blackness. It's like trying to understand how a deaf person hears. Do they hear nothing or do they at least hear mumbles and echoes? His description did keep me enthralled.
But why a person would want to voluntarily go blind is a matter that I haven't fully understood. He stated that Milton did that. In a fleeting line, Borges says that it is so that "reality would not distract" (384). This line is odd for I would think that reality would lend to fuel creativity but the line is also paired with a statement of castration. So would the reality be of pure distraction? This would possibly go back to my idea of perhaps they aren't blind at all. Perhaps they are just trying to seclude themselves from the common distractions of life to dive into the work that they have. Work of learning new things.
Monday, November 5, 2012
We're All Cracked Plates
Well my first reaction to this piece came when I got the second paragraph. Fitzgerald, in the middle of the paragraph writes "It seemed a romantic business to be a successful literary man-" and ends the section with "but I, for one, would not have chosen any other [trade]." His sentiment between these lines strikes me as, ah! someone who gets me! I, for one have chosen the life of writing and am coming to the realization that yes, I won't have any fame. If any is to be bestowed upon me it will be once I'm dead probably not coming even then for centuries after the fact. I hate politics and though I have strong religious convictions, I am consistently unsatisfied with my writing and with the conclusions that I've come with. But isn't that what writing is supposed to be? A forever changing, forever unsatisfactory work between an author, or many.
The rest of his piece reminded me of someone who was longing for a connection to something important; someone who wanted to make something of his life but was having trouble doing so. And so to remedy that they escape their surroundings and the life that they know, they change drastically. Fitzgerald even shows that in the end when he throws out all his letters, changes his smile, and even his voice. He believes that he has found himself through the idea of what a writer is supposed to look and sound like.
If that is what a writer is supposed to look and sound like, I don't want to be a writer. He makes writers seem very selfish and quite pretentious. It might also have to do with the time period that he is living in but I doubt it. The idea that he brings across just bothers me. To me writing is a craft that involves many people and many different ideas. A writer can't separate himself from others because he will need them eventually.
But then Fitzgerald was also dealing with the idea of losing who he was. He had the image of him hugging a pillow for an hour. This is a break down. He needed a complete change, a revitalization of sorts. That in essence scares me. If this is his mid-life crisis for he mentions that he's around 40yrs old, does that mean that most people second guess themselves, and that's why they do drastic things like buy expensive cars. Now I get that this is a leap but still, the idea bothers me.
The rest of his piece reminded me of someone who was longing for a connection to something important; someone who wanted to make something of his life but was having trouble doing so. And so to remedy that they escape their surroundings and the life that they know, they change drastically. Fitzgerald even shows that in the end when he throws out all his letters, changes his smile, and even his voice. He believes that he has found himself through the idea of what a writer is supposed to look and sound like.
If that is what a writer is supposed to look and sound like, I don't want to be a writer. He makes writers seem very selfish and quite pretentious. It might also have to do with the time period that he is living in but I doubt it. The idea that he brings across just bothers me. To me writing is a craft that involves many people and many different ideas. A writer can't separate himself from others because he will need them eventually.
But then Fitzgerald was also dealing with the idea of losing who he was. He had the image of him hugging a pillow for an hour. This is a break down. He needed a complete change, a revitalization of sorts. That in essence scares me. If this is his mid-life crisis for he mentions that he's around 40yrs old, does that mean that most people second guess themselves, and that's why they do drastic things like buy expensive cars. Now I get that this is a leap but still, the idea bothers me.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
That's Farce, That's Theatre, That's Life
Mencken's essay, "On Being an American" reminded me of a quote that I used to have posted in my room. "Life is a tragedy for those that feel, and a comedy for those that think." This quote has been claimed by Horace Walpole, Jean de la Bruyere, and Moliere; but no one has been able to decide which one actually said it first. But that doesn't make much difference; what does it the significance of the quote. In relation to Mencken's essay, the quote weaves in perfectly. For Mencken sees Americans as players in a theatrical performance and it's hysterical to him. To some what he describes would seem horrible. Slapstick comedy for instance, Mencken uses throughout the essay, many don't like that sort of comedy. They see it as crude and mean but he finds it amusing. When that's applied to life, things get a bit twisted. The same goes for the presidential debates, they are supposed to be straight forward arguments. Mencken sees the comedy in it and brings it out.
