Read!

I started in on my essay and half way thorough the first paragraph, where I talked about the vanilla hive, I was gasping for air. I had to stop and breathe for a moment. Mark that spot, that is definitely a problem with the flow! When you can’t breath it is most obviously a flow problem. Bad essays can suffocate, beware. 

I did not like having to print out a copy of my essay for the reader to mark on. I felt like it was unnecessary. Instant changes are possible with computers. It was easy to try something new, read it, and see if it works. You can’t do this with a paper draft. I saved each draft of my essay on the computer, and I can show how it progresses just as well as someone who has saved all their paper drafts.

This activity made evident bad parts of my essay. They were parts that made sense in my head, but out loud they were terrible mess ups. The written word is meant to convey information. It was obvious where I wasn’t conveying information clearly, and I got suggestions on how I could. I learned that the more I work on an essay the better it fulfills requirements and engages the reader. I would recommend this method to everyone, and I am going to work through all my writing in this manner. It is like getting your paper graded once, and then getting it back and being able to change all the wrong parts, then hand it back in for a better grade. 

First Draft

Shane Wood

Section 092

Short Personal Essay

Electrons: The Unsung Heroes of our Physical World

Electrons are being used by the human population throughout the world constantly, and have been doing so for thousands of years. Little do we think about the contributions that this elementary particle has made not only to industrial society but to the human condition. Without it the mechanics of thought would be all but impossible. Right now as you read this you brain is computing something on the order of ten petaFLOPS, or about 1,000,000,000,000,000 FLoating point Operations Per Second. This amount of processing power is above and beyond the most powerful computers on the planet, the fastest of which is “Road Runner” located in Los Alamos National laboratory, which only has the processing power of about 1.7 petaFLOPS. Neither the computer nor your brain would be capable of processing anything without the electron. As the elemental signal carrier of both you and the computer, neither of you would be able to exist. I would say that this instance alone would make the humble electron very significant indeed, but there is so much more that the electron does that goes unnoticed. All of mankind’s electronics wouldn’t exist. This would mean that hybrid vehicles, medical equipment, electrolysis, and the effects of the movement of electrons wouldn’t be able to be used for our benefit. This would mean that the electromagnetic force wouldn’t exist. Solenoids, electric motors, and servos would be unable to function. Speakers and commutations would fail and be rendered inoperable. I think that we don’t fully comprehend the degree that humans and electrons are integrated. When you get down to brass tacks electrons are as important as water or air, maybe even more so. One could survive without air or water, if only for an extremely short time. But, without electrons our consciousness wouldn’t even exist. The funny thing is we aren’t even able to observe an electron. Were not even able to say for certain where they actually are, scientist refer to their areas around atom as “electron clouds”, and these clouds are only volumes were electrons have a probability of showing up. Heck, were not even certain if electrons stay in the same dimension we’re in. Another incredible feature that the electron possesses is size. If you were to enlarge an atom to the size of a basket ball the electrons of said atom would be smaller than a grain of rice. So, armed with this new knowledge and awareness about our good friend, the electron, we should all strive to be more thankful for its creation. Now as use any of the technology that we enjoy we can be safe in the assurance that the electron is doing its job. Because as we all know, there are people that believe that we take our current technology for granted. We have moved past thinking about the electron and moved on to “bigger and better” things. But I think it’s time to sit back and contemplate the particle that makes our world possible.

Short Essay: Creases.

Creases are always something that I find intriguing. Each line and fold holds a memory. They exist in every medium and everything. In a book each dog-eared corner holds a clue to a memory someone didn't want to lose. We all are observers of creases. We read them like words from the pages of life.

Everything around has creases in it. The little imperfections are evidence of man's meddling. Furrowed fields, man's creation, versus flat plains, mother nature's creation.

Scars and wrinkles are just creases on the skin. The wrinkles on a person's face tell so much about them their personality it's literally written on their faces albeit in a complicated script. Depending on their age it can be like following fresh tracks or tracking down a century old text Hollywood- treasure hunter style. Wrinkles formed from repeated bouts of smiling, deep furrows on the forehead convey concern or anger. Scars are self contained memories. Each one is accompanied by a memory epic, tragic, or mundane, they all have a story. The scar on my knee from falling down on my bicycle when I was just learning to ride, mundane. The one on my friend's hand from being clawed by a tiger, epic. The wandering scars on my brothers arm from the near-fatal crash, tragic.

When paper is folded its memory is altered creating a personality like how our personalities are created from the pattern of wrinkles in the grey matter of our brains. Folding a sheet of paper is applied science fiction. It's a practical way of testing the science fiction idea that a person is defined by their memories and that by implanting an imprint of their memories into another's body they can be cloned; or reincarnated or teleported, the specifics depend on the author but the idea is the same. Folding a piece of paper is just imprinting the memories of something onto the page. Finish the imprint and the flat sheet becomes something else, a simple bird, a mammal with four legs, maybe a complex geometric pattern from the Alhambra.

Short Essay

Lost within the Pages
A book consists of pages and a cover. On those pages are the words of many thoughts and ideas that came from men and women alike. A book can bring ease to the mind and love to the heart. Its twist on real life situations and those that are false can alleviate the heart and soul. The words of books are so beautiful and mesmerizing that no scenery can outmatch its beauty. Each time I read my heart pounds and my mind races into the impossible. So many people can overlook a book and never pick it up. I, on the other hand, love to engross myself in the pages of all books and bask in their fairytale endings.
When I was young, I adored the library. Each time I went, I would check out as many books as I could carry. I loved to read and I loved all that I learned from each and every book I picked up. I used to beg my mother to take me to the library so I could enjoy the glorious sentences of more and more tales. Most of the time it was a lost cause, seeing as I usually asked to go back the day after we had just gone. The library thrilled me though, and I could not stay away. I could not stay away from the books that filled its shelves, or from the pages that called my name so relentlessly. I envied the librarians because they could just sit and read all day long if they wanted to. I wanted to have as many books at my disposal as they had.
I feel that books have become more and more unnoticed. Today, children can just go and see a movie about a famous book without having to ever touch its cover. They abuse the privilege they have of rejuvenating themselves with a wonderful book. So many children do not want to read books anymore. They desecrate their minds with video games and television shows. Children cannot handle the patience and calm it takes to sit and read a book and that utterly destroys me.
Even I have grown farther and farther away from the books I love and cherish. I have found that everyday things have sucked the life and time out of me. I no longer can blow a day and just sit and read to my heart’s content. I miss the pages that were so familiar to me and I wish I had the time to divulge in the creative images that a book can bring. I often think “hopefully when I am older I will have the time to read again.” I do not want to wait until I am of an older age. I wish to read as much as I want now, but I simply have no time to do so. In high school, reading books was often a requirement, but here I find that I do not have any novels that are required text and that devastates me. Will I ever be reunited with my precious books again?

