Week 6 Prompt A

I can’t remember anything it seems like. I keep a daily journal because I can’t remember things. I write down detailed summaries of each and everyday. Impressions, stories, ideas, anything that I want to keep because if I don’t then it seems to just disappear. Some times I will go back in my memories and pull something out and try to talk about it with someone who was there. More times than not they will say something like “What are you talking about? That never happened!” I think the major problem I have is the wall between my imagination and my memory has been breeched. Fantasies and imagined occurrences keep leaking into my memory. Whatever leaks in almost always happens to be more interesting so I tend to remember it. On the other hand the leak leads to awkward moments when I say things like “Hey remember when you and I were lost in the desert outside of Nevada and we were rescued by that British survivalist in the hot air balloon?”

Looking back on photographs and on my beloved journal is something that always helps me to remember things. I can remember with perfect clarity the things that I see or read about. That makes me convinced that somewhere swimming in the soup of imaginative juices that my memories are really intact. It is just hard to dive through the sea of fantasy to find the sunken treasure. When I do find memories intact they are exactly that to me, treasure. I think that is why I keep a daily journal because it makes it easier for me to recollect those little bars of silver scattered from the wreck of my cognizance.

Upon examination, why I forget things it is really very obvious. Consumption of high doses of benzoylmethylecgonine, Lysergic acid diethylamide, Psilocybin, tetrahydrocannabinol, and organic compounds in the hydroxyl group have battered that wall between the segments of my mind to pieces. It is a real marvel that the thing is holding together at all. Not to mention the blunt trauma and concussions. To top it all off my deodorant has aluminum in it, a short cut to Alzheimer's. All together I am happy that I am working as well as I am. Nothing better could be expected. When you abuse a piece of electrical equipment (which is what our brains are) like that, a few short circuits and misfires are inherent.

Thinking about my memory makes me feel like Charlie from Flowers for Algernon, my mind is somehow slipping in ways that I can’t control or understand. That isn’t true though I can remember plenty of things, and I guess that it's not that it is falling apart, it is just working in a different way than most peoples. That is valuable in my opinion. Those quirky eccentricities make me what I am, and the complexities of the battered mind have more character than a brand new one.

So all in all I will accept me as who I am. I think I won’t try and dam the breeches between fantasy and reality. They make life so much more interesting. I am happy to float in this soup of imagination and every now and then strike on a bar of reality. If I ever need a stronger dose I can always open up the journal and take a deep thick whiff.

Over 500 Words

Prompt A

I can't remember how things I've forgotten. I forget the usual stuff, birthdays, appointments, groceries, keys, etc... but most of all I forget time. I rarely feel sleepy at night. I'll be doing something, reading or talking to people, and look up at the clock and it's already three o' clock in the morning. Sometimes I feel like I'm an observer standing outside the flow of time, vaguely aware of its passing. It's not an uncomfortable feeling, to realize that hours at a time just blend together and fade away from my perception, there's only a sense of loss in realizing that another .00014% of your life just went by.
I forget time most often when I'm inside. I'm sure it has everything to do with the abundance of artificial light. While outside or in rooms with windows the light changes over time but in the library or my dorm room, my roommate keeps the blinds closed, the lighting is constant, there's no variation in light. You lose track of time without the creeping shadows in the evening or the shifting sunlight in the morning. They say that when Edison created the light bulb people went from sleeping ten hours a night to eight. Lights have become more abundant since then, no longer just a few hours use at night, we have them on constantly.
Life moves faster when you forget time, the space in between events disappears. I've come to view this as both a blessing and a curse. Waiting is cut to a minimum. Days feel fuller without being aware of all the filler. On the other hand events that seem far away barrel down on you. Events in planner are closer than they appear.
I'm sure everyone forgets time to some extent, roommates and friends looking at their wrists and then dashing off to some nearly missed meeting or date. Time really does fly.

