Final Notes

1.what was so scandalous about the death of Father Zossima?
The odor of corruption
2.what is the name of Smerdyakov's Mother?
Stinking Lizaveta
3.what is one of the great lessons of Father Zossima?
Everyone is responsible for everyone else
paradise is here and now
4.who actually murdered Old Man Karamazov?
Smerdyakov
5.how did Smerdyakov actually die?
He hangs himself
6.the courtroom scenes depict...
the indictment of the legal system
7.which character was not discussed as a possible hero of the Brothers Karamazov?
8.The Grand Inquisitor (parable about Christ coming back to earth to give mankind free will, the Inquisitor executes him because people don't want freedon)
9.how is each brother responsible for the death of Fydor Karamazov?
Smerdyakov did the deed, Dmitri wanted to, Alyosha didn't stop it, and Ivan gave ideas
10.what was the evidence used to convict Dmitri?
The letter from Katerina
11.which character in the novel starts as highly critical of Aloysha Karamazov but later becomes his disciple?
Kolya
12.in Anne's presentation to the class, she presented the unusual idea that the true hero of the Brothers Karamazov is?
Ilyusha
13.who did Hamlet think was behind the curtain?
Claudius
14.Who was it, actually?
Polonious
15.who is the one person who can match Hamlet's wit?
The gravedigger

The Last Blog

I wish that I had an unlimited amount of time to wax eloquent about how much I enjoyed this class, how much I've learned from it, and how much it will impact my life in the future. Sadly, I don't have more than a few minutes to dedicate to the task of bringing this blogging adventure to a close, but I'll try to do the best I can with the time I have.

I guess the best way to do this is to answer the question I didn't answer in my final paper--What do I know now that I didn't know before, and what difference does it make? My answer might be a somewhat odd one, for many of the things we've learned I already knew. That everything is a retelling of something: when I was younger, I stylized myself as Beth Marsh from Little Women, and later as Lynn from Kira-Kira by Cynthia Kadohata. Now I fancy myself more as Meg O'Keefe from A Swiftly Tilting Planet...but that's beside the point. I did learn, however, that by finding what I'm a retelling of, I can avoid making the same mistakes as my predecessor.

That fantasy was more real than non-fiction I knew as well. In fact, the idea was an integral part of my life. However, in this I have learned that I am not alone, as I once thought, that this is not something that you have to grow out of, and that loving the story more than real life is not bad, as I was told. Perhaps it is ironic, but knowing this has freed me to life a life outside of the story, for now I know that I can return to it at any time that I want, unlike the Pevensie children, who were eventually told that they could not return to Narnia...

I also learned the importance of the phrase how do I know what I think until I see what I say? We can hold all sorts of opinions, and know all sorts of facts, but until we see what we actually find important enough to talk about, we really can't know what we think. A lot of the time it's easier to compose your thoughts, to see what you say, in the context of the written word rather than the spoken. I've always been a literary person. My writing voice is far more eloquent than my speaking voice (I believe my presentation was a great illustration of that). Oftentimes I find it's a lot easier to figure out what I want to say, what I think, if I write it first.

Anyways, those are some of the more significant things that I've learned. This class has been a great adventure, and I'll carry what I've learned for the rest of my life. My time is running short now, so I'd like to close with a quote from Winston Churchill.

"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

Paper - Of Heroes

In any story, the hero plays an essential role—in fact, there would be no story without him. His actions, good or bad, are what fuel the plot and keep the rest of the characters alive. Sometimes the hero is obvious from the beginning of the book. Other times you find him halfway through. Occasionally you finish the book with no clear idea of who the hero actually was. Such is the case in the Brothers Karamazov, and this point was illustrated in many of our discussions in class. The actual (or intended) hero in the Brothers Karamazov is a point of great controversy, and brings about a question on the nature of the hero. Is it the author's job to tell the reader who the hero is, or is it the reader's job to discover the protagonist for themselves? Some would argue, as Dostoevsky did, that the likeable, noble-minded Aloysha is the hero of this great piece of literature, while others might argue that Dmitri, the man of action, deserves the starring role. However, in the course of this paper it will be proven that the actual hero of the Brothers Karamazov is the tragic figure of the boy Ilyusha.

A tragic hero, in one sense, is one who makes such an error in their actions, be it through maliciousness or trickery, that causes his suffering or downfall. Most tragic heroes, however, are noble people, and it is only through some mistake in judgment that his ruination is brought about. This idea is beautifully illustrated by Ilyusha's feeding the pin to the dog Zuchka. Though the act was performed out of spite, it was not for hatred of the poor creature, but rather as a form of rebellion against the boy Kolya, unofficial leader of the schoolboys. Ilyusha wanted to prove that he was capable of doing something without Kolya's permission, in effect, that he was able to act on his own. He knew that he had done wrong as soon as he heard Zuchka's pained yelping, and was afraid that he had killed the poor undeserving creature, but at that point the act had been done and there was nothing that could be changed about it. Grief consumed Ilyusha and made him ill. In fact, one may think that his sorrow over his actions may have been what ultimately caused his death in the end of the book. However, this is another point of debate, for a reconciliation was made through the boy Kolya, and the dog returned unharmed. Ilyusha saw that no damage had been done by his actions, yet his condition did not improve, and that is the real reason that he is the tragic hero of this book.

Although there are several deaths in the Brothers Karamazov, only one is a true tragedy. The death of Father Zossima, though sorrowful, and a source of great pain especially for Alyosha, was not a tragedy. Zossima had lived a long, full life and had experienced everything that he was meant to see. Neither was the death of Fydor Karamazov a tragedy, for he too was getting on in years. In fact, some might say that he had already lived too long. However, Ilyusha's death can be considered a true tragedy, and a tragedy in the deepest sense of the word, for he had not experienced enough of life to be ready to leave it behind yet. This is part of a most vital doctrine on the nature of mortality—that death is tragedy only when it comes too soon. Although Father Zossima be dearly mourned, or Old Man Karamazov damned to hell, it is Ilyusha's death that should stir up indignation, that should cause the reader to ask how this could have happened. Ilyusha was only a child. He was not supposed to die. This is not right at all. Of all the characters in the book, Ilyusha was the one who most “deserved” to live, for he had seen so little of life.

The death and suffering of children is a major topic in the Brothers Karamazov. It consumes a great deal of the conversation between Ivan and Aloysha, and leads to one of the deepest questions posed in the book. “Imagine that you are creating a fabric of human destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to death only one tiny creature -- that baby beating its breast with its fist, for instance -- and to found that edifice on its unavenged tears, would you consent to be the architect on those conditions?” This idea is displayed in the suffering, and eventual death, of young Ilyusha, though his death was not in any way justified by his actions. In fact, Ilyusha's role in the Brothers Karamazov was illustrative of the death of Dostoevsky's own son, Aloysha, after whom he named his beloved protagonist. Neither boy's death was directly caused by his own actions, but was tragic in that it was unjustified and came before its time. If Dmitri Karamazov can be forgiven for trying to kill his own father, it is an unstated fact that a small boy should be forgiven for injuring a dog, especially when he did not even know that the poor creature would be hurt so. The phrase “I did not mean to hurt him,” all-too-common in an overenthusiastic young boy's rhetoric, nevertheless rings true in this situation.

However, whether you believe that he was in the wrong or not, Ilyusha's suffering is unjustified merely because he is just a boy. The death of a child, Alexy Karamazov would argue, is far too much of a horror to ever be considered right, for each life is precious and full of love. Ivan might argue that the child might grow up someday to be a horrible, wicked person, but there is no way to know whether that is true or not, and therefore the child's suffering is still not justified. The cutting short of any young life is tragedy, much more so when he feels that his suffering is a punishment for his sins. This is an illustration of the tragic sense of life—sarvam dukkham, sarvam anityam—the idea that life is full of pain and suffering, justified or unjustified, and lasts only for a moment. Whether it be fair or not, children will suffer and die and there is no way to stop it. To die before one's time is what it truly means to be a tragic figure, and this is why Ilyusha Snegiryov is the true hero of the Brothers Karamazov.