Kara Lohberg

Short Essay: Scar

There is a jagged scar near the inside crook of my elbow. It comes from the cap of a beer bottle. A very peculiar shape. More visceral than I would like. A bloodied caterpillar, with a fuzzed-out membrane that branches further than its putrid body does. Or some sinister, raised red Rorschach, assumed connotations attached. A piece of entrails that escaped out a hole in my middle. And while I tried to plug it up, it lodged its engorged self onto my awkward inner joint. Such an exacerbated pattern. And imagination. Of course I can’t rightly picture what it is after the ages I’ve lost staring into its murkily buffered edges. It still eggs on the travel of bloodshot up to my eyes.
As a child, I began to gain a consciousness of the damage it caused me and the restraint it held over my gaining of friends and developing of relationships. This imperfection became my source of so much malice and disgust, even at such a young age. Out of desperation and innocent ignorance I took a Magic Eraser to it. Diligently forcing the gray putty against the saturated blush. I truly believed the enchanted matter would eventually make it disappear, but it would only get more and more irritated. I lost a lot of childhood finding it still there. After my discovery of the purpose of household items, I remember dousing the tainted skin in bleach. I couldn’t vacate the consequences for more than a month after. I only kid myself now in saying that didn’t magnify its permanence or that the repercussions weren’t felt for much longer.
For years, I wore only sleeves long enough to shade it. If a situation arose where I absolutely needed to expose the sickening thing, I carried gigantic medical bandages always in tow. In the locker room before gym, I would shove my arm into the safety of the dark metal casing and eerily check for onlookers. Then would shortly emerge with a detectably renewed ego. Except for the interruption of a section of faux flesh, my newly unmarred appendage would come up for air; if but briefly. It was easier to excuse a bandage then suffer the looks of horror caused by my grotesque disfigurement. I relished in the wearing of sweatshirts, even in the heat. Developed a sort of affinity for it. It helped and hurt me when puberty struck. My insulters may have found less reason with my body all covered, but my self-esteem floundered constantly with my un-honed technique. I played a strong mental tug-of-war that I consistently lost. And always, the scar itched. Not a physical ache with need to be scratched. But rather the cruel tarnish branded my psyche with its presence. It became the constant reminder that the life I wanted wasn’t mine to have, could never have. I stood disfigured, blemished, flawed: exempt from the game. So I traced the sidelines with silent and unseen footfalls. Blotted out in shadow where the mark of a brute, and I, could not be recognized.
Time stretched away from me there.
I fantasize its sudden leap off my arm, to rid me of self-disgust and future embarrassment. If I ever give anyone the chance to see it, I seem to always be asked how I got it. I mean I too would be curious if such a vulgarity appeared elsewhere. I usually lie, giving a nobler or more humorous story. Like a fisherman would. I can remember more than I want to on how it came to be. So I push the inquiries away with personable untruths and the constant presence of cloth sheathing. Beneath the wretched material and mid my false retellings I feel it burning. I also feel the burn of the others as if they are being reenacted over again.

The Redheaded Adopted Child of the Alphabet

You come home from school and it is lurking inside your backpack. You walk through an intersection only to have it glaring at you. It warns you of wayward animals jumping across the street. The letter X is everywhere it seems; but why? What function does it serve in all reality? Other than having a cool sounding name and an easy symbol for kindergarteners to draw, what good does it do the hard working people who have to deal with this nuisance of a letter?

To be blunt, the letter X is in the middle of an identity crisis. He doesn’t quite know what to do and where to go. He has no clue what sound to make or when he is needed. He is desperate to try to fit in with the end of the alphabet so he throws himself into xylophone. Sure, Z was nice enough to share a few of his words but why should one letter have to suffer for another’s confusion? It just isn’t fair to let X make any sounds he wants just for him to have a useful role in the grand scheme of the alphabet. Even when X isn’t stealing sounds from more responsible letters, he is unable to do a job by himself. If he was a real letter, one with confidence and some backbone, the word exit would simply be spelt xit. But no! it seems he can’t even do that simple job for himself.

It’s not like X is marking new territory. He doesn’t even make a sound that is uniquely his own; that none can copy without the help of the original. Unless this useless annoyance in the alphabet shapes up, I fear the other letters will have no choice but to replace him with new combinations of letters. Exit will become egzit. Xylophone will finally be spelled how it was meant to – zylophone. You may be thinking to yourself Oh come on, that’ll never happen. Well, you, my friend, have been hiding under a rock for the last couple of centuries. The letter X has already began to withdraw its presence from our language. The word escape was not always spelled that way; in fact, it originally was spelled excape. X has a long history, longer than any of us know, of letting down those people who put their faith in this lazy, inept, and completely useless letter.

But not all is bleak in this underdog’s future. With the laziness of mankind, a new source of hope springs for this hapless figure. The new frontier of abbreviation gives new light to this almost lost letter. X has found new refuge in such words as Xing, Xfer, and X-mas. It has evened paired up with the infamous O to send warm wishes in the form of hugs and kisses. It is in these uncharacteristic uses of letters that X has found its last bastion of safety from complete annihilation. It may appear that X has finally found his work ethic and has learned from his mistakes . . . and that is what he wants you to think. He is, an all reality, up to his same old tricks. The same laziness that got himself into this mess to begin with. He is still just taking other letters’ hard earned sounds and combinations and making them his own. X is merely looking for a quick fix to a complicated solution. If he continues in his ways, the alphabet may regret their adoption of this redheaded orphan and send him packing onto the streets, destroying his influence, and in essence, making him cease to egzist.

