First Person
Despite our best efforts to live in the realm of sanity, we still choose to live in the heat of Phoenix. The only difference between day and night is that you can't tan as well during the night. Sweat still weighs down your shirt and odor lingers far after you leave. So when Sean and I came out of the outdoor racquetball court, we had a smell to make a skunk shudder. Though really, we were a bit proud of that. That smell is a distinction of a man and to a pair of new teenage boys, that was something to be proud of. I grabbed my water bottle sitting outside by the bleachers, only to realize it was empty. Nothing is worse than running out of water after a game of racquetball. Without much effort, I persuade Sean to walk to the water fountains a bit inside the complex. We talk and laugh about the games we just played with our racquet's in hand as we arrive at the drinking fountain. Sean points out a random guy walking about. We joke he's some crazy serial killer.
Sean and I continue to walk, talk and have a good time to the bike rack and unlock our bikes. The breeze feels like a hair dryer on our bikes. As we peddle down the road, I notice someone else on a bike about twenty yards behind me. Normally I wouldn't give it a second glance, but it is ten o'clock at night and we're the only ones at the park. I motion to Sean and we ignore the issue until we hear his voice. "Why you guys stealing my bike?!" I look at Sean, "Wait... What?" The man peddles closer. "Yeah, you! Why are you stealing my bike!?" I cannot stress this enough, he was riding a bike. Whatever the case, he was getting closer. Sean and I were nearing the end of the street where it cut-off into two different directions. I've gone both ways a number of nights, and each time there was a police officer a bit down the road on one of the sides. The man grabs his jacket and speaks into it saying, "I have the suspects in range. Stop! I was in the military and I'm making a citizens arrest!" I tell Sean to go one way, and I'll go the other. The squad car couldn't be more than fifty yards away in one direction.
Maybe not the brightest idea, but we split up. Sean rides left and I ride right. Of course, the insane man decides follows me. He keeps repeating the same phrase, "Stop, you stole my bike!" He manages to get very close to me, I could tell he was on drugs by his eyes. I look one last time, there was no cop on my side, and Sean wasn't riding up on his side. He then reaches into his jacket, I thought he might have a gun. At that image, I drop my bike and sprint towards on of the blue lights located all around the park. I desperately push the small red button until I hear, "911, what's your emergency?" I snap back, "There's a man chasing after me!!" The operator calmly asks, "Where are you at?" Where am I at, I thought? Shouldn't these blue lights have gps or something? In this emergency I yell, "A blue light! A blue light!" One more time the operator asks, "Which blue light are you at?" If I've ever had an official face-palm moment, this was it. What blue light am I at? "It's a particularly blue one!" Whatever, the man was now walking towards me. I didn't have to time rant at a little box. He yells at me, "Why did you steal my bike?" I yelled back at him, for good measure, "That's my bike!" "Is it?" He incredulously asks. "Yes!" Now I could see my friend Sean riding his bike my way next to a squad car. The man walks towards the officer, Sean and I just ride away.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Third Person
A typical summer night in the desert. Two boys walk out of a racquetball court soaking wet and ready to go home. Before the start their trip home, they walk to the drinking fountain to fill their water bottles. They're having a good time, doing what boys do. Mainly smelling and being obnoxious. Meanwhile a stocky art student it trudging along the park, doing his best impression of an escaped mental patient. He thinks his interpretation is successful, the two boys at the drinking fountain have noticed him. The artist turns his tape recorder on, he wants to capture the essence of his act for his fellow students.
He follows them from a distance at first, trying to maintain his patient mentality. The boys jump on their bicycles and ride off. Without thinking much - or rather thinking at all - he grabs his own bicycle.
The boys are clearly having a good time, although when the glance back at the man behind, their mood changes. The artist yells at them. They look passively at each other. Another yell from the artist. The boys split up at the fork in the road. The artist, now completely enveloped in his character, speaks into his jacket. The lone boy clearly thinks he is crazy. The artist is pleased, he has accomplished his goal. Now he just reaches into his jacket to turn off the recorder.
Minutes later the artist was trying to explain himself to the officer.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Peer Review: Group 4: Week Something.
