Prompt A

I thought that Montaigne's essay, "Of Thumbs", was a insightful narration of periods in history when the thumb held a different and unique function of holding and grasping weapons. It was also interesting to see how the rulers and leaders were so protective of their peoples thumbs for the purpose of defending the nation. Alice Meynell's essay on the other hand was very confusing and did not hold much significance to myself. I thought that the essay used a lot of metaphors and imagery that I didnt believe was necessary. I found this no more evident than in the sentence: "To live in constant efforts after an equal life, whether the equality be sought in mental production, or in spiritual sweetness, or in the joy of the senses, is to live without either rest or full activity." I think that this sentence is very confusing and has too many thoughts trying to be expressed at one time. Not only does this occur in this sentence but in many others just like it throughout the essay. I fear that others may have a problem understanding this as well. I also fear that my analysis of these two works do not posses the intellectual depth that is so desired among the scholars and students of such things. So I will I try to finish off this blog post with a thought: "Does a work gain power through longevity and thoughtfulness? I say nay, it comes through brevity and instinct."
42 minutes

Prompt B

Mornings are a glorious part of the day that I rarely get to experience, my life tends to get in the way of my living. There's something so unbelievably peaceful about wandering through aging forest, past moss encrusted oaks and rocks slick with a patina of lichen, in the days first light. Walking on old trails with familiar landmarks the lightning-struck tree with its shattered trunk or on new trails with new possibilities. Walking with family or close friends, sometimes in silence out of deference to the moment or breaking the morning stillness with laughter or casual conversation. The mornings in the ancient forests of the east coast hold the same peace and stillness as the pre-dawn moments in the Rockies but the two have a different quality in the light.

The transition from night to the first rays of light is something you can't fully enjoy unless you've been hiking for over six hours climbing the highest mountain in the region occasionally watching the sky for streaks of gray amidst the sea of stars hoping you'll reach the peak in time. Finally arriving at the summit with time to watch the stars flicker and disappear in waves, the ones on the eastern horizon disappearing first and then burning out from east to west. As the stars go out the dawn breaks, washes across clearing away the black paint of night leaving the whole world in sepia tones for a few seconds before the sun begins to color the world. You try to find the tallest rock to stand on at the summit so you can raise your hand, wiggling your fingers in the chill wind watching the light start at the tips of your fingers and slowly crawl down your arm, your face, your torso, and your feet, and then pouring onto the ground beneath you.

Such spectacles come a price, namely of trading one night of sleep and the following day spent making up for the lost sleep for a scene that transpires in less than ten minutes.

Weel 1, Prompt B

There are so many interesting people on this Earth. So many different walks of life, so many different stories. A man on his cell phone, arranging a business transaction. A woman pushing a stroller with an innocent child tucked safely inside. A group speaking a foreign language on their way to lunch. A lost girl, searching for her assigned destination. And me, sitting, taking in the sunshine and perfect breeze. I ask myself, what are we all doing here? But then the bells chime and class is about to start. I rush to my seat and prepare to be enlightened.

The screen fills with images and clips of new, exciting adventures ready to unfold. Action heros saving the world. A gorgeous couple finding true love. A soccer team beating all odds. My head spins with all the excitment in these new adventures. So many more stories to learn from, so many characters to become attatched to. But then our adventure begins. And my mind rushes to the present and I watch a lovely tale.

Maybe that is why we are all here. To wait, and then to rush. Human nature causes us to want something more, to want something bigger and better. To get those things, we must wait. We wait for answers to horrible problems. We wait for more money. We wait in the line for food. We wait to do our responsibilities. We wait for oppourtunities. We wait at the stop light. And then we rush. We rush to solve the problems. We rush to spend the money. We rush to eat. We rush to complete tasks. We rush to our oppourtunities. We rush through the light to our final destination. All this waiting and rushing. So, I wait here for something to come along and ignite my imagination. And soon, I will rush to embrace it.