Why Fringes off Notebook Paper Lose their Dignity

They are bound together, the 8 1/2 by 11 inch sheet and the fringes, united by the simple fact that they are enclosed between cardboard and a plastic cover strung together by spiral binding. Upon first observation it would appear the rectangular sheet and fringes are counterparts sewn together, the scars of which lay prostrate on the white surface known as the perforated edge. Though bonded through the literal microfibers of a once living tree, the responsibility and fate of the paper and fringes drastically differ. Every time the rectangular paper is torn from the notebook the fringes trail, grasping the paper only to be viciously separated from their rectangular counterpart and then disposed of in a miasma of recycled paper. The demise occurs in the brief act of removing both paper and fringes from the spiral binding. The fringes, like an infant removed too early from the womb, cannot survive without their original source of strength. Contrary to the fringes, once removed from its original source of strength and support, the rectangular paper flourishes and is often complemented with other paper of it kind and then accessorized by a shiny staple or paper clip.

Ultimately, the fringes serve a superior purpose making the paper simply subservient. First, the fringes have an aesthetic quality unknown to the geometrically confined rectangular paper by beautifully contrasting the silver spiral binding with their white body. The entwinement of spiral binding and fringe create a rhythmic flow as the binding enters the punched hole of the fringe and exits in tact only to repeat the process. However, the true reason fringes are superior to the paper lies in the responsibility each takes. The fringes act as a support attaching the paper to the spiral binding; they are the keystone of the relationship between paper and binding. Without these delicate yet durable fringes chaos would prevail as the paper would disperses in all directions away from the binding subject to the mercy of the wind or external sources. The fringes do not take their responsibility lightly and grasp onto the paper while entwining itself with the spiral binding.

The loss of dignity of fringes begins with the act of removing both paper and fringe from the binding. The fringes become broken, limbs strangely projecting where the binding met. They no longer have the shape to perform their responsibility therefore existing without purpose and meaning. The rectangular paper is best described as a parasite that once gripped selfishly onto the fringes for support but in the end destroys its host by breaking the shape, form, and dignity. The fringes were once the support of the rectangular paper but the paper is now the support of entire ideas written upon its whitewashed surface. The value of these ideas gives responsibility to the paper far greater than the responsibility of the fringes to provide support. Once removed from the paper and binding, the fringes lay naked, broken, and slightly shriveled - destined to be thrown in the trash while their honorable responsibility and notability are forgotten.

Short Essay Draft

Jeans vs Genes

Since the time of Levi Strauss the human race has been involved in a war. They either study genes in their work or wear jeans to work in but the question is what are jeans/genes anyway? Well, they are homonyms: two words that sound the same but have different spellings. Ironically these two words both describe the way people are seen outwardly and judged in society today. Jeans come in many different shapes and sizes. There are many variations, for example: boot cut, flair, skinny, boyfriend, etc. In society we use these things that cover our legs to define us. If you wear tight jeans you are a punk, if you wear baggy jeans you are a gangster and so forth. But are our jeans really what make us who we are? No, our genes do. They biologically dictate the people that we are. They determine if we have brown hair, blues eyes, and that big nose your great aunt had. They carry our pattern of life that has been  passed down through out time. Genes are what physically make us, us. However we get so caught up in how we look on the outside that often times we let jeans instead of genes define who we are.

Personally I own seven pairs of jeans. If I wanted to I could be a new person everyday of the week. It all depends on what jeans I wear. Of course, that would be a lot of work; trying to be me, but everyone else at the same time. Luckily I really don’t care what other people think and it’s because of this I can wear what ever sort of jeans I want. However, with out many painful surgeries I couldn’t change my face, my body type or my medical history. Fortunately that is something I currently do not have to work on. I’m small, attractive, and to my knowledge my family has no record of heart disease. I have my Dad’s eyes and blunt attitude and my mom’s tininess. I look exactly like my parents but I am technically not their child.

 

When I was seven months I was legally adopted by Ann and Russ Hansen. Therefore, I have never met the people whose genes I have.  To me they are just my biological parents. So according to science and many other theorist who am I? I am a person who doesn’t know my own identity. According to the theories of many men we are who our parents are. There is no getting around it and no avoiding it. It’s my innate sense to be the people they were I have their genes. Right? However, you are like the people you surround yourself with or the people you spend the most time with. Therefore, I have to be like my real mother and father because I have spent my whole life with them. So who I am now? Am I my real parents or my biological parents?

I am 5 feet 5 inches; I love running, reading, and eating. I am friendly and easy to get along with. I am a lacrosse player and a good student. I am no stereotype or a product of anything I personally haven’t done. Everything I have done in my life, the things I have done right, and the things I have done wrong make me the person I am. So which set of jeans/genes is it that makes me that person? I believe that nothing so little can define who I am. No genetic code formulated by people I have never met or nothing blue or long. No, the things I have done the people, I have met, and things I have yet to accomplish are what make me, me.

Short Personal Essay

I’m laying in the grass outside. I can feel little legs climbing over the hairs on the back of my arm. Ants don’t bug me so I let them have free roam when they wander onto my body.  No other bug gets that kind of clearance based on their reputation alone.  Ants are the coolest things in the world. I love the structure and purpose of an ant. They know what they are doing, they know why they are alive and they are good at what they do. They need no college education, no weight training, no special seminars. I always wanted an ant hill that I could grow myself and help to become successful. To make a vanilla hive that would have no problems. In science they call a subject or a control group “vanilla” when it is pure and has had no alterations. Then I could run experiments on the hive and see how different variables play out. I would have cameras set up all around the ant hill to see exactly what is going on. You could paint one ant with a black light dye and follow him for the whole day. Ants are lucky because they can have a home in the dark unused corners of the world. There is always enough space for an ant. No one has set up a system so ants have to pay mortgages their whole lives. 

Bees are a close cousin to the ant, or at least in my mind.  They are like ants with wings. The cool thing about bees is they make honey and honey is good on toast. Only if it is wheat toast straight from the toaster with butter melted half way through it and the honey melting on top of that.