No Boring Books?

I know that nobody really wants to hear what I have to say, but I had some thoughts about Team One's presentation on Monday, so I thought I would at least write them up so anyone who's feeling bored can know what I have to say. For anyone who somehow managed to miss class, Group One presented a debate about the argument that there is no such thing as a boring book, only a boring person. The argument was thrown somewhat off-track and never reached a conclusion. However, I beg to argue that a conclusion could not be reached. Is there such a thing as a boring book? I do not know about the word “boring,” but there are some pieces of literature—though I am loath to call them that—that provide very little insight upon the reading of them. I agree that all books have benefit for certain people at certain places in life, but the idea that any book can be interesting to any person as long as you come at it with the right mindset is a very slippery idea. There are some stories that some people cannot understand. Perhaps it is a mindset that they cannot bring themselves to take on, or a concept that they cannot grasp. Just as some people have a very difficult time understanding math, or science, some books are quite literally impossible for them to read. However, there are others who could digest the book quite easily. In putting the comparison in terms of food, it resembles someone with a food allergy or intolerance. Just as there are some people who cannot eat wheat, protein, or dairy products, some people cannot read and understand certain stories. Indeed, one might actually say that it could make them physically ill. Perhaps this comparison was a little bit out there, but I thought it was at least worth thinking about. Since the argument was never really resolved, I threw my own two cents into the lottery.

Thesis Statement

So, after doing a bit of thinking about my thesis, I came up with a couple ideas and, feeling somewhat clever with myself, decided to combine them into a single, cohesive whole:

The feelings of impermanence that the characters in the Brothers Karamazov experience have a profound impact on their dealings with love and romance.

I think that this will not only be an interesting topic to write on, but also a unique challenge as well. Oh yes, and I am reading Hamlet, though I haven't finished it yet as I was feeling sick all yesterday and spent a good deal of time sleeping. Within the next couple days I'll have it done. So far I've liked what I've read, and I expect the good things to continue.

Notice!

There will be NO GROUP PROJECTS on Wednesday. Groups 2 and 3 will present on Friday, 1 and 4 on Monday, and 5 and 6 on Wednesday the 21st. Individual presentations will begin on the 23rd and run through the 28th. Check your emails to see what day you'll be presenting individually—we will be running in reverse alphabetical order. If you aren't on the individual presentations list, make sure to let the professor know so he can slip you in there somewhere.

Test Two Notes

1. What is father Zossima's response to Ivan Karamazov's condemnation of God?

2. All of the following are positive except...
The devouring mother

3. What does “thchonic” mean?
Having to do with the underworld

4. What in TOWWAFO makes the utopic possible?
The torture of a small child

5. In a world in which the firemen burn books rather than put out fires, what do people have to do to preserve them?
Memorize them

6. What is the most common argument between a man and a woman?
You don't know what it's like to be me

7. What does Hera do to Tiresias?
Strikes him blind

8. What is the first principle of Buddhism?
All is suffering, all is fleeting

9. What kind of pet would Garrett not cry over when it died?
A fish

10. Does Anton Chechov condemn these people for their elicit love?
No

11. The answer to the Red Wheelbarrow question is the Red Wheelbarrow.

12. If Fydor Karamazov had to belong to an archtype, which one would he be?
The Trickster

13. Which archetype does Gruschenka belong to?
The Temptress

14. What macabre occupation does Annabelle have?
Suicide Cleanup

15. What is the man drawing in the short story where he puts his hand on top of the blind man's?
Cathedral

16. What kind of law does Antigone represent?
The law of the underworld, thchonic law

17. Professor Sexson has a learned colleague whose flaw is that he does not _____.
Read

18. What poem lit up the instructor's face like a kid on Christmas morning?
Before You Leave The Classroom

19. What is the difference between a metaphor and a simile?
A simile uses like or as, a metaphor is a direct comparison.

20. What is Theodicy?
An attempt to justify a god who permits the suffering of the world.

21. Who in the cathedral is the only one who has a name?
The blind man

22. How did Antigone die?
She hanged herself

23. What was the object in TLWTPD that had significant impact on Dmitri?
Sturgeon

24. Who is the tragic hero in Antigone?

25. What is the Grand Inquisitor's secret?
The church has corrected the problems that Jesus brought to the world (freedom)
Miracle, mystery, authority

26. Cliffsnotes are inadequate

27. What does misogynist mean?
Woman-hater (used in reference to Creon, other fields to plow)

28. Shakespearean vs. Italian sonnet

29. In Araby, who was it who inspired the boy to go to the carnival?
Mangan's sister

30. Who in the Brothers K seems to run away from the author?
All of them

31. In Antigone, what character represents the gods of the upperworld?
Creon

32. Sonnet Therapy

33. Creon and Antigone are foils to each other—a foil is a contrast to the main character.

"It's all your fault!"

Oh dear. I have plenty of chances to overhear a man and a woman arguing. There is a guy who lives down the hall, and he and his on-again-off-again girlfriend fight all the time. In fact, occasionally I can hear them shouting without even having to step out of the room. Most of the time they scream (well, the girl screams and the guy yells) about something the other one has done wrong, or call each other names—I won't repeat them here—for reasons that I don't entirely understand. They also have a tendency to blame each other for things that aren't their fault. I have no idea how those two can spend so much time together when they fight so much, but maybe it's something that I won't ever understand. I'm the kind of person who goes out of her way to avoid conflict, so the idea of constantly bickering with someone isn't appealing at all. But perhaps it's not worth it to try to avoid fights—conflict is inevitable anyways, isn't it? There will always be someone fighting someone else, whether it's for a just cause or not. Anyways, those were my thoughts on the matter. I shall try to write more later, but right now I've got to consume some food before class.

Would You Walk Away From Omelas?

So, in our last class we talked about more prosidy, such as the different meters—monometer, demeter, trimeter, tetrameter, pentameter, sexameter, heptameter, and octameter. We also talked about the different types of metrical feet. The four types we discussed in class are iambic (da-DUM), trochaic (DUM-da), anapestic (da-da-DUM), and dactyllic (DUM-da-da). Prof. Sexson said that we should expect there to be questions about meter on the test, so make sure you have them straight.

However, I only want to skim over these, because I want to talk about the ones that walk away from Omelas. We were asked the question “If you could create a utopia full of complete and total happiness through the sufferings of one single child, would you do it?” The question, to some, seemed unreasonable. They would kill the child in a heartbeat. However, I am too much of a skeptic to believe that a utopia is actually possible, especially when based upon human suffering. I do not believe that it is in our nature to be constantly happy. In times when peace rules, we create conflict, for we are tired of the same old boring blandness of it all. Would it really be possible, I ask, for the suffering of one to put the whole world at piece?

And yet suddenly it strikes me. Can the unnecessary suffering of one person create a perfect world? Could one blameless sacrifice restore the world to harmony? This sounds like a retelling of another story, a very familiar one to me. Ivan's question about the one child could very well be posed to God. Would you allow one child, your own son, to suffer and die so that humanity could be saved from its wretched existence? Perhaps it's only my hyperactive imagination working here, but I can definitely see a common thread there. So when asked the question I posed at the beginning of the paragraph, I can only say, not here. As to whether I would be able to hold the knife myself? I honestly don't know. I hate hurting other people. I would rather take the pain on myself than inflict it on someone else. But if it was to save the world?

Maybe I could. But that thought scares me more than it should.

