Lyrics--Poem

"Banana Pancakes"

Can't you see that it's just raining?
Ain't no need to go outside...

But, baby, you hardly even notice
When I try to show you this
Song is meant to keep you
From doing what you're supposed to.
Waking up too early
Maybe we can sleep in
Make you banana pancakes
Pretend like it's the weekend now

And we could pretend it all the time
Can't you see that it's just raining?
There ain't no need to go outside

But just maybe, like a ukulele
Momma made a baby
Really don't mind the practice
'cause you're my little lady
Lady, lady, love me
'cause I love to lay here lazy
We could close the curtains
Pretend like there's no world outside

And we could pretend it all the time
Can't you see that it's just raining?
There ain't no need to go outside

Ain't no need, ain't no need, mmm, mmm,
Can't you see, can't you see?
Rain all day, and I don't mind

But the telephone is singing
Ringing
It's too early
Don't pick it up
We don't need to
We got everything
We need right here
And everything we need is enough
Just so easy
When the whole world fits inside of your arms
Do we really need to pay attention to the alarm?
Wake up slow, mmm mm, wake up slow

But, baby, you hardly even notice
When I try to show you this
Song is meant to keep ya
From doing what you're supposed to
Waking up too early
Maybe we can sleep in
Make you banana pancakes
Pretend like it's the weekend now

And we could pretend it all the time
Can't you see that it's just raining?
There ain't no need to go outside
Ain't no need, ain't no need
Rain all day, and I really, really, really don't mind
Can't you see, can't you see?
You gotta wake up slow

Lyrics-Poems

I think it is interesting that music lyrics are poems. These lyrics have the theme of a journey in common. It seem's to be someones erie? voyage through life. Something that definitely popped out to me was first reading the poems and then listening to them. For example, the Leonard Cohen song--I read it first without hearing the song, and it definitely read as a poem. But, then when I heard it, the singer sang with a monotone voice and it wasn't as enjoyable as when I read it myself. It definitely is different hearing the singer actually sing the song and then reading the lyrics without hearing the song.

First Poem

The sky brought the storm with no boundaries,
The earth was on her side, a helping hand.

Far, she would run along the stony brook--
Waiting, she would kill for a drop of love--
Run she would, far along the stony brook.

Shocked; her heart was still there and still beating,
First time love slipped away, can't get it back.

Losing him, hope was shattered instantly;
Felt like walking on shattered, broken glass--
A steel rail rusting inside her.

Poem Responses

Response to Mariannne Williamson:

I kind of fell in love with poem. Not only was it a smooth read but the message behind it really resonated with me. It captures a meaning that has to do with any age, through any time. Sometimes people are afraid to strive or show what they are good at, but that should be just the opposite (to an extent.)

When you are given talents and things that set you aside from others, you should be proud and rejoice that you were given amazing traits. "And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same." When others are watching us thrive, they want to do the same. We all help each other reach our goals and out dreams. We catapult on what others have done in the past, and in the future people will learn from what we do. "We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us." We were born and made for a reason and we mustn't not hide that within us. I just overall really enjoyed this poem.

Response to Love After Love:

This poem made me imagine my life when I am older. I can picture myself sitting at a desk in a large library, pulling down scrapbooks, memory albums, and pictures looking back on my life of myself and my family.

I'm not quite sure what exactly this poem is about but it reminds me of giving back to others time after time. You want to give love after you receive love.

"Sit." That is a powerful command. Sitting lets you take a break and think about things. Reflect on things. Look to the future. Like I said, I can see myself sitting down in a chair reflecting how my life was, looking at both the bad and good memories.

Shakespeare

This poem is quite comical. In this poem, Shakespeare is comparing his mistress to different things like the sun, coral, roses, etc. and saying that she is not as close to as beautiful as those things. He is essentially comparing her to beautiful things in the world and saying that she is close to neither; he is not working in her favor. For example, "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun." The sun is a bright, big, beautiful thing in the sky, but his mistress' eyes are nothing close to that. This sonnet is comical because he doesn't compliment her in any way, but brings her down in every way. 

Poetry Analysis

This Be The Verse

BY PHILIP LARKIN

This poem, from my point of view, is about  how your parents mess up and they pass it on to you even though they don't mean to. They indirectly fill you up with their faults from their past and sometimes keep giving you more. I think the main line of the poem is "Man hands on misery to man," because it just sums up that people hand off when they are feeling bad to other people whether they take it out on them or they just give them their problems so they don't have to deal with them. I really like the end of the poem, " Get out as early as you can, and don't have kids yourself." It is a short piece of advice but it is also comical. I think the author was able to get his point across but also make sure the reader is bored. 