The spider is an other interesting member of this bug world. Well, spiders aren't bugs their arachnids, but they are small and intriguing and therefore here in this essay. They are the lone wolves of the little people world. I love to watch them hunt. It would be cool to hunt people like that, with a paintball gun.  There is a spider on my balcony that I watch every morning while I am eating breakfast. They are so patient.  I know he hasn’t caught anything in three days and I almost feel guilty eating in front of him. There are little wispy webs all over that have lost their stick and today they cannot catch anything. Some of them have wrapped around themselves and they look like little faeries caught in gossamer. He goes from space between bar to space between bar like a fisherman trying a new hole. Spiders move with fluidity and poise that I think is due in part to the mechanism of their motion. Spiders have no muscles, but instead move through hydraulic pressure. When I see spiders, in my mind Mowgli speaks “I fear you Many Legs for you are one of the poison people, but I understand you and you will not hurt me. Good hunting all who keep the jungle law!”

Blake Stanger

Short Essay Draft

There and Back Again

            First week of college.  Have to look cute.  Don’t you?  My white graphic tee and blue jeans went well together but were just Plain Jane.  I stood in front of the mirror with two different shoes on and alternately lifted one foot to view the affect of the outfit.  A white tennis shoe flat with a  bow or  brand new gray flats with ruffles on the toe? 

The white shoes would be more comfortable to walk in all day, but the gray ones topped the outfit off perfectly.  After asking for a few opinions, the gray shoes got to take their first adventure out into the world. 

            I knew my feet weren’t going to hold up after the first twenty minutes of walking on the college campus.  During each class those shoes came off, sat on the floor, and were grudgingly put back on to shuffle to the next destination. The poor shoes had to have the back flattened because my achilles were suffering too much.  By the end of the day there were shiny blisters and cherry red sores decorating my trotters.

            Flats are so fun and can be worn with almost anything.  I love pairing them with the perfect skinny jeans.  Printed or embellished flats are my favorite; they just make the outfit pop.  If they are too tight it’s extremely bad news and I become the Grouch from Sesame Street.

My absolute favorite kind of shoes are high heels.  For one they make me look taller, but they also force my legs into a permanently flexed position so they look nice and firm.  Heels can be flirty, all business, or positively fierce.  Even though they can make you look sexy, they can be downright dangerous.  In high school one day I was wearing one of my favorite pair of  heels.  Black and shiny with a pointed toe and pencil thin heel, they made me look good.  The bell rang, and trying not to be late, I quickened my pace while retaining my strut.  I started down a short flight of stairs and the heel of my shoes caught the very first step.  Yes, it really happened.  I hit the floor at the bottom and my books flew from my bag, every last one of them.  It’s one of those scenes that you think only happens on television.  False.

            I found out the hard way that heels aren’t made for speed walking.  You can try in flip flops but those get flat-tired way too easily and don’t always stay on your feet.  You might as well give up on the too fancy shoes or too casual shoes because in the end tennis shoes will win over in this category.

            When you’re planning long walking days tennis shoes are certainly the way to go.  I had to wear the same pair of flip flops for a few days in Spain this year because the rest of my shoes were a few hundred miles away.  It was the worst.  My feet were exceedingly achy and swollen.  Every night at the hotel I had to stick my pregnant-woman-ish feet into a cold bath.  It was the only way to soothe them after a long day of trekking through Madrid.  I broke down and got a pair of  sneakers.  They were soft and the soles were thin enough to feel the textured streets.  My little tenny runners were the best purchase I made that trip.

            Shoes are one of my fashion passions because they don’t make me feel bad about myself.  I could try on shoes all day and be incandescently happy.  I love them because they don’t mess up your hair when you pull them on and off.  Shoes don’t make you look fat or make you jump and wiggle to get them on.  Shoes can make you feel and look amazing if you know when and where to wear them. 

  

Short Essay Draft

Bees
I couldn’t will myself to get out of the truck. Stacks of pure white boxes stared at me, concealing the terror that waited inside. My lungs expanded, filling with new, fresh oxygen. With a burst of courage, I emerged from the truck into the heat of the day. Covered from head to toe I trekked to the loads of horror. With one more major breath, I lifted the lid. Out swarmed an army of bees. Hundreds of little soldiers, searching for the culprit who caused their disturbance. With a puff of smoke from my smoker, they calm and return to work. And I too, return to my work. Replaying this pattern of rage and calm over and over until the sky filled with tiny, buzzing soldiers. I go about my work and for a few minutes forget that I am engulfed by the swarm. But quickly, the throbbing pain in my leg whips me back to reality. The stinger is removed and I’m left with the annoying stinging pain for the next few minutes.
But what is the bee left with? Death. What a curious phenomenon. A bee spends her whole life serving her queen. From the moment she is able to, she begins to search for ways to help her queen, and her family. She flies from field to field, from flower to flower, searching for pollen. Back in the hive, she works tirelessly to turn her findings into honey. Honey for her hive to eat. Honey, more importantly, for her queen to eat. She eats herself, and then goes right back out to the field and begins her search yet again. Oh the life of a bee; creating food, eating, creating food, eating. Ultimately, the bee is fully devoted to her queen. She does nothing, except if it benefits her leader. And that’s her life, day after day. Week after week. But then, something comes along and interrupts her routine. I come along and disturb her hive. I come along and endanger her queen. So she swarms. She flies around and around my head, warning me of getting too close. I get annoyed with her persistence and continually knock her away. Thinking maybe she’ll give up her fight if I launch her far enough away. But of course she doesn’t give up. This is her hive, her family, and her queen. And I’m overstepping her boundaries. Finally I go too far for her comfort, and she has to do something. So she digs her stinger into my leg.
For a moment, her defense works. I yell in pain as the sting becomes deeper and more intense. She flies victorious, for she has defeated her enemy. I can no longer intrude upon her hive. But then, after a few short minutes, she is dead. And I am free to go back to my work in her hive. After all the hard work and dedication she put into that hive for her queen, she is gone. Her act of defense would be her final act, the end of her life. And I caused that. I was the disturbance that forced that little bee to act so courageously. I wonder if she knew that by stinging me to protect her queen, she would in turn giver her own life. That knowledge wouldn’t have made a difference; the end result would have been the same.