There are many things that happen in America that are comedic when it's just thought about. If people stop "feeling" about things, and that's not to say that feelings are bad because they aren't, it's just to say that Americans have a tendency to take events personally. Even when the events didn't happen to them individually. Oh, the multi-million dollar football player that sits on the bench for half the season played one game, he tore a muscle and now you think the team has no chance of making it to the Super Bowl? Really, you want to tell me that's the reason they aren't going? Little things like that are funny and yet people get so worked up over them. Even if something does happen to someone individually, it can still be funny. Take the football example again. The quarter back that never lets you down except when it's cold and sometimes when it's raining too hard just messed up again? And you're going to throw a fit because you're not going to win your fantasy football game. It's a small thing but still comedic.
Mencken is pointing out that there are many things that happen to us that should be considered comedic and not end-of-the-world problems. Living in America is a good thing. We should be happy to live here not complain about it. There are people who live in worse conditions after all.
There are many things that happen in America that are comedic when it's just thought about. If people stop "feeling" about things, and that's not to say that feelings are bad because they aren't, it's just to say that Americans have a tendency to take events personally. Even when the events didn't happen to them individually. Oh, the multi-million dollar football player that sits on the bench for half the season played one game, he tore a muscle and now you think the team has no chance of making it to the Super Bowl? Really, you want to tell me that's the reason they aren't going? Little things like that are funny and yet people get so worked up over them. Even if something does happen to someone individually, it can still be funny. Take the football example again. The quarter back that never lets you down except when it's cold and sometimes when it's raining too hard just messed up again? And you're going to throw a fit because you're not going to win your fantasy football game. It's a small thing but still comedic.
Mencken is pointing out that there are many things that happen to us that should be considered comedic and not end-of-the-world problems. Living in America is a good thing. We should be happy to live here not complain about it. There are people who live in worse conditions after all.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Going Under The Knife
This piece was was beautifully crafted with artful language; I loved every bit of it. Selzer describes the knife by ways of describing his job as a surgeon; they are one in the same, the knife helps him complete his work. For him to do this gives detail and new images. It's not like he is saying the knife is this, he's saying the knife is like a surgeon who is like an executioner and here's why. Then he goes into a story to back it up. It really does grab the reader's attention.
There were some stories that I wished I knew the ending of. For example, by the end of the first story I wanted to know if he got the tumor out without killing the woman. Or even what happened to the Russian man with the hernia. His stories came to life with the conversational language that he used. Sure there were some words that I had to look up, but that was mostly medical language. Everything else was as if he were telling the stories to me at dinner. I do have family members in the medical field, so these stories aren't too far off from what I'd hear over dinner.
One story that he told that was quite interesting was the one where the knife takes a life of its own. This scares me a bit. It's almost as if he is questioning his own ability to use the knife. But then it also has the sense that knives are unruly and it's a surgeon that must tame them. It's just the line, "in a surgical operation, a risk may flash into reality: the patient dies...of complication. The patient knows this too..." that bothers me (713). He seems conflicted that if he were to lose control of the knife and let it do what it wants then he also loses the patient.
Which anyone who has gone into an operation has had this terrible feeling that it's possible they were never to return again. It's a feeling that Selzer addresses quite well, although he looks at it from the surgeon point of view. I had never before thought that surgeons get nervous about an operation, but that should go under the same absurdities like seasoned actors and singers never get nervous before going on stage or tenured teachers never get nervous before they meet a group of new students. It just shows that everyone is human and we do all have the same emotions.
There were some stories that I wished I knew the ending of. For example, by the end of the first story I wanted to know if he got the tumor out without killing the woman. Or even what happened to the Russian man with the hernia. His stories came to life with the conversational language that he used. Sure there were some words that I had to look up, but that was mostly medical language. Everything else was as if he were telling the stories to me at dinner. I do have family members in the medical field, so these stories aren't too far off from what I'd hear over dinner.
One story that he told that was quite interesting was the one where the knife takes a life of its own. This scares me a bit. It's almost as if he is questioning his own ability to use the knife. But then it also has the sense that knives are unruly and it's a surgeon that must tame them. It's just the line, "in a surgical operation, a risk may flash into reality: the patient dies...of complication. The patient knows this too..." that bothers me (713). He seems conflicted that if he were to lose control of the knife and let it do what it wants then he also loses the patient.
