Mary Shelley Video...

Though Mary Shelley was a British author, I made this video for my media & tech. class and Jennifer posted hers, so I thought I'd post mine =). Hope you enjoy!

Lost... in the Funhouse

I know that there is more to John Barth's "Lost in the Funhouse" than I am perceiving, but quite frankly I found the story to be distracting, frustrating and at times confusing while I found the narrator to be pompous, overzealous and down-right egotistical. I assume that Barth's purpose in addressing his audience like child-minded idiots is because he feels superior in his literary/grammatical skills and has to share them contextually every single paragraph. I, in no way, found his "tips" helpful; they were distracting and detracting. Barth wrote a decent story which has a fairly interesting story line, but this, in my opinion, gets drowned out by his continuous paranthetical inserts which are completely unneccessary. I actually really like Barth's boldness - he wasn't afraid to add the nitty gritty sexual details that would go through an average teenage boy's mind. I found this "free-thinking" refreshing, but that's about all I found pleasant about this story.

Some of the most distracting features about "Lost in the Funhouse" is the narrators repetition, his unfinished sentences and his off-the-wall "do we really need to know this?" information.

Though I am sure I am completely underappreciating the literary genius that Barth is probably embodying in this work, I wouldn't give this story the time of day, nor would I recommend it to anyone who understands and appreciates literature for what it is.

Final

http://jcoklmcalary.blogspot.com/

Trust Me

Here are some of my notes in the direction I want my version of "Trust Me" to go:

Perspectives: John Updike’s Trust Me
- First wife
- Afraid to fly – a background story about why she is afraid to fly
- As she is sitting in the plane, her fists clenched around the arm rests, she reminisces about the day of her marriage to Harold – he is overtly controlling and disregards her feelings
- Her pleading to Harold – asking if he will take pity on her and not make her fly again.
- Details of the plane ride that wouldn’t rise.
- The thoughts of the first wife and how she never wants to feel so tried and anxious again.

My Photographical Inspirations

After my discussion with Professor Hepworth today, I wanted to share about my three favorite photojournalists who have inspired me as an aspiring artist in writing, photography and ultimately impacting the world.

My hero and favorite photojournalist is William Eugene Smith who was a photographer for Life magazine. Through his photographs, he impacted the world by altering the future for those who thought their situations were hopeless; therefore, he inevitably made the world a better place. The first photo below is my favorite photograph. The emotion expressed through this picture is amazing. The first photograph is from Smith's collection while he resided in Minimata Bay, Japan. Through his work, he exposed the malpractices of the factories in the area. These factories were dumping their excess mercury into Minimata Bay where the fish were being infected. These fish, which were the main food source for the area, were then caught and sold for the people's consumption. After consuming these fish, many people became deformed; this led to many deaths. After his story was published, many American groups had a strong reaction to the photographs and the accompanying story and donated their money and time to get the mercury factories shut down. The people of Minimata Bay never had to worry about mercury poisoning again. The second and third photographs were ones that W. Eugene Smith took on the battlefield during the war and in Spain.
Another one of my favorite photojournalists is James Nachtwey. He is also a man who wanted to make a difference with his photographs. In one of his speeches, he told the audience, "I use the formal aesthetics of photography not for their own sake, but as a tool for social awareness. I want the immediate effect of my photographs to establish a direct relationship between the viewer and the people in the picture." He spoke about the power of photography in shaping public opinion, a tool for creating change and the obligation of journalists to exploit those resources. "It's easy to be cynical about photography, to dismiss its power to create change," Nachtwey said. "But it has made a difference, against all odds, sometimes in great ways, sometimes small. As long as there are things happening in this world that cry out for change, photography will continue to be a factor in the process." Nachtwey believes that war is a turning point in history and, as a photojournalist, it is his duty to document that contemporary history. "I want my photographs to be published while the event is still taking place so that the images become part of society's daily dialogue and consequently become an element in the process of change," he said. "Ultimately, I want my pictures to become a part of our collective memory."
Steve McCurry is another one of my favorite photographers. He has my dream job: a National Geographic photographer. His portraits are beautifully exquisite and express so much emotion. He once said, "If you wait, people will forget you have the camera and the soul will drift into view." This statement proves to be so true, especially in what I've found in my portraiture-taking experiences. Anyway, I believe his photographs speak for themselves - the soul naturally drifts up.

My Poem

I Carry Your Heart - E.E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

The Sandbox

I found Edward Albee's "The Sandbox" interesting to say the least. The play is constructed like a play with voiced stage directions which is odd considering, in my experience, theatrical performances lean toward acting as "real life" rather than fictitious acting. I didn't know exactly why the characters "Mommy" and "Daddy" were named the way they were especially since it is not evident that they have children themselves. And why are they taking this poor woman out to the sandbox to die and be taken away by the melodious notes played by the musician and the muscley actor/angel of death? What is the purpose for the musician? Is he solely there to whisk Grandma away to her death? Why do Mommy and Daddy sit and wait an entire day and night for -what seems to be Mommy's mother - to die? Perhaps this is the story that is told to the children of Mommy and Daddy - to better ease their thoughts of Grandma dying. Really, I'm just confused about this play. I think there is a lot buried under the surface of this play and, if dissected, would probably reveal a lot of hidden tones and meanings hinting at life and death.