Short Essay Draft

Cinnamon

There is nothing quite like the enticing aroma of a fresh baked cinnamon roll hot out of the oven. It is so tantalizing to the senses, my mouth starts salivating. I can’t wait to get my hands on one. The anticipation of escalates as I put the best looking cinnamon roll onto my plate. I drench it in frosting. The gooier the cinnamon roll, the better. I savor every single bite of the cinnamon roll melting in my mouth. I can almost feel the fat attaching to my thighs with each bite I take. It’s so full of flavor and delicious to the taste, I can’t stop myself from eating every last bit. Without pausing to think about it, I clean the remnants off my plate.
There is only one place to get the best cinnamon roll. That place is Cinnabon. No one comes close to duplicating the extraordinary cinnamon rolls they have there. There used to be a Cinnabon in the University Mall, but for some reason, it shut down. I find it hard to believe it was struggling with business. There is, however, a Cinnabon in Vancouver, WA, where I am from. When my husband and I went to Washington on vacation, we ate Cinnabon for two different meals. Not exactly healthy, but it makes a great subsitute. All I have to do is walk by that place and smell the cinnamon rolls and the next thing I know I am in the store ordering. The closest Cinnabon I know also have Cinnabons in Salt Lake City International Airport. Every time anyone in my family takes a trip, the first thing they are asked when they arrive home is if they brought home Cinnabon. Sadly, when we returned from Vancouver, the Cinnabon was closed, so we couldn’t get any to go.
What is the secret ingredient that makes the cinnamon roll so irresistible? The cinnamon, of course. Cinnamon is an amazing little powdery spice. Mix it with sugar or even use it without and you have a wide array desserts you can make. You can bake it into bread. You can mix it into the eggs for your french toast. Cover a hot, greasy scone in it. Put it on waffles or pancakes, crepes or toast. Add a little sprinkle to hot chocolate, even put it on ice cream. Oatmeal cookies, snickerdoodles, cinnamon swirl cake, coffee cake, the uses are simply endless. I even add cinnamon to frosting sometimes and put it on graham crackers. A lot of cereal companies are catching on; they have discovered cinnamon is a welcome addition to their basic product. Cinnamon is definitely a welcome addition to me. Oh how I love cinnamon.
Texas Roadhouse is another place they have come up with a brilliant use for cinnamon. They have added it their butter. The cinnamon butter is such a treat, you don’t even need to order dessert. It is the perfect compliment to your meal, and it is just sweet enough that dessert becomes unnecessary. Whoever suggested whipping cinnamon into their butter was a genius. It is one of the many things that draw people in to that place, or maybe specifically me.
There is only one thing that someone can do to ruin a cinnamon dessert and that is to add something to it. Specifically, raisins are often added. Somehow people think that cinnamon and raisins go together like pen and paper. I say they are wrong. They are much better separate. I won’t eat a cinnamon roll with raisins. It is now ruined. It is best to go with the wonderful, yet simple flavor of cinnamon and leave it alone. Cinnamon doesn’t need any extra additions. It doesn’t need to be tampered with. Cinnamon is a perfect spice all by itself.

Week 3 Prompts

A. Read your short essay out loud to a person not in our class. Give that person a copy of your essay so that he or she can follow along and mark what seems awkward or needs improvement. Make the necessary changes and note them in your journal. Write 300 words on how this activity helped you, what you learned, and how it could help others.

B. Choose two or three grammatical errors that you struggle with from the PH or punctuation packet. Edit your short essay looking specifically for those errors. Write the original sentence; then rewrite the corrected sentence. You must have at least six corrected sentences. On the blog, include both the original and the corrected sentence. Then, reflect on what you learned, how this revising strategy helped you, and how it might help others.

C. Attend the English Department Reading Series at noon Friday (or watch a recorded reading on the English Reading Series website). Write a summary of the reading and reflect on how listening to others’ work could help you improve your own writing.

Prompt C

Preferred Rules of English

Write not of frivolous things or things which cannot be interpreted. Use not the language of poets in thy expression of thy inner emotions. Write simply the message you wish to convey and nothing more. For tis wasteful of time to read and interpret the ideas of ideas that are not of thy own making.

Further more, do not interpret past the meaning of your understanding of the author. For tis bad form to delve too deep into the meaning of the piece without the consent of said author. For who are we to inject meaning that was never meant?

Do not ask of others to interpret to deeply the thoughts and feelings of others. For everyone has different thoughts and opinions on the works of others and it be the sole opinion of said persons, and if they wish not to express those opinions it shall be their place to hold them. Also, the persons asked to express those opinions may feel foolish when forced to interpret too deeply, and thats no good to anyone.


Preferred Rules of the Roommate

Leave not thy shoes upon the middle of the floor. For tis bad in the favor of thy roommates. Leave them there not upon Monday, nor Tuesday, nor Wednesday, nor Thursday, nor Friday, nor Saturday, nor Sunday, nor any day.

Be generous with thy food stuffs at all times. For under this roof shall the golden rule be applied. For I, as others, will also be generous with our foodstuffs as well, for the benefit of all.

Be not annoying unto those around you. How will one know, you ask? If one these phrases is uttered unto you then shall ye know if thy actions hath offended another. "Get thee out of here", "What is thy problem, pray tell?", "What the junk was that about?", or "Just who do thee thinkest thou art?"

For these things shalt thou follow even unto the end of thy freshman year. Even can one continue to use these rules past that time, even unto the end of time. Or until thou commence thy sophomore year. For tis for the benefit of all that the fulfillment of these things be carried though. For when these lamentations be carried though then shall we see happiness and prosperity flow throughout the land of Shane.

Week 2, Prompt C

In the kitchen, where the food sleeps dormant, you shall leave them be, you greedy little room mate. When you shall see the letters "JM" branded by that permanent black ink, the sort of ink that seeps into the very molecule structure of the plastic label, you shall not touch. Instead, you shall refrain any of your riotous living and end your thieving ways. The rules are very simple to follow, do not touch any food in the fridge, young one . . . or you will be punished. The sausage in the freezer is also off limits - do not ask for they are not yours. The soup in the closet above the fridge is also off limits, as are the chips. Do not ask for I will not answer you again. When you come home from biking and see what little soda you have left for us, for us who brought the soda in the first place, stop and close the fridge for you will not take the last soda . . . not again.