A Lively Sense of Tragedy

As a bit of a writer myself, I both love and hate the way characters can sometimes seem to take over when you're writing. It definitely gives them a lot more life, even if things don't always turn out exactly the way you planned. That's definitely one of the most significant ways that Dostoevsky engages the reader in the Brothers Karamazov. The characters are full of flaws that may at times seem over the top, but that definitely add to their humanity (if not their believability). Another point of engagement was Dmitri's arrest for a crime that he obviously didn't commit. You couldn't just stop in the middle of the trial, because, whether you found the verdict obvious or not, you wanted to make sure, to find out whether or not he was convicted. The just wanting to make sure is, quite frankly, a lot of what kept me reading this book. Although for me it was more of a wanting to be proven wrong, to be shocked by what happened in the end. I've seen too many stereotypical endings in my life—boy and girl fall in love, escape their persecutors, and live happily ever after—which, I beg to argue, is not possible. You can't possibly be happy ever after. There will surely be some moment in your life when you are not happy. Bad things are bound to happen, if even only those minor irritations that make your day a little worse. And there are days that suck, that bowl us over and leave us gasping for breath, like the days when you wake up at six after less than two hours of sleep to work on an art project for two more hours, then go and take an exam you've barely studied for, after which you go and work on the uncompleted project—in class—for another three hours. However, at the end of the time you have, it's still falling apart, and the class ribs you as they critique it, so you leave class sleep-deprived, depressed about the project, and with only an hour before you have to hit your next class. Then after class is done you have to survive the rest of the afternoon and dinner with your friends without breaking into tears, and then tumble into bed completely exhausted and dejected. Yeah, that kind of day.

Reading the Cliffsnotes to the Brothers Karamazov...

....is like going to a banquet and eating nothing but macaroni.

So on Monday, Professor Sexson talked about some assignments that we have coming up. The first, our group project, will be a 20-minute presentation, the theme of which should be aligned with what we've talked about in class this semester. The second is our term paper, which should be at least three pages long. The topic, of course, is everyone's favorite book—the Brothers Karamazov. Our thesis statement for this paper is due by April 9th, so we still have a bit of time to think it over, but that should be at least in the back of everyone's minds. I also told the class I would post a copy of the notes for our next exam. It's just a list of terms that we talked about from prosody, that is, the technical discussion of poetry. The list is as follows.

alliteration: several words that start with the same letter, ex. “big beautiful blue bubbles”
onomatopoeia: words created from the sounds they replicate, ex. “click, babble, gargle”
assonance: similarity or repetition of a vowel sound in two or more words, ex. “last clash”
consonance: similarity or repetition of a consonant sound in two or more words, ex. "pitter patter"
refrain: repetition of one or more phrases, ex. “quoth the raven”
simile: comparison using like or as, ex. “he could swim like a fish”
metaphor: an equivalent claim, ex. “he was a fish”
personification: giving of human characteristics to inanimate objects, ideas or animals, ex. “the cat grinned”
synecdoche: substitution of a part for a whole, ex. “lend me your ears”
hyperbole: exaggeration for the sake of emphasis, ex. “if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times...”
antithesis: the comparison of one thing to the opposite, ex. “many are called, but few are chosen”
apostrophe: the addressing of a person who's not there as if they were, ex. “Alas, poor Yorick”

Also, just as a reminder to Group II, pick your favorite story from the anthology and which part you think is the best.

Poetic Puzzlings

“And if two of you are gathered together—then there is a whole world, a world of living love. Embrace each other tenderly and praise God, for if only in you two His truth has been fulfilled.”

I'm a huge fan of suspense, so I have to admit that although I actually did enjoy the Brothers Karamazov, I was a bit disappointed at who the killer actually was...because I knew. Was it “too obvious?”, or was I just thrown because normally the person that you think did it wasn't actually the killer at all? I'm used to anticipating a sudden twist at the end, a twist that you didn't see coming. Is it strange to say that not having that twist there threw me more than it would have had it been there. My thoughts were something akin to...Wait...that's it? It actually was Smerdyakov? But...I didn't want it to be... But the book was worth reading, though at times it moved at a rate that left me wondering whether there was a plot at all or whether it was a collection of tidbits reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland, for that's sometimes what the little asides resembled, though in the end they became a cohesive whole. There were also quite a few quotes that I liked, the one above serving as a rather poignant example.

On another note, I had a very interesting dream last night, but after four hours of class, it's begun to dim from my memory...however, I shall attempt to reconstruct it, in all of its disturbing, violent glory. The beginning, I fear, has been lost. I only remember looking at a sheet of paper with a list of animals that we (some sort of “group” consisting of myself, a man I think was supposedly my father, and one or two other people) were required to kill. The man who was my father and yet not my father had a pistol and was double-tapping them in some sort of bizarre ritual that involved shooting them in the head to keep them from running and then shooting their stomach, which would cause the small creatures to blow in half. We had already shot two birds of some sort, I think they were ravens, and then I think twelve of some sort of rodent, and were hunting for cats when my memory picked up. I remember being somewhat disturbed at the idea of shooting cats—I happen to be a bit of a cat person myself. However, for whatever reason, I did not protest, and twenty were shot before we thought to double-check the quantity required. When we figured out that only twelve needed to be killed, I grew upset, and this jolted me awake. I had quite a few other short dreams last night, for I fear I did not sleep for more than an hour at a stretch, but I cannot remember any of the others, so I shall instead comment upon our poetry readings.

I have rather strong opinions about poetry. I either like it or I don't like it, and there's no specific qualifications for what sorts of poems I like. For example, there are some rhyming poems that are very clever and in my eyes, well-written, while there are others that I dislike intensely. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening is a poem that I happen to like, especially the last quatrain. I love the repeat of the last line, And miles to go before I sleep, because it seems to me as though the visitor to those peaceful woods is whispering the line again to himself, as if he doesn't want to leave, but keeps telling himself, “I must.” My other favorite poem—don't criticize me for picking the ones that we discussed in class—was That time of year thou may'st in me behold. I love the subtle imagery used to depict the decay of a human life as we approach our end. I also stumbled across W. D. Snodgrass' “decompositions” of Shakespeare's original sonnet, and was highly disappointed by them. Sure, they were “easier” to understand, that is, the imagery pointed more clearly to growing old, but there was some sort of a fundamental beauty that was lost in it—at least in my opinion. Maybe I'm the only one that feels this way...I'd love to hear other people's opinions on the three poems on p. 64.

Life-Changing Literature and Brothers to Boot

i have to confess that I've discovered that i have more difficulty reading this book than i have with most in the past. sometimes i have to read things twice or even three times before i understand them. sometimes i still don't understand them. but i think that's ok. after all, we'll never understand anything. and the assignment wasn't to understand the book. only to read it.

maybe i'm insane, but i've always had an affinity for deep theological discussions between fictional characters. perhaps it's the thin level of separation from "reality" that appeals to me. when i'm reading such discussions, i can think about what the characters are saying without having to come to any concrete conclusions myself. because i've always hated having to make decisions. anyways, i ramble. i actually enjoyed the chapters covering Ivan and Aloysha's discussion of God. and i think that Ivan makes a very convincing argument when he asks what kind of God would allow little children to suffer. i'm of the opinion that anyone who abuses a child, especially in the manner Ivan describes of the little girl, deserves to burn in a special layer of hell. and yet...and yet.

there's just something about the argument that doesn't quite make sense to me. perhaps it's that i'm not sure that children are born purely innocent. after all, no one has to teach a child to misbehave. yet, i digress, and i fear i stray into realms into which i should not venture. i wished to point out the detail of the Captain and his insane pride, which is not only Russian, but an infection spread to all of mankind. we refuse help when we most need it and cry of our misfortune, we remain so blind that we cannot see what would be best for is. perhaps the Karamazov curse is not lust at all, but rather blindness. no, i must correct myself. blindness is the curse placed upon mankind as a whole.

the difference between a tragedy and a shame as Professor Sexson described it was very intriguing to me. it is a shame that your great-grandfather's heart finally gave out; it is a tragedy that your small cousin was hit by a car. tragedy has to do with unclaimed experiences, being cut down before your time. forgive me. i'm merely unraveling my very jumbled brain tonight.

however. i did want to speak about a book that had changed my life. a book? can i possibly pick the one piece of brilliance that had the most effect on my life? very well. i'll choose the one that first comes to mind. Quest for Celestia, by an author known as Steven James. i've read a great deal of James' work and am quite fond of it. however, Quest for Celestia stands out for...quite honestly, i'm really not sure why. it's a parody of the classic Pilgrim's Progress, which i have read, but i loved the fresh picture that James painted. i can't think of the reason right now. do i need a reason?