60 minutes

Prompt C: Unworn jewelry

Classes, hallways, backpacks, unringing phone, alarm clock, empty cups, dirty dishes, unread books, glaring computer screen, dry Utah skin, homework, pet fish, daunting tasks/goals, stares, discountings, awkward shuffles, awkward acquaintances, fresh off the boat RM's, dialects, accents, uncooperative hair, hatred of pedestrians when driving, hatred of drivers when pedestrianizing, mundanes choices that won't make a difference either way, strewn about gum packages, trash, index cards, stupid pens, wonderful pens, nerves, reliable blankets, cold feet, illegal candles, buzz of the bathroom fan causing louder shower singing until someone comes home, rusty voice, microwave, clack clack of typing, fuzzy but rough carpet, cheese, picture frame, lint roller, clothes hangers, cluttered desk, mini post-its, crappy blinds, not enough sleep, procrastination, unworn jewelry, roomstrangers, lack of inspiration...

Unworn jewelry: the connotations usually imply that the jewelry has gone out of style, the owner doesn't like the jewelry, or jewelry in general, or the owner no longer likes the giver of the jewelry.

My father likes to give me gifts of jewelry. For holidays, birthdays, special occasions. I hardly ever wear them. I think he enjoys the process of choosing a piece more than I do owning it. Maybe he's sending me subliminal messages that I need to take better care of myself or have more invested in my appearance. Maybe he feels because only he raised me, I need a stronger femininity and he tries to supplement that with jewelry. They're pretty things. Lovely chains, rings, earrings, bracelets. Never quite too classy or ornate, because that would be pretentious. Each piece I can see why he chooses: pearls for my birthstone and sophistication; metal pendants through leather strings to appeal to my earthly sways and his own kinship with non-tradition, yet rigid routine; silver charms of my favorite animals and interests, proving his knowledge of me and my addictive personality. I love that he gives me these things and I should adorn myself with his love, but I always have an excuse. I'm too lazy, I'd lose it, it doesn't match what I'm already wearing, it feels unnatural, I am not a peacock. Yet whenever I see the box on the highest shelf corner of my closet, guilt berates me. They are not playthings signifying wealth and social status. My father gave these accessories to me to show his unconditional love and trust. He gave them to me because he feels I deserve them. These pieces are mementos of that bond. Being away from my father has only made me appreciate better all that he does. So, any chance I get, I will wear his symbols and feel closer.
Time: Over 1 hr

Prompt A

I can’t remember. While eating bugs in the backyard with my friend as young kids we made a promise to each other. I can’t remember it. While hiding in our tree house my friends and I spied on the neighbors and drew pictures of their faces. I can’t remember the sketches. While going on a date to a movie he leaned over and kissed me. I can’t remember the movie. While swimming in the lake with my siblings one of us lost our necklace. I can’t remember whom. These forgotten details are menial. I don’t need to remember. Some moments on the other hand I wish I could remember but I can’t retrieve. While getting into the baptismal font I said a prayer to the Lord. I wish I could remember what. While my dad was in the hospital I drove to a secluded place to think. I wish I could remember where. While in high school I met my best friend. I wish I could remember how. While going through the mail I received a letter expressing their thanks for my good example. I wish I could remember whom. While spending time with my friends my boyfriend text me and broke up with me. I wish I could remember why. While at the mall my brother told me he looked up to me. I wish I could remember when. What I find truly perplexing is what our mind chooses to retrieve and what it chooses to suppress. There are many things I wish I didn’t remember. Guilt, sadness, hurt feelings, grudges, and past mistakes. Neil Anderson at General Conference explained that the scriptures do not say that we will forget our forsaken sins. To prevent us from making that mistake again the Lord allows the residue of it to rest in our memories. However, we are given the blessing of the lord healing us on his own time. I still question why we forget. Why we forget even the most spiritual experiences. Perhaps this is why we have been counseled so often to keep a journal. In Psychology one is taught that all memories are stored. It is the lack of ability to retrieve them that we call “forgetting.” If we keep a journal we are able to assist our minds in retrieving those stored memories. Looking back in the many journals I have kept I found the answers to what I had forgotten. While eating bugs in the backyard with my friend as young kids we made a promise to each other that we would only catch grasshoppers if the both of us were together. While going on a date to a movie he leaned over and kissed me during "Dark Knight." While in high school I met my best friend during history class because we were both mocking the substitute teacher. While swimming in the lake I lost the necklace that I had gotten for Christmas. Our memories are always there but sometimes we have a hard time retrieving them.