Alyssa: For "Bill T. Jones" your voice still sounds starstruck just writing about it. The story flows very well and the story is very personalized to you. One problem, which is really only an unfortunate chance, is the name Bill T. Jones itself. Repeating the name sounds very redundant and distracted me from the writing, but that's only because on the staccato style of his name. Also, in the first paragraph you used renounced instead of renowned. Small tip for blogging, if you realize you made an error after publishing, you can go back and edit without it effecting the publishing date. I know prompt 25 was a serious piece, but I found myself laughing a bit. The person you're talking to is amusing to me. That said, it's smooth, a bit enthralling and, ironically enough, the point is clear. Prompt 27 - I think creating an opposing essay on your view would be fun to do. I feel when someone writes an opinion piece, it brings out the character in the writing more so than other topics. I believe there were a few grammatical errors in the first paragraph, a few commas and such, but nothing major.
Chelsea: Your grandpa sounds like he could secretly be Macgyver! I like how the piece worked around you and your Grandpa, leaving all other people - sans your parents for a quick drop off - out of the equation. I thought it gave a very personal and sincere atmosphere. For your next prompt, "Hey father..." I liked the story. It was more open than your previous post and therefore had a "wider" perspective. Sorry about the vagueness. From an outsider's point of view, I think your dad was just using the fact the boy is like a nephew as an excuse to take down a perspective interest. lol. Next up, "What is love?" again, like Alyssa's post, I think this would be another fun essay to write against. You seem very embedded in your belief, that much is clear. You almost get to the point of a rant, but never really come close as your points are intelligent and organized. I really enjoyed the emotion you delivered in this one.
Leena: Did not complete assignment.
Chelsea: Your grandpa sounds like he could secretly be Macgyver! I like how the piece worked around you and your Grandpa, leaving all other people - sans your parents for a quick drop off - out of the equation. I thought it gave a very personal and sincere atmosphere. For your next prompt, "Hey father..." I liked the story. It was more open than your previous post and therefore had a "wider" perspective. Sorry about the vagueness. From an outsider's point of view, I think your dad was just using the fact the boy is like a nephew as an excuse to take down a perspective interest. lol. Next up, "What is love?" again, like Alyssa's post, I think this would be another fun essay to write against. You seem very embedded in your belief, that much is clear. You almost get to the point of a rant, but never really come close as your points are intelligent and organized. I really enjoyed the emotion you delivered in this one.
Leena: Did not complete assignment.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Calm Persuasion: DON'T PANIC
If you're not familiar with the title, I present a cursory explanation: 42. Good, glad to have you all on board.
DON'T PANIC.
When a person attempts to read that phrase, a chain reaction occurs. First, the eyes fix onto the jumble of letters that are organized into "words". Then, with the proper level of education, our minds harmonize those words into loose meaning. Our brain, with syntaxes firing on all cylinders, then has a quick office meeting.
"What shall we do with these symbols?" The brain meta thinks to itself. "Is that a contraction? D-o-n. Don. Ok, great. Next item of business is that ghastly squiggly up on top there. An apostrophe, I do believe. Progress, good good. And that, judging by years of Sesame Street, is the letter T! Don't! Do not! Great! Do not.. Panic! Well, that sounds agreeable to me. Let's not panic today, shall we body?"
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is your brain in the context of one thousandth of a second. It would be a pity, in most cases, then to lose such a wonderful little device to the creatures that craves it. Zombies
Yes, many people will argue that zombies do not, and cannot exist. Once a person is incapacitated, they stay incapacitated. Of course, these people may very well be right. After all, when has a person died and come back to life who wasn't directly related to God? Hypothesize with me that the real life immortal, HeLa cell, jumps from a petri dish and contaminates a populated city. Humanity would be in a world of hurt. This is a "just in case" reminder as to why a human life is worth living.
One thing we living humans have going for us is the seven deadly sins! I mean, lust is just fun, and sloth is always up for a lazy day. Gluttony and greed? Hell yeah, sign me up for a round trip of that. If you were to become a mindless insentient being, who would watch TMZ all day and where would Ralph Nader get his votes from? Something else, that at least I would sorely miss, is my incredibly comfortable wardrobe. If I were to become zombified, how could I possibly enjoy the coziness of my bathrobe, or my Nike high tops that contains the tears and sweat of small child laborers? Zombies cannot help facilitate those labor camps, zombies cannot even give Charlie Sheen more attention. All they do is look for what makes them happy, without hurting their own kind.