The Final Piece.

From whence we met, though I cannot explain,
You seemed to know that we should be a pair,
A fool I was; your wait it seemed in vain,
Those sleepless nights, heart filled with soft despair.
Not holding hands, we walked abreast for miles,
Our chatter ringing 'cross the dusky fields,
You made me laugh, you filled my life with smiles,
Your trial long, but o what joy it yields!
For though it took so long for me to see,
And blindness kept me from the truth I knew,
Now finally our hearts united be;
I am in love with every bit of you.
Though blind I was, I fin'ly understand,
My heart was yours the day you grasped my hand.


in all honesty, i think it turned out rather well. at any rate it's improved a lot from the first draft. i'll print it up tomorrow morning. now let's just hope that he likes it. happy monthiversary, ginger.

second sonnet draft.

so, i've been reworking the sonnet a lot, and i think it's improved, but i want to know what someone else thinks. normally i'd have my significant otter read my writing, but i'm being strict and not letting him read this till i've mailed it. and besides, i want to know what you guys think too. i want to know if the story makes sense, and if it flows well between the quatrains--those are the two things i'm most worried about. since i know the whole story, it makes sense to me, but i want to know if anyone else understands it. so, if any of you have any feedback i'd love to hear it.

From whence we met, though I cannot explain,
You seemed to know that we should be a pair,
A fool I was; your wait it seemed in vain,
Those sleepless nights, heart filled with soft despair.

Not holding hands, we walked abreast for miles,
For blindness kept me from the truth I knew,
When you exchanged my tears for laughs and smiles,
I fell in love with every bit of you.

As you enfold my heart, I know no fear,
Though rough and shadowed life's deep path may be,
The dark seems not so black when you are near,
Protected I from all life's injury.

Your every touch it takes my breath away,
And now I'm in your arms; that's where I'll stay.

More Found Poetry

Wiley

Managerial Accounting.
School. Business. Fourth Edition.
Tools for Business.
Tools for Decision-Making.
Learning.
Weygandt. Kimmel. Kieso.
Tools.
Fourth Edition.
University of Accounting.
Solutions for School.
Business Decision Edition.
Custom Solutions.
Decision.
Fourth Decision.


Taste of Thai

Microwave in box.
Box in microwave.
Quick.
Peanut. Peanut.
Quick taste. Ready in minutes.
Reduced sodium!
Peanut noodles, gluten-free.
Keep box open,
Keep microwave open.
Quick!
Noodles in box.
Keep microwave in box.
A taste of noodles.
Thai. quick.
Ready!


Spiderwire

Fluorescent. Clear blue.
110 yards.
Blue.
Cast and handle.
Multi-purpose.
Clear blue.
Fluorescent blue.
Blue wire.
Stretch. Cast. Handle.
Controlled. Blue.
Spider-strong.
Nothing gets away.
Nothing gets away.
Nothing blue.
Nothing strong.
Controlled.
Strong and reliable.
Nothing.

Sonnet Draft

From day one you enchanted me with smiles,
Yet fear it kept me from the truth I knew,
Not holding hands, we walked abreast for miles,
Confused and tangled threads my heart did shew.

You must have thought the waiting was in vain,
Those months so long and filled with soft despair,
If I could go back to erase that pain,
Your suff'rings through those times I would repair.

Yet your persistence paid off in the end,
You beat the odds and then you got the girl,
I was content no more as "just a friend,"
Instead I chose to give to you my world.

Another day I could not bear to miss,
So I gave in, embraced in love's sweet kiss.

(this is only a rough draft and i'm not sure how i feel about it at this point in time. there are some parts that i really like and some that are sort of meh. it's not horrible, but...)

Rail Jam

Friday! Friday!
Cure for the common finals.
Black mask prelims, chicharones.
Gallatin County Midway.
Gallatin County Midway.
Friday, March 5th.
Prelims. Classic.
Chamberlin.
Excursion Saturday.
scswraps.com; classic.
Fairgrounds, fairgrounds for the cure.
Classic.

Why such a fuss over sturgeon?

So on Friday and Monday we talked about the different kinds of male and female archetypes. For the male, there was the hero, whose character could further be developed into the scapegoat, the outcast, the devil (who can also be referred to as the antihero), and the wise (generally old) man. We also discussed the trickster figure, who seems to be neither good nor evil. The female archetypes were divided into two categories—the elementary, where the positive and negative figures are the earth mother and the smother mother, respectively—and the transformative, where the positive archetype is the Sophia, or muse, and the negative is known as the temptress or black widow. All of these characters need to be met on the road to finding who you are. We also discussed the doppelgänger, or double-goer, the alternate, darker self that you have not yet encountered, or “shadowed side.” Then we were told that we should go back and reread Chekhov's The Lady with the Pet Dog and figure out just what it was about the word sturgeon was so significant. “You were right this evening: the sturgeon was a bit high.” Such meaningless words! Why does this change anything? It seems that Gurov is struck by the utter futility of his own life, the bland worthlessness that consumes his world, and realizes that this is no longer worth pursuing. Therefore, he sets out to recapture the only thing in his life that he finds to be of value.

I'm incredibly excited for the sonnet-writing project. I like to fancy myself a bit of a poet, so hopefully I can come up with something that's not incredibly horrible. Assumably we are supposed to write a Shakespearean sonnet, which is composed of fourteen lines, arranged into three quatrains and a couplet. The rhyming pattern (a-b-a-b c-d-c-d e-f-e-f g-g) and iambic pentameter will take a bit more reading to work out, but I think this will be fun and will give me a chance to learn more about how to write poetry—for no matter how much skill I like to think I have, it's much easier for me to write prose. I've also been catching up on my reading. Right now I'm about halfway through The Tempest, and although I was a bit confused at first I think I might be beginning to understand what's going on. Shakespeare sometimes uses such beautiful words that I am distracted by them and almost forget that there is a plot for the sake of the reading of the words themselves. However, this is a problem that is not horribly difficult to work around. I think I'll be able to master it.

Becoming Archetype

I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that the assignment given to us on Wednesday slipped my mind until just this morning. We were supposed to research the female archetype. After looking through several pages of links, I found that most of them mentioned four different archetypes, coinciding with the stages of one's life, which reminded me of the Sphynx's riddle to Oedipus. What has four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening? Anyways, the four basic archetypes are the virgin, the temptress, the mother, and the crone. The virgin, obviously, is the young one, beautiful, pure, untainted by the immorality of her world. Then she grows up, discovers the power that she has, and becomes the temptress, the seductress, the black widow as it were. The mother archetype is a common symbol of fertility, domestic pursuits, and the nurturing instinct. Last but not least, the crone, no longer considered attractive or desirable. Instead, she is seen as uncomfortable, as the grandmother in A Good Man Is Hard To Find, or even sometimes as a witch. Anyways. That's what I found. I don't have much else to report, but I wanted to at least get that much up.

Shaking Music From It

This was not the first time I had read Araby, however, this was the first time that I had really paid attention to it. I read it through twice, attempting to make sure I did not miss anything, but I cannot really guarantee that I found every detail in the story that is worth noticing. There were, however, a couple details that came to my attention. The first was towards the beginning of the story, in “dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness.” It struck me to wonder how one could, in shaking a harness, somehow have music fall from it. Was there some musical quality in a horse's tack that I had never noticed before? Perhaps this only refers to the jingling and shaking of the metal buckles, however, I refuse to take the most obvious solution. There is, I realized, a sort of a musical quality in everyday life, even in the sound of your own breathing and your footfalls as you trudge through life. Would it not make sense that this musicality extend to the rest of the world? I certainly found it understandable enough. The second thing that caught my attention was something that we mentioned in class, that is, the phrase killing time. The unnamed boy mentions that he wishes to annihilate the days left until his visit to the bazaar. It seems remarkable to me now that he is so eager for something to happen that he would wish to kill several days in order to skip ahead. However, I must admit that I have experienced this feeling before. There have been times when I wished I could just skip ahead to a better day, or through something that I knew I wasn't going to enjoy. But now I see what a waste it is! Why would anyone kill time? Every moment, every pulse that we have is a precious resource, one that we cannot buy, sell, or steal, and every pulse can be used for something important.


