Garrett's Presentation

   The ideas Garrett presented on Wednesday were of the type I want to instantly stick my fingers in my ears and start repeating Lalalalalalalalala as loud as I could. I didn't want to hear a single word he said, because once the idea entered my head I would never know if, left to my own devises, I would have discovered it myself. Shame on me for being such a procrastinator and not finishing the book yet.
    The way in which Prof. Sexson gives us hints in class then waits for us to clue in is a testament of his patience as a teacher and his knowledge that discovering the hidden treasures in a piece of literature is the sweet reward for reading a 800+ page novel. I am anxious to chew on the entire Brother's K. I just hope a few of Sexson's hints are still stashed in my head somewhere.
    I know my last two blogs are only loosely tied into class topics, but I thought I'd practice writing and why squander my thoughts by not posting them.

Me Ole Brain

I find that the principle "... the notion that in order to be a good writer, one must practice. A lot. If you're not writing on a regular basis, you forget how to formulate ideas and become a sub-par writer."- Seth  Seth had learned this semester is one of the same ones I have learned. I just hadn't given it any thought until I read Seth's blog. I found it very difficult to articulate my thoughts or even come up with a thought some days. Now that it's the end of the semester I'm finally getting my Ole brain warmed up. I have chosen to revisit the anthology and the Brothers Karamazov over the summer. I have also chosen to keep blogging so I too can in the future see what I thought. Seth, I Thank you for your blog that got me thinking on the notion of practice makes better, I'm not shooting for perfection just yet. I actually would like to thank several of you for articulating so beautifully the same thoughts that I had made such a mess of in my head. After I had read one of those beautiful blogs my thoughts straightened right up, almost like therapy. So I Thank You for sharing your thoughts, they have made a difference in me.

Thesis paper topic

My topic for my paper will be that Alyosha does fit the archetypal design of the Hero.

The Crutch of Religion

I got to thinking quite the opposite as Annebelle has reflected in her blog thoughts. I realize she's still pondering, but she got me thinking. The mere thought of religious being the tool for humanity to bare sufferings is the exact ideal that I believe leads Ivan to reject religion. If religion can allow an individual to endure their sufferings by allowing god to be their strength, then doesn't that make the individual weaker for not learning to bare the weight of suffering themselves. Like Annebelle said she learns from the sufferings of others as well as her own. What do we learn? I believe we learn the strength of our sole, the strength of our heart, the strength of our morals. I have always bore the weight of my sufferings and I know without a doubt that I still do not know the limits of my strengths or the boundaries of my weaknesses. I say this because along the way I grew stronger and stronger because I taught myself by learning from my experiences. By no means does this mean I don't have a breaking point, but it means just that my breaking point is that much stronger. Ivan may see religion as a crutch, a crutch by which to weaken him, by giving him false strength through excepting the mysterious ways that god himself works. Ivan may believe If he believes in God then he is not relying on himself, he may believe he will never know his true strengths or weaknesses if he excepts the ways god works. How do you know your own strength until you've flexed your own muscles? Ivan may even see it as religions way of keeping us from knowing our own strengths, keeping us weak, to keep us relying on religion, the church, Father Z  rather than ourselves. One might say it's Ivan's ego that got him thinking these thoughts. Ivan's portrayed ego, may be Ivan simply figuring out what he thinks by saying things he's thought. Now that's a thought.

Thoughts, just as were Annebelle's.

Sparknotes

Reading the spark notes of the Brothers Karamazov is like watching the movie rather than reading the book. The director had to read the book so he could direct the movie, but the movie is never as good as the book they say. The spark note author had to read Brothers Karamazov so he could write a condensed version of it, which they say is never as good as the book. Just as the author of the Brothers Karamazov had to experience first hand before writing his greatest novels, because before his run in with the firing squad they say his novels were never as good as they were after he began to live. So that would make books the spark notes of Life.

Omelas raises a question for me

   The other day in class Prof. Sexson posed this question "Could you walk away from Omelas?" I had never heard of this piece of literature. My first thought was, What would the child choose? He should have the choice to bare the suffering or not to bare the suffering. Each person should have a choice whether they are to stay, or they are to go or to be tortured for the sake of the happiness of all others.
   What ever the child chooses I would leave Omelas.  I would have some peace of mind in knowing that the child had a choice in his role of Omelas, but I would still be disturbed knowing that people felt that one person's suffering exchanged for all the suffering in the world was just. If I think back over my "sufferings" I would not ask someone to endure a  lifetime of  anyone of them so I may never suffer again. My sufferings could never be so great or so minimal that I allow someone else to endure them. I'd rather ask to die.