40 minutes

Week 6 Prompt c

road flares
matches
beds
people
kids
cars
bikes
calipers
tires
grease
paper
homework
catch phrases
butterfly knives
knifes
BIKE tools
other sharp objects
computers
Nalgene bottles
food
especially cereal
free riding

Bike tools have a very positive connotation. It is the opinion of this author (Shane Wood) that bike tools have a very good purpose. For without them, how would we, as a species, fix our bikes? Its implications vary widely by person, but almost always end positively. Bike tools can often play quite a huge role when the bike you ride is not very good. Time after time you'll find yourself using bike tools and being grateful for their existance. Unless, of course, you don't ride bikes in which case you probably don't care. But that's alright! You still have all the wonderful bike related moments yet to enjoy. Bike tools came from the increased use of modern bicycles in the 1880's. People liked this design better because it allowed them to be able to touch the ground. 42 min

Prompt B: Another Fishy Reflection

The first time I ate Idaho rainbow trout, the fish was fresh caught and fire grilled by my friend’s father. We camped near a river or lake—I don’t remember which, I don’t even remember how old I was…near nine. But I can still taste the washed white flesh tinged with lemon and a touch of smoke. Like the few loaves and fishes, there was not enough to serve all that sat, staring longingly, but we each received a bite and were filled although continually craving more.

As a part of the fourth grade focus on Idaho history we learned about trout, took a field trip to a reservoir to learn about the grueling journey they made in order to maintain their way of life despite the domestic disruption of dams. I peered through the thick glass that separated me from green water and a few of the sojourners, their top lips hooked over the bottom, their gills flared red (almost bloody) and I loved the hideous creatures—loved them even more for my own salivating viciousness. I wanted them to survive, to procreate, to continue traveling: I wanted to eat them baked, fired, fried. I craved them in their bloodless state, in my mouth, while supporting their existence.

My husband does not like fish. He tolerates it when necessary and avoids it most of the time. He asks me to cook it for myself occasionally; he offers to cook something else for our family; he suggests this out of love—yet eating fish is intrinsically social. I need others to lick their fingers ravenously, pass lemon pepper, search for fine bones, dangle their forks tempting themselves with each bite of rich meat.

I’ve never understood how some vegetarians discount fish as meat. It is/was definitely animal before food.

I love tasting the marinade of many waters in my mouth like the song of river-softened stones. I love the crackle of fire and smoked seared into pink or chalky white body—patterned with experience and vigor. A fish does not stop swimming, it does not sit idle in the water as we do in air. It odes not tap the glass to the hand of a curious child. Aloof rather than noble, a fish—especially trout—gaze at the world unaware of their allotted time, however knowledgeable of the pressing urgency.

The first bite was my favorite, though unseasoned. I devoured it greedily (almost unholy in a sacred act) and too speedily to appreciate. My tongue recalls the shock of delight, the chatter of relaxed friends, charity shared with little girls.

Week 6, Prompt B

I am a lover of food. Food is one of my biggest loves, always has been. There is just something about a delicious meal that can't be explained. Food touches all 5 senses; touch, sight, taste, sound, and smell. In my short eighteen years of life I have learned of the beauty of food through several different meals and all my senses.

As a toddler, my favorite meal was spaghetti. At a young age, we can't really comprehend the different tastes of food. We know what we like and what we don't like, but that is about all. No, at this age our most important sense is touch. In my house there are several pictures of me with a handful of noodles in each hand and red sauce all down my chest. Of course, I do not remember these nights. But my mom always recounts the countless nights where I would sit in the kitchen for hours playing with my dinner, occasionally eating a bite. I never tired of the slimy noodles passing through my little fingers. I took entertainment out of this food, and gave my mom a much needed break.