Now to more pressing matters, O you eternal thorn in my side. You will cease and disist to remove objects from the premise of our limited time property that do not belong to you with out asking . . . not that I would allow you to do so. So just don't ask because the answer will always be a resounding and awe inspiring no. If you incur my wrath again, I will do more than take my objects back from your limitd stewardship. You will wake up in your bed with all your belongings being shipped to the local center for needy folk. Your desk will be gone, your computer will be gone, your piano will be gone, I would take your car, but you don't have one so I will resort to taking your bike from you and force you to walk to the center for higher learning every day.

The last grievence on my list of grievences I have against you consists of the temperature of the breathable material in our living quarters. While I am still asleep, do not bother modifying it . . . I will do it myself. While I am sleeping, talk on your phone inside your quarter of living and close the entrance so your overly loud and carrying vocal signiture. Your laugh will no longer be premitted to pierce my ears and wake me before the lunch hour begins. If you obey these rules, you will not have to incur my wrath and you will lower the ammount of suffering you would have been prone to experience. Heed my warnings well and you will not be slain.
60 Minutes

Week 2 Blog post Prompt C

Week 2 Blog post Prompt C

I know a woman who’s hair smells like the wind. She wears the most beautiful dresses. She is shy and coy and she makes you feel like you’re the only person she has ever loved, the only one she sees. That you are strong and tall and brave and that the weak broken parts in you don’t matter or show. I miss her; and my longing hangs like a lead tear in the center of my chest. When I move it bumps into a lung or my heart and I feel it more. I will only catch glimpses of her now through windows, and steal moments with her in the mornings and even then I have to make them up with extra effort, pay back my enjoyment with more time away. 

The summer will end with me in here. Even now, I’m missing an opportunity to see her, and she is wearing my favorite dress. Oh it is enough to make me cry. The snows will find me here as well and I will have missed all the colors entirely. When I see her again she will be so different but we will try and pretend that no time has passed and that nothing is different, but when we talk little things will have been forgotten, and remembering will be painful, but she will smile and say that it is alright and softly touch my face. I will cry because she is forever young and I am another year older. When I breathe, her air will feel crisp in my lungs and will bite me playfully and for a while I will bury myself in the new dress, and try to forget that I missed the last one with all its vibrant colors. 

She won’t ever ask if it is worth it, But I will.  When I see her through the windows she always smiles and never makes it too hard or painful by inviting me to come out, but I long to. I wish we could dance like we used to. I would wake up before the sun, so excited to be with her and sing her little love songs in a language all our own. On the peaks I would fill my lungs slowly and deliberately, packing all the air into them I could. I would shout long and wild to tell her that I was alive and strong. She would show me that she was impressed, even though she is much stronger, and then carry my shout with the strength of her lungs. All day I would be with her and we would share things never shared before, secrets that have no words. 

Blake Stanger

60 minutes plus time in writing lab

Prompt B: Dead Cat

Even before my day begins, I find a dead cat on my doorstep. I haven't the slightest idea how it got there. But it is. Ugly and putrid, awaiting me with grayed whiskers, matted fur, and despondent body. I don't know whether to feel sadness and loss for the happenstance or give into my peaked interest. I comply and bend over it to examine with curiosity. I laugh, hesitating when the pun hits me. But I neither have exotic eyes or persuasive tail, so I incline to inspect the carcass.
I see now it has feminine wiles and was once a mother. She has the girth of the aged and her frayed claws are well-used. Her fur has the most unusual coloring of blacks, grays, reds that lend her mystery. Maybe even majesty. Symmetrical ears at diagonals to her face with the tips sloping down to meet those ancient feelers. Whiskers that must have touched such an eclectic to have become so worn and frail. Her eyes would have taken an artist a lifetime to capture with endless jade, sapphire, ginger ridges to barely glimpse before morphing lively. A blackened half diamond nose with the smallest jowls underneath, slightly agape. They expose just the tips of her animal teeth and the edge of a rough pink tongue. She smells reminiscence of urban sewers; rancid fish; curdled milk. Looks as though she had been drug through them. Dainty, reliable paws that would have padded her every fall. Except the one that brought her to me.
I wonder why her nine lives had ended here. Why was I chosen to witness their humiliating conclusion? Was it known that I would find in her death, beauty? An aged glory that had died for my discovery. And though I do not picture myself elderly and vapid, house full of these solitary creatures, there is something innately human yet other-worldly in the animal before me. Her feline vivacity was left so I could appreciate its existence.
I bury her gratefully to the right of my jasmine plant and beneath the cover of my Bing cherry tree. She will be surrounded by earthly beauty she reminded me existed.
Time: 45 minutes
Word Count: 362

Prompt C

The Laws of Dating:

My Lamentations

Hear me oh other half of the population for it is important that you listen to my words. For I have been on many a date whether they be fun or boring. There are many things which you must do in order to become successful in dating. You can sing annoying songs from old TV commercials but not on a first date. You can talk to me about politics but not on a first date. You can talk about your favorite football team for hours but not on a first date. You can talk to me about the family that you want but definitely not on the first date. You can write me poems but do not recite them on the first  date. 

On Things that are done TO OFTEN

Oh it is great to text but not when we are on a date. It is good to talk to your girlfriends as in friends who are girls but not on a date. It is good to talk about your mother but not excessively. It is good to talk about your mission but not excessively. You can talk about other dates you have been on but not excessively. If you say you are going to call me then do, don’t say you will if you wont. You can like the Yankees but then you can’t date me. 

On Talking about Cars

Cars are great. They get me from point A to point B but other than the fact that some cars are blue and some cars are red I cannot tell the difference. I will listen to you rant on about how your Taurus could run better if it had more cylinders and so on but I will not be able to understand what you are talking about. You can ramble on about your dream car but to me it will be just another nice looking vehicle. I do not know car models other than Honda even though you may know all of them. It is very nice that you are interested in cars but I am not so please refrain from talking about cars. 

On My Randomness

I like many women, like to talk a lot and somethings you can it  take for not, but here are a few things you might want to take heed to. When I say you don’t have to buy things for me I’m lying. When I say oh its nothing, I’m lying. When I say things like that’s nice or wow, no way, I’m being sarcastic. When I say I need you right now that doesn’t mean in thirty seconds that means hey you be here. I am not high maintenance you just need to make more time for me.  And if you take anything from this piece of bantering you should learn one thing. I am always right. Even when I’m wrong I am right. Just don’t argue with me.