Which anyone who has gone into an operation has had this terrible feeling that it's possible they were never to return again. It's a feeling that Selzer addresses quite well, although he looks at it from the surgeon point of view. I had never before thought that surgeons get nervous about an operation, but that should go under the same absurdities like seasoned actors and singers never get nervous before going on stage or tenured teachers never get nervous before they meet a group of new students. It just shows that everyone is human and we do all have the same emotions.
What is "Good"?
Good art is difficult to define. What may look, sound, taste, or feel good to one person could be horrible to another. Take the ever popular dispute over the band Nickleback. As I've learned, never mention this group to a bunch of community college students; they will chew you out, condemning you for ever liking that band. But the group has managed to continue to make music and successfully. So what is it about the sound? It's different, the lead's voice is gnarled as if he's screamed too loud and the guitars compliment that. The music is strange but that's not saying that it's bad.
Art in many forms take on this, sculptures and paintings that are abstract are deemed "good" because of how different they are. Differences bring out beauty, it brings out the tiny details that are sometimes overlooked. In this way they are not just good but sometimes great.
A blending of meats and vegetables would never have given us stew if one person didn't first think that it might be a good idea. Colors on canvas to form a picture that stirs emotions in people would never have happened unless one person decided that it looked good. What deems that something is good? It's more of what pleases the senses, what is different that no one has ever tried before, and what else is there to try.
Art in many forms take on this, sculptures and paintings that are abstract are deemed "good" because of how different they are. Differences bring out beauty, it brings out the tiny details that are sometimes overlooked. In this way they are not just good but sometimes great.
A blending of meats and vegetables would never have given us stew if one person didn't first think that it might be a good idea. Colors on canvas to form a picture that stirs emotions in people would never have happened unless one person decided that it looked good. What deems that something is good? It's more of what pleases the senses, what is different that no one has ever tried before, and what else is there to try.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
The Emblems of My Life
1. Burnt Popcorn: When popcorn gets burnt it’s often a surprise; the microwave was too hot or the bag was too small for how long it was put in for. But this isn’t a problem for me. There are pieces that still have butter flavor to them. They are sweet and good to eat; the entire bag isn’t ruined just because some of it is burnt. I can see my life in this analogy because I have burnt pieces. There are parts of my life that I would rather throw away. I would like a brand new equilibrium, for I have the worst motion sickness in the world (and I’m not exaggerating); but there is still good through my messed up, burnt pieces. I can’t be thrown away because there is a reason that I’m slightly burnt.
2. A Straw: Everyone knows what straws are used for, to get liquid from a cup to your mouth. But straws can also be used for blowing bubbles in chocolate milk or biting on the ends until the round shape is no more. My life comes in bits and parts as if through a straw; I’d like to throw it away and drink straight from the cup but then I’d probably dump water down the front of my shirt. Through my straw I’m able to get out tensions in my life and enjoy little things.
3. Knit Blanket: Well, these blankets are usually made by hand and although I’m not skilled in making blankets or quilts I have a deep appreciation for those that can; especially when I wrap myself in one on a cold night. I do own one that was given to me when I was an infant (I still use it on occasions), this blanket reminds me of home. Where ever I am, if I hold it close and smell the fabric I am instantly reminded of my family. This blanket is a mental connection to my family.
4. Chopsticks: I’m not Chinese; there isn’t an ounce of the culture flowing through my veins. I would like to say that I am since I have a cousin that is partly of this descent. There is one thing that I can claim; I know how to use their utensils. The slow methodical pace needed to use the sticks keeps me steady. It’s a balance that I can feel in my life. There’s that struggle to want to throw the sticks down and grab a fork; exclaim that nothing is working the way that I want it to. But to keep at it, that’s the main point. There are days that I want to do that with school work or other jobs. I just want to grab my car keys say screw this and drive back home where I don’t have to deal with anything. But that’s not how it works. I have to keep pushing, keep slowly working at things until I get them.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Silence Discovered
The true definition of silence is the absence of sound, to not mention as in concern, or to be forgotten. However, it also is a word that affects on many levels. Silence is used in debate, when used correctly a debater can seem to overpower the opponent. It is used in music to add drama and allow a greater impact to melodies. In science there are DNA molecules that are silent, meaning that they won't affect a person until later in life; that is if they even start to become active. Gestures can indicate for a person to be silent; the main one being the index finger over the lips. Cultures also use silence in worship services; it is used as prayer and meditation. Silence is a sort of warning signal between animals. When one stands completely still, it is a sign to the others that there is a danger around. Between humans, silence is similarly a warning. Most humans don't like long periods of silence and so they fill it with talk or music.