Amy Lowell

Of all the poetry I skimmed through this week, I really enjoyed Amy Lowell's. She has an amazing way of weaving her words in a cohesive, yet coded manner, making her poems some of the most enjoyable that I've experienced. Many of her poems caught my eye - but I thought I'd just share a few of them here and then delve into the meaning - whether it be right or wrong - of how I interpreted them.

We already discussed "The Letter" in class, but it truly was one of them that stuck out for me.

THE LETTER

Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper

Like draggled fly's legs,

What can you tell of the flaring moon

Through the oak leaves?

Or of my uncertain window and the bare floor

Spattered with moonlight?

Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them

Of blossoming hawthorns,

And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness

Beneath my hand.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against

The want of you;

Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,

And posting it.

And I scald alone, here, under the fire

Of the great moon.

Just like Heather, I initially thought that since Amy Lowell transcribed the poem, then she was the one feeling the way the lover in the poem feels. But it is very likely that Lowell is taking on a man's character and the poem would sound just as legitimate. I love how intimate the poem is. I know I've felt this way, and plenty of girls and guys feel the insecurity of having someone they love who isn't quite reciprocating the way that they would have hoped as well. Lowell writes, "I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, and posting it." In my depictions of the scene, I see her telling the man she loves that she's tired of writing him love notes when he either is not returning her love or she hasn't seen him in a long while. I think she's telling him that she misses him and wants to see him or she's become exhausted with their situation of no reciprocation. Either interpretation still rings true for me, I've been there - done that.

Another one of my favorite poems of Amy Lowell's is "Grotesque." This seems like such a deep poem that far expands the surface meaning of plucking a lily to wear in your hair. It encapsulates the essence of life, death, choices, fear, anguish, just emotions in general.

GROTESQUE

Why do the lilies goggle their tongues at me

When I pluck them;

And writhe and twist,

And strangle themselves against my fingers,

So that I can hardly weave the garland

For your hair?

Why do they shriek your name

And spit at me

When I would cluster them?

Must I kill them

To make them lie still,

And send you a wreath of lolling corpses

To turn putrid and soft

On your forehead

While you dance?

My thought about this poem is that it is either describing the inevitability of death or the obstinance of good. Lowell asks why the lily writhes and twists and strangles themselves against her fingers which may symbolize how people fight against the idea of death. They may abhor the idea and try and do anything in their power to avoid it. It is also interesting to note that the lily is a flower that symbolizes death. In the thought of the latter possibility of the obstinance of good, I thought that Lowell may be saying that we, as human beings, at times push away the good things in our lives. I also have experience in this - sometimes the clouds of misery follow overhead and there doesn't seem to be any alternative in making life better.

I also enjoyed Venus Transiens and just wanted to include Boticelli's depiction of the Venus.

Definitions

I decided to share some of my thoughts and connotations from the words that Professor Hepworth gave us last week.

What defines an American?
PATRIOTIC, die-hard, GLUTTONOUS, power-hungry, FREE, egotistical, CONSUMPTION, exempt from rules, DEMOCRATIC, leader, SEX-DRIVEN

What is wild?
UNCIVILIZED, boundary-less, FREE TO ROAM, free-spirited, UNBOUND BY RULES, choice

What is culture?
TRADITIONS, lifestyle, HUMANISM, society, ARTS, food, CIVILIZATION, perception, COHESION

What is nature?
HARMONIOUS, light, OUTDOORS, animals, TREES, air, ELEMENTAL, complex, SIMPLICITY

What is wilderness?
FOREST, inhabited with creatures that could potentially do harm but may not, NATURE WITH DANGEROUS ELEMENTS

Death and Murder

In light of the love holiday we celebrated this weekend, I found it appropriate that I select two readings that are morbid, sad and morose. I read Flannery O' Conner's "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and Sherwood Anderson's "Death in the Woods," both of which had their fair share of deaths. I've read "A Good Man is Hard to Find" before and I really liked it. Yea, it's gruesome and bloody, but it's an intriguing story and one I wasn't expecting.

I think one of the most interesting things about O'Conner's "A Good Man is Hard to Find" is the fact that the grandmother in the story tries to convince The Misfit that he is a good man and that he would never shoot a lady. It seems that as she continuously pleads with him, her family diminishes in droves by gender as they keep getting picked off by The Misfit's cronies back in the near-by woods. She seems more focused on saving her own life than becoming fully aware that her relatives are dying.

The most peculiar line is at the end where The Misfit, after shooting the grandmother when she offers out her hand to him, states, "She would of been a good woman... if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life." The language is cruel and it reflects the corruptness of the penitentiary escapee. The thought of the grandmother convincing The Misfit that he is a good man is ironic, especially when he claims that she would have been a good woman if someone was continuously killing her.