A shovel full of blood

By having Annebelle tell us in graphic detail about her job as cleaner at a suicide scene, Prof. Sexson was asking us to step into her shoes.The image of a scene where there was so much blood it could fill shovels was albeit gross. As I pictured Annabelle in a hazmat suite slopping up that much blood my heart went out to her. Not for the mere gross factor of performing such physically nasty work, but for the psychological fortitude it required from Annabelle. Annabelle herself must have stepped into the shoes of every member of that family. The little blond girl who will suffer the loss of her father until she dies. The fiance who will suffer the loss of a lover and the sufferings of her daughter until her death. The father who suffered so greatly that his suffering over shadowed the suffering he was to bring about on his young child and fiance, we presumed he loved deeply. The mind is hard pressed to continue to think of such suffering, to think of such senseless suffering., but it continues. Under little encouragement my thoughts go to how this grizzly scene will now be carried inside the minds of the crime scene investigators, the coroner, the cleanup crew until the end of their lives. Not only do I feel compassion for these strangers I've never met, I can feel my heart being squeezed in my chest. Just by allowing myself to step into the shoes of someone else I am able to experience a physical response to misery that played out in another time and place. Why did my mind not stop at the image of the wet floor deep in blood? It is a much nicer image than that of the prolonged suffering of everyone that single suicide has touched, and the added thought that thousands of suicides are carried out each year. Would I rather step into the shoes of the suffering or the shoes of the naive? Part of me feels as though I have heard enough of the sufferings of others that I would be content with wearing naive shoes the remaining days of my life. At the same time I know there's something bigger and unidentifiable inside me that would not feel content with not knowing the truth in this world.

The mind of Antigone

I always resent the implication that my actions are that of a women's mind. I feel that the inner workings of my mind are based off so much more than the simple fact of being a women. I quickly became defensive, on paper that is, on behalf of Antigone when Prof Sexson said her actions could only be that of a women's.  I disagree, take her sister she is a woman and of the same family and has chosen a totally different path. Two women that share grief for the same deceased brother would be their similarities. What are their differences for them to have chosen two different paths? Perhaps she is stricken with an illness. The illness of sensuality. In other words she's passionate, her passion in this event is her relationship she had with her brother.  From reading Brother Karamazov we know that not all siblings share the illness of sensuality. Ismene could be easily free of this illness, so she could logically have choosen a different path even though she is a woman. So does this bring us to the question of whether Antigone is to Sophocle's trilogy as Dmitri is to the Brothers Karamazov? I don't know either literary piece well enough to say yes or no to that question, but I would have to argue that Antigone's actions were from that of a sensualists mind rather than that of a woman's.

I had a dream

Although this is not a dream of a early memory I think it relates to the class topic of being able to recite from memory and the significance it can have in our lives or the lives of others. Early this morning I awoke, my eyes did not open but I stirred from this irrational dream with a single thought.The thought that a single song committed to memory could have great influence on the direction an event plays out.

The opening scene of my dream was of a 3-4 lane highway, the traffic was not congested and was heading in one direction away from me. I was not in a vehicle but watching on a large projection scene from theatre seats. The audio was load and in a race announcer style a voice was repeated the same phrase about five times " Go Girl Go", he was very excited as the image of a woman arose, she was clad in protective gear, helmet and thick uniform all meant to protect against a crash. In a crouched position over the tank of the motorcycle she was flying as she passed daily commutors and flew ahead of a truck. Just as she made her move to pass another truck an unexpected vehicle traveling against traffic and in a sidewards swiping position came into sight. The announcer gasped, the audience gasped. I remained watching as the motorcycle hit the car on center. For the next several moments there was no site of the motorcycle or its rider as cars remained on there path down the highway trying to come to a halt. All of a sudden images of debris littering the roadway was becoming visible. Large pieces of the motorcycle that had been sheared by the force of the accident were scattered about. Among these pieces and about the size of them emerged quite an image. The upper portion of the the woman motorcyclist sitting erect, waving her arms in anger and yelling " Hey here I am can't you see me? Can't you see there is a woman over here? She was not distraught, but more filled with anger that the people that were running to her aid were passing her. She had not noticed that the lower half of her body from the waist down was no longer attached to her upper half. As three young theatrical women rushed up to her, she told them in an indignant tone "I can not feel my feet". They were extremely calm almost like they had done this before and what must be done in such a situation. Without a word spoken one of the young ladies reached down and opened the valve of a spout, one like you'd find on a barrel of wine. This spout was mounted on the abdomen of the the women who now found her end was near. The white wine poured freely and graciously from the spout as the three woman began singing a song that they had committed to memory. I could not tell you which song it was, but it had started out as an unfamiliar song, rather obscure and dauntingly difficult to recite. As the woman sang the song it morphed into a familiar childrens song soft and true. I remember saying in my dream "She is in the right hands with these three ladies". I remember thinking what a different death this woman would have had if the ladies had not had one song in their heads to recite as she lay there dieing.
   I have always been fascinated by people that have committed entire poems or verses to memory. I have never seen myself as the type to do the same. I suppose I found it to take a great amount of time and if I did choose to commit a single piece to memory what piece should that be? So many wonderful pieces out there. Over the past few classes the thought of me being one of those types that commits random pieces to memory is becoming more tangible. Why not? Why should I not have something fanciful stashed in my brain amongst my memory of my social security number or my memory of the address of my house as a child? 
Just sharing Heather