Lilly Pyle

1 hour

Prompt A: Dreams

These ideas are very various in quality; some of them deliciously haunting and transporting, some grave and solemn, some painfully sad and strong. Some of them seem to hint at unseen beauty and joy, some have to do with problems of conduct and duty, some with the relation in which we wish to stand or are forced to stand with other human beings; some are questionings born of grief and pain, what the meaning of sorrow is, whether pain has a further intention, whether the spirit survives the life which is all that we can remember of existence; but the strange thing about all these ideas is that we find them suddenly in the mind and soul; we do not seem to invent them, though we cannot trace them; and even if we find them in books that we read or words that we hear, they do not seem wholly new to us; we recognize them as things that we have dimly felt and perceived, and the reason why they often have so mysterious an effect upon us is that they seem to take us outside of ourselves, further back than we can recollect, beyond the faint horizon, into something as wide and great as the illimitable sea or the depths of sunset sky.

Benson, Arthur. “Ideas.” 1922. Quotidiana. Ed. Patrick Madden. 13 Oct 2008. 04 Sep 2009 .

Dreams satisfy a gamut of emotions and feelings; some are tangible and seem to coagulate at the base of the skull solidifying the message which it conveys, some form as condensation the byproduct of two subconscious ideas entwining; some simply arrive in a transient vapor promising only a temporary glimpse of something more. Some offer pleasure eliviating pain and sorrow augmented in the daylight hours, some come to brand the pains and sorrows like a hot, fire-kissed poker into the soft gray matter known as the mind, some are inquaries of past events lending an alternative perspective unable to obtain during consciousness; some comprise of honor and responsibility, some are feverish nightmares submerged from years of repression; however, all these dreams are often familiar. They are the vehicles which transport us to places we know suprisingly well, allow us to interact with strangers whose touch is not unknown to the skin; they are a microcosm to a world one that we percieve shortly at night; as our head is weighed down with gravity's pull the mind escapes the prison and follows the well trodden path to the dream world; as our journey comes to a close at day break we leave a portion of ourselves behind; some part of our fears, some part of our most secret desires, some part of our unbridled passion, some of our undying love, some of our loaded burdens. But as twilight once again arrives we leave this narrow minded world and recover what we left in the broad and endless world of slumber as unfathomable as the night sky with its undiscovered mysteries.

50 minutes

Week 1, Prompt A

They knew that the flux is equal to the reflux; that to interrupt with unlawful recurrences, out of time, is to weaken the impulse of onset and retreat; the sweep and impetus of movement. To live in constant efforts after an equal life, whether the equality be sought in mental production, or in spiritual sweetness, or in the joy of the senses, is to live without either rest or full activity. The souls of certain of the saints, being singularly simple and single, have been in the most complete subjection to the law of periodicity. Ecstasy and desolation visited them by seasons. They endured, during spaces of vacant time, the interior loss of all for which they had sacrificed the world. They rejoiced in the uncovenanted beatitude of sweetness alighting in their hearts. Like them are the poets whom, three times or ten times in the course of a long life, the Muse has approached, touched, and forsaken. And yet hardly like them; not always so docile, nor so wholly prepared for the departure, the brevity, of the golden and irrevocable hour. Few poets have fully recognised the metrical absence of their Muse. For full recognition is expressed in one only way—silence.

Meynell, Alice. “The rhythm of life.” 1893. Quotidiana. Ed. Patrick Madden. 31 Jan 2008. 03 Sep 2009 .

There is no present.

