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

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.

Prompt C: "Exalting the Weird" (and after Kim Dana Kupperman)

One Weird Sister Looks at Another

Wyrd is bird-faced, bird-sharp with a tongue that flaps against time. She dances like a wood nymph in the night. Her long fingers grace the cheeks of those near her, but her pointed nose and icy eyes make her patients step back distressed. Tall for a woman, lithe, enticing, yet cursed, enamored especially by sailors—those with a compass, a map, a direction, a plan. She laughs at human attempts at control. Wyrd dances in a gossamer gown woven of fading flower petals and the blaze of desire. It drapes her body, distracting, until she captures you: captures those who claim she cannot touch them cannot impact them cannot, but she can. She dines on the unspoken fears and dreams of listeners. She writes the lyrics for sirens and baffles men with her ever changing shape. Her voice slides damply across the air leaving a visible trail.

She vacuums every day, suctioning up spider strands and dust that clings to the edge of the wall. Each week, she reorganizes men’s lives like her sock drawer and laughs joyfully. Slithering in her skin, she is fate, destiny inescapable even by us. Wyrd: the one we’re all named for—the oldest absorbs us all.

She dreaded babysitting us when our parents left despite practically raising us; changing diapers, teaching us to speak, enticing us to prank calls, leading us, eventually, beyond the law of time: we became the past and the future, we became active fate by collaborating together. Wyrd taught me the art of walking and waking. My first memory is of her cleaning out my ears with her long un-filed nails as my head lay cushioned in her lap. Every six weeks she ushered us into the bathroom where she trimmed our hair with dull shears. We looked in the mirror after she cleaned the small blades and left the room expecting the worst, but each time—to my relief—my hair still framed my oval face (so different from her heart-shaped one!) coquettishly. She told us how to live. When I disobeyed her, which occurred only once, she threw my handmade porcelain dolls against my bedroom wall. I forgave her to alleviate my own guilt—how could I disappoint her so much? She is a poem in process. She is tears before formulation. I wanted (want) to be her.

She was a little girl who happily introduced herself to strangers, the beautiful young woman strangers sought out, but now the whole world feels like strangers. Ageless, she never claimed childhood, resents her own youth. Wyrd is the mother of all strange phenomena: the sudden wind at night the love of two people, the gallant cause of an everyday coward. She is made of late and sleepless nights, worry for others. She’s compassion overspiced with cayenne pepper. Over-baked. She claims to harbor hate—yet anxiously prepares for neighborhood socials and long conversations. Her hate is a matter of loving too much. She insists on our nightly game of Pinochle. In the lamplight we relax, talk, compare notes, our fingers stained from frozen M&Ms, smearing the cards with artificial color.

Wyrd is the precursor and conclusion: the goddess without a temple, the gentle whisperer who nibbles lotus leaves as chewing gum. Wyrd bottle feeds those who wait upon her; they never know what nourishing poison they drink.

Word Count: 556
Time: 60 minutes plus some revisions

Supplemental Post A: 25 Ways to Avoid Actually Working While Still Bieng Semi-Productive

1. Remember—suddenly—the laundry, dishes, or dirty bathroom that weren’t so urgent before now.
2. Call your favorite aunt who can talk for hours. And needs to. Let her talk.
3. Sweep the stairs outside, under the perpetually molting Chinese elm. Think about how much you hate that tree; then reflect on how much shade it gives your car.
4. Comment on blogs. Justify this by looking at family and friends you usually allow ample living space.
5. Change your clothes four times in preparation for the day. Shower in between cleaning.
6. Take a nap. You need one.
7. Go to the library under the guise of research. Stop to acknowledge everyone you recognize.
8. Make a list of all the things you need to do. Add a few items you can already check off--just because.
9. Choose a few items from that list and be more specific.
10. Ponder your life goals. (Create life goals).
11. Go for a walk to commune with nature.
12. Go for a walk to get out.
13. Think about grocery shopping (or laundry or errands or your long list…)
14. Go grocery shopping (or do the laundry or errands or something from the long list). Check that off your list.
15. Pick up a fascinating article or book you’ve been meaning to get to all month.
16. Be daring. Be bold. Introduce yourself to the neighbors. ("Do I dare? Do I dare / disturb the universe?")
17. Review the direction for what you should be doing. If longer than a page, make notes to yourself in the margin. Call these “ideas.”
18. Notice the clutter of your desk, bedroom, kitchen, pockets—and tidy up.
19. You need music to really accomplish anything worthwhile. Skim through Jim Brickman and Jesse Cook to Bon Jovi and Rush. Be sentimental about Amy Grant and Christmas songs. Reflect on SR-71 and Dashboard Confessional. Skip Mozart today; you’re not feeling that inspired. If you can’t settle on anything, open Pandora.com. Skip the songs that don’t fit your mood (which tends to be most of them).
20. Appreciate the hard labor you demand of your body. Get up and stretch.
21. Check your phone for text messages. Or voicemail. Or anything. Maybe send one.
22. Look again at the requirements of the project you should be doing. Scratch out an outline on the spare newspaper in front of you. Realize that the image on the front page could really supplement your argument or theme. Consider ways to incorporate it and call this “research.”
23. Look at the clock. Panic. Try to gain control of yourself.
24. Decide you have too many other pressing responsibilities.
25. Revel in an activity of your choice. Don’t think about your assignment.

Word Count: 461
Time: 40 minutes

P.S. I don't recommend avoiding your assignments!