In Sherwood Anderson's "Death in the Woods," it was interesting to note that Old Woman Grime lived her entire life in the same way. She was never appreciated and her sole purpose was to feed the animals - including her husband and son. She started out in the German's home where she was either abused by the German's wife or was continuously backed into corners by the German who wanted to take advantage of her. The only time she received the smallest amount of kindness was from a man named Jake Grime who rescued her from the German's home.

But once married to Jake, she again became the lowly maid of the household, doing all of the chores and making sure all the animals were fed and that there was food on the table. She lived her whole life making sure that all the animals didn't go hungry and her husband and son were satisfied. When their son grew up, he treated his mother like a slave and with the least amount of respect a person can give. In her old age, her husband and son took long trips together, leaving Old Woman Grime to tend to the needs of the house and the animals. When she made the long, snowy trek into town, she decided to settle under a tree on the way back. She then momentarily worried about getting back up again, but then pushed it from her mind. She died peacefully under that tree - and she died with the same purpose she had all throughout her life: to feed the animals. In her death, the Grime dogs tore the pack off of the old woman's back and ate everything she purchased in town, fulfilling her duty one last time.

So, my reading list was a little on the dreary side this week, but it didn't make it any less enjoyable! ;)

Robert Frost

I read the collection of Robert Frost poems in Volume D of our books, and I love "The Road Not Taken"; it's one of my favorite poems and has been since I first read it. But of all the poems, I was a little disappointed to not see one of my other favorites of Robert Frost's. So, I decided to share it here.

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To know that for destruction ice

Is also great And would suffice.

The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky

I found Stephen Crane's "The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky" very typical and a little disappointing. Okay, I know that Professor Hepworth told us in class on Wednesday that the cowboy story is known to all. If you've been exposed to one cowboy story, you've been exposed to them all. I think Crane's writing style is great, but the storyline didn't have the "awesome" factor that I was anticipating.

The story was split into four parts. The first depicting the anxiety of the two love birds approaching a town which is oblivious to the fact that their "town marshall" went off to San Anton to marry a foreign woman. The pair are initially described as two seemingly "rough-on-the-edges" people: the man, masculine in his worn hands and his stance, and the woman, homely in her features, "not pretty, nor was she very young." The second portion is conveying the attitudes of the Yellow Sky folk - particularly at the local saloon. This is where we hear of the local "bad guy," Scratchy Wilson, who is the nicest man when sober but the most horrendous when drunk. And consequently, when we enter the scene he is drunk and on the war path. We also find out that our protagonist, Jack Potter (the town marshall) is the one who has to deal with Scratchy Wilson. Then, we progress on to the third section where we meet Scratchy Wilson who's as drunk as a skunk wandering around Yellow Sky. We see how inhumane Scratchy is when he pesters the poor dog who's perched himself casually on the porch of the local saloon. But, trying to rile someone or something up, he decides to stare the poor pup down and then entertain himself by shooting at it. The perfect antagonist - he made me hate him in that action alone. Then, fourthly, the conclusion of this short cowboy tale was the let down for me. The raving alcoholic is not just going to be loading his guns and waiting for his enemy at his house just to say, "Oh you're married now? Well I guess we can't have our fun and fight anymore" and then the bad guy just ride off by himself, leaving the hero the victor and not even have to work for it! No, the real ending would be something to the effect of Scratchy stealing away the town marshall's misses and tying her to the train tracks for Jack to save at the last moment. Or he would capture Jack's bride and hold her captive, only for Jack to show his sharp-shooting skills and kill/wound Scratchy to put an end to his drunken stupors.

So, I know that all stories shouldn't all go the same, but it seemed like Crane got lazy. He just wanted this to stay a short story and ended up stopping short of making it a great, epic tale. This isn't the magnificent "ride off into the sunset" story; the ending was rushed and felt more like sloppy seconds of a good Western.

"Love" Short Story

My Pilot

“More coffee Mr. Johnston?” Julia asked as she made her rounds with coffee pot in hand and menus under arm. The old man tore his attention from the people shuffling about beyond the barrier of the window pane to the cute, young waitress decked out in her homely, red work attire. He peered into his cup, “Nah Jules, I think I’m fine.” His lips curled under his grey, scruffy mustache, “Thanks though.”

She returned the smile and headed back behind the diner counter, her dark hair swaying slightly in her pulled up pony tail as she walked. “Just tell me if you need anything else, alright?”
“Sure thing Jules.” The old man’s gaze fell upon the world outside once more, allowing himself to drift back into his thoughtful silence.

Julia picked up the abandoned, almost-emptied breakfast plates from the counter, stacking them one after another on her arm. As she filled her arms with as many plates as she could manage, she pushed through the swinging doors with her back entering the kitchen area first. The cook behind the sizzling grill caught her eye in his grease-stained white wife-beater. “Oh, hey Jesse. Mel really liked his burger today.” Jesse turned, and recognizing his favorite waitress flashed a big smile. “Oh good, I made that one extra special. It’s his birthday today you know?”
“Yea I know,” Julia said giggling. “I’m the one who told you, remember?”
“Oh yea… that must have been how I remembered,” Jesse chuckled, flashing her another dimpled smile.