There is no present; only past and future. By the time when we realize we have experienced a moment, it is in the past; already being forgotten and lost to the ravages of time. But this does not bother the world at large. Most prefer to live in their own past, made to look better by their constant need to feed their ego and increase their importance. Some spend their time in the future; always planning ahead . . . always looking at the next mountain needing to be climbed and never looking at the beauty around them. There are a rare few who think they are living in the present. They make haphazard decisions to make it seem that they are spontaneous. But these people are doing it just be seen; like the hypocrite who donates a hospital wing only to have his name emblazoned on the side of the building, forever scripted there for all to see. But then again, why should people not be living in the past or the future? Since there is no present, what other options do they have? It is up to them to fulfill this hole in their lives by living in such a manner. Most just don't realize they are doing this. Since there never has been a present, it isn't possible for the people through history to live in one. So the real question is, who developed this strange notion of the present? They make it out to be some glorious event; some life altering symbol that gives meaning to their life; a golden trophy adored by all but received by none. The masses all clamor for something that none can attain; the Holy Grail of ideals, hidden from the human race by the human race. The truth is that there is no truth about living in the now. There never has nor ever will be a present; only past and future . . . only yesterday and tomorrow. Each breath you take is another instant taken by the unstoppable power of the past. Each heartbeat is another echo in the endless chasms of antiquity. Each plan you make becomes devoured by the infinite and myriad possibilities of the future. Our lives are either swallowed by the past or prisoners to the future.
Mike Terry
70 Minutes.

Prompt C: Thirst

I will probably never forget the painful running experience I had one summer evening when my running partner and I decided to run at 7 o'clock on a day that exceeded 100 degrees. Neither of us actually thought it was a good idea, but both of us assumed the other had something planned after. The idea of running later when it would be cooler was never even addressed. It was not a good run. We felt like we were going to die of thirst. We were yearning to drink out of the low spraying sprinklers we passed watering various yards. We were only out for a 4 mile run, but it seemed to be 4 miles of pure torture with a thirst we couldn't quench. There was sweat pouring down our maroon faces. Which didn't really help the dehydration problem. Several times during the run I thought about how soothing ice cold water would feel running down my throat. I kept trying to swallow the saliva in my mouth. Usually when I run, I chew a piece of gum to keep my mouth moist, but of course on that fateful day, I was without even that. We ran past a guy watering his yard with a hose and I almost jumped outside my very rigid little comfort zone to ask for a drink of water. My thirst however did not overpower my feelings of self consciousness that keep me from making bizarre requests of strangers. Shortly after the hose, we ran past a church where some sort of young men's activity was just finishing up and some guys were walking around with water bottles. Even more torture. My legs were willing me to stop, but I knew that if I kept running I would get home quicker and drink all I wanted. It was so hard to keep going. Every step felt like it took ten minutes to hit the ground. I will never again run in that kind of heat if I can help it. Or at least without a lot of water fountains close by. I felt like I was dying of thirst.
Of course I wasn't dying. I did get a feeling of nausea and a never ending pounding in my head, but no dying. I recently read a book where the main character has a thirst that far exceeded the thirst I had that day. She has to find a source of water and she wasn't choosing to run in the heat and go without it. She was stranded in an area she didn't know the geography of and forced to survive. The author describes how her lips became chapped and she could literally feel her body drying up. How her body could no longer support her own weight and she eventually collapses and has to crawl to the water source. I have never really experienced an extreme thirst that I had no control over. Any time I am thirsty I have the option of purchasing a water, or going home and getting a drink. I don't even know what it would be like to not be able to obtain water within a short time of when I need it. And if I want it cold, that's an easy fix too. I don't think I want to know what real thirst or dehydration is like.
45 min

Prompt C: "Motherless" by Betty Ruddy (Fourth Genre)

Motherless

She chose to birth me natural. No chemicals would pass through her veins with the chance of entering mine. Received so much pain to get the lumped up and replicated body of mine out of her womb. Relieved when the physical connection between host and, what she considered beautiful parasite was restricted, then cut. Such a mighty task for such a delicate reward. She held me in her arms, looking me over. And I might have known her. Might have loved her. But I'll never remember that. She gave me life. She'd never let me forget that, because she just as easily took it with her.
I could blame her for the way I am. For my too big toes, wispy hair, always careful interactions. For the way I appease and strip down to bones embarrassed, fueled by her need for recognition. And I do. The reflection I see is always hers. Always. No matter the desperate improvements I try: pulling at the corners of our eyes, giving breadth to our too thin nose, making more lifted our seldom used cheekbones. Yet I am so frightened, to the point of immobility, to change what's left of her in me. Is the simple act of brushing the hair we share for the both of us sufficient to say she loved me?