Unfortunately, I don't have quite as much to say about the other three stories. Cathedral was an uncomfortable story. I must admit that I was not sure what to think about the blind man. He made me almost as nervous as he did the husband. Even at the end of the story I was left with a vague sense of discomfort that I could not explain. The wife's attachment to the blind man was rather troubling to me. She had married two men and didn't seem to care about either of them as much as she cared about Robert. I had to wonder, perhaps along with her current husband, why she hadn't pursued a relationship with him from the first when he seemed to be such a prominent part of her life. I certainly understand that you do not love all of your friends in a romantic way, but this still didn't make sense to me. Or was it the story that did not understand me? Both copies of The Lady With The Pet Dog were, in my opinion, far more comfortable and heartwarming tales. The second one in particular made me happy, partly because I know exactly how the woman feels. It was not so much the writing style of Oates' story that made me prefer it—although it was easier to understand. Instead, it was that I identified more with the characters in her story. I know what it is like to feel guilty for loving someone, only to find out that it was the right thing to do after all. The moments of guilt when you wonder what would happen if he found out you were holding hands, touching another boy, and the times when all those thoughts are driven from your head and you know that no matter what anyone says, you've done something right for once. It might sting for a little while but in the end you know everyone will be better off for it. And that is all I have to say about that.

East

Is it possible that I forgot to mention the story of Psyche and Eros? A tragedy indeed. This happens to be one of my favorite stories in the class thus far. Dear Sleeping Beauty, you know that you weren't supposed to look, now you see what happens when you do? Your beautiful lover flees with a cry, leaving you alone, in tears, and with a child to raise. Yet would it have been better if you had kept your eyes shut? Then you would never have known just how beautiful he was, how lucky you really were. Yet while your good fortune lasted you had no idea. Anyone who had ever read the story East by Edith Pattou can see the similarities to the tale of Psyche. This is particularly interesting because East itself is a retelling of an old Norwegian folk tale called “East of the Sun and West of the Moon,” which I have never read, but am now oddly tempted to. I read East the first time a couple years ago, and yes, it was of my own volition. My mother of course disapproved of the story, after all, there was magic in it, and everyone knows that magic is “of the devil,” however I found it quite a fascinating story. I wished that I was as brave as Rose. I wanted to go out into the world, for better or worse, and see what I could find. It took longer than I ever thought it would, but now the world has opened up before me. Psyche, Rose, and also Belle had something in common—for a while, they did not know whether they'd fallen in love with a prince or a monster. Could it be possible, though, that they had done both? What if men are not merely one or the other, but a potent mix of wonderful and wild? Sometimes Prince Charming is very charming indeed, but sometimes the beast comes raging through, leaving tears and bruises and a frightened princess.


And what happens, may I dare ask, if the man who thinks he is Prince Charming turns out not to be at all? True love doesn't always happen the first time. Sometimes you have to kiss a few frogs before you find your prince, and sometimes the frogs don't understand that they aren't princes. What if he keeps following you around, warts and all, and pesters you to try once again—maybe you didn't do something right the first time, maybe the second time it will work. The prince, the good man you found, isn't so good after all. He's only trying to blind you, to trick you into missing out on me—what's really good, croaks the frog. Won't you give me a second chance? Then he says he only wants to be friends. You know it's a lie, yet you can't just tell him that, don't want to step on him—after all, it's not his fault he's not your prince. He didn't do anything wrong, he just didn't do it right.

So what can you say?

A Sparrow Falls

So, sometimes I notice things that I think belong in my next blog post, but I have a tendency to forget them before I get back to my computer. Every once in a while, though, something will happen that reminds me of one of them—such a scenario happened just this morning. Perhaps it was because, as usual, I was running late to my first class. This time I was later than usual, and I'm pretty sure this was also true the day of the noticing, so maybe that was what triggered it. Anyways, it was just past eight and I was walking past Linfield Hall when the empty set of steps caught my eye. You wouldn't think that nothing would be able to grab your attention, but there was a certain empty space that hadn't always been there. You see, one day I was walking to class (running late) and saw a tiny, fluffed-up sparrow sitting on the step, looking miserable. I wanted to stop and see what was wrong with it, but as I mentioned before I was already late, so I continued past it, glancing backwards, and on my way to Howard Hall. Well, today I was reminded of that, and as I scurried once again towards Howard I wondered what had happened to that bird. It hadn't looked very healthy when I saw it. Perhaps, I pondered, the steps served as the carriage stop for the tiny thing's Demon Lover. Being female, and perhaps not as heartless as it sometimes seems that I am, I could only hope that it had gotten up and flown away, perhaps in search of Cinderella, but how high should my hopes have been, really? Sadly, I really have no way of finding out what happened. However, that might be for the best, for that means the ending is up to your imagination.

Catching Up

Despite the fact that I haven't updated my blog in far too long (oops) I'd like to think that I have been doing all right with keeping up with the readings. It might take me a while to get my blog posts caught up to the reading, at least if I intend to write something about each of the stories—although, I could probably manage to tie at least most of them together. Last week I had about twenty-five hours of work outside of class time on an art project, so I claim that excuse for the fact that I haven't been blogging. I have finished the first book of the Brothers Karamazov, and I am proud to report that so far it does not find me too boring. I will admit that there is a bit more setup before the story begins that I am accustomed to, but this is not necessarily a bad thing. The Lot series was, I hate to admit, a bit too familiar to me. It should not be possible to hear a story too many times, but it seems that most of the versions of this story are quite close to the same. Gomorrah was my personal favorite, though there was not much of a contest. The best part of this tale, though, is that it is a prime illustration of the business of stories—that is, doing something that you have been told not to do. Don't eat that apple, don't speak to the wolf, don't turn back and look at the city, don't fly too close to the sun. But if you don't break the rules, you will never experience the conflict that causes a story to be set into motion. Rules, it seems, are made to be broken, for if everyone obeyed them, there would be no storytelling! Icharus learned the unfortunate consequences that come from doing what you're “not supposed to.” His story did not turn out as well as Little Red Cap's. Neither did Lot's wife's.


I hate to admit, however, that A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings found me to be a horribly confusing reader. I have never been a big fan of Gabriel García Márquez, for I was far too young to read 100 Years Of Solitude when I did. I fear it scared me from his writings for life. The story was...intriguing. The idea of the old man's frail humanity was very striking, yet, the ending seemed for some reason not to make sense. He was, indeed, an angel? And one day he just up and flew away? I have to admit that I had some idea of where the story might be going, but my suspicions turned out to be wrong. The old man—or angel—did not mean to cause any harm after all. Perhaps I am unusual for desiring a less-than-happy ending, but it almost seemed to end too well. Despite my confusion as to what exactly was going on, the story held promise, but the ending seemed almost too clean-cut for my preferences. This is definitely an example of a story where the moral is the story itself, that is, there is no moral to the story, no greater life lesson to be learned. It is simply a story, to provoke thought and provide a few moments of distraction. At least that's my opinion. A Good Man is Hard to Find is another one that stretches the brain cells a little. I was a bit curious to hear more of the Misfit's story. What had actually happened to his father, and why was he accused of the crime if, as he claimed, there was no crime committed? Where was he planning to go? If he knew that he was going to kill the family if he stopped, why did he?