We Real Cool

BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS

This poem is very short but it has a definite meaning to it. It's a poem about the "cool" kids who have a troubled life and eventually suffer leading them to their death if they continue what they keep doing. Most kids don't like school, but these kids really don't like it so they drop out and and lurk around town late at night. They'll do anything if it is fun to them like sing, drink, and play, pretty much anything that helps them capture the feeling of ecstasy. These seven people travel together and do things together which is indicated by the use of "we." The poem really captures what kids think they can do when they are rebels. 

Poetry to me is...

Poetry to me is interesting. I think its fascinating how someone can tell a story through such few lines and such few words. I really enjoy poetry because one, it is short and it's easier for me to read rather than a book (because of my add), and two, it is fun to dissect what the author's purpose of the poem is. I don't read poetry often but my favorite book from back when I was little is "Where the Sidewalk Ends" by Shel Silverstein. The poems were easy to read as a kid but they were also very fun. One cute one that I can remember is called "Hug O' War." It reads: I will not play at tug o' war

I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses
And everyone grins
And everyone cuddles
And everyone wins.

Final Draft

The Axe

            I was outside in my luscious green backyard that my mom tended to every weekend. Being more of my mother’s child, I wanted to be like her, so I helped tend to our small backyard that Saturday. The sun was shining—there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Palm trees placed on every side with the light shining through—the typical California picture. The lackluster, gray, classic tool shed stood up against the house atop the rocks next to the crisp mowed lawn. Located inside: a rake, multiple shovels (handheld ones and large heavy ones), a couple buckets, two saws, some plant food, and gardening gloves—all jumbled together. My mom had been cutting down trees and large leaves, so the axe and long leaf cutter were lying in the grass.

My brother joined us outside. Justin didn’t have a good look on his face. A look of frustration and annoyance took over. No smile, no light in his eyes, not even a cute scrunch of the nose. One I’d seen many times before.

Something my mother taught me since a young age was to always clean up after you make a mess, leaving it better than it was. I, being my mother’s “mini me” was doing exactly that when my brother came out and joined us. Trying to be kind I asked, “Justin, what’s wrong? Can I help you with anything.” No response. He just grunted over and over again. Trying to ignore the situation (which usually helped), I kept gathering the dead leaves and tossing them into the trashcan.

I swear this only happens in movies, but no. This was happening in real life before my very own wide opened eyes. His body bent over, his hand dropped to the ground, and his fingered griped the handle of the axe. Thoughts were racing through my head. What is he doing? Why is he picking that up? Should I run? As I said each word slowly, I was being backed into the fence. “Justin.” One step back. “Put.” One more step back. “That.” One more step back. “Down.” My hands were in front of me acting as my shield (like that would do anything) and my back finally hit the fence. I am going to die. What is going to happen to me? My life flashed before my eyes. I remembered winning my first horse show, bringing our first puppy home, and even that morning of cooking a delicious breakfast including cheesy eggs and perfectly burned bacon with my family. All I could think of to say, while tears were flowing down my face faster than Niagara Falls, was, “Justin, please stop. Please put that down. What are you doing?”

Mom walked around the corner and immediately grabbed the axe out of his hands. I ran inside, trying to get the farthest distance away from him. Running into my dad, I grabbed him tightly and told him that Justin just had an axe in his hand, pinning me to the fence. His response, “Oh.” 

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Why the hell was my dad’s response just “oh?” Shouldn’t he be nervous that his son had an axe in his hand pinning his daughter to the fence—almost to death? Why isn’t he being sympathetic to me crying my eyes out of fear?

Bipolar.

When I first heard this word, I (an adolescent) had no idea what it meant. After multiple anger outbreaks at home from my brother and multiple family meetings later, I understood how bipolar kids act. My childhood was filled with watching a screaming, high tempered brother who hit almost everything he touched. I was eighteen months younger than him but acted eighteen months older than him. It was my life and it was my story.

Slam.

His door would shut.

Screams from inside his room, “I hate everyone. It’s not my fault.”

Bang.

He punched the wall thinking he would get his anger out, but it only resulted in red, later black and blue, knuckles. I deemed myself the normal child, but it came with great responsibility. Patience; he didn't ever show me how to be patient as a little girl, but I had to be patient with him. Whether it be being patient for him to finish a tantrum, or being patient with him in his slow learning abilities, I had to be understanding of his condition and do all I could to help him. He taught me how to be caring when people (other than mom and dad) were watching. Nothing stopped him from opening the door for people to helping my grandma with anything and everything. Keep in mind though, this didn’t usually happen at home around my parents and I.  He usually treated us like scum. In his temper, he didn’t care what he was doing to us—we were his punching bag.