A Sense of Tragedy Developed

Prof. Sexson assigned us to develop the sense of tragedy by having a bad day. After my first marriage my perspective of a bad day is more than spilt coffee or missing the last bus. So to tell you of a "bad day" I had last week would be misleading of my true perspective of what constitutes tragedy.
   In the past 17 years I have experienced more tragedy in my life than I had hoped to experience. Not that anyone hopes to experience tragedy, but we expect our fair amount sometime during our life. I'm hoping this is all the gods have set aside for me. The tragedy in my life came at a young age and in my young marriage. Even though it's incredibly personal I have chosen to share it with the class. After this period of my life I tend not to have truely bad days. If my day starts to look ominous I find it doesn't last long before I am reminded of how bad it could really be. Early on in my marriage signs began to emerge on the stability of my husbands state of mind. Being young we did not realize that he was slowly going to loose control of his mind. Only in hind sight do we now know that the events through the early years of our marriage had implied severe mental illness. We worked with what little resources we had, trying to understand what was slowly happening to him, to us, hoping naively for the best. I have learned that hoping for the best is all you can do when it comes to the state of the mind. Medical professionals whether of the modern variety or ancient teachings have little control over the workings of the mind and understand it even less. Excepting that you have little control over the biggest controlling factor in your life is a hard pill to swallow. Once you the pill is no longer a lump in your throat you are forced to face the real tragedy of the situation. Through no fault of his own a young man is slowly losing his mind, his wife, his children along with all his dreams for the future. The loss is heart wrenching for anyone observing it and smothering for the person it's happening to. To clarify the severity of his mental state I will tell you that at the age of twenty seven my husband was diagnosed with schizophrenia.
   Over the next six years, as his illness worsened, his mind started to turn against me, those were bad days. The bad days started to greatly out number the good ones. This period of our lives evolved from bad days into bad times. The last few years of our marriage was rought with daily episodes. The decision to leave him came down to the safety of our two young boys and myself. After six years worth of bad days I chose a divorce.  The second tragedy of this tale is the raising of two young boys without their father. No weekend visitations, no holiday memories filled with the image of their father. It's hard for them to understand why they only receive random phone calls from the man they call dad. They will carry the implications of his illness with them their entire life.
   I know they will not lead lives without bad days, but I do hope I can teach them to not wait for tomorrow to bring something new. I hope to teach them that as long as they have control, then they are the one that needs to turn it around.
   I would like to add that I don't find I lead a tragic life, but rather through the tragedy in it I have become more grateful for the life I am leading.

Unedited

As Prof.. Sexson had mentioned in class today, he doesn't want to hear us whining about the book, rather he'd like us to speak to the content of the novel. This brought to mind the first notions I had on the literary style of this piece.
     Prior to opening the novel Brothers Karamazov either in conversation or internet searching I learned that Dostoevsky did not edit his novels. I use the word learned very loosely because this, at first ear, sounds like an literary myth. Whether this idea skewed my perspective I can not say. I'm sure I'm being super naive about the whole idea of an unedited 900 page novel, but I find I'm enjoying the notion of unfathomable brilliance on Dostoevsky's behalf it has brought to my reading. It also has allotted for me to take notice of the writing style in which the novel was written.
    As I read the first pages of the Brothers Karamazov I felt as though Fyodor Dostoevsky was rambling. As I became familiar with the personalities of each character, gave my own pronunciation to the Russian names while sorting out everyone's nicknames Dostoevsky's ramblings began to form a fascinating world. I found myself descending into my role as the reader just as Dostoevsky as Prof. Sexson has stated "descended into the well of his own creativity."  Every so often I find myself being addressed by my new title Reader, as found at the end of chapter 2 of book III, "...but I am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention so long occupied with these common menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of Smerdyakov in the course of it." Being addressed so directly as a Reader I think back to the notion that Dostoevsky did not edit his work. Could he have been so wrapped up in the creative process and so exhausted at its end that he chose not to edit? The above line from the book is only one of many lines where we find Dostoevsky speaking to the reader, telling us to take note, that what he just said will be of value later on in the course of the novel. He's also telling us he doesn't have the confidence in us as the reader to have caught on to this, that he needs to bring it to our attention. Personally I'd rather have the satisfaction of discovering the link later on in the book. However with that being said I also find that I enjoy him addressing me the reader. Again with the unedited notion clouding my vision  I see it as proof that he isn't so far down that well of creativity that he has forgotten me,  The reader. I was in his thoughts at the time of his writing, which makes me that much closer to being part of the novel. I am not so naive to think that Dostoevsky was the only writer to use this style of addressing his reader, but I do find it's where that fantastic notion pops into my thoughts as I read. Dostoevskys' habit of breaking from the story to speak to the reader is not the only aspect of this literary work that keeps bringing up the idea that he hadn't edited this work. Early on in book II  I believe in a conversation or a description of a characters personality, I can't remember exactly which and don't have the patience to go back and find it, I 'caught' Dostoevsky repeating himself. As if he had lost his train of thought during the writing process and felt he had not yet said what he had in fact already stated. Here I find myself back to that fantastic notion of Dostoevsky not editing his work and me repeating myself.
   I could not imagine this work of literature being something of an unedited version of Dostoevsky's mind. Yet, I have not googled in search of the answer to whether The Brother Karamazov is of unedited literary legend or not. I plan on enjoying this rather naive notion to the end of the novel at which time I might search for the truth.