Julia made her way back to the sinks and piled the soiled dishes in a neat pile. She ran some water over them briefly so they’d be easier to clean later during the dead hours before lunch. Jesse called back to her, “So, what are you doing this weekend?”
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a guy from my class who’s been asking me to go out with him for awhile. I may do that.” As Julia reentered the kitchen area where Jesse was standing, he was turned back toward the grill scraping the stuck-on hardened grease chunks from its surface. “So, do you like him?”
“Not particularly. I like another guy, but he won’t seem to get the hint to ask me out,” Julia said playfully.
“Do I know this idiot?” Jesse said, turning slightly to read Julia’s expression.
Julia smirked. “Maybe.”
Julia pushed half way through the swinging door when Jesse said, “So, what are you doing later tonight?” Julia stopped. Her heart beat loud enough that she thought it was audible for Jesse to hear in her hesitation. Is he serious? Is he asking me out or is this just an innocent friend-to-friend question? She’d known Jesse for the last year, since she started working at the diner. The night they were introduced, she was seduced by his baby blues and his muscular-outlined arms. He was a man. He was three years older than she and she couldn’t help but have dreams about him almost every night. While in class, she couldn’t control her hand when it doodled his name with squiggly hearts around it. While all of her other friends who had jobs complained about all the work they were going to have to do, Julia couldn’t help but be excited that she’d get to see Jesse for a few more hours. She’d been waiting for him to ask her out for almost a year, but decided he probably didn’t like her in “that” way if he hadn’t made a move yet. She’d accepted this, but her crush didn’t halt. She still got butterflies every time their hands brushed and she couldn’t help but return his flirtatious smiles.
“Uh, I don’t have any plans.”
“Well, I get done crop dustin’ around 6, so how bout I pick you up about seven?”
Flabbergasted, Julia stuttered, “uh, ukay.” She smiled dumbfounded.
Another smile stretched across Jesse’s face as he nodded his head slightly. “Okay.” He turned back to his grill and pulled down the last late breakfast ticket. Julia slipped out the door and couldn’t help curling into the curvature behind the counter, out of sight of Jesse but fully in view to the few restaurant customers still sipping the remainder of their coffee; she squealed quietly with glee and couldn’t help but jump up and down a few times. She knew that she and Jesse would be perfect for each other, if only they were given the opportunity. And this was that opportunity! Seven o’clock. She peered up at the large clock on the opposite wall. Only eight more hours and twenty-eight minutes to go.

A few hours passed before Chuck, the over-sized, middle-aged cook who needed no help from the fryer to be greasy, took over for Jesse. This was the norm for Saturdays. Jesse always took off around one so he could do the crop dusting for his parents since his father had fallen ill a few months earlier. Julia always hated to see him pick up his denim jacket and pull on his light blue cap to say goodbye. But today was different; she was going to see him later tonight. As the bell jingled atop the entrance door, Jesse looked back over his shoulder to Julia who was trying to keep herself preoccupied with the bills collected from the breakfast and lunch services.
“Pick ya up at seven Jules.”
Julia looked up and waved. She smiled. “See you at seven.”
The hours seemed to pass slower than usual. The clock ticked the seconds away as if they were hours in themselves. Usually so light on her feet and at ease when taking food orders, Julia was unusually flustered and her hand couldn’t help but tremble when she put pen to paper or handed out hot food plates. She even overfilled a water glass because her thoughts were flying in every which direction instead of the task at hand. Finally, five o’clock came. Hurriedly, she put on her navy blue jacket and picked up her brown handbag from the back room.
“See ya later Jules!” Chuck called from the kitchen.
“See ya Chuck.”

Julia pushed through the door, marking her exit by the jingling bells atop the door. The sun was just setting behind the hill, giving off a soft yellow hue. Julia breathed in a deep breath and exhaled in an audible sigh. This was the day she’d been waiting for for the last year. She couldn’t believe he’d finally asked her out. With the thought of Jesse’s cute smirk in mind, she smiled a little and set off in the direction of the bus stop.
After a block of walking, she sat down on the little brown bench. Her mind kept wandering. What am I going to wear? What if he doesn’t like me and he just wants to hang out as friends? Will he kiss me tonight? As the bus pulled up, she was surprised considering it seemed like she spent less time sitting there than she usually had to. She boarded the bus and put her few coins into the slot.