Through everything his disability had put me through, I still knew he loved me and he knew I loved him. Our childhood days consisted of playing on our five acre ranch; it was a place where boring wasn’t in the vocabulary. There was always something to do for us whether we were riding around on the golf cart until we got dizzy, fishing for crawdads in the murky creek that ran through the property, or even just playing with our puppy in the backyard.

            My life was like the shed—jumbled, with things that cut you down, but also help to fix you and cut off your dead ends. My brother was the jumbled in my life; his tantrums always were the downside to my day, but he was there to help me grow.

This was the point in time where my brother had taught me to count my blessings. He hadn’t taught me directly, but rather indirectly through his horrifying actions that afternoon. I had learned that growing up would have to be something that I would essentially have to do myself, as my parents’ attention would be stuck to my brother’s every action. I had never and still am not certain why I was given such a difficult sibling to live with, but I am certain it is for a reason. He is there to teach me lessons that no one else can, and I am here to teach him lessons he might never learn from anyone else. Although sometimes our hugs were forced, our love wasn’t. Brother and sister would always be there for each other.

The Axe

The Axe

            I was outside in my luscious green backyard that my mom tended to every weekend. Being more of my mother’s child, I wanted to be like her, so I helped tend to our small backyard that Saturday. The sun was shining—there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Palm trees placed on every side with the light shining through—the typical California picture. The lackluster, gray, classic tool shed stood up against the house atop the rocks next to the crisp mowed lawn. Located inside: a rake, multiple shovels (handheld ones and large heavy ones), a couple buckets, two saws, some plant food, and gardening gloves. My mom had been cutting down trees and large leaves, so the axe and long leaf cutter were lying in the grass. They laid there in a sad manner—it looked as if they had realized that people only use them when they don’t have enough strength to do things with their own hands. They were always glad to help, but never glad to be thrown around, being whacked on trees or being thrown to the ground.

            Justin joined us. He, my brother, didn’t have a good look on his face. A look of frustration and annoyance took over his face. No smile, no light in his eyes, not even a cute scrunch of the nose. This hadn’t been unfamiliar to me.

Bipolar.

When I first heard this word, I (an adolescent) had no idea what it meant. After multiple anger outbreaks at home from my brother and multiple family meetings later, I understood how bipolar kids act. My childhood was filled with watching a screaming, high tempered brother who hit everything he touched. I was eighteen months younger than him but acted eighteen months older than him. It was my life and it was my story.

Slam.

His door would shut.

Screams from inside his room, “I hate everyone. It’s not my fault.”

Bang.

He punched the wall thinking he would get his anger out, but it only resulted in red, later black and blue, knuckles. I deemed myself the normal child, but it came with great responsibility. Patience; he didn't ever show me how to be patient as a little girl, but I had to be patient with him. Whether it be being patient for him to finish a tantrum, or being patient with him in his slow learning abilities, I had to be understanding of his condition and do all I could to help him. He taught me how to be caring when people (other than mom and dad) were watching. Nothing stopped him from opening the door for people to helping my grandma with anything and everything. Keep in mind though, this didn’t usually happen at home around my parents and I.

            Something my mother taught me since a young age was to always clean up after you make a mess, leaving it better than it was. I, being my mother’s “mini me” was doing exactly that when my brother came out and joined us. Trying to be kind I asked, “Justin, what’s wrong? Can I help you with anything.” No response. He just grunted over and over again. Trying to ignore the situation (which usually helped), I kept gathering the dead leaves and tossing them into the trashcan, attempting to make a three pointer.

I swear this only happens in movies, but no. This was happening in real life before my very own wide opened eyes. His body bent over, his hand dropped to the ground, and his fingered griped the handle of the axe. What is he doing? Why is he picking that up? Should I run? As I said each word slowly, I was being backed into the fence. “Justin.” One step back. “Put.” One more step back. “That.” One more step back. “Down.” My hands were in front of me acting as my shield (like that would do anything) and my back finally hit the fence. I am going to die. What is going to happen to me? My life flashed before my eyes. I remembered winning my first horse show, bringing our first puppy home, and even that morning of cooking a delicious breakfast including cheesy eggs and perfectly burned bacon with my family. All I could think of to say, while tears were flowing down my face faster than Niagara Falls, was, “Justin, please stop. Please put that down. What are you doing?”

Mom walked around the corner and immediately grabbed the axe out of his hands. I ran inside, trying to get the farthest distance away from him. Running into my dad, I grabbed him tightly and told him that Justin just had an axe in his hand, pinning me to the fence. His response, “Oh.” 