As a young child, we'll say 7 or 8 years old, my favorite food was creamed peas. My Great Grandma would make them for our entire extended family at our annual reunion. I was always so amazed at the sight of the huge bowls full of those bright green peas intermixed with the thick white sauce. I think it's important to interject that my extended family includes 1st, 2nd, and 3rd cousins, totaling over 150 people. I would venture to say closer to 200 people. That is a lot of creamed peas! At that age I understood how much time that took my grandma great, but I didn't understand why she did. I do now. Every time I see a batch of creamed peas (always a smaller amount) I think of my family and the love that was always shown to me by her. I felt (and feel) love and service from this food.

As a 11 year old, my favorite treat was rainbow chip cake (still one of my favorites). I don't remember the first time I tried this delectable goodie, I supposed I have always known the taste of the moist cake. But I remember requesting it for my birthday cake that year, it seemed everyone was. Every bite contains the same surprising deliciousness. I can never seem to get enough of the colorful bits. Yes, the taste was incomparable at that age. Now, I have a few other treats that rival rainbow chip. Although I will say that I began my love affair with sweets when I tasted rainbow chip.

As a teenager, my favorite meal was corn on the cob, watermelon, potato salad, and my dad's hamburgers. I love the crackle and sizzle of something cooking on a grill. I love the sounds that fire make. Not only do I love these sounds, I love the sounds that the rest of the meal caused. Everyone loves a good barbecue. They bring people together and invoke a lot of chatter. Barbecue's are always loud and remind us of our friendships.

And now, my favorite meal is taco soup. Nothing feels like home more than when you walk in the door and are immediately overcome with the smell of taco soup on the stove. I'm not a cold weather type of person. And to make winter more bearable, my mom would make a big batch of taco soup and freeze it in individual servings for me. Everyday I'd come home and heat up a batch, instantly feeling better once the warm smell entered my nose. Oh, how I love this soup. It has brought me so much joy.

Food is a type of universal language that I think all should learn to enjoy and appreciate. I sure do, probably more than I should.

1 hour

Fish

The stage of my life can best be described by food. When I was young I ate pretty much anything that would go in my mouth from bits of toys to whatever mashed up fruit or vegetable my parents would feed me. According to my mother I have always been a good eater. Then I stopped eating olives and many other foods by the time I was about 9. Food to me then was common place. I would eat sack lunches comprised of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and fruit snacks. Then when I was 12 or 13 I started cooking. I love baking cookies and other sweets (I’m just happy my figure doesn’t show it yet) I got my sweet tooth from my mother. I have to have sweet snacks laying around my house. Mike and Ikes, Red Vines, and Peanut M&M are always available at my house. Personally my favorite sweet are Oreo cookies. They are truly addicting. Last year I was a non olivlian pescetarian. Which basically means I was a vegetarian who eats fish. I am sort of sad that phase is over but living in provo simply doesn’t accommodate that life style. However, now I can judge my life and how good it is by the amount of Sushi I eat. If its my birthday or graduation, if I am doing well in school or if we have friends in town a vast amount of Sushi is eaten. My tongue loves the many different textures and flavors as I am able to try different kinds of Sushi. My favorite rolls are unfortunately the unhealthy tempura fried rolls. The extra crunch that is added to the flavor of the rice makes me twirl.  It is a real shame that good Sushi is so expensive. 

My dad went to Japan on his mission a number of years ago. He has always took us out to nice authentic Japanese restaurants with octopi lining the walls and such. I didn’t start appreciating this until sushi became so white washed. Now you can find it everywhere and its almost 10% more expensive as it used to be if not more depending on the place. The growing sushi trend is good for many American’s because it is healthy for their bodies. However there are many growing theories that this sushi trend may be bad for our environment because of the excess amount of fish that are being taken out of their natural habitats.