A moment of Peace

Prof. Sexson wanted us to blog about a book that had enhanced our life.

When I was a child, a very young child of 4 or so, I had a favorite book. In to the pages of the book Goodnight Moon I often retreated. I remember the world around me would silence, my thoughts consumed by the simplest of thoughts. Where would I find the little grey mouse hiding in the story Goodnight Moon? I already knew the answer. Even though I had sat down to that very book the day before and the day before that, I would scan each detail of the pictures on each page. I would make sure the comb on the nightstand had not moved, since I last "read" the book. I would decode the events of the rabbits day by taking inventory of the mittens, hat and such. I wished my mother would sit rocking while knitting as I fell asleep. I dreamed. As I flipped the final page to close the book and have remember having a peace about me. I was deaf until I was 5yrs old, I communicated in sign language and through allot of fits, as I've been told. I don't have many memories of my behavior, although I do remember I carried a sense of frustration within me. I can't tell you any of the words on the pages of the story Goodnight Moon, but I do know that those pages allowed me to make it through each day.

Of reading and traveling

Ashley and Seth have wonderful blogs on reading and traveling. I always enjoy reading their blogs, I wish I was able to share my thoughts so smoothly. I've put together a poem that I thought expresses along the same traveling and reading theme. I guess my take on it is very simple, actions are just actions until the doer gives meaning to them. Your meaning enhances the experience you have.


Just Going

Going
And doing and doing
What a living for the bore

Going and doing
By doing a going

And going to go
By doing and going

Give no pleasures
Unless your a bore

What a life

A wonderful bore of a life

Inspired by Eaves Dropping

I was inspired to write this poem from a conversation I heard through eavesdropping. Not sure if it follows any rules, other than rhyming every other line, but I had fun.

Squandering Pulses

Last night there was allot of cherry Jello shots
In a puddle of something red I wake. Pleading
and thinking it is a puddle of blood I lay. I'm shocked,
not really, to realize I must have done some heaving.

With no memories of where I had played.
I figure I puked on Amber's lovely bed sheets.
Can't see me going to French class today,
No bother, it's already been a lovely few weeks.

Why would I write a poem of such a thing? you ask. I found it colorful.
Why would I feel the need to share it with the class? you may also ask. During a single class session Prof. Sexson  says so many things on so many levels. I find it maybe several days or many weeks before their relevance becomes clear and I have the outlet (poetry) to articulate them in a way that might make a connection with the class. So I hope you enjoy!  And Yes I promise to improve my poetry skills.

Found Peotry

Dashboard

5.50 Pays Full
Lost Fee Ticket
Pays Day
Day Ticket Fee
5.50 Lost
Pays Pays Full

I hope you enjoy this poem as much as I enjoyed the process of discovering it. I question the rythym of the poem. I would gladly except any pointers.