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Why the hell was my dad’s response just “oh?” Shouldn’t he be nervous that his son had an axe in his hand pinning his daughter to the fence—almost to death? Why isn’t he being sympathetic to me crying my eyes out of fear?

            This was the point in time where my brother had taught me to count my blessings. He hadn’t taught me directly, but rather indirectly through his horrifying actions that afternoon. I had learned that growing up would have to be something that I would essentially have to do myself, as my parents’ attention would be stuck to my brother’s every action. I had never and still am not certain why I was given such a difficult sibling to live with, but I am certain it is for a reason. He is there to teach me lessons that no one else can, and I am here to teach him lessons he might never learn from anyone else.

So Long Ago

Pathos was definitely present in this story.

Everyone has grandparents or even great grandparents that they love so much, which makes this story very relatable for most readers. Even for me during it, I pictured different memories with my grandma even thought I was reading his story and his memories about his childhood.

Richard Bausch beings his story with a very simple yet inviting line, "Indulge me, a moment." This line not only is just four words but it makes the reader want to keep reading after that short introduction but it also makes the reader want to be involved in the story. Everyone experiences childhood and that is one thing that is very relatable. We all grow up as young kids wanting to be older and wanting to have a sense of authority, and so did Richard. He was seven and wanted to be called a big boy, but surely he wasn't if his father was still giving him baths.

Memories. Everyone has them and every makes them every day. You remember things big and small, things that happened from decades ago and things that happened this morning. "But it has never left me. It is will all the others, large and small, important and meaningless, all waiting in the same timeless dark, to drift towards the surface when I write or daydream, or sleep." I think this line was a great way to end the story. Everyone has things in their life that they remember whether they want to or not and sometimes they are the greatest thing in their life like their wedding down to the smallest thing like eating breakfast one morning. These are the things that relate us to each other. We share memories with our family, friends, and even people we have never met before.

My last post was late because I have had work training all day every day since Friday and I just never had a chance to post it online. Thanks.

Things That X Taught Me

Things That My Brother Taught Me

1. To be patient; he didn't ever show me how to be patient as a little girl, but I had to be patient with him; whether it be being patient for him to finish a tantrum, or being patient with him in his slow learning abilities

2. To be caring when people (other than immediate family) are watching; nothing stopped him from opening the door for people to helping my grandma with anything and everything; keep in mind though, this didn't happen at the house

3. To count my blessings every day; how can someone go through six car accidents and total four cars and still be alive; how can someone fall asleep in a car, drive up a hill, flip over in a car several times, and happen to get out while it was being caught on fire; although sometimes I look over my blessings, in moments like these, I am certain that he has a purpose on this earth

Things That My Brother Has Not Taught Me

1. To be kind to our parents at all times; it would usually end with a slam of the door or "fuck you," but only sometimes it ended with an "I Love You" or a hug goodbye

2. School work dedication; yes, the learning disability didn't give him an advantage over others, but neither did his drive. You could not know anything about something but have the dedication and want to know more--he didn't teach me that

3. How to make my bed; a simple yet challenging chore for a toddler or even a grown adult. his morning consisted of wide open eyes staring at the video games, and mine of making sure my room was straightened up before school. my lunch was made while he still hadn't gotten out of bed.

The Axe

The Axe

            I was outside in my luscious green backyard that my mom tended to every weekend. Being more of my mother’s child, I wanted to be like her, so I helped tend to our small backyard that Saturday. The sun was shining—there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Palm trees placed on every side with the light shining through—the typical California picture. The lackluster, gray, classic tool shed stood up against the house atop the rocks next to the crisp mowed lawn. Located inside: a rake, multiple shovels (handheld ones and large heavy ones), a couple buckets, two saws, some plant food, and gardening gloves. My mom had been cutting down trees and large leaves, so the axe and long leaf cutter were lying in the grass. They laid there in a sad manner—it looked as if they had realized that people only use them when they don’t have enough strength to do things with their own hands. They were always glad to help, but never glad to be thrown around, being whacked on trees or being thrown to the ground.

            Justin joined us. He, my brother, didn’t have a good look on his face. A look of frustration and annoyance took over his face. No smile, no light in his eyes, not even a cute scrunch of the nose. This hadn’t been unfamiliar to me.

Bipolar.

When I first heard this word, I (an adolescent) had no idea what it meant. After multiple anger outbreaks at home from my brother and multiple family meetings later, I understood how bipolar kids act. My childhood was filled with watching a screaming, high tempered brother who hit everything he touched. I was eighteen months younger than him but acted eighteen months older than him. It was my life and it was my story.

Slam.

His door would shut.

Screams from inside his room, “I hate everyone. It’s not my fault.”