Note: I am not speaking for all women because we are all very different. This is about Sam Hansen and her issues with dating. These rules apply to many women but will not work with everyone

40 minutes

Prompt C: Lamentations of My Own Mother

Of the ice cream, and of the cookies, and of the cake, you may eat, but never for breakfast. Of the pizza, and of the sandwiches, and of the tacos, you may eat, but never for breakfast. Of the candy, and of the chocolate, and of the cheesecake, you may eat, but never for breakfast. Of the stir fry, and of the noodles, and of the egg rolls, you may eat, but never for breakfast. Of the spaghetti, and of the lasagna, and of the manicotti, you may eat, but never for breakfast. Of the enchiladas, and of the quesadillas, and of the burritos, you may eat, but never for breakfast. Never shall any frozen or non-frozen dessert be partaken during breakfast time, nor any dinner item. On occasion, cold pizza may be permitted if permission is granted, but no other food, other than a breakfast item, shall be allowed. Pancakes, waffles, and crepes are allowed, despite the French tradition of having them for dinner, but only for breakfast. Never shall you eat a breakfast item for lunch or for dinner.
Of the sushi, and of the fish, and of all the sea foods, you may eat, but never for breakfast. Of the beef, and of the steak, and of all the ground meats, you may eat, but never for breakfast. Of the chicken, and of the turkey, and of the pig, you may eat, but never for breakfast. You may eat bacon and sausage for breakfast, but no other meats (excluding egg).
Of the sodas, and of the milkshakes, you may drink, but never for breakfast. Of the alcohol, you may never drink.
Of the paintings, and of the pictures, and of the vases, you may look at, but never touch. Of the statues, and of the draperies, and of the carpets, you may look at, but never touch. Of the ornaments, and of the decorations, and of the china, you may look at, but never touch. Never shall you touch something so beautiful, or glass, because you will surely destroy it. You shall never touch anything that looks remotely expensive or priceless because it probably is. If something is already broken, you may touch that.
Of the sunflowers, and of the pansies, and of the roses, you may smell, but never pick. Of the daffodils, and of the germaniums, and of the lilies, you may smell, but never pick. Of the wild flowers, and of the tulips, and of the daisies, you may smell, but never pick. Of the azaleas, and of the buttercups, and of the orchids, you may smell, but never pick. Of the weeds, you may pick those.
Of the dances, and of the activities, and of the service projects, you may go to, but after you study. Of the FHEs, and of the ward activities, and of the dates, you may go to, but after you study. If you go to these events and have not studied, you will be punished. If you go to these events and pretend to have studied, you will be punished. If you go to these events and half –study, you will be punished.
Of the boys, and of the married men, and of the old men, you may speak to, but never single RMs. Of the cub scouts, and of the Young Men, and of the Bishopric, you may speak to, but never single RMs. If you meet a single RM, run away. If you become friends with a single RM, run away. If you start to date an RM, run away. If you come home engaged to an RM, I will kill you.

Kara Lohberg
40 minutes

Prompt A: Three Months Ago

There are those miracle stories you hear of women who were barren for all of the time they meant to have children—most of their lives—and then it just happened? These archetypal Sarahs and Hannahs—their stories allow a sliver of hope. We cling to those stories, even when the slivers turn yellow from over-attention and infection.

Granted, some couples hunt libraries in research, try in vitro and artificial insemination, finally give up to save for another attempt. Then one day she says, “I’ve used up 22 pregnancy tests and then had a blood test taken just to be sure. We’re having a baby—” Those are the stories we celebrate and weep over, but there are stories that never get that far—stories of people struggling to adopt for years and strange complications arising. Those stories make you weep, too.

I’m tired of writing about pregnancy as if it is the only thing that has ever happened. Since Eve, we should expect pregnancy to be a state of normalcy.

Yet. Pregnancy fascinates us: there is a life wedged inside another life, but it is not independent. To a certain point, that life is not fully real until leaving the comforts of the womb. The baby inside could still disappear at any moment—just like any life outside—but the baby inside would only have a few tentative memories, only a few shared. The first time he kicked, the beating rhythm of hiccups, when Dad finally felt him shift within Mom. The joyous weight gain. The conversation the parents had as if the baby was already with them, hearing, responsive.

But if he dies, only the parents will remember those fluttering memories, and even then they can’t tell you much about how he clenched his fists when excited or the chime of his laugh. They never saw or heard it.

This is why OB-GYNs anxiously ask in the ninth and tenth month of pregnancy, “You still feeling the baby move?”

Yes; he might stay there forever if you let him. He’s searching for alternate escape routes, I want to reply.

Our lives are woven of small moments that seem to snag and stretch. (The gold transforms back into straw. Can’t love transform the straw into gold? Could the magic happen without the interfering man, if only the couple would talk…wouldn’t the King want the girl to continue weaving gold from their abundant dry farms otherwise—why would he be satisfied by her proof only once? The moral of the story lingers on honesty, but catches in its own cleverness. Rumplestiltskin saved the girl, the spy saved the baby, and then all was well? No! She still attained her queenship falsely. That’s not good enough for me. But now I’ve really meandered into a mess.) What happens when those small moments snag, stretch, and leave gaping, unexplainable holes?

Word Count: 478
Time: 45 minutes

Prompt C

Of all the soft sweaters, and of the warm jackets you may lust after, but not purchase. Of all the hot pumps, as high as possible and bright red you may lust after, but not purchase. Of all the sparkling gowns, and of all the slick vests you may lust after, but not purchase. Of all the jeans, of all the gleaming rings, and of all the cool hats, you may lust after but not purchase. Of all the tennis shoes, waiting to make you lightning fast, you may lust after but not purchase. Of all the gorgeous blouses, and of all the charming cardigans, you may lust after but not purchase. Of all the long necklaces, made of fine pearls and of small trinkets you may lust after, but not purchase.
Of all the newest phones, and of the newest networks you may lust after, but not purchase. Of all the best video games, using the best images and the best technology you may lust after, but not purchase. Of all the largest TV's, of all the most comfortable couches, and of all the grandest houses you may lust after, but not purchase. Of all the hottest sports cars, yellow and exceptionally fast you may lust after, but not purchase. Of all the things in the world you may lust after, but not purchase. Unless on sale.