Chekhov vs Oates

  In class today Mr Sexson asked us to ask ourselves why we didn't like Oates' short story The Lady with the pet dog, why we preferred Chekhov's version.
  As a woman of the 21st century, independent of social standings and with financial means of my own, I see myself capable of removing myself from an unsatisfying marriage, especially if there are no kids involved. So in Chekhov's short story The Lady with the pet dog I easily fall into the story as a romanticist. The Romeo and Juliet come out in me and I am anxious for the couple to be released from their casts which socially bind them; he from his arranged marriage and her from her marriage of youth. Once a sense of forbidden love is introduced, the story easily becomes wrapped in romance. I am willing to ignore the torridness of the affair and let myself fall for the warmth of love. To watch Carol Oates' character in The Lady with the pet dog become so feeble as to be willing to take her own life before she was willing to make a decision was too much for me. I appreciated the womans point of view and the torment of emotions that Oates drug us through. But for me the implications of suicide stripped the story of any romance it might of had. There was also no mention of a difference in social status, no indication of impending social outcasting (forbidden love), so it was just an ugly, torrid affair. I had nothing to cling to. Oates stripped away the warm, fuzziness of romance and stuck me in the bitter world of love. I'm a sucker for romance. In literature any chance I get I'll ignore bitter reality. One for Chekhov.

A modern day version of Lot's Wife

    As a champaign colored suburban pulled up to the curb where I had been waiting, a smile came to my lips. My hunny was driving. He had just accompanied my two boys to the school carnival. I had just finished attending a lecture. Immediately upon opening the door a chorus of pleading, not to look at them, came from my boys in the back seat. I looked over to my man with a questioning look, he said with a smirk "Don't look back at the boys."
    "Okay, I won't look back, I'm not looking back." I said with a chuckle. They must have a surprise for me.
After driving a few blocks in the dark of the night my youngest son spoke in a low ominous voice "Mom, don't look back or you will be doomed." His exact words no lie. He is super dramatic. The word doomed hung in the air until we reached the parking lot of Famous Dave's BBQ. With fear of turning into a pilar of salt, I stepped from the rig with hands over my eyes, I announced "My eyes are closed, but may I look now?"
    "Yes, look at us, open your eyes, look at us." they yelled. They were so pleased with themselves. One had his hair dyed green and wore the face of The Joker with the help of face paint, while the other had his hair dyed red and sported an alien face oozing blood. What I was not to look back at was the apparent devastation of their appearances. I'm glad I had not looked back. That night I was grateful to be able to look across the table at their crazy hair and BBQ faces.

Lots of Spoonfuls

I've never liked the taste of stories with neatly presented lessons. They always seem too nice and tidy. Crisp white bibs starched and ironed, faces wiped clean after each bite. A stories moral when spoon fed is no lesson at all, it's exactly what it is, a spoon feeding. Have you ever seen a small child spoon fed? Their plate is clean, but you're not real sure if they enjoyed a single mouthful. Softening the imposing moral of the story places the spoon in the hand of the reader. Hand the child the spoon. Let them pick and choose what will fill them. Some days it might be peas and carrots, the next beets and asparagus. Over the years the child's pallet will grow as they collect lessons. Not until the reader has tasted the lesson can they truly appreciate the moral or for that matter the story. After a good feeding a child always wants to check into dessert options. I quickly made haste of the lessons depicted in the the story Lots' Wife, I go looking for frosted animal cookies. I wonder why the two daughter's motives for having their fathers baby changes. They first mention satisfying their own desires of having children. Thinking that no man would ever have them hidden in the earth as they are. They decide to take their fathers' seed without permission. They then become aware of how this may sound, so they become selfless and mention their father's lineage. Knowing he still would not approve, since it's not a strong argument, they take his seed without permission. The end result is the same, a baby, with their father's seed, not a problem for them. But the two paths are different, the path is what gnaws at them. Outwardly it may look like a translation hiccup of small consequence, because the end result is the same. But their was a change and it gnaws at me. They had chosen to have a child... with their father (Yuck). They just hadn't decided which path would be more acceptable. To whom are they seeking acceptance from... themselves or their fathers' god? The conflict between satisfying their fathers' god or themselves, the same conflict their mother faced. Although the choice the daughters made satisfied both, as they saw it. I don't think they learned the moral of the story from being spoon fed their mother's fate. Maybe the lesson they learned was... learn to work the system. Lessons, morals and dessert.

Snip its

My memories tend to be snip its of much larger memories, which would create a extremely short blog. So I decided to make a list.

my sister in the front yard - of a house I didn't remember living at, until my mom told me there was a house before the coul de sac house.

me entering a house, without knocking, climbing up onto a bar stool at a kitchen counter. I look out the sliding glass door at a pool, eating sugary cereal.  The sugary cereal tipped me off, my mother would never allow that in her house. So I asked her about my memory. Apparently we had two brothers living next to us, at the house I didn't remember living at. Each morning I would let myself in their front door and eat breakfast with them. I was around 4 yrs old and tagged on to the two brothers.

The next few memories took place at the coul de sac house.