A study was shown that the brain, when a person watches a silent movie, can pick up sounds. This is a bit backwards from silence but it still tells that humans relate more to sound than they do to silence. There was a statement that some scientists don't believe that silence is possible; for silence would be the absence of all sound, even thought. For that to happen would mean that a person would have to die. However the deaf live in supposed silence, for they can not hear. There is also the fact that most of nature in our world is losing places of silence to technological advances and automobiles. This would be nature's silence or the sound that nature brings and the silence from the modern, traffic filled world.
A study was shown that the brain, when a person watches a silent movie, can pick up sounds. This is a bit backwards from silence but it still tells that humans relate more to sound than they do to silence. There was a statement that some scientists don't believe that silence is possible; for silence would be the absence of all sound, even thought. For that to happen would mean that a person would have to die. However the deaf live in supposed silence, for they can not hear. There is also the fact that most of nature in our world is losing places of silence to technological advances and automobiles. This would be nature's silence or the sound that nature brings and the silence from the modern, traffic filled world.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Walking
Thoreau's piece "Walking" is about his reflection on getting out of the house everyday and getting lost in the woods. It's not just getting lost but enjoying the beauty of the woods once one is there. He blatantly states that it is unbearable for him to sit for long periods of time and he can't understand how anyone can do so. It is only when he goes for walks that he truly feels at peace and can think. The idea of walking he expands upon by bringing in other thinkers and writers. Other writers, like Wordsworth, claim to have their study outside where the world is bright and crisp. It's a place that they can think and aren't bogged down by the everyday duties and politics of the world.
The main idea of walking is something that is greatly understood and used in today's culture. Not everybody may do so but there are quite a few people that make sure they go for a walk everyday; even if it is for health's sake. Walking just a little bit everyday helps the brain work properly, or so I've heard. It's something that is almost taken for granted but when you can't do it any longer, you really begin to miss it.
The main idea of walking is something that is greatly understood and used in today's culture. Not everybody may do so but there are quite a few people that make sure they go for a walk everyday; even if it is for health's sake. Walking just a little bit everyday helps the brain work properly, or so I've heard. It's something that is almost taken for granted but when you can't do it any longer, you really begin to miss it.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Whether in Nature or Everyday Life
In Annie Dillard's piece "Seeing," she reflects on how she wants to see the world for what it truly is. She wants to see the little things in life that people so easily overlook. Artists and writers show these things in minuscule detail but when she goes to find them, they disappear from her. What she has come to discover is that when you look for it, you don't find it. It's only when you just happen to be in the area, without really paying attention do the wonders of the world pop out and amaze.
These things happen all the time and not just in nature. Whenever I want to find my favorite quote, I'll scan pages hoping it will jump out, but it won't. If I've lost my phone I'll search my room but I won't find it. The things that we want to find won't ever become prominent until we stop looking for them. That's just how it happens, whether it be for nature or for everyday life.
These things happen all the time and not just in nature. Whenever I want to find my favorite quote, I'll scan pages hoping it will jump out, but it won't. If I've lost my phone I'll search my room but I won't find it. The things that we want to find won't ever become prominent until we stop looking for them. That's just how it happens, whether it be for nature or for everyday life.
Monday, October 1, 2012
On "Entrance to the Woods" and Wendell Berry
Wendell Berry's essay titled "An Entrance to the Woods" shows a man that has decided to leave his city life and come to the woods for a few days. Although the stay is short, the man has a sense of feeling renewed and being in tune with nature and the past. Sitting on rocks, he can feel the generations that has passed before him, that have sat on that exact spot. The same goes for walking down unmarked and untrod paths. He can only wonder as to who and what stepped in the same places that he is. Berry also remarks on how fast the world is moving. That it is moving so quickly not because we have sped up a clock but because machines, like cars, have brought us to those places. Our minds were built for a slow, methodical pace, Berry states, and machines hurry us along. In the woods, our minds are able to slow back down.