“Ev’nin’ Jules.”
Julia glanced at the familiar face. “Oh, good evening Maury. How’s the shift tonight?”
“Oh, same ol’ same ol’.”
Julia made her way back to her usual seat, seeing that all the usual suspects were seated in their normal spots as well. She peered out the window to discourage any small talk with the other passengers. She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to think. About Jesse. The ten minute ride home seemed short too. As the bus lurched, she was called to attention by the bus driver. “Hey Jules, it’s yer stop.”
Taking a moment to gather her things, Julia exited the bus and entered the moderately lit house. Her father must still be asleep. As she turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, she tip-toed into the quiet house making sure to avoid stepping on the third, ninth and twelfth steps up the stairs, those being the ones that creaked loudest. She took her jacket off and put it and her bag on the floor in the hall outside the bathroom. She peered into the mirror to see her hair a little disheveled and her outfit merely subpar with the addition of the ketchup stain on the bottom half of her homely checkered apron. She thought aloud, “Why would he ask me out when there are so many other girls he could go out with? I look like a mess.” She got closer to the mirror and inspected the small imperfections on her face. She let out a discontented “Hm” and turned the hot water knob. She cupped the water in her hands and bowed her head to splash the warm water on her face. After patting her face dry, she looked back in the mirror. “Better,” she said in a mediocre tone.

Julia headed towards her room. She looked down at her watch. Five forty-five. “Alright, I’ve got time,” she said softly to herself. She sifted through her closet. There was only one outfit fit for the night with the man she’d only dreamed of going on a date with for the past year. She pulled the cotton red dress from the hanger. She fingered the soft texture and laid it on the bed. Julia pulled her worn work outfit over her head and dropped it on the floor. She unzipped the back of the never-been-worn, bought-just-for-a-special-occasion dress and slipped her arms into the arm holes. The dress fit more perfect than any other item of clothing she owned. She zipped the back and pushed out the creases.

Julia made her way back into the bathroom. She pulled out the black band that held her hair up in a ponytail and ran her fingers through a few times. She then reached into one of her drawers and retrieved her tube of lipstick, mascara and blush. She applied them sparingly, trying to maintain the naturalness of her features. She rarely wore make-up, but saw the other girls in her class put on too much, making them look more like clowns than the sex goddesses they were striving to be. After she put on the finishes touches of rouge on her cheeks, she peered at herself in the mirror. She didn’t look bad – perhaps even pretty. She stared at herself for awhile, smiling, imagining that Jesse was the one receiving that smile. She ran back to her room, it being six forty-five now, and picked up her ballet flats. She tip-toed back down the stairs, accidentally putting pressure on the ninth step which gave way to a loud “creeeeeeak.”

She stopped short to listen if her father was now stirring, but after no changes Julia crept down the remainder of the steps. She ran to the window to see if perhaps he decided to arrive a few minutes early, but there were no sign of lights so she pulled the shades back to their initial position. Her stomach let out a loud gurgle of protest. She gripped it, trying to make the roars stop. Well I don’t want that happening when I’m with him. That’s just plain embarrassing. He’s probably going to take me to eat though. She hesitated for a moment but concluded that a small snack wouldn’t hurt. After rummaging through the cabinets, she decided to settle on a cookie. She seated herself at the dining room table where she now had a clear view of the front yard. As she began nibbling at her cookie, she glanced up at the wall clock which now showed two after seven. Well, Jesse would be fashionably late.

Julia ate her cookie slowly, nibbling at every bit until she only had a few crumbs left on the table. She glanced up at the clock. Half an hour past. She began picking up the crumbs one by one with her finger. The time passed slow, even slower than it had earlier at the diner. Where is he?
After an hour past, Julia got up and began tracing the design on the linoleum with her ballet flats. As she traced, she couldn’t help but look outside to see if there were headlights in front of her house. No such luck. After the third time of tracing the span of the kitchen and dining room, she glanced back up at the clock. Fifteen til nine. Julia sat back in her chair, elbows to table and face cupped in hands. She tried not to cry, but couldn’t help herself. I can’t believe he stood me up. I guess he really wasn’t asking me out on a date. He was just messing with me. I really thought we could have had something amazing. I thought he was my one – my prince charming, perhaps even my soul mate. I’ve never felt about anybody the way I feel about Jesse. How could he have let me down? A small tear protruded from the side of her eye, falling down on the table. She noticed that in her tear there were tiny flecks of black. She moved her hand over her cheek to find a black smudge. “Oh great, now my mascara’s running.”

Julia got up and entered the bathroom next to the kitchen. She grabbed a towel and dabbed her eyes. The mirror showed a more put-together Julia than who had just come in. She took a deep breath and reentered the dining room. She sat in her chair and lay her head on her arm, facing the large clock which now read nine o’clock. She watched as each second tick, tick, ticked until she became unaware of what time it was completely. Her eyes began to droop and all remained silent until she heard a loud “Ring-Ring-Ring-Ring.”