I was under our car port cutting an orange with a sharp knife. I was not allowed to use sharp knives. I ended up cutting my pointer finger on the hand I was hold ing the orange with, my right hand. I know it was my right hand because I bare the scar. I am right handed, meaning I was cutting with my left less agile hand. I ran into the house, my mother in the kitchen. She told me to go out side and not drip blood on her kitchen floor. So I stood there waiting, knowing I was in trouble. Our kitchen floor had linolium flooring.

I was getting blown across the cement driveway. My dad told me to grab the aluminum ladder on the camper and hold on tight. Rain whipping me in the face. My mom hold a baby, my brother.

A treehouse, hard dirt instead of grass below, alot of kid stuff. These kids spend alot of time in this tree house.back yard. Can see their dad pull in to the drive way. I and my brother are sneaked out in a hurry. I wondered about this memory. I knew it was the kids across from us at the coul de sac house. I asked my mother about it, she told me the dad was not nice to his kids. She referred to him as That Man. I later asked my sister, she gave me more of the gritty details. She said the dad didn't feed them and hit them. She had witnessed him confronting our mom, she threatened to call the official's. My sister remembers our mom feeding those kids on a daily basis. He wanted my mom to stop feeding them. I don't like this memory, but it snaps back into my thoughts often.

Sunday school coloring sheet depicting Jesus with sheep. Our family didn't attend church while I was growing up. We attended bible school while my mother researched different religions.

Plastic inflateable easter bunnies, 3 feet tall, Pink, Yellow, Green. One in the extra bedroom on top of all the storage boxes. One out back in the yard on a stepping stone. The last I can't remember where it was placed. I've asked my mother about this memory. She does not recall ever giving us inflateable bunnies for Easter. We were not even at the coul de sac house during Easter. The Could de sac house was a temporary house while our house was being built. I still insist it happened where as my mother can not recollect.