I ran from her bosom when I was old enough to be aware of its wanting me gone. I ran with intentions to make severe blisters to callous over on our already too padded feet. I ran to make shackles of each breeze that would crack against my developing body, because that body was becoming hers. I ran to become both a masochist and sadist simultaneously. And while running, guilt swarmed through me, tinged all of our commonalities and gave them reckoning.
Now I can only find her in myself. I can only speak to her in my mind. And though I try to individualize, I forever come back to her twisted roots. I may claim I'd never hurt my own children, but what control do I have when it is her stubbed fingers I coddle and soothe with, her heart I synchronize to and will pass on, her mistakes I am fated to repeat and suffocate from? Will these things joining her and I be enough to suppress my womanly responsibility and desire? I cannot know. What I do have is, maybe being thus motherless is a blessing. And as I entertain the idea, her laugh escapes through me.

Time: 50 minutes and revision
Word Count: 422

Week 1 Prompt B

This term has just begun. The leaves have yet to golden and fall off their beloved branches. They cling to those branches; their homes and parents. As they age and grow weak, I feel their sudden disconnect as I have left from my own parents. I wake up in a new place with a person I barely know. I walk this unfamiliar campus alone. I now live in a world where I must do everything on my own. I have no one to hold my hand through all that I do or a shoulder to cry on when everything goes wrong. Why is it that we must leave everything we know and love behind when we reach a certain point in our life and must move on?
My envious heart sneers when I see couples so happy together. How can they be so lucky to have someone by their side when they are needed most? Where is my someone?
Trekking across the concrete path to the classes that are so distant, from what is now my home, I find I have too much time to think. So much time it torments the mind and twists one’s thoughts. The clock is ever ticking. Tick tock tick tock. Time never ceases and yet at times it feels as if it stands still. Where am I in this continuous world? Where do I belong? What is my purpose? Questions rattle my brain as they bounce back and forth, never receiving any answer. I find myself forgetting where I am and what I am doing in attempt to answer my many questions. Where are my answers?
I listen to those songs with repetitious phrases. “Sick and tired of being sick and tired.” I wonder who creates these lines and why everyone else has decided they must use them as well. Where has the originality gone? Why is it that everyone must be a cut out of someone else?
Who knows where I am going? Who knows what I will become? I know that I do not, but I do know that can retain my own originality. I will not be another ‘so and so.’ I am my own human being.

Kara Lohberg

45 minutes

Week 1 Prompt B

An Attempt

I remember being young in my first writing class. I was six years old and I was in first grade. Like many others my age afraid to express my opinions and thoughts to those I was not comfortable with. I would often spend my time alone meandering outside in the grass. It was in that state that I found my creativity. No I could never color, I couldn’t make origami, and i couldn’t draw anything that looked remotely like a stick figure; but what I could do was imagine. My mind was taken to places only seen by animators and comic book writers. I loved the way I could put together similes that would describe the way I felt. It was the beginning of the greatest relationship I have ever had.

As I grew I slowly lost my powers to dream because they were replaced with words. Words like math, logic, and reason. I wrote very little, next to never. We were encouraged to think outside of the box but then laughed at by our peers for being different, unique, and original.  Discouraged I dropped my idea of being a writer and settled for being average: an admirer of the art of english but never anything above and beyond.

Then when I was twelve I met another admirer of writing. She like myself enjoyed the sound of clicking keyboards and the way that words combined could create and sound like magic. We would write stories together and relished one another’s company. We understood the need to be weird and enjoyed our girlish stories.

We grew apart and I stopped writing all together. Bogged down by structure, concrete detail commentary commentary, 5 paragraph essays and my new high school adventures. It seemed as if there was no time for writing or childish dreams in my future.       My confidence grew and I became the person I had always dreamed. I was strong, I was successful, and I WAS SAM; but something was missing. Oh yes my dreams of writing. Where were they? Abandoned, I thought I had no future in writing, no talent. It was in one of those dark days when I found my old laptop. It contained stories, ideas, and talent beyond my expectation of myself. So now I cannot let myself down. I must attempt.  