This piece had a familiar tone to it; it was almost as if I was reading a short work by Thoreau. They both decided to go to the woods just to get away from the world. Berry's piece wasn't exactly like Thoreau's for Berry wasn't trying to make some huge political statement but it was methodical, paced, and quite descriptive. I felt as though I was in those woods with him, walking along the same paths. I understand why he went to the woods, to get away from the hustle of the world for a bit and that is something that I think everyone needs to do. There are days that we all get caught up in the world and the fast movements, we forget to slow down; that our brains aren't always with us. But we can't necessarily stay there, and Berry points that out as he ends his essay. The next day will most likely be better than the one before but we have to return to the world of machines. It's what we are meant to do.
This piece had a familiar tone to it; it was almost as if I was reading a short work by Thoreau. They both decided to go to the woods just to get away from the world. Berry's piece wasn't exactly like Thoreau's for Berry wasn't trying to make some huge political statement but it was methodical, paced, and quite descriptive. I felt as though I was in those woods with him, walking along the same paths. I understand why he went to the woods, to get away from the hustle of the world for a bit and that is something that I think everyone needs to do. There are days that we all get caught up in the world and the fast movements, we forget to slow down; that our brains aren't always with us. But we can't necessarily stay there, and Berry points that out as he ends his essay. The next day will most likely be better than the one before but we have to return to the world of machines. It's what we are meant to do.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
At the Lake...My Narrative
We had been at the lake for three days. The cots smelled of our bodies, the plates were dirty from our food, and the doors snapping constantly as we ran to and from the cabin. We were comfortable at the lake, it was comfortable with us. Every year we greeted the same small patch of water and rocky shore line with the splash of our fishing poles. Every year the lake didn’t disappoint us; it always brought unpredictable weather and great fishing. This year was no exception.
By the third day of our trip, family members were becoming exhausted. Adults slouched in Adirondack chairs as a few boys tossed a football across the yard. Talk had begun to drift toward dinner and what to make when the youngest cousin and the oldest walked side by side down to the docks. No one noticed the two cousins, nor did they pay attention to what they were doing.
At the end of the dock the youngest cousin peered over the edge, biting her lip as she counted the small fish that swam in the shadows. Next to her, the oldest cousin opened a can of worms, pulling out the first one that was found. In a flash, the oldest cousin broke the worm in two, throwing half of the worm back in the can. Once the oldest cousin had the small bit of worm wrapped around the hook on the pink fishing pole, the oldest cousin handed the pole to the young one.
The oldest cousin ducked quickly as the young one pulled the fishing pole over her shoulder, only to drop the line in the water directly below the dock. It was barely a cast and wouldn’t produce any sizable fish but before long the young cousin was squealing with delight as she yanked her line out of the water. Barely hanging onto the hook was a small fish, it could be deemed a minnow if it was any smaller but it had bitten the hook and the young cousin was happy.
As the oldest cousin reached for the line, the fish let go of the hook; it was obvious that the small fish really hadn’t bitten the hook at all but the worm. The fish splashed into the water, spraying both cousins sending laughter into the air. The young cousin began to reel in her line, like she had been taught. When the hook was at eye level, the young cousin held the line out to the oldest one, waiting for the next worm.
“Do you want to put this one on?” The oldest cousin asked. A smile grew on the young one’s face as she handed over her pink fishing pole. Stooping low, near the can of worms, the young cousin lifted out a long worm. “Break it in half.” The oldest cousin told her before looking at the hook. As the oldest cousin turned back to the youngest, a look of horror crossed the young one’s face. Before knowing what happened, the young one stuck out her tongue to produce the guts of the worm mixed with dirt. The oldest cousin could feel her face get warmer as her heart began to pump faster. “Hold on, hold on.” The oldest cousin kept repeating as she set down the fishing pole and flung the bitten in half worm, into the water.
But it was too late, the youngest cousin had begun to cry, grabbing the attention of the adults still hunched over in the wooden chairs. The oldest cousin wiped as much dirt and gut off of the young one’s tongue as possible before the youngest cousin ran away to her mother. Alone on the dock, the oldest cousin looked into the shadowy water where the small fish were eating the half bitten worm.
“And that’s how it all happened. No more, no less.” I turned toward my family. Their stares and vacant expressions told me that they didn’t believe a word that I had to say. “You told her to eat it.” My brother retorted before getting up from the dinner table. “I did not. Besides, she didn’t eat the worm at all; it was still a whole worm when I threw it in the water. It was just bitten in half.” I stumbled over my words, as I tried to recall the exact look of the worm. “She ate it and we all know it,” my dad grabbed his glass pouring himself another drink. I knew that she didn’t eat the worm, even if they didn’t believe me. I looked to my young cousin who sat opposite from me.