You know, maybe these zombies are on to something...
DON'T PANIC.
When a person attempts to read that phrase, a chain reaction occurs. First, the eyes fix onto the jumble of letters that are organized into "words". Then, with the proper level of education, our minds harmonize those words into loose meaning. Our brain, with syntaxes firing on all cylinders, then has a quick office meeting.
"What shall we do with these symbols?" The brain meta thinks to itself. "Is that a contraction? D-o-n. Don. Ok, great. Next item of business is that ghastly squiggly up on top there. An apostrophe, I do believe. Progress, good good. And that, judging by years of Sesame Street, is the letter T! Don't! Do not! Great! Do not.. Panic! Well, that sounds agreeable to me. Let's not panic today, shall we body?"
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is your brain in the context of one thousandth of a second. It would be a pity, in most cases, then to lose such a wonderful little device to the creatures that craves it. Zombies
Yes, many people will argue that zombies do not, and cannot exist. Once a person is incapacitated, they stay incapacitated. Of course, these people may very well be right. After all, when has a person died and come back to life who wasn't directly related to God? Hypothesize with me that the real life immortal, HeLa cell, jumps from a petri dish and contaminates a populated city. Humanity would be in a world of hurt. This is a "just in case" reminder as to why a human life is worth living.
One thing we living humans have going for us is the seven deadly sins! I mean, lust is just fun, and sloth is always up for a lazy day. Gluttony and greed? Hell yeah, sign me up for a round trip of that. If you were to become a mindless insentient being, who would watch TMZ all day and where would Ralph Nader get his votes from? Something else, that at least I would sorely miss, is my incredibly comfortable wardrobe. If I were to become zombified, how could I possibly enjoy the coziness of my bathrobe, or my Nike high tops that contains the tears and sweat of small child laborers? Zombies cannot help facilitate those labor camps, zombies cannot even give Charlie Sheen more attention. All they do is look for what makes them happy, without hurting their own kind.
You know, maybe these zombies are on to something...
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Dialogue: What's your name again?
An actual conversation
“There came a time in our lives - around the age of eight - when we chose the paths we would travel. Some chose the fiery route, claiming rage over other senses. Some picked the serene water path, resulting in tranquility of mind. Others claimed the natural green life, giving the great gift of philosophy.”
“Dude, our childhood was Pokemon, not some monologue from Zelda.”
“Thee doth protest too much, methinks.”
“No! You’re not allowed to quote Hamlet! It’s part of Godwin’s law, I’m pretty sure.”
“I see you chose Charmander, didn’t you?”
“Duh, all the cool kids picked Charmander”
“If I chose Bulbasaur, Oak’s grandson would choose Charmander. Would that make him cool?”
“No, because Gary is a douche no matter what.”
“So picking Charmander wouldn’t make a kid automatically cool?”
“It may give him some cool points, but he doesn’t get in that easy. If he named his character Red, he was automatically out, for example. Gary‘s a computer anyway and doesn‘t count. Now what really separated us, at age eight, was the color of game you played. Red versus Blue, the Crips and Bloods of elementary school.”
“What was different between the two games”
“Are you kidding me?! Everything! The screen hue was different, there were different Pokemon to capture, and I swear to you the dialogue was a bit different.”
"So between the version and Pokemon, what was your favorite combination?"
"Red, Charmander. You?"
"Red, Bulbasaur. Blue version pretty much sucked all around."
"Here, here!"
“There came a time in our lives - around the age of eight - when we chose the paths we would travel. Some chose the fiery route, claiming rage over other senses. Some picked the serene water path, resulting in tranquility of mind. Others claimed the natural green life, giving the great gift of philosophy.”
“Dude, our childhood was Pokemon, not some monologue from Zelda.”
“Thee doth protest too much, methinks.”