Sushi is an authentic japanese dish. There are many types of sushi the kind that is growing in popularity is the roll or norimaki. These rolls are made of rice, sushi vinegar, seaweed, and a combination of vegetables or prepared raw fish. Then you can dip these small bits of deliciousness in soy sauce and wasabee (a hot bean paste). If you have never tried sushi I would recommend it. Many of my friends have not been so game on sushi until I made them try it. Then they fell head over heals in love with it. I know raw fish can be intimidating but try it. You may be surprised at what you find. 

45 minutes 

Week 6 Prompt B

The Feast

The snow was slowly drifting toward the ground and the view out the window was like a picture from a postcard.  I couldn't imagine a more beautiful landscape.  My cousin's cabin up past Heber Valley was placed in the perfect spot.  But the view out the window wasn't the best thing about that day.  It was the wonderful meal ahead of us.

Thanksgiving is one of the greatest meals of the year.  It brings extended family together with the help of grand amounts of food.  After the food comes football (the greatest sport ever) and naps (from the tryptophan).  The rest of the day consists of reminiscing on good old times and funny memories that make everyone laugh until their sides ache.

Now back to the best part--the food of course.  Oh! all the scrumptious food Thanksgiving has to offer!  Where to begin?  Turkey.  Grandma Phyllis cooks the best Thanksgiving turkey that has ever been cooked in the history of all Thanksgivings.  It is so juicy and tasty.  The meat is so tender that it cuts like warm butter.  Once I put it in my mouth it's like Heaven on Earth, no lie.  Mashed potatoes.  Need I say more?  My cousin Camille makes wonderful mashed potatoes.  They are so buttery and creamy, one could probably obtain some clogged arteries from eating too much of them in one sitting.  Then topped with gravy made from the turkey drippings it is absolutely irresistible.  My mouth is salivating at this very moment just picturing them.

Ok, now stuffing.  Not really sure where that tradition came in.  I'm fairly positive that the Pilgrims and Indians didn't have stuffing as a side dish with their first Thanksgiving.  It is good all the same.  Sweet potato casserole is just as great.  Brown sugar and about six pounds of butter (I am salivating again) are the perfect additions to sweet potatoes.

The best part of Thanksgiving with my mom's family is the rolls.  Grandma Phyllis isn't just good at turkey.  Crescent rolls are her other specialty.  These rolls take a great amount of time to prepare; the dough has to be mixed in the first place which is no simple task because it's such a sticky mess and requires lots of flour and oil so the whole thing doesn't stick to the hands of the kneader and then it must raise for a few hours (or fifteen minutes with the cheat trick of using quick-rise yeast) until it is ready to be rolled out into a few different circles which are then smothered in butter and cut like a pizza and each piece is rolled up to make a crescent roll then dipped in more butter and then the rolls must raise for another four hours in a warm area before being baked for eight minutes at 375 degrees Fahrenheit.  Due to the massive amounts of butter, they come out of the oven buttery and flakey and excellent.  No prisoners are taken.  I don't know how many rolls have made it to the next day over the years.  I could probably count the number on my digits.

To top off the wonderful meal (skipping some other side dishes) is pie.  Pie is just perfect.  By the end of the meal the caloric intake is so great that it doesn't even make a difference if pie is eaten or not, so might as well just do it.  There is pumpkin pie, apple pie, lemon meringue pie, banana cream pie, cheese cake, and the wonderful creation that my mom discovered: pumpkin cheesecake.  

I feel fat just thinking about Thanksgiving.  I am so excited I think that a month and a half is too long to wait for the delicious food.  Cheesecake will probably be made in my apartment in the next few weeks, if anyone is interested.  

50 min.