She refused to say anything. Every time this story is brought up, she doesn’t say a word. It happened to both of us, why won’t she speak in my defense? I didn’t force her to eat a worm and I know that she didn’t. Does she not speak because she did eat it and I’m just not remembering correctly? She couldn’t have eaten it. It’s not possible. Was it too traumatic of an event and she has suppressed it? I would if I was her. That must be it. What else could it be? From across the table I give a half smile to my young cousin who returns it. Perhaps she does remember and she’s just too smart to get into this argument. Well, one thing is for certain, no matter what version of the story circulates around our house, she and I will always know the truth.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Orwell's Such Were the Joys
George Orwell's "Such, Such Were the Joys" is about a boy that goes to a boarding school and learns about life while growing up in the presence of domineering adults. As he goes through his years, he faces the problem with feeling confined and imprisoned by the adults, not just the other students. He faces this feeling and takes it on; accepting the standards that are being put on him. Although, as this is a reflection on his time at boarding school, Orwell does mention that if he went back to the school now, the teachers would not be as awful as he may have remember them.
Orwell's experience is a unique one for it does have an older feeling to it. Teachers were allowed to beat children when they misbehaved and students lived with each other; it was really a boarding school. But no matter how different it may feel, there are similarities that he makes with any other kind of school. The schools today do make standards that they expect students to reach. Most students align with those standards, even if they don't like them because they have to, they know that if they don't there are real consequences that will ensue. Teachers also seem more terrifying to the younger kids then they do to the older ones. It mostly comes with age but it is how things seem. Orwell is right, if a student goes back to visit a teacher they once viewed as "scary," that teacher loses all "scary" features. They become normal. It is a growth thing, a coming with time, and possibly the world just looks different.
Orwell's experience is a unique one for it does have an older feeling to it. Teachers were allowed to beat children when they misbehaved and students lived with each other; it was really a boarding school. But no matter how different it may feel, there are similarities that he makes with any other kind of school. The schools today do make standards that they expect students to reach. Most students align with those standards, even if they don't like them because they have to, they know that if they don't there are real consequences that will ensue. Teachers also seem more terrifying to the younger kids then they do to the older ones. It mostly comes with age but it is how things seem. Orwell is right, if a student goes back to visit a teacher they once viewed as "scary," that teacher loses all "scary" features. They become normal. It is a growth thing, a coming with time, and possibly the world just looks different.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Looking at E. B. White's "The Ring of Time"
Time standing still or time moving slowly, it would seem that we all have had some sort of experience with that sort of situation. Just when we say, the year flew by or the week went by so quickly, or even how did that child get so old, I remember when they were born. Time has a funny way of standing still and making us believe that an hour is only two seconds.
E. B. White has tried to explain this in his piece "The Ring of Time". He is describing a woman who is practing her act for the Ringling Brothers Circus. While watching her, he gets lost in a trance, where time stands still. It's a beautiful description where each word completes the picture that he is trying to paint. Not only is it a vivid story but the story itself has a slow methodical pace that makes the reader lose track of time, almost as if time was standing still while the reading was taking place.
The first time I read through the P. S. of "The Ring of Time" I didn't think that it fit with the story at all. But upon taking a closer look, White has paralleled the fiddler crab and the tide with the woman and time respectively. He is basically saying that even though time may seem to stand still or that we may want it to stand still. We can inspect everything under a microscope but time still acts on everything. It's just the way life is.
E. B. White has tried to explain this in his piece "The Ring of Time". He is describing a woman who is practing her act for the Ringling Brothers Circus. While watching her, he gets lost in a trance, where time stands still. It's a beautiful description where each word completes the picture that he is trying to paint. Not only is it a vivid story but the story itself has a slow methodical pace that makes the reader lose track of time, almost as if time was standing still while the reading was taking place.
The first time I read through the P. S. of "The Ring of Time" I didn't think that it fit with the story at all. But upon taking a closer look, White has paralleled the fiddler crab and the tide with the woman and time respectively. He is basically saying that even though time may seem to stand still or that we may want it to stand still. We can inspect everything under a microscope but time still acts on everything. It's just the way life is.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
E. B. White and Black Lake
There are places that have been passed down from generation to generation in every family. Parks, garages, fields, beach fronts, and even lakes. There is a lake that has been a traditional place to go for every generation in my family. Black Lake, it sounds quite sinister and at times it seemed that it was. There were moments when my family thought that we would be stranded in the middle of the water or that our boat would sink while we were left bailing the water out, like some slap stick comedy program. But this lake has had some beautiful moments; family dinners of fried fish, camp fires with s'mores, and swimming in the dark green water.