He seems to take no pleasure from the killings, telling Bobby Lee that it wasn't such a good thing after all. Yet he must have known that if he stopped, the family would die. Is he really such a good man after all? The statement “She'd have been a good woman if there had been someone there to shoot her every minute of her life” got me thinking. What would I do differently with my life if I realized that every moment could be my last? Humans have a horrible tendency to act as though they'll live forever. They do not seem to understand just how fragile, how temporary life is. If every moment was our last, I have to wonder if we wouldn't be more interesting people. Which leads me to recall that I haven't mentioned conversations that I've overheard. I know that this will make me sound vain, but honestly, the most interesting conversations that I have overheard happen to be some of my own. I hang out with a rather entertaining group of people—there's never a dull moment when they're around. And although sometimes the same jokes get told more than once, I never get tired of listening to them. Or retelling them. Honestly, I consider myself lucky, as a person who doesn't usually have very much to say in a crowd, to have friends who are so talkative as to fill the silence around me. It takes a lot of work for me to speak up enough to gain other people's attention—I am an altogether forgettable character, and I do not try to deny it. However, my part in the story, I think, is to listen, and I'm definitely okay with that.

Test Notes

NOTES FOR THE FIRST TEST

1. Arnold Friend is ______________.
a) The Devil
b) The Demon Lover
c) The Imagination
d) And all that

2. Grimm vs. Perrault
Perrault ends with the moral of the story, Grimm ends with everything set aright. The question will assume that you know the endings of both stories (and which is which)

3. Twisted, cruel, alienating, ugly, deformed—what word are we looking for (describes the works of Flannery O'Connor)?
Grotesque

4. What is the difference between the Smooth Talk ending and Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?
Ambiguity is implied in the end of Joyce Carol Oates' story. The film was taking liberties. Pay close attention to what the story actually says, not to what you infer from it.

5. What is the difference between the woman in the “Demon Lover” and Connie?
What is the woman giving up to go with her lover? A husband and children.

6. Archetype: an image or a pattern that is repeated in literature and fantasy

7. Who did Joyce Carol Oates say she dedicated her story to?
Bob Dylan—It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

8. Why did Lot's wife turn into a pillar of salt?
She looked back at the destruction of the city

9. Who said that we should “tell the truth, but tell it at a slant”?
Emily Dickinson

10. Because I could not stop for death...
he kindly stopped for me.

11. The slanting rays of the setting sun refers to what?
Alyosha's first memory of his mother

12. Although Alyosha is highly spiritual, he is still inflicted with the Karamazov curse, which is...?
Libido, sensuality

13. The three boys represent these three things...
Alyosha: spiritual (man of the spirit)
Ivan: intellectual (man of the mind)
Dmitri: primal (man of the earth)

14. What is anemnesis?
Remembering (specifically dreams in this class)

The Company of Wolves

All right. It's time to do some catching up. I didn't get to do nearly as much reading this weekend as I had originally anticipated, but I can at least write about the stuff I have read. I thought Prof. Sexson's earlier comments about Arnold Friend and Prince Charming were very enlightening, especially when I looked at it through my own personal experience. Perhaps, we might reason, Arnold Friend is not the bad guy after all. Perhaps, as Prince Charming did, he has fallen for a beautiful girl and wants to free his lady love from the monotony and pain of her own life and bring her into a world where everything is brighter and beautiful. I am in no way suggesting that he did this—from the tone of the story I would say that it is not likely—but what if he had? What if he truly had Connie's best interest at heart? It gives food for thought. Perhaps, one could reason, it was only society that made him seem like the bad guy when he really wasn't. What if the evil stepmother had told Cinderella that the prince was up to no good, that she should stay away from him? Her rebellion might have been similar to Connie's then.


The Little Red Riding Hood series was interesting too. The disambiguation at the end found me quite boring, for I did not understand the superego and id and was quite confused by the explanation attempted by Red's Oedipal feelings for her father. The thing that bothered it the most was that someone was attempting to explain the story. I have always rather hated morals, and frequently skip over them—now I have some understanding of why. I do not want to be told what I should learn from the story. Instead, I would choose to learn what stands out to me the most, be it large or small. I did like the gradual change in the stories, though, from the wolf seeming to represent evil incarnate to becoming a part of human nature that we must battle against—or, as Anna the Matriarch did, embrace whole-heartedly, to throw ourselves into the world of darkness, sharp teeth, and warm blood spilling onto the snow. My personal favorite? One Beast and only one howls in the woods by night. This story directs us to parts of the tale we thought improbable. The huntsman and the wolf one and the same? It cannot be. And yet it is. And again we discover that the wolf is not as fierce as we once thought he was. All it takes is a little coaxing and he will curl up with the sweet lamb in his arms.

More updates to come as I have time.

A Youngster's Memory

Sometimes I am surprised by my own forgetfulness. It took me more than three weeks to remember something that should have jumped out at me from the very first. You see, last year in my writing class, I did my own set of retellings. We had two different assignments in which we were to replicate a story. The first was what caused me to remember—the collection of Little Red Riding Hood stories was quite similar to the retellings of Aesop's Fables that we had to write—however, the second project was, at least in my opinion, more interesting. The assignment was simple enough. We were to write a short story in the pattern of a tale known as “the Griffin.” Unfortunately I cannot remember the name of the author, but the basis of the story is that there is a young boy who has to undergo a series of heroic events in order to win the king's favor and capture the love of the princess. If you don't already have enough to do, you can read the short story here.

Anyways, I was planning to write about my earliest memory. I have several from around the same time period, so I'm not exactly sure which one is the earliest. However, I shall choose to share perhaps the most humorous of the lot. It seems that I was a rather grown-up preschooler, because one of my memories involves a Christmas play in which, along with a group of other three- and four-year-olds, my job was to “wake” Santa from an enchanted sleep and thus save Christmas. I couldn't have been more than three and a half at the time, yet I remember thinking that the whole thing was rather ridiculous. The man wasn't asleep, he was only pretending; besides, that couldn't be Santa because the jolly old saint was busy at the North Pole making my presents. Every time I remember that, I chuckle a little at my precociousness. I don't think it's any wonder that my parents put me in preschool so I would learn how to play. By the time I was two I could say the word “ptarmigan.” Sometimes I laugh at just how ridiculous I was. More comments to come later.

Forget The Day

Groundhog day definitely could have started better. Six o'clock rolled in—of course, I slept through the alarm I set (there was a reason I set my phone to vibrate). The bed was hard and lonely. My boyfriend had to work that night. Blankets and a lavender bunny across my back managed to keep me warm, but I slept only moderately well. My phone went off again at 8:30, this time playing music, and once again at 8:40. I spent the time in between moaning my own misfortune. I didn't want to get up, or go to class. I'd never thought that a twin bed could actually be too big. The second time my alarm went off, I actually opened my eyes and rolled out of bed. I put on a pair of jeans, but couldn't be motivated to change from my pajama shirt to a t-shirt. I examined it in the mirror, and it didn't look too wrinkly, so I decided to let it slide. I didn't have time to put my contacts in, either, although I did actually brush my teeth. One sweatshirt, a pair of socks, and a portfolio later, I left the dorm room. My roommate was still sleeping, curled up like a puppy. She'd felt sick yesterday and decided to skip her morning class. I couldn't blame her and wished that I could do the same, but the art school is surprisingly rigid when it comes to absences. However, I couldn't last without stopping at the bathroom first, so I was a few minutes late to class. We usually start late, though, so it wasn't too horrible.

I honestly enjoy my drawing fundamentals class, but Groundhog Day wasn't the best of days. We were doing critiques, commenting on the class's pictures of a boot on a pillow. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't mind doing this, but I wasn't feeling well; I was very glad that we're allowed to leave the classroom, because I spent a sizable part of the class in the bathroom. I'm so glad that you're reading this. It's a lovely story to have to share. At least I wasn't actually sick, only feeling that way. Anyways. My art class lasted, in my opinion, far too long. I spent most of it texting my friend from Ohio, whining about my misfortune. It took two and a half hours to critique all the students, and the remaining twenty minutes were spent talking about our next assignment. Once class was let out I bolted for the door, without any clear idea of where I was going. I decided that I would walk over to my boyfriend's room to wake him up for lunch. As I walked I pondered his tendency to sleep through class. It's funny the way you can keep walking without looking where you're going. After a while this campus is easy to memorize. I stopped in the bathroom again in the lobby, then climbed the flight of stairs, feeling tired. I dropped my portfolio and laptop bag and tried the door. It was locked. I slammed my hip into the door and jiggled the handle till he opened the door and let me in.