snip its

Let's not repeat this one

Fore warned this entry is lengthy and purely from memory. I had remembered our assignment shortly after dinner. From what I gathered Sexson wanted details, so grab a snack or a glass of wine.
0130: Somewhat conscience. Listening to my oldest son, Silas, wrestle in his sleep, sniffling and nashing his teeth. He had a bad dream and insisted sleeping with mom would fend off all evil doers. I'm too hot, forgot to turn off the electric blanket, pull the covers off me.
0245: I awoke, stir Silas, ask him to return to his own bed, he asks if he was keeping me awake and apologizes. he's a sweatie when he wants to be. He's wearing blue plaid flannel pj bottoms.
0700: Antelopes...Alarm on BlackBerry goes off. Decide to sleep in. Boy's have school today, but Silas was trying to get sick and Brody, my youngest, is recovering. Figured the extra sleep couldn't hurt. Roll over and try to get back to sleep.
0803:  Beep Beep Beep the microwave goes off, someone opens it. From the sounds someone is eating reheated left over McKenzie River pizza.
0811: Still laying in bed, decide I am ready to "start" my day. slippers, robe. Find Brody, curls going each and every way in his red robe bellied up to the kitchen counter. "Hi Mom" mouth slightly full, working on his second piece of pizza with both knife and fork in hand. he's decided to heat each slice independently until he's full. Last nights dinner dishes strewn over counter.
0812: Retreat to the restroom, suns out.
0813: Head for Silas' room, he's more awake than I'd expected.
0817: Grab a torquious cereal bowl, box of Frosted Mini Wheats, spoon, then milk. return milk to fridge, start eating breakfast as I walk into living room and sit down to finish off the bowl.
0825: Done with cereal.Yell to Silas to "get ready for the day, we are already late, we need to leave this house by 0900".
0825-0910: Get dressed, pants from yesterday still cuffed from wearing snowboots day before, clean everything else. Brush teeth. Wash face with wash rag which is not a norm, usually I cleans my face in the shower the night before. Felt refreshing I suppose that's why I did it. Pulled my hair back in a pony. Lotion, ring. Said something to Brody to keep him on track, said something to Silas to get him on track. Made AWAKE tea by Tazo with sugar in the raw. Start the Yukon. Neighbors are back from being out of town. Left the dirty dishes for later tonight, but gathered them in the sink rather than scattered about the counter as the boys leave them. Grabbed my courier bag, water bottle, tea mug, BB, wallet, jacket and the boys. Feel light this morning without my laptop which went tits up last night. I'll be a week without my laptop... Aargh.
0910: Jump in the Yukon, drop the boys off at school, Hawthorne on Rouse. Head to campus via Wilson, Grant and head straight to the SB lot over by the police station. Notice a strong odor when I pull up closer to the lot.
0912: Walking, the smell of raw fuel with a light overlay of burnt something is strong. Have to hold my glove up to my nose, need to wash gloves, walk faster. Wonder. Notice none of the other walkers give any indication that the smell offends them.
0920ish: Approach Renne Library, two girls infront of me slow to allow young guy(brunette) to enter ahead of them, he then holds the door for all of us, everyone says "Thanks". Proceed directly to second floor computer lab, pass two ladies on the landing one says to the other "There's one right there". I reach the second floor take the last open computer, perfect location next to the printers, plenty of elbow room. The two ladies hover trying to locate two computers close together. Good luck it's packed. Notice a wallet, wonder if it's the guys next to me, he's wearing headphones, tap him, ask. No not his, for security on my part I tell him I'll take it to the front desk. I remember my phon's ringer is on, locate it deep in my jacket pocket, silence it. Distraunt guy walks up. "That's mine" grabs the wallet off the printer table, flips it open and shows me his I.D. "In case you don't believe me". I can barely get out " I was just about to take it to the desk". A thought crosses my mind. I hope he doesn't think I was trying to stash it in my stuff, I was in the middle of shoving my phone away when he approached. Oh well.
0930ish- 1240: I recreate two journal entries and eight rhetorical strategies short stories. When my laptop went black yesterday it entombed my writing 101 assignments that are due today. Staring at the printers. They are named Bart, Molly and ???. Nothing corrolates back to where my computer screen said I had printed to. I had to ask a girl (blonde, young, nice) that stood infront of another print. "How does this work" she explains the process in which the printers work, simple really.
1240-1400: Rush over to my Energy-Sustainability class, Reid 105, 180ish students, double that of Fall semester. Only 3/4 of students in place. Instructor Paul Gannon, seems more relaxed than prior lectures, drink in hand. He intorduces guest lecturer Eric Grimsrud, former MSU professor, developed equipment to detect/measure compounds in atmosphere.  Was apart of the Ozone layer Hole in the mid eighties. Lecture was educational entertaining. he will be presenting to the public Wed. 7pm SUB Ballroom D.
1400: Start walking towards Wilson Hall, girl in two of my classes hos on her bike, makes it 20 feet, her brake pad assymbly popped loose, I pass her. Pass acroos the paths of three smokers, cover my nose, cover my nose. Stop at the third a former class mate I go to harrass him" Thanks for the polluted air". He doesn''t hear me, he's listening to music,  on his sunglasses. Apparently they make sunglasses with built in MP3 players in the earpieces. Cordially chat " catch you later".
1405ish: Sit down in my Writing 101 class Wilson 1-122. Dread takes over. I speak with the professor HHP(Helen Huntley-Porter) regarding my computer and my attempt to recreate all my work, she's understanding but not thrilled. I can turn in my assignment in in two segments.
1525: Leave class, make arraingments to meet Trish later in the evening. trish has a leptop and external harddrive John (Boyfriend)sent with her from GreatFalls. By the way I'm too old to title my boyfriend "boyfriend". I've tried "partner" you get some wiered looks then feel compelled to use the word "he" in the conversation fairly quickly after that. "Significant other" just ends up being a mouth full and "Other half" seems emotionless. So I have a "Boyfriend" for now.
1535ish: Walking towards the SB lot where I had parked, I hit the wall of stinch I had experience earlier that morning. The smell of raw fuel mixed with burnt oil. I find it odd it still looms.
1540: Squeeze into my vehicle since a dark colored jeep ( Engineers log on the passengers seat) sqeezed into his parking space. Leave lot. Someone has plowed a path through the field adjacent from the parking lot, Hmmm.
1550: Sign the boys our of HAWKS, an afterschool program at their school. Brody has stripped off his snow pants, gym shoes and sweatshirt. I find him building a ice/snow block fort, no wonder he's sick.
1550-1630: Snack the boys (carrots, homemade choc. chip cookies), listen to stories from their day of school, gather library books, To Do list.
1630-1735: Head to Public Library to research Silas' science project (The human Diaphragm), give the boys sometime on the computers.
1735: Pull up to Montana Ale Works to retreive the laptop etc. from Trish, meet her friends, cordially chat "Nice to meet you and lets meet soon".
1740: Attempt to drop off computer to repair guy. Closed, Aargh
1745-1820: Head to Wally World, posterboard, tater-tots, chicken fingers, carrot/peas. All frozen but the poster board.
1825: Dinners in the oven, starving.
1825-1840ish: SIT DOWN, get up thermostat set to 72 degrees Farhenheit, leave it I'm cold (must be tired),Call John, get silas started on his science project, Brody plugged into the TV.
1840: Sit down for dinner, coax the last of the ketchup out of two bottles. Boys are too busy telling stories to eat.
2032: Tell Brody to turn off the water in the bath. Return to blogging my day
2042: Yell to Brody to scrub up
2115: "Are those clean socks or dirty?" " Clean" "Goodnight, I Love you" " Good night".  Silas is in bed
2118: " Mom I Love You" " Love you too Goodnight" Brody in bed
2119: "Mom" Silas yells from his bed, " I'm Done" I yell from my keyboard. Continue to Blog.
2240: STill Blogging, it's taking forever.
2241: John Calls, Crap my internet connection goes down, Loose everything I've typed in the last hour or so.
2245: Hop in Bed, call John back.
2300ish Fall to sleep.