Julia’s head shot up, looking about. “Ring-Ring-Ring-Ring.” Julia pushed her chair back and ran toward the wall-mounted phone.
“Erm, hello?”
“Jules, did you hear?”
“Hear what? What time is it?” Julia looked up at the clock. Six. In the morning.
“Jules, it’s about Jesse.”
Julia’s eyes got wide. Oh the nerve of Jesse making such a fool of her! She spent the night at her dining room table because of him! This was probably why Jodie was calling her, to tell her the whole world knew how humiliated she was going to be when they found out. “Ooh that Jesse! When I get my hands on him, I swear I’ll—”
“Jules, Jesse’s dead.”
Julia stopped. Her head felt suddenly very light and began spinning. These words stung worse than anything Jodie could have said to her. “Uh, uh, are you sure?” Julia’s feet slid beneath her as she slipped to the floor. She felt like she had no control over her movements any longer. It was a wonder that her hand kept the phone to her ear.
“Jules, I’m so sorry. I know how you felt about him. Old man Marster told me he crashed his crop duster yesterday and died from the impact.”
Julia was too overwhelmed to fathom this large hole that was now building around her heart. Tears began streaming down her face; she began letting out short gasps between her crying fits. Her head seemed like a balloon floating above her body.
“Jules are you alright?”
Julia began letting out irrational gasps. “Didn’t—stand—me up.” She let out an uncontrolled sound between a laugh, a cry and a gasp. “I—love—him—so much. I—think—‘s—my—soul mate, Jod.”
“I know sweetie.”
“’s—my—pilot. Mine.” Her arm suddenly became weak and fell to the floor with the phone in it.
She could faintly hear the distant voice. “Jules? Are you there?”
Julia stared straight in front of her, imagining Jesse’s dimpled smile. “Mine,” she said. “My pilot.”

El Ladrón de mi corazón

The matters of the heart dwell in my impregnable daydreams.

The thoughts of you unbraid my obligations

as your smile shadows my lens.

Even the simplicity of your freckled neck captures me

and the curvatures in your strong back and the creases in your kind eyes leave me in awe.

The amplitude of my vesuvian heartbeat when you speak to me

flows into the tale I wish we wove.

But, alas, I am but a mere speck of dust

evanescing into the crowd of faces who wish to be yours.

Reading List

American Literature II
Weekly Reading Assignments

Jan. 19-21
Volume C – “Animal Tales” p. 39
Volume D – Wharton “Roman Fever” p. 1019
Volume E – King “I Have a Dream” p. 2341
Jan. 26-28
Volume C – “Conjure Stories – Two Tales from Eatonville” p. 49
Volume D – Hemingway “Hills Like White Elephants” p. 1422
Feb. 2-4
Volume C – “John and Old Marster” p. 51
Volume D – Wharton “The Eyes” p. 1007
Feb. 9-11
Volume D – Robert Frost poems p. 1060-1070
Volume C – Chopin “Desiree’s Baby” p. 359
Feb. 16-18
Volume D – Anderson “Death in the Woods” p. 1076
Volume E – O’ Connor “A Good Man is Hard to Find” p. 2217
Feb. 23-25
Volume C – Amy Lowell poetry
Volume D - "Bride comes to Yellow Sky"
Mar. 2-4
Volume C – King “The Little Convent Girl” p. 203
Volume D – Cather “A Wagner Matinee” p. 1035
Mar. 9-11
Volume C – Dunbar-Nelson “Sister Josepha” p. 209
Volume D – Edward Albee - "The Sandbox"
Mar. 23-25
Volume D – Toomer “Box Seat” p. 1510
Volume E – Updike “Trust Me” p. 2453
Mar. 30- Apr. 1
Volume E – Updike “Trust Me” p. 2453
Various poetry in Volume E
Apr. 6-8
Volume D modernists
My version of Updike's "Trust Me"
"Barn Burning" William Faulkner
Worked on MagCloud
Apr. 13-15
Volume C – Gilman “Turned” p. 590
Volume D – Maltz “The Happiest Man on Earth” p. 1689
Volume E – Kingston “No Name Woman” p. 2704
Apr. 20-22
Volume C – Alcott “My Contraband” p. 652
Volume D – Odets “Waiting for Lefty” p. 1709
Volume E – Oates “Where are you going? Where have you been?” p. 2620
April 27-29
Volume C – Eaton “Leaves from Mental…” p. 777
Volume D – Faulkner “Barn Burning” p. 1464
Volume E – Allison “Don’t Tell me you Don’t know” p. 2874
May 4-6
Volume C – Watanna “A Half Caste” p. 795
Volume D – Steinbeck “The Chrysanthemums” p. 1792
Volume E – Alexie “Because my Father said he was the only Indian to see
Jimi Hendrix…” p. 3081

Volume C – Harris “Uncle Remus” p. 108
Volume D – O’Neill “The Hairy Ape” p. 1177
Volume E – Ozick “The Shawl” p. 2299
Volume E – Paley “The Expensive Moment” p. 2173
Volume E – Malamud “The Magic Barrel” p. 2018
Volume E – Olsen “Tell me a Riddle” p. 1972
Volume C – Twain “Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog” p. 58
Volume C – Twain “A True Story” p. 67
Volume E – Hinojoso-Smith “Sometimes it just Happens that Way” p. 2356
Volume E – Barth “Lost in the Funhouse” p. 2366

Self-Portraits

In each glass mirror that I see,

I glimpse a strange familiar at times unknown to me.