Sam Hansen

50 minutes

Week 1 Prompt C: Homage to a bridge, From Four Genre

There are two acres on the little blackfoot river that are mine. The land has four tall shady cotton woods, six douglas fir, and one broken bridge. One of the first things I did when I bought this land was to take two days and tear out the bridge. The wood was old and rotten, and when I took out one of the beams that crossed the river it crumbled into little pieces and earwigs and mould fell into my waders and the stream. The trout ate them and I swatted them between the rubber and my legs.

After the old bridge was torn out I spent four more days building a new one. The land has four tall shady cotton woods, six douglas fir, and one new bridge. The new bridge has piers built of stones I took from the river and cemented together. They support beams made out of pine that I cut down and varnished and fitted together length wise. This bridge will last a long time. There are little troughs on the beams that water can run through because water will kill wood faster than almost anything.

The heaviest thing it will have to support is myself on my bicycle, and that won’t be for a while now because I am far away and the only thing that crosses the bridge is my thoughts. Sometimes I imagine that I am there walking down the stream and plopping pebbles into the water that passes under my bridge. Others that I am building something new: a house out of brick and stone; a garden with tomatoes and tea; a workshop that smells like pine.

I love that bridge because it is a portal for my imagination. Sometimes I can feel myself “going over the bridge” when I think about the future or read a special novel that paints vivid pictures with words. I hear the deep sound of my feet across the beams and the water running under the bridge. Then I am in the Pelnor Fields, sailing on the Pequod, or passing an abandoned church who’s roof had fallen long ago with an enormous sycamore growing where the sacristy once stood.

Blake Stanger

1 hour

In a Place He Names Arcadia

The red rock is captivating.  Every time the transition is astonishing.  Watching the small hills covered in half dead grasses turn into red giants warms my insides like hot chocolate on a cold winter's day.  The warmth spreads from inside to out until my skin is relaxed.  No trace of a taught line remains on my face.  

You can't get away from them.  The cliffs stare at you from every direction, in anxiousness, every crack and outward jut yearning to be touched like a World War II woman's lips waiting for her sailor to come home.  

I remember Grandpa Floyd taking the cousins and me on hikes in Snow Canyon.  Each new summit brought a different landscape, a different world.  Sometimes I imagined being in a Disney cartoon and I could fly over the the red rock thousands of feet above or close enough to worry about scraping my nose.  My imagination was very colorful back then.  The movie I always fantasized being in was Aladdin.  Maybe Jasmine and Aladdin would join me on their magic carpet ride and soar across the sandstone landscape. 

My cousins and I would search for walking sticks in the dead or dying trees and sage brush.  We always wanted the bigger stronger ones.  The good ones wouldn't break as we would slam them into the mountain side.  The person with the largest walking stick had an unspoken sense of pride.

Driving away from those red giants to return to our large mountains painted with pines and granite is always a little sad.  But not too sad.  I know I'll come visit my rustic colored friends again.

Welcome to Rumination, Research, and Writing!

I look forward to having you in class and writing together.

The purpose of our class blog is to enable us to improve by writing a lot, reading a lot, and building a discussion around our own and others' work.

You will post your blog/journal response by Friday and comment on two other students' posts by Monday at 2 p.m. (feel free to post earlier!) Check the blog often so that our class discussion can move forward and grow out of our online learning.

Most of all, remember that writing can be fun. Your journal assignments are intended to challenge you, help you progress, and show you that we can all become successful writers through practice and revision. No one wants to be bored with what they are writing about (or reading); write about what interests you and share your knowledge, opinions, and questions with the class.

Even if you are hesitant or nervous about writing (or previous writing experience) we're going to have a blast. If you lack desire, just decide that you will enjoy writing, and by the end you will. I'm determined to do all I can to open the world of writing in a positive way. Please feel free to contact me about your concerns, questions, etc.

And so we begin!

Levi looks forward to class, too.