Bang.

He punched the wall thinking he would get his anger out, but it only resulted in red, later black and blue, knuckles. I deemed myself the normal child, but it came with great responsibility.

            Something my mother taught me since a young age was to always clean up after you make a mess, leaving it better than it was. I, being my mother’s “mini me” was doing exactly that when my brother came out and joined us. Trying to be kind I asked, “Justin, what’s wrong? Can I help you with anything.” No response. He just grunted over and over again. Trying to ignore the situation (which usually helped), I kept gathering the dead leaves and tossing them into the trashcan, attempting to make a three pointer.

I swear this only happens in movies, but no. This was happening in real life before my very own wide opened eyes. His body bent over, his hand dropped to the ground, and his fingered griped the handle of the axe. What is he doing? Why is he picking that up? Should I run? As I said each word slowly, I was being backed into the fence. “Justin.” One step back. “Put.” One more step back. “That.” One more step back. “Down.” My hands were in front of me acting as my shield (like that would do anything) and my back finally hit the fence. I am going to die. What is going to happen to me? My life flashed before my eyes. I remembered winning my first horse show, bringing our first puppy home, and even that morning of cooking a delicious breakfast including cheesy eggs and perfectly burned bacon with my family. All I could think of to say, while tears were flowing down my face faster than Niagara Falls, was, “Justin, please stop. Please put that down. What are you doing?”

Mom walked around the corner and immediately grabbed the axe out of his hands. I ran inside, trying to get the farthest distance away from him. Running into my dad, I grabbed him tightly and told him that Justin just had an axe in his hand, pinning me to the fence. His response, “Oh.”  

Lives

I read the Lives story, "Drama Unfolds at My Bus Stop." It was a story about a man who was waiting for the bus and there is a Oldsmobile coming down the road with a man who doesn't look conscious. Men eating sandwiches see what is happening and go and stop the car. The main guy takes care of the rest and calls 911. The man in the Oldsmobile is taken away in an ambulance and the main guy never finds out what happens to him after that.

The author did a great job at setting the scene and descriptions--I felt like I was there at the scene with him trying to help the hopeless, unconscious man. In the first sentence we are told that it is taking place in Brooklyn and this guy is going about a normal day, "I am in Brooklyn waiting for the bus the way most people wait for the bus: leaning dangerously over the curb." "Confidence leaks down my back in a thin stream, and I step through a series of actions absorbed from decades of watching procedural television." This sentence stuck out to me because it has a lot of depth and the wording is just so perfect. 

Something that I have learned from reading this story is that you can make a simple story come to life by writing it well. "I am dialing with one hand, while the other prods about his face and shoulders searching for the spot on the neck where the artery (vein?)." The main guy didn't just look for unconscious man's pulse, but he prods his body looking for that certain spot. 

The Swindler

The Swindler

            The phone rang. Usually no one wants to answer the phone, so it goes to our message machine. But, tonight I was expecting a call from Mary because we were working on a project together. The phone rang once—I picked it up.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Hi, is this Mary?”

Mary was my best friend. We had met in second grade. I was a short, stubby girl who always liked to dress herself. Mary was the taller and skinnier one who actually had a sense of fashion, even at a young age. I usually would come to school with my blonde short hair pinned back or in a ponytail but she would have hers perfectly combed. I can remember that we had the same teacher but I don’t remember what made us best friends.

“This is Susan.”

“Can I ask who you’re calling for?”

“I’m calling for Chet.”

I quickly pressed the end button and slammed the phone back onto the charger. Who was Susan? Why would she be calling at seven o’clock at night for my dad? We had to have our roof re-tiled but they wouldn’t be calling after hours. Thoughts kept running through my head about who this woman was, but I was interrupted by Dad, “Who were you talking to?”

I replied, “Oh, just Mary. Were working on a project together.” 

His eyes, open wide with a scared look, started at me for a while and then he quickly scurried away into the other room. I went on with my evening attempting to work on my project but I kept thinking about this girl Susan. Something about this situation just seemed wrong and my stomach turned in circles. I’m horrible at lying and I hate it but I had a gut feeling that I shouldn’t tell anyone that this woman had called.

Mom is in the kitchen whipping up some delicacy and Dad is in his office talking on the phone with who I assume are his business partners. Dinnertime arrives and Dad dashes in, to suddenly leave right after. “Goodbye sweetie. Goodbye Heather. I’m late for a business dinner.” he hastily said and kissed my mother and I before he ran out of the door.

           

            These situations had been going on for over four years, since I was seven. Dad would go to work. Mom would stay home and take care of me. She would make all the meals, pack all the lunches, and clean the house. Dad would come home from work when I came home from school. Mom would cook dinner and the Dad would leave. This would happen a couple times a week and it just became routine to me just like brushing my teeth.