E. B. White's story "Once More to the Lake" reminds me so much of my own family lake that it would seem that we share the same one, even though I know that we don't. It's more that experiences are similar. The expectant arrivals, the fresh pine smells (mine's more of an oak), a swampy aroma at night, fishing on the boat, playing in the rain, and a constant ritual of doing it every year. My family goes back almost every year. You can find pictures of me at this lake from the time I was a new born. So there are definitely instances when I hear my parents or grandparents commenting like White does. For instance, when my dad was teaching my brother how to gut a fish; my dad would make comments like when I was a kid. Normally comments like this come from grandparents, so when my father is talking like this it tells me that he is remembering. He is having the same sort of time stand still moment that White was.
Places like the lake are a great way to introduce new environments to younger generations and create new memories as well as bring up old one. It's never too late to start a trip like this and it's never too late to go back to an old place. This whole story makes me want to go back to the lake now. I do miss it.
E. B. White's story "Once More to the Lake" reminds me so much of my own family lake that it would seem that we share the same one, even though I know that we don't. It's more that experiences are similar. The expectant arrivals, the fresh pine smells (mine's more of an oak), a swampy aroma at night, fishing on the boat, playing in the rain, and a constant ritual of doing it every year. My family goes back almost every year. You can find pictures of me at this lake from the time I was a new born. So there are definitely instances when I hear my parents or grandparents commenting like White does. For instance, when my dad was teaching my brother how to gut a fish; my dad would make comments like when I was a kid. Normally comments like this come from grandparents, so when my father is talking like this it tells me that he is remembering. He is having the same sort of time stand still moment that White was.
Places like the lake are a great way to introduce new environments to younger generations and create new memories as well as bring up old one. It's never too late to start a trip like this and it's never too late to go back to an old place. This whole story makes me want to go back to the lake now. I do miss it.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Almost A Movie
The day the towers fell, I remember being excited. Now you must understand this from a fifth grader's perspective. I had just arrived to my small middle school after vomiting in a trash can on the yellow school bus. This was a ritual that I had every day of my young life. Getting up early and then sticking my head in a plastic container as my stomach bounced with the hills of the countryside. But that day of school, instead of expecting long division and memorization of words that I would soon forget, I got to watch TV. What child wouldn't like that? It was almost like a movie to us. The planes and the fire and the reporters. None of it seemed real. The teachers around us even added to the drama. They cried with their hands over their mouths, wiping mascara down their cheeks in long black streaks. What was playing on the screen, was projected onto us. We were a captive audience; ready for the next burst of flame, the next scream or falling body.
By the time the next year came around and people were still searching through the rubble, I remember exclaiming "I watched that happen!" None of it was real to me. Not even when I got to go see the memorial site in New York City my senior year. It's not now. I feel a great ache, a great longing to link some kind of pain with those people that died that day. As an American, I believe that in some small way, I do. It was an awful tragedy that so many died on our soil and I support our troops to the fullest extent. But I suppose that I don't connect properly with this day of remembrance because of the way that I originally experienced it. It was a movie, a terrible show where everyone in the country got involved to put it on. I still have faith in our country and support those who fight to keep us safe, but never do I want to experience something like that again. I want to truly feel for people that I haven't met because this isn't just some kind of performance that we are all putting on. This is life and life is filled with many different pains and joys that we can all relate to.
By the time the next year came around and people were still searching through the rubble, I remember exclaiming "I watched that happen!" None of it was real to me. Not even when I got to go see the memorial site in New York City my senior year. It's not now. I feel a great ache, a great longing to link some kind of pain with those people that died that day. As an American, I believe that in some small way, I do. It was an awful tragedy that so many died on our soil and I support our troops to the fullest extent. But I suppose that I don't connect properly with this day of remembrance because of the way that I originally experienced it. It was a movie, a terrible show where everyone in the country got involved to put it on. I still have faith in our country and support those who fight to keep us safe, but never do I want to experience something like that again. I want to truly feel for people that I haven't met because this isn't just some kind of performance that we are all putting on. This is life and life is filled with many different pains and joys that we can all relate to.
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