I decided to take the prompt as a way to explore the different emotions and feelings that I experience and express through photographs that I've taken to depict what stares back at me when I look at the mirror.

At times we all feel a sense of helpless, as if the world is just caving in us, piling one rock at a time on our shoulders. We all just need a little help sometimes, and whether we ask for it or not, our baskets are out before us displaying for the world to see that we are vulnerable and all we need is an outstretched hand and a little love to pick us back up again.
To know the joy of a child is the greatest feeling in the world. All of us, no matter what age has an inner-child either squelched and ready to break free or one that is overzealous and therefore appreciates all that is set before them. That feeling that makes us excited, stand in awe and surprises us makes life experiences inexhaustable. This is another side of my mirror which I hope always stays with me.

Curiosity is another aspect of human nature. Though war, destruction, and ugliness surround us, the beauty of love between human beings and the beauty of the world around us somehow makes the good outway the bad. With curiosity comes understanding. If we are just willing to seek the answers and willing to see the glass as half full rather than half empty, then we, even if few in numbers, can make the world a better place.

All pictures were taken by me. The first is of a beggar in Pisa, Italy. The second picture is of a small Peruvian child in Ollantaytambo, Peru. The third photograph is of a street artist in Florence, Italy.

Symbolism in "Hills like White Elephants"

After reading “Hills like White Elephants” by one of the most influential modernist writers of his time, Ernest Hemingway, it is evident that he does not give any extraneous information. Rather, he gives the reader just enough information by using symbols so that the readers can derive a deeper meaning than just what lies in the surface dialogue. Hemingway purposefully wrote this story so that emotion was implied but not overtly seen. Symbols are key in “Hills like White Elephants”; readers can derive a better understanding of what is going on between the two characters by looking at the landscape and setting on either side of the tracks, the train, the consumption of drinks, the number two, and the meaning behind the title.

In “Hills like White Elephants,” the scenery plays a major role in symbolizing the issue that isn’t verbally uncovered for the reader. Hemingway sets up a scene where an American and his girl, “Jig,” are sitting at a bar in a train station, looking at the hills in the distance. After reading the story, obviously the hills that appear like white elephants represent the protruding belly of a pregnant woman. This is symbolic because it brings the main issue to the forefront: abortion. Besides that obvious landscape characteristic, Hemingway describes the setting by narrating: “On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun… the country was brown and dry.” With these images of the scene, the reader can see how barren and dry the landscape is. Later, the other side of the train station is described when “the girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.” This description depicts a very fruitful atmosphere. The two depictions of the scenery give way to the indecision of the woman on whether she will have the abortion or not. In the description of the first side of the train tracks, the atmosphere is dry and unpromising. It describes the state of the couple’s relationship if their unplanned pregnancy results in death. Things can’t go back to the way they were, no matter how much the American says they will; their lives will always be impacted by the decision to carry out the abortion. On the other hand, the other side of the tracks seems plentiful and alive. The fields of grain could depict fertility, just as the Ebro river (or in simpler terms: water) symbolizes life. Jig is allowing her mind to wander to what it would be like to be a mother and have this child. Yet, the shadow that creeps over the peaceful scene could either represent her American boyfriend who is continually intrusive with his opposing opinion on the subject or it could represent how society would frown upon a woman who is pregnant and not married. The scene tells a great deal about the situation and tension between the American and Jig.

The coming of the train is also symbolic. Traditionally, a train goes one way. Once it comes, it goes. Symbolically, the train represents Jig’s choice. Like the coming of the train, if she decides to abort the baby, there is no turning back. The train will keep on going just as her life will keep going; but will she ever be the same? The American tries his best to make his opinion known that he and Jig’s life will be easier and go back the way it was if she just goes through with this “simple operation.” It is also interesting to see how the man reacts to the indecision of his girl when “he picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the barroom, where people waiting for the train were drinking... He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.” As the man takes both of their bags over to the tracks, he is hoping that Jig will go through with the surgery. He is still uncertain as to whether she will in fact go through with the abortion, but lets his opinion be known by taking their luggage and setting it by the tracks to be loaded on the upcoming train. He looks up the tracks, waiting for the train that is supposed to come, but does not see it. Similarly, he anticipates that Jig will listen to his suggestion but is still uncertain whether she will go through with it. When the American comes back into the barroom, he hopes that Jig has made a decision, preferably in favor of the abortion, but when he reaches her she has still not made up her mind.
The drinks that the American and Jig share are another instance of symbolism regarding Jig’s decision about the abortion. Even though it may not have been known that alcohol consumption negatively affects the fetus in the womb, Jig’s consistent drinking gives way to the thinking that she may have thrown in the towel on the possibility of having the child. For instance, the Anis del Toro is a drink that is illegal in many countries because those who gorge themselves on the drink can, and probably will, die of alcohol poisoning. Knowing this, Jig’s drinking the Anis del Toro symbolizes her thinking of the child as a separate entity, perhaps already dead. Jig’s drinking several alcoholic beverages points toward her decision to abort the baby as her American boyfriend wants.