There's some sort of relief that comes with walking into that room, with the constant smell of popcorn and the tan-and-blue striped comforter. I crawled into bed next to my boyfriend and he wrapped his arm around me, so I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep. That only lasted for ten minutes, then I went down to the bathroom again. This time after I climbed into bed I actually managed to fall asleep. Through Econ. For the third class in a row. However, once I woke up I felt much better. I was glad I'd remembered to set an alarm, though, cause I had an appointment with health services at 2:15. I managed to crawl out of bed at about two-oh-five, feeling bad that I hadn't gotten there fifteen minutes early like I'd planned to, but at the same time realizing that I wouldn't have been able to get there early if I would have gone to class, which ended at two. Perhaps it's weird that I wasn't horribly worried about going to the doctor, even though I was supposed to get back blood test results. I've always found it difficult to worry about my own life. It's other people who leave me in a tizzy. A tall girl with dark hair held the door open for me. She didn't seem very sure of herself, and I wondered what she was doing there. By this time, I knew to sign in at the computers on the wall. Even looking over my information made me smile. I was glad to see my boyfriend's name as the emergency contact.

Once I had checked in, I hit the bathroom again and then walked back to the offices, where I was given a yellow clipboard to fill out. It's such a familiar process I can almost do it without thinking. The guy sitting two seats over from me seemed nervous. Having grown up in a doctor's office, I do not understand the fear that people associate with the waiting room. It's nothing but a bad smell. I don't start to worry until I see needles. I suppose it is the waiting that's the worst part. After a few minutes, one of the CMAs came and took me back to her office. She checked my blood pressure again, weighed and measured me, though I was sure that they already had my measurements, and then sent me back to the waiting room. I sat staring at a sign talking about depression, an all-too-common phenomenon in Montana—we have something close to the second highest suicide rate in the country. That's not difficult to understand. There really is nothing out here, and it can get very boring at times. The doctor called my name and took me into her office. We talked about my test results (Insert HIPAA violation here), and then she told me to schedule an appointment for a couple of months so they could do some more tests. Since there was still about an hour till my boyfriend's first class, I decided to head back there so we could talk about my test results. Perhaps I am psychotic and masochistic, but as I walked, kicking slush beneath my feet, I remember being vaguely disappointed that the tests hadn't turned out as bad as I had originally anticipated.

Even though I'd left the door unlocked, when I got back to my boyfriend's room I found that he'd locked it. Once again I jiggled the handle and banged on the door for a moment. Then I sat in the hall, wondering whether he was actually going to sleep through my racket again. I sent him a text, thinking that if nothing else I could hear his phone ring. He texted me back saying that he was at the SUB, which was surprising. Actually getting out of bed before class? Unheard of. I sat in the hall for a few minutes, until I got tired of feeling like a creeper, and decided I'd walk to the SUB to try to find him. But once I'd crossed the street I recognized his familiar striped sweatshirt and ginger hair, so I stopped to wait for him. He greeted me with a smile and took hold of my hand as we walked inside. He'd picked up a pair of headphones and tried to cash a check, but the bank wouldn't take it because it was dated January of 09. We discussed the stupidity of that idea and then I told him about my test results. All in all I think he took it rather well—he worries about me more than anyone else I know, no matter what I tell him. It doesn't bother me, but I still wish he wouldn't. We ended up talking until he left for class, at which time I gathered up my stuff and went back to my own room, which was empty again. I settled down to work on an art project, because I had a meeting after dinner and was supposed to prepare a prototype beforehand. It took me two hours to make, and I hated it, so when dinner came along I was all too happy to toss the project aside in favor of food—even though it did come from the cafeteria.

Dinner consisted of roast beef, potatoes, and gravy, hardly a toxic combination, and almost worth enjoying. After dinner, I went back to the dorm with my boyfriend and a couple of my friends from my floor. I had to run upstairs to get my prototype, so they went into the lounge to hang out for a while. I was supposed to go with them to a floor meeting that night, but unfortunately my group meeting was scheduled for the same time so I couldn't. My boyfriend decided to leave a few minutes before the meeting started. He might have been planning to get some homework done. The meeting was just starting when the rest of my group showed up. As I got up and left, I wondered if the other girls were wondering what the hell I was doing. The other girl in my group was on time, she just lives downstairs, but the younger guy was about four minutes late, and came in panting claiming the place was “A long-ass walk” from the other side of campus. The thing that amused me about that was that he claims to be in the army. That and that the two of us girls walk it every day without dying of exhaustion. We sat in the lobby for a few minutes comparing our prototypes, and then decided that we'd wait for the forth member of the team in the art lounge. The other girl left a note at the front desk, and we trooped back and down the hall. The army boy commented on how nice the lounge was. They didn't have anything like that in his dorm. I remember being unimpressed with it. Ok, sure, it has a light table, but other than that there's not much going for it. The fourth member of our group was about fifteen minutes late, understandable as he works a night shift and had to get up early for the occasion.

The meeting was about an hour and a half, almost painfully boring, and I spent most of the time wondering when it would be over. At the end we finally thought we might have an idea of what the project was going to look like, and we agreed to present the idea to the teacher in class the next day. I rushed upstairs, wanting to finish my homework as quickly as I could, however, my roommate and a few of her friends were there watching SNL. I spent about an hour looking through my art history book to find the pictures I was going to use for the outline that was due tomorrow, then once I had picked a couple I printed off the form and tried to fill it out. It didn't go very well, so I decided that I would just go back to my boyfriend's room and work on in there. He's usually less distracting (or at least less noisy) than my roommate and her gang of friends. I love them all, but they're not very homework friendly. The amount of confidence with which one can walk down the street amuses me, especially when I think of how timid I was about going to my boyfriend's room before he was my boyfriend. It was a few minutes before ten, so I was able to get in without having to ring for him. I climbed the familiar staircase and opened the door—this time, he had left it unlocked. At this point in time, I'm sad to admit, I've already lost track of what happened, but it has to be similar to what happens every other night. We stayed up late, maybe we watched a movie, maybe we took a midnight Walmart run to buy more food—we always seem to be running out. At any rate, I know our plans involved the guys next door. I love that they say I'm just one of the guys. We would have curled up in bed at about two, my boyfriend's arms around me again. It always takes me a while to fall asleep, and this time I can tell you exactly what I was thinking while I waited for my eyelids to grow heavy. I was once again pondering how incredibly lucky I am to be living my life right now, and how much I couldn't wait for tomorrow.

I know that there are a lot of details that I've forgotten. On the one hand I wish I could remember them, but on the other I think it's sort of a good thing. Humans are incredibly lucky to be able to forget. There would be so much more hate in the world were it not for our forgetfulness. Surprisingly, now that I can't remember every detail of this uncomfortable and somewhat boring day, it no longer seems so terrible. It was just another day, just another chance to mess up and fail and start over. I get another one every 24 hours, but who knows how long that will last. I might as well enjoy it while I can.

Class Groups

Group I
Codey D, Tim M, Kendra S, Yevgenii K, Brittnee D, Devynn B, Erin M, Janessa M

Group II
Anne H, Spencer S, Lindsay E, Lindsay C, Jordan M, Kristine L, Dani L

Group III
Matt R, Lena T, Seth G, Molly H, Andrew H, Corinne N, Stephanie P

Group IV
Garrett B, Ashley A, Jen P, Heather K, Christine B, Colton S, Amber H, Sarah

Group V
Rachel Y, John W, Jess W, Annabelle R, Avery A, Michelle S

Group VI
Tim M, James R, Anthony S, Karinne N, Eric L, Shayna W, Matt P

Oh Aqualung

Sitting on the park bench
Eying little girls with bad intent.