Week 6 Prompt B

The chowder slowly rolls to a boil. Some of the precious soup spills out of the bowl and slowly slides down the metal pot on the stove. Time to eat. I grab my ladle and pour a heaping helping for myself. The creamy, gooey chowder sinks into my bowl. Steam fills my face. I take my spoon and dig in. Too hot. Ouch. I pour some milk into the chowder to cool it. I spoon the chowder and make sure I have the perfect amount of potatoes and clams and attack the utensil with my mouth. Delicious. Warmth fills my throat and stomach as it slides down my insides. I take another bite and the same sensation fills my body. Before I know it, the bowl is empty. I start licking the filmy coating on the bowl. My chin gets chowdery. I wipe that off my finger and lick it. I waste nothing.
My favorite chowder has to be New England Clam Chowder. It is usually milk or cream based, which is what makes it so delicious. It is so fluffy and delicious. Oh my, I love it. Supplementing the soup are diced potatoes, chunks of clam, basil, bacon. My least favorite chowder has to be Manhattan Chowder. First of all, it's red. Gross. It is thinner and runnier than the better New England Clam Chowder. In fact, legislature in New England made it illegal to put tomatoes in Clam Chowder in 1939. They wanted to maintain the integral purity of the chowder and not let that vile vegetable/fruit in the glorious concoction named Clam Chowder. The word "chowder" comes from French etymology and means pot. It was named this because of the relation of the soup to the pot it was made in. This delicious soup is often served on Fridays on the East Coast to give everyone a chance to eat this scrumptious meal.
45 minutes

Week 6 Prompts

Tweaked from Tell it Slant by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola (McGrawHill 2004).

Remember: If you are immensely pleased with one of your journals, consider expanding it into your ruminative essay.

A. Freewrite on what you have forgotten. What are the moments that keep sliding out of reach? Use the phrase “I can’t remember” to start. Where does this lead you? Do some research, find documents to help your memory. Examine why you have forgotten these things—or why you remember others.

B. Describe your favorite meal in detail; make yourself hungry. Or, if you were to write a life history through food, what would be the meals that represented turning points for you? What meals have you loved? Hated? Marked transitions in your life? Research your chosen specific food (how it is used, how it grows, how to make it, or the name of that food) and incorporate that into your journal.

C. Freewrite a list of things you deal with on a daily basis and don’t think about very much. Don’t be choosy; jot down whatever pops into your head: paper, fluorescent lighting, mosquitoes, slugs, flush toilets. Choose one item from your list and examine it thoroughly. What are the connotations of the item? What are its implications? Don’t censor yourself—go with your impulses. Then research a few facts about your item, and freewrite again.

The much belated analysis

Matthew Gong

Cassie Keller Cole

English 150

October 3, 2009

Four Winds

Music is a poetry whose prosody became lyrical. The song Four Winds by Bright Eyes protests the lengthy list of injustices committed by the United States of America. The song's stanzas alternate between social commentary, biblical allusions and, crimes against the U.S.'s committed against own inhabitants in its history.
The first stanza talks about the violence both physical and media centered surround one's racial and ideological identity. The deaths in the first paragraph are more figurative than literal, the loss of heritage as opposed to the loss of life. The idea of bodies in containers, a symbol of the extreme lengths people will undergo to immigrate into the U.S., contrasts in the preceding sentence. The first paragraph attacks the “melting pot” culture.
Four Winds by Bright Eyes uses the word She in reference to the United States of America. The songs is full of allusions to the bible, specifically the Book of Revelations. The first line of the chorus “But when Great Satan's gone, the Whore of Babylon...” uses the Islamic Fundamentalist representation of the United States to condemn the Countries actions, further stating that the U.S. Is the allegorical Whore of Babylon, a nation slated for an apocalyptic downfall for its wickedness. The song asserts that the U.S. has passed it's prime and is on the brink of collapse. The second chorus ends with “she breaks ,she breaks, she caves, she caves.” The pressure referred to in this chorus is the internal societal pressures that cause the country to break apart and then collapse.
By never directly referencing the U.S., instead using the pronoun “she” in it's place, Bright Eyes establishes a controversial argument without alienating a large portion of the audience immediately.