Lilly Pyle
45 minutes

Prompt B: The Last Push

Fall and Autumn are the names of this season.  The cool mornings let me know that it is on it’s way.  A few trees on the mountain have already started to change color; you have to look closely to find the reds and oranges beginning to appear.  But that is all.  The only signs that nature has given me to determine the coming of my favorite time of year.

            I will be searching for these signs.  One of my favorites is the smell.  The smell of Autumn is soothing and at the same time gives me chills out of pure excitement, knowing it is here.  It is rotten apples, dead leaves, pumpkin, cinnamon and a pinch of frigid air all mixed yet every one of them is detectable.  To myself that is.  Fall smells different to everyone.

            The mountains during the winter are white and beautiful covered in a blanket of snow.  Spring time comes and the mountains are shades of brown and green.  In the summer they are mostly browns and dead greens, having been dried out in the long summer heat; it is like they have heat exhaustion.  Fall rolls around and the trees finally begin to relax.  Their leaves turn majestic colors of red, yellow, brown, and orange. 

            The trees all over the valley then begin to shed a years worth of leaves.  The beautiful colors leap from their branches to rest on the cold, damp earth.  They cover the ground like a mosaic.  People rake them into large piles and jump into them.  The smell of fall is strong in those large piles of leaves.  Eventually the leaves are raked up and stuffed into large, ugly garbage cans.  It think that the leaves should stay in nature -- where they belong.  The process will start all over though.  It won’t be the last time I will see this happen.

            Something else that happens in the fall makes me so joyous I can hardly stand it. Dad and I share feelings on this subject: football.  The roar of a crowd is enough to get adreline dancing through my veins.  Moments of holding your breath in silence while watching the Autumn colored ball soar through the air is thrilling and frightening just waiting, watching for the reciever to clench his hands on it.  Anticipation as the last few seconds run off the clock and the opposition is in possession with 7 and Goal.  Hysteria breaks out with a winning score and the fans rush the field.  The sport unites families, friends and many strangers.  Football is amazing.

            Fall is a closing of the year.  Everything is ending and about to start over.  It is one last push before we all get to take a sigh and relax.  But fall is not the relaxing part.  We look ahead and see the light at the end of the tunnel for which we are striving to reach and attain.  Working hard (or hardly working?) and waiting for our ending to come.

 

45 min.

Prompt C: Not in the Grass

Of all the brightly colored frisbees rounded to perfection to grasp the tail of the wind you may play with, but not in the grass. Of all the high flying kites with their colors that reflect from the sun's radiant rays you may play with but not in the grass. Of all the animal skinned leather footballs finished with white laces you may play with, but not in the grass. Of all the small golf balls covered in pot marks as if from acne balanced on neon tees submerged within the ground you may play with, but not in the grass. Of all the rounded black and white checkered soccer balls you may play with, but not in the grass. Of all the inflated and cushioned volleyballs that dance off your wrists upon impact you may play with, but not in the grass. Of all the sticks with their grips and perfected pouches curved to catch the ball you may play with, but not in the grass. Of all the brown tanned mitts that hide your hand from the impact of the baseball you may play with, but not in the grass. Of all the wooden Australian boomerangs that glide upon the air drafts only to return you may play with, but not in the grass. Of all the broken in studded cleats that allow your feet to grip the topsoil and smoothly run you may play, but not in the grass. But if you include your little sister you can play any sport in the grass.

40 minutes

Prompt C: Lamentations

The golf course was created for your enjoyment, and for the enjoyment of others, but slow play is not permitted. If you insist on playing slow, do not afflict others with your rate of play. Suffer that the quicker players pass you by to avoid the wailing and gnashing of teeth of those players. You should not play an extra ball when others are waiting unless it is expedient. Neither should you make idle conversation with your party. Neither should you fail to be prepared to hit when the turn is yours. If the Marshall shall come and tell you to speed up play, you must speed up, or you shall not be permitted to play.
You must refrain from loud speaking, laughter or screaming on the golf course. You shall not distract any player while that player is hitting their shot. Do not celebrate a good shot by shouting, as this shouting could distract a player on another hole. You shall not rummage through your belongings or take clubs out of your bag while another player is getting ready to hit. Remain silent during this time.
When you drive the cart, do so in a manner that is pleasing to the persons the cart belongs to. Do not run into another cart. Do not tip over the cart. Drive at a speed that is safe for the passengers of the cart, and no quicker. Do not drive the cart into a water hazard, nor into a sand trap, nor into swamp lands. It is not pleasing to the golf course management for you to drive the cart carelessly, and you may be made to pay for your wrong doing.
If you pay to play 9 holes of golf, you must play no more than 9 holes. You are permitted to play less than 9 holes, but nothing exceeding 9. I say unto you, if you shall play more than 9 holes without paying, you shall fall into condemnation. All holes must be played in order thereof, unless you have received other instructions.
In the event that you leave a divot, you must repair the divot, lest another player's ball falls into the divot. Judge between the sand & seed mixture or the original grass to repair the divot. Likewise, see that you repair ball marks on the greens of the golf course. Leaving these ball marks can afflict another player when they are putting on the green. Therefore, it is expedient that you make the repair.
Remember, O remember, the golf course is for everyone. It is lawful for anyone to play. Therefore it is incumbent on those who play the course to make sure they leave it as they found it. Do nothing to the course that would affect the play thereof. Nor do anything on the course that does not follow the course etiquette. Nor should you make your presence known to any other player on the course. It will be pleasing to you and to others.

45 minutes

Week 2 Prompts

A. Read an essay by Brian Doyle (you can Google him or ask me for a copy). Write a 400-500 word essay on the subject of your choice using long, listy sentences.

B. Write a complete essay of no more than 500 words. Do this in a half hour. Write about one image that comes to mind, or an image that has been in mind from the past couple of days. Explore this topic for metaphorical detail and meaning. Use vivid, concrete details. If you write over 500 words, trim and cut to what is essential.

C. Read Ian Frazier’s essay “Lamentations of a Father.” (Or you can listen to him read it by visiting the English Reading Series website.) Write your own creative lamentations.

Remember to label your posts only as "Week 2" etc. Please do not label them otherwise