One of the most interesting things about this class is Professor Sexson's emphasis on the importance of fiction. I have always appreciated the power of a story that doesn't come “straight from real-life,” however, my family does not share this love of the strange and otherworldly. My mother in particular is obsessed with facts. “That couldn't actually happen. Why do you want to read about such weird stuff?” My answer is one that I could not share with her, at least not without risking reprimand and disapproval. I read, write, and dream the unreal in order to escape from the monotony of my own life, from the everyday grind that threatens to bind me town and leave me trapped in some strange ghost-land, haunted by white night-gowns. This is perhaps the second time in my life that a “grown-up” has understood the importance of the story to me. The story is everything. People these days are too interested in facts, and imagination, that wonder and mystery of the story, is being lost bit by precious bit. As Prof. Sexon mentioned, the author's job is to draw material from reality, and then to draw you away from it.

My own boring existence might be why I am compelled to sympathy rather than condemnation at Connie's actions. I can see why she would be drawn to Arnold Friend. He is the outside, a part of the world that she's never seen before and longs to explore. I myself am inclined to believe that had my childhood been filled with more freedom to explore, my rebellion upon escaping to college might not have been so complete. There was so much I had never seen, never done, and I longed to try it all at once. I managed to quell the beast somewhat, though not so much by my own doing as by my inability to do things right, but my life is much less confined than it once was. I've escaped, grown up, and I can understand why Connie wants to do the same. I'm excited to read the Red Riding Hood collection. In fact, I plan to start as soon as this post is up. I've been meaning to do more reading on the weekends, but things have just been happening one after the other and tearing me away from school. Hopefully I'll have time to catch up soon.

So our assignments for this weekend? To think about the two different versions of the story (ie. Did you like the movie or the story better and why), to remember every detail about Groundhog Day, and to read the stories of Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, Lot, and Icharus, and lastly to take naps in econ class in hopes of remembering a dream. This is perfect, because I have a tendency to fall asleep in econ anyways.

Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run.

Things Forgotten

I draw on the excuse of my horrible memory. I write up my blog posts on openoffice and forget that I haven't actually posted them, because I remember writing them—how could I not have posted that piece of brilliance? I shall try to do better in the future, and actually post things before the next post should be put up, but here's my last post.

"Since we're supposed to be focusing more on how all stories are just retellings of other stories, I thought I would dedicate this post to the subject. At times it can be very surprising just how common the stories can be, almost as if each tale is just a singing of a familiar refrain. Even though the details may change, the root, the heart, the basis of the story can be traced back to two or ten or a hundred stories that had already been told. Take for example our monsters and villains.

Joyce Carol Oates is certainly an odd one. Her story was sparked by the tale of the pied piper of Phoenix, but she refused to read the whole story lest she become distracted by facts. In the end, she dedicated her story to Bob Dylan, who sounds at times a bit like my cat howling to be let in on a cold night. Perhaps my parents are right and I have no appreciation for old music, but I honestly don't see what there is to appreciate about this song. Granted, the lyrics are thought-provoking, but I'm honestly half-tempted to do my own cover of this song now."

That was all that I had, I guess, but I don't feel quite so bad about it since I have a couple more posts to post.

Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock

This poem is reminiscent of the way my own mind works at three in the morning. Occasionally insightful, but dreadfully confusing to everyone but the originator. Surprisingly enough, it seems to me to be a testament to normalcy in the midst of circumstances that could be seen as dreadfully bizarre. Most humans are very good at adjusting to circumstances, despite how abnormal they might appear to be. However, some people are incapable of living in the future, and instead live haunted by the white night-gowns of what used to be.

One of our assignments was to google the phrase “catching tigers in red weather.” However, I did not find any articles that appeared to be relevant. There is a book by the same title, but it doesn't seem to be what we were supposed to look for. Hopefully Professor Sexson will shed some light on the issue in class today.

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

Who do you love?

I walk 47 miles of barbed wire,
I use a cobra-snake for a necktie,
I got a brand new house on the roadside,
Made from rattlesnake hide,
I got a brand new chimney made on top,
Made out of a human skull,
Now come on take a walk with me, [Aleen],
And tell me, who do you love?

As terrifying as these lyrics are when one thinks about them too long, they simply serve to communicate an all-too common story. The bad boy, the weird one, the one all the girls hang on and adore, turns out to be more than just a little odd, and one by one the girls find out just what this means...but by then it is too late. They stepped across an unseen line and have joined the piles of bodies buried in fields, in backyards, thrown into the forest to be devoured. We all see the pattern, everyone knows that it's there, but no one likes to talk about it. Why? It's scary, unsettling; it makes us think what if that happened to me? People like to ignore the unpleasant truths of “reality,” instead focusing on happy things, but that changes when it's just a story.

“It's fiction,” we say, “not truth. Not truth at all.” But it is true, whether we admit it or not. Even the cleverest of authors only manages to retell a story that has been told many times before. Perhaps he adds a new detail that no-one had added before, perhaps he changes the where or the why or the how, but at the root the story is still the same. Humans are too blind to see this, too blind to realize that it all comes back to the very first story, the root of it all. What can we do to make ourselves see?

As Ashley pointed out, a lot of people have mentioned what should have happened. Perhaps a better question would be what would I have done? This ties in with the question how do I know what I think till I see what I say, although perhaps it would be more accurate to say till I see what I do. None of us knows how we would react in that sort of a situation. Certainly, we can say, “I wouldn't have been so stupid. I would have locked the door, called the police straight off,” but how can we know that unless we are there? Perhaps if you were that small girl, heart gripped with terror—she must have known what would happen when she stepped out that door—perhaps you too would forget reason, forget what “should have been done” in the incredible panic that washed over you as you realized you would never see this place again, never feel the sun on your young face.

Perhaps even more terrifying than Connie's sad tale is the story of the pied piper of Tuscon, because it is, in fact, a part of that little piece of the world we call reality. It's not just another made-up fairytale. It's tears and blood and bone, fleshed-out and horrific in the fact that it could have been stopped if people had not kept their mouths shut. In reading both of the stories, the lines between what is reality and what is fiction grow blurred. The two clash in the books that the man wears, the gold car, the girl at home alone, making friends that her parents don't approve of. She is far over her head even before she realizes what is going on around her. And once she knows what she should have done, it's too late.

Her name was Connie, and she was fifteen years old...

Stories have a way of pulling in the reader, and the more dramatic the story, the more this becomes true. “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” is one of those stories. It's a bit like watching a car crash. You know what's going to happen and you don't want to see it but at the same time you can't look away. Why would anyone want to read such a story? It definitely doesn't have a happy ending. The reader knows that once Connie steps out that door her life is essentially over. However, once you know the story, the whole grisly truth of it, you know what to avoid, what to do so that you don't end up like Connie. And to hear it in a story makes it that much more effective, because stories come at the truth with a slant. They make it seem more interesting. It's a bit like reality television. There's no reality to it, only at best a blurred retelling of what has been. Yet, in a way all our lives are like stories. We are too wrapped up in our own little corners of the world to realize it most of the time. Perhaps if we understood this idea, knew that we were just retellings of people come before us, we would gain some sense of control over our lives. As a culture we have lost our memories. We do not like to think about the past. We would rather think only about our own miniscule existences, when we will be able to fill our stomachs next and what we can do to keep ourselves happy. However, if we were to use our brains, we would be able to make sense of a lot of nonsense.

How do I know what I think till I see what I say?

Intruduction

Wednesday was our first day of class. We just did introductions and then took pictures of ourselves, but it managed to be far more entertaining than I thought roll call could ever be. I think I'm going to like this class. The blogging part will be fun, and it will be a good excuse to record my ramblings. I just hope I have time to read another big book. I guess I'll just make time (since it's required).