Also, there is a recurring theme of the number “two.” For instance, the train stopped for “two” minutes, the couple drinks “dos” cervezas, they receive “two” glasses of beer, “two” felt pads and the American carries their “two” heavy bags to the other side of the train tracks. This overemphasis of the number two could inspire two different readings. The first could be that the relationship between the couple is the largest the relationship can span; they can’t include a third person into their twosome because three’s a crowd. The other way to read this is that perhaps “two” refers to Jig and her baby. Jig is still weighing the possibility of becoming a mother because she has not yet made a decision as to whether she will abort the baby or not. The overuse of two is definitely symbolic within the story.

Even Hemingway’s title is symbolic which alludes to a deeper meaning in the term “white elephants” than just scratches the surface. Even though the obvious symbol of the title “Hills like White Elephants” depicts the scenery in Spain that represents the issue of terminating the pregnancy (hence the shape of a woman’s protruding stomach), it is interesting to dig into what the title is inferring. The term “white elephants” originally was used in Indian cultures where a white elephant is “a possession unwanted by the owner but difficult to dispose of” (Dictionary). The term originally came about in an apocryphal tale about the King of Siam who would “award a disagreeable courtier a white elephant, the upkeep of which would ruin the courtier” (Dictionary). Even though these elephants were beautifully ornate and were given as great gifts, the upkeep is atrocious. Basically the cost and care for the white elephant would supersede the actual joy of receiving it. In sum, a white elephant is an unwanted gift; much like Jig’s pregnancy seems, especially to the American: like an unwanted thing.

Hemingway uses many symbols in his works. In “Hills like White Elephants,” there are a plethora of images and objects that exude an emotion or a feeling that isn’t explained in words, but rather are left for the reader to filter through and figure out for themselves. By looking at the setting, the train, the drinks, the number two, and the title itself, we as readers can find a little more meaning beyond the dialogue and into the intentions and emotions of the American and his girl.

My Genres

I love the gothic fiction genre. Short story writers such as Joyce Carol Oates, Flannery O' Connor and Shirley Jackson get my blood flowing and heart moving, making their works the true "page-turners" of literature for me. Also, works such as Bram Stoker's "Dracula," Oscar Wilde's "The Portrait of Dorian Gray" and Robert Louis Stevenson's "Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde" capture the essence of what truly makes us, as human beings, afraid. It is this emotion that intrigues me the most, because we all fear something and these works of fiction play into our emotions and hit that nerve that resides deep within us all. But of all the gothic fiction writers, there is none so skilled and masterful as the father of horror himself, Edgar Allan Poe. Some of my favorite short stories of his are "The Black Cat," "The Tell-tale Heart" and "The Masque of the Red Death."



Another genre I really enjoy is surrealism and magic realism in Spanish Literature. A few of my favorite authors that represent the best of the magic realism front are Gabriel García Márquez, Isabel Allende and Laura Esquivel. I love Gabriel García Márquez's short stories, one of my favorite being "Un Señor Muy Viejo Con Unas Alas Enormes" (A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings) and my favorite novel of his being "Crónica de una muerte anunciada" (Chronicle of a Death Foretold). But, of all the Spanish literature I have read, my favorite writer would have to be Horacio Quiroga who is the Latin American equivalent of Edgar Allan Poe. My two favorite works of his are "El almohadón de pluma" (The Feather Pillow) and "El hombre muerto" (The Dead Man).




One of my dreams is to travel the world and experience as many different cultures as I can. So, while I am monetarily impaired due to being a poor college student, a good way to get my culture fix is to read culturally rich novels. Some of my favorite novels are "Joys of Motherhood" by Buchi Emecheta, "Waiting" among many of his short stories by Ha Jin, "River Sutra" by Gita Mehta, and "A Thousand Spledid Suns" by Khaled Hosseini. But, of all the novels I've read from a different cultural perspective, "Sister of My Heart" by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni has been my favorite. It depicts the lives of two girls who live in a time period of change, but in a culture of stagnant traditional values. Really, any literature that makes you look differently at the world and gives you an opportunity to see life from another's point of view is a really eye-opening experience that is worth reading.



The last genre I enjoy is Pop fiction. If someone tells me about a great new book they read that just came out, sure I'll give it a try; and I've read quite a few good ones that way. I love reading anything Dan Brown writes like "The DaVinci Code" and "Digital Fortress." I also loved Philip Pullman's "Dark Materials" series. I've found that with a lot of pop fiction, most of the time there is some sort of romance. Some of my favorite romantic novels are "Scribbler of Dreams" by Mary E. Pearson and "Bridges of Madison County" by James Waller. But as most of you know, the most popular romantic series sweeping the nation at the moment is the "Twilight" series. And yes, I am a "Twilighter" - but to the most lenient sense of the word. No, I don't have Edward Cullen posters invading my bedroom and no, I don't have "Twilight" screensavers. I just appreciate the books as a great mixture of fantasy and romance.

So, there you have it. That's my reading style in a nut shell. =)