*

            They were high school sweethearts. Their story wasn’t the typical “he was the football jock and she was the head cheerleader” story, but they met through mutual friends. He was dating a girl at the time and was introduced to Mom when all of their friends went bowling one night. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her even though he was with someone else. Something about Mom just made him fall in love so easily with her. They spent days and nights together. Dad finally ended his relationship with his previous girlfriend. They were inseparable and decided that marriage was in their future. After the “I do’s,” I came along. An unexpected but miraculous child, I was. I was an angel, always listening and following the rules. As I grew older I became closer to my mother as my father was usually was gone on business trips or business dinners with his partners.

*

            I had just turned sixteen and Mary wasn’t able to spend the day with me. We were going out for dinner to catch up a couple days after my birthday because she just came home from seeing her grandparents in Virginia for a week. We had never gone without seeing each other for more than a couple days so it was nice to finally see her. The trees were rustling outside as the autumn leaves fell from the gusty wind and slight drizzle. I took my umbrella outside, but the wind swallowed it up. We decided to walk along Ventura Boulevard and just come upon a restaurant that sounded tasty. The Swindler—we didn’t know what it meant or what food they served but we decided to give it a try.

“Table for two please.”

“The wait will be ten minutes if that’s okay.”

            My stomach was grumbling louder than the people talking in the restaurant. I looked across the room to see if there were any empty tables. My eyes peeled open in case someone left their table. My eyes came across a familiar looking man—someone who I couldn’t recognize fully but I knew that somehow I knew him. The perfectly combed brown hair, nice dress shirt, and the woman he was sitting with indicated to me he must be older, about mid forties. The woman hadn’t looked familiar, so I thought that I must be seeing things and that I actually didn’t know the man. He was holding her hand with a hugging grip; they were obviously in love. He leaned forward to give her a sweet kiss and as he pulled back we made eye contact. With a panic, I screamed, “Dad?!”

Word Theater

Attending the World Theater event was a cool experience. I thought that the whole idea of this event was something that would be interesting to put on. Having actual actors read the stories of a well known writer was very interesting and a cool experience.

Although it was difficult to understand the first story's plot, I enjoyed both the stories I heard. After talking in class about how the first actor didn't make voice inflections or change his accent according to who was speaking in the story, it is evident that it wasn't only not hard for me to understand but it was hard for others. Rather the second story, I could understand more; maybe it was how the actor performed it or it was just the plot that was more understandable?

I think that overall this was a great event and I wish I could have been able to see the second half.

Signs and Symbols

It is introduced to us in the first sentence that there is this couple "they" who knew this person, their son, "who was incurably deranged in his mind." We are told that this young man is disturbed and unbalanced. "Man-made objects were to him either hives of evil, vibrant with a malignant activity that he alone could perceive, or gross comforts for which no use could be found in his abstract world." This sentence contains an abundant vocabulary while describing how man-made objects scare him or offend him in some way, and since it was his birthday his parents were troubled with the thought of what they should get him. They settled on fruit jellies--something that usually someone wouldn't desire for a birthday present but we know from the second sentence, "desires he had none."

The climax occurs when the father suddenly wakes up in the middle of the night crying that he couldn't sleep. His wife tries to calm him down and find out what is wrong with him but all he cares about is gutting their son out of the place. Through just a short dialogue Nabokov shows how uncomfortable the father felt with his son in this place and he didn't want to be responsible for anything if he hadn't taken him out of the place right away. 

The phone call. Who is this lady that is calling for Charlie? And who is Charlie? Charlie must be their son. When the mother hung up the phone with the girl who was asking for Charlie, she said to her husband "It frightened me." My thought is that it was scary for her to have someone calling for her son while he was in the place for crazy people. The phone rang again and it was the same voice who was still asking for Charlie but mother hung up again on her. They got on with their time drinking their midnight tea and examined the jelly jars. The ending like is really interesting to me and just kept me on the edge of my seat, "He had got to crab apple when the telephone rang again." 

Vladimir Nabokov paints his picture well of what is going on but also uses detailed and vivid words to draw the reader in. We are given a little bit of background of the mother and father but also about their extended family including how they live on the husband's brother's money and how Aunt Rosa was killed by the Germans. How the beginning was going, it never had me suspect what was going to happen in the end. 