“No! You’re not allowed to quote Hamlet! It’s part of Godwin’s law, I’m pretty sure.”
“I see you chose Charmander, didn’t you?”
“Duh, all the cool kids picked Charmander”
“If I chose Bulbasaur, Oak’s grandson would choose Charmander. Would that make him cool?”
“No, because Gary is a douche no matter what.”
“So picking Charmander wouldn’t make a kid automatically cool?”
“It may give him some cool points, but he doesn’t get in that easy. If he named his character Red, he was automatically out, for example. Gary‘s a computer anyway and doesn‘t count. Now what really separated us, at age eight, was the color of game you played. Red versus Blue, the Crips and Bloods of elementary school.”
“What was different between the two games”
“Are you kidding me?! Everything! The screen hue was different, there were different Pokemon to capture, and I swear to you the dialogue was a bit different.”
"So between the version and Pokemon, what was your favorite combination?"
"Red, Charmander. You?"
"Red, Bulbasaur. Blue version pretty much sucked all around."
"Here, here!"
Prompt 22: Nerdgasm
“So,” I begin with a hint of mockery, “what’s a night like playing Dungeons and Dragons?” His eyes light up like a child talking to Santa, pausing his new Capcom versus Marvel 3, “Fantastical.” His expressions gives way to interest in the game, “Kinda like when our whole group hangs out. Except with a dungeon master and mildly expensive vodka.” Scotty H. everybody. I nonchalantly comment, “So it’s just the epitome of classy” Nodding his head in agreement, “Yeah man, pretty much.”
Between games of his character Phoenix utterly dominating my ass, I poke further into his world. “Like, is there some kind of super nerd ceremony to start the night?” “Not really.” He takes a moment before selecting Wolverine, “Well, there is this one thing.” He fingers his long curly pirate hair behind his ear and smirks a bit, “When we get the game and everything set up, we all stand and say the name of our character, then down a shot of vodka.” He gets up to demonstrate for me, “Like I would say, ‘Zell the Stalker Shaman!’” Scott held his arm out in a salute, “and drink some of that happy juice.” On the same beat I ask “Semen?” His face turns into a sarcastic sour smile, “Oh yeah semen bro, gotta have my semen.”
“You’re probably gonna ask what we do next, since you’re an asshole like that.” He says with an expressionless gaze. With a shrug and quick giggle I reply, “Well, yeah…” Throughout our conversation, Scott gives his responses as an afterthought. Only perking up when something unusually nerdy slips out. Normally giving a description of D&D would result in a plethora of awkward moments for the listener. Fortunately, I name my blog for a reference to an 80’s movie, so it flows fairly smoothly. “What I’m trying to tell you,” A look of fake enlightenment flashes on his face, “is because I play Dungeons and Dragons, I’m like trendier than you.” Which is probably true. Scott was a hipster before they were trendy. He scoffed at mainstream bands long before they had evolved from their emo phase. Looking at him with his little vest and dick-ish glasses, I reply.
“You're just more cultural than I am."
"Girl, I know it." Scott.
Between games of his character Phoenix utterly dominating my ass, I poke further into his world. “Like, is there some kind of super nerd ceremony to start the night?” “Not really.” He takes a moment before selecting Wolverine, “Well, there is this one thing.” He fingers his long curly pirate hair behind his ear and smirks a bit, “When we get the game and everything set up, we all stand and say the name of our character, then down a shot of vodka.” He gets up to demonstrate for me, “Like I would say, ‘Zell the Stalker Shaman!’” Scott held his arm out in a salute, “and drink some of that happy juice.” On the same beat I ask “Semen?” His face turns into a sarcastic sour smile, “Oh yeah semen bro, gotta have my semen.”
“You’re probably gonna ask what we do next, since you’re an asshole like that.” He says with an expressionless gaze. With a shrug and quick giggle I reply, “Well, yeah…” Throughout our conversation, Scott gives his responses as an afterthought. Only perking up when something unusually nerdy slips out. Normally giving a description of D&D would result in a plethora of awkward moments for the listener. Fortunately, I name my blog for a reference to an 80’s movie, so it flows fairly smoothly. “What I’m trying to tell you,” A look of fake enlightenment flashes on his face, “is because I play Dungeons and Dragons, I’m like trendier than you.” Which is probably true. Scott was a hipster before they were trendy. He scoffed at mainstream bands long before they had evolved from their emo phase. Looking at him with his little vest and dick-ish glasses, I reply.