Speaking to your audience ...Arnold Friend Style

I need to note I wrote this blog after watching the movie clips in class from Smooth Talk. For me the actors were able to bring justice to the words that the written text could not.
Her age and presence at the local hangout, her "unsure of herself" behavior, signaled to Arnold Friend that "She was the one", a young girl who was at the edge of innocence. He knew he could push her over with Smooth Talk. Arnold Friend's talk goes from seductive to creepy, then gets friendly and self conscience. It's interesting to see that she wants to be seduced, but had not imagined it to be in this manner. Friendly then creepy. She knows he's crazy, but she sticks around to find out how crazy. Why is it so hard for her to call for help? Not until she met Arnold Friend did she realize how complicated coming of age, the loss of ones innocence could be. She's riddled with confusion. His creepiness and the graphic bits of insight into what will happen aren't enough for her to turn and run. Something about him is appealing. His erratic talk, quirky mannerisms and misplaced body language provided a scene that was wrapped in psychological manipulations, no physical force was needed. He forced her to confront and wrestle with herself, this awkward stage in her life. She was scared but willing to let her innocence go, not the innocence that is associated with sex, but the one that is attached to the heart. In Arnold Friend's world this is the only way to step out of your innocence... graphic, traumatic. Arnold Friend forces her to step out of her comfortable, soft world into his sharp, abrupt, emotional world. Arnold Friend took what he wanted, not her body, but her innocence. He was able to because he knew his audience.

Disillusionment at 10 o'clock

I read this poem prior to reading the short story Where have you been, where are you going?, so i did  not make the connection. Here are my notes on the poem directly after I read it : The poem I felt was told from the perspective of someone walking through a town, an outsider. The people in their homes wearing the same white ordinary, mundane nightgowns. No individual character to show, not even a wild dream in their heads. Their thoughts too cluttered with daily tasks and lifes happenings to allow for creative thoughts and expressions. In quite contrast a drunken sailor has plenty of time and no daily grind to allow for all sorts of fantasies to enter his dreams.The average person is so caught up in life even their dreams are cluttered with "normalsy". A drunk sailor over his prime maybe the best candidate to have enough empty thought to allow for fanciful dreams. After the class discussion, i still do not see the connection between the poem and short story.

What stuck

After browsing the text of Retellings the only thing that stands out is, my lack of complete knowledge. Yes I've heard of this movie, that song and know a bit about whats in those books, but I find I don't know the full story or all the lyrics to many songs, movies or stories. My knowledge has been developed through experiences rather than reading books and watching television. I feel a bit un "bookwise", I suppose I have allot of reading to do. I look forward to Oleanna, A Tin Butteryfly, A Story of Daedalus and Icarus, the casebook on Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as well as the poetry that dimples the pages of the book.

Chatter

I was fairly young when I moved to Italy some 10 years ago, my husband at the time was a bit anti social. Sitting at a restaurant one evening he commented on how nice it was to not to be forced to listen to others conversations, chatter he called it. We were the only Americans in the place and understood very little Italian at that point. The conversations were low and beautiful, they almost sang, Italian is considered a romantic language and at that moment I could hear why. We sat without a word for sometime enjoying the serenity of such an opportunity. Recently most of my days are spent in a North facing room in the SUB on campus, amongst a large number of engineering students.  The characteristics of the room does not afford for a private conversation. Most of their conversations revolve around their studies, lots of formulas and lab talk, steady and unenergized. Their conversations overlap, flowing from one table to the next in a very rhythmical way. You can always tell when a test is coming up, the talk is more lively and urgent, the tone along with the emotions heightens. Being able to understand the language does not hamper my experience, it offers  more detail to why the change in energy. There are definitely those students who are more organized and those who are stronger academically. They always have the problems worked out and seem to be able to comfort others with brief, concise explanations.  I value the insight of such conversations as well as the mood they set.

Conception

The conception of this blog was... a bit unexpected. Upon learning of the requirement through the class syllabus, I had visions of vast amounts of time wasted on the computer. For someone of my generation "The Atari Generation", I was in 6th grade when Atari hit mainstream, blogging came across as just another way to CHAT with people, without ever making eye contact. So the question I had was "How was "chatting" going to introduce me to Literature"? Now with a little more knowledge of what a blog actually is, I am looking forward to reading each of my classmates thoughts on the assigned reading.