Movie Response

Favorite movies: 

She's the Man

Titanic 

The Notebook 

Grease

Elf

What Maisy Knows

The Impossible

The Impossible Plot: 

A family goes to Thailand for their Christmas vacation. They are staying at a beachfront hotel and when they were playing in the pool, suddenly a tsunami hits and their family is separated. The mother and one son, Lucas, find each other while they are being thrown around by the strong waters. They get themselves to safety and some nice locals help them to a hospital to help Maria, the mother. The father, Henry, and the two younger boys, Thomas and Simon, stay with each other. Maria was doing fine in the hospital until she had surgery and lost a lot of blood from all her wounds. She is relocated and her name gets mistaken for another person and Lucas and her get separated and Lucas thought he lost his mom. Thankfully a nurse takes him to one of the rooms and his mom is there. Henry and his boys are still at the hotel where the tsunami hit and Henry sends his sons on a car that took them to the mountains to safety while he stayed there looking for his wife and other son. Lucas was wandering around the hospital looking for something and he sees his dad from a distance. He chases after him but couldn't find him and looses hope. While Lucas is outside, Thomas and Simon are in a car with many other kids outside of the hotel and they turn around to see their brother standing there. After they boys reunite with each other, their father comes up to them and they are all together. They go back inside the hotel to see Maria and she had to get another surgery. Thankfully it went well and they headed on a plane to go to Singapore were she could get better treatment. 

a. The promise in the film is when Henry arrives at the hospital where Maria and Lucas are. He looks for their names and couldn't find them. But, as he is about to leave, he sees Lucas' red ball from Christmas and he has a feeling to get out of the car. The other promise is when Thomas and Simon arrive at the hospital and Simon gets off really quick to go to the bathroom, right before they were going to leave they turn around and see Lucas. This brings them all together. 

b. What makes you connect to this film so deeply is that it is a true showing of what family means. They search for each other no matter how long it takes and they will go through anything to help each other. Henry had his younger boys go up to the mountain so he could look for his wife and other son. Lucas did everything for his mom from helping her climb the tree to safety to making sure she wouldn't die after coughing up blood. The truth that exists in this movie is how strong family bonds are. 

c. Maria the main character wants to find her family but doesn't believe they are alive. She also wants to make sure she stays alive for Lucas, because she believes he is the only thing that is left of them. Another very important character is Lucas. He strives to help everyone and anyone he can. He went through the whole hospital calling names so he can reunite people. Lucas just wants his mother to stay alive and once he sees his dad is alive he wants to find the rest of his family. 

INCIDENT, AUGUST 1995

David Means is a very detailed and deep writer. He describes things down to the last spec. Every sentence has a specific way of telling his story in a meaningful and interesting way. Means, as said before, is a very detailed writer and below are some examples.

"...abandoned in a sense like Christ on the cross; if there is no God, then this piece of blind bad luck began when he abandoned his BMW and started his trudge with great purpose, and no purpose, into the underside of the road, 9W, a road that usually took him on Friday nights to the city, over the bridge, down the West Side Highway and off at 72nd Street, to a parking garage of cool poured concrete, the thump of his car door, rubber against rubber, sounding particularly sweet echoing in those confines..."

"...not so much for the good reverend, who had little to say and needed only to nod kindly, to put his large fat palm on the leg of this shaking man, whose knees were covered with a polyester tartan blanket normally used for roadside picnics with his wife..."

This story was very hard for me to understand and comprehend. Since I don't enjoy reading, my thoughts tend to stray from the story and I think about something else. This might have been the case or the story was just filled with so much information that it was hard for me to catch on from the very beginning. I understand and know the base of the situation but everything that was happening between the beginning and end was confusing for me to understand. 

Dialogue

Emily walked into the room to find Kailey with all of her clothes on.

“What are you doing?”
“Just trying on some clothes. ”

“What makes you think you can try other’s clothes on without asking? ”
“I was just trying them on to see what they look like. That doesn’t mean that I’m going to wear them out. ”

“They are my clothes! ”

“I know. ”

“Then what makes you think you can wear them? ”
“I am no wearing them! I just tried them on! I was going to ask you if I decided to wear them out! ”

“You didn’t even want to ask to try them on? ”
“I didn’t think it was necessary if I didn’t wear them out of the room. You’re getting angry about a situation that isn’t a big deal. ”
“It’s a big deal. Those are my clothes on your body, which they don’t belong on. You did even have the decency to send a quick message to ask. You’re a brat! TAKE THEM OFF!”

Creative Response

He turned sixteen years old on June 2, 1876. It was the beginning of summer and all he wanted was that ruby red, shiny bright ford that was for sale across the street. He had his eye on her for over a month now and told his momma about her every day. Every penny that he found or earned was put into that glass jar that was shown off on his red nightstand. Every week he would count the money and hope it would be enough to buy his dream—but it never added up how he wanted.