“You're just more cultural than I am."
"Girl, I know it." Scott.
New Group 4 Review
Alyssa - Your first post was very intimate, and through the intimacy voice was established very well. You told a good story while not being overly dramatic. Because it read so personal, I felt like a certain depth in the story was achieved. I loved the photo of Ashbury Williams at the end, it was very redditor of you. In prompt 21, I'm fairly curious how a night on Mill is an escape from the masses. Anywho, the description was good, and the scene was alive. The only problem I had was the beginning of the final paragraphs, "Before you know it," and "Next thing I know," it could be the case that you're trying to finish the essays before midnight, I know that happens to me every week, but I think your story would benefit from a bit more expansive transitions.
Chelsee - "There is no better perfume..." Your description of the first job we all had well. You set a bit of a conflict in the beginning and set to find a solution during the body. It was down to Earth and the story flowed smoothly. "Here you are..." You continued with the same theme, and the post started to evolve into a journal entry near the end. That's not a bad thing at all, it strongly brought out your opinion. Writing about such a strongly opinioned piece is a fine line to walk before it transgresses into a rant. You walked it nicely and stayed in the realm of sanity, thank you.
Leena - Firstly, I didn't think Leena would be recognized as a word, but here it is. I digress, I know the situation of your first post well, being in almost the exact same situation growing up. That gives me a little more insight and connection to your story. Opening up in a story like that almost seems to guarantee a voice for the writer, unless the story is written terribly. I'm not saying this to poke at your essay, but just as a note in general. Your story was given life with the care you presented for your family. "NAU Lecture Hall" I enjoyed the description to open to story, it added another dimension for the story itself. The post progressed well into a fun description of the lecturer and the building. While your second post met the proper length standards, your first post was one paragraph short of requirements. (I think, I could be horribly, horribly wrong)
Chelsee - "There is no better perfume..." Your description of the first job we all had well. You set a bit of a conflict in the beginning and set to find a solution during the body. It was down to Earth and the story flowed smoothly. "Here you are..." You continued with the same theme, and the post started to evolve into a journal entry near the end. That's not a bad thing at all, it strongly brought out your opinion. Writing about such a strongly opinioned piece is a fine line to walk before it transgresses into a rant. You walked it nicely and stayed in the realm of sanity, thank you.
Leena - Firstly, I didn't think Leena would be recognized as a word, but here it is. I digress, I know the situation of your first post well, being in almost the exact same situation growing up. That gives me a little more insight and connection to your story. Opening up in a story like that almost seems to guarantee a voice for the writer, unless the story is written terribly. I'm not saying this to poke at your essay, but just as a note in general. Your story was given life with the care you presented for your family. "NAU Lecture Hall" I enjoyed the description to open to story, it added another dimension for the story itself. The post progressed well into a fun description of the lecturer and the building. While your second post met the proper length standards, your first post was one paragraph short of requirements. (I think, I could be horribly, horribly wrong)
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Observer: Lines of Sanity
On the morning of January 8th, I was visiting my girlfriend in Tucson. I woke up to the sounds of sirens. Under a mile away, an insane individual had fired bullets towards Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. Christina Taylor Green, John McCarthy, Gabe Zimmerman, Phyllis Schneck, Dorwann Stoddard, and Dorothy Morris all became collateral damage to the shooter. The following hours, news stations would continually update the nation about Gabrielle Giffords condition. The following days, every news station - so it seemed - tried to place the shooter in the opposing party. "Look at his Myspace, he is so obviously influenced by Liberal ideologies!" or "He was inspired by that Conservative map with the cross hairs!" While in Tucson, the people were fed up with this talk and wanted it behind them.
The group walked out from the cafeteria, "Holy sh... There's so many people!" Today President Obama is addressing the nation in Tucson, to help the community cope. Local news stations reported the stadium wouldn't fill up, that the empty seats should be noticeable