The dirt swept across their long dirt driveway day in and day out. He got his license on the day he became of age, but he didn’t have a car to drive. Mom had her car that she drove to work and dad had his beaten down car that he had to drive to the lumberyard. He decided to go over to the house across the street and ask if he could just look at the ruby red, shiny bright ford and sit in the drivers seat to dream about one day it being his. So he picked his little butt off the couch and headed over.

The neighbors were glad that he came to visit and even let him take the car down the road and back. He pictured himself in this car every day, even just driving to the grocery store lookin’ like a stud. He drove the car back and told the neighbors how this was his beauty he had always dreamed of and then sadly walked back to his house with his back hunched over. He sat on his bed, pulled out all of the money in the jar on his red nightstand and counted it out. The money didn’t add up how he wanted to, so he went to sleep with dreams of him back in the ruby red, shiny bright ford. 

Character Sketch

She was blonde, tall, and well-dressed with no worries in the world. She walked the walk and talked the talk. She always had an entourage, of course a blonde one. Never would she ever be seen out at a party alone. Her clothes, size extra small, were purchased from the places where no one could afford—the places where normal people would look in the window and drool at the beauty inside.

She stormed out of the house, balling her little eyes out. The tears, heavy as a brick, ran down her face as fast as Niagara Falls. With her friend by her side, they walked to the car. While sobbing, she was telling her friend what had happened that night. “He shoved me and I almost fell down. He kept telling me I was an alcoholic,” she explained. Who knew if all these things were true?

She never was the type of person who would be in and out of relationships easily. There were only three people who she actually cared about her first twenty years of life. But, this was definitely the worst ending to them all. Her thoughts throughout the night consisted of, “What is going to happen next? Are we going to get back together? No. Yes. No, he’s a jerk. But I love him.” Her friends kept telling her that she didn’t need a guy like that in her life.

The tears kept coming down, but this time they were lighter, but not light as a feather. Her small, weak body lay on the bed. Black makeup was on her pillow and used wet tissues were scattered around her perfectly decorated pink room. She tried to escape her thoughts about him but nothing would clear them from her head. She ripped the dream catcher off the wall and through it out her window and screamed, “This stupid thing doesn’t do anything!” She was exhausted from crying and yelling all night and before she knew it her black eyes were heavy and her mouth could move no more and she went to sleep. 

The Lady With The Dog

One thing that stands out about Anton Chekhov's writing is that he describes and explains things in great detail. Describing Gurov's wife, "She read a great deal, used phonetic spelling, called her husband, not Dmitri, but Dimitri, and he secretly considered her unintelligent, narrow, inelegant, was afraid of her, and did not like to be at home." And the description of Anna, "walking on the sea-front, a fair-haired young lady of medium height, wearing a béret; a white Pomeranian dog was running behind her." His use of detail engages the reader more and more to understand and really picture what is happening. He establishes a setting before anything happens so that whatever that is going to take place in the scene is well portrayed.

The characters, throughout the story, don't exchange much dialogue. Their depictions of each other come from their thoughts such as "afterwards he thought about her in his room at the hotel" which also is foreshadowing. "Gurov looked at her and thought: "What different people one meets in the world!"" Why would he not just tell her that to her face? Why do they both feel the need to not respond to each other or make conversation? They seem to know a lot about each other with only little conversation between them.

A theme that arises in this story is something that is so prevalent today: affairs. Not knowing what this story would be about, but by reading the first couple paragraphs and knowing that Gurov was fascinated so much by Anna, it gave a hint that something along the lines of an affair was going to happen. Gurov is living two lives, which he realizes in the end, one in secret and one that everyone knew.

Tapka

Just by reading the first line of the story, it is known that David Bezmogis uses very mature language.  "Goldfinch was flapping clotheslines, a tenement delirious with striving.  6030 Bathurst: insomniac, scheming Odessa."  He keeps it an easy story to read that flows nicely with developed language. 

The point of view is from the child being much older because the past tense is being used.  He reminisces on the times he spent with Tapka and his cousin.  The voice that is used is much more mature than a seven year old would use. 

How the story was introduced, I was not expecting it to be about a dog.  Maybe it would be about the child and cousin or even the Nahumovskys, who knows.  But no, it was about a dog.  This was an interesting choice because a dog is something that is so simple but he turned it into a story. 

The story didn't seem to have any negative parts until the end.  The boy and his cousin were able to take care of their neighbor's dog at a young age which gave them a sense of responsibility that most young kids couldn't handle.  They took care of Tapka every day while walking it to the park and back to their house.  The sad part, which had to happen, came at the end when everything was happy and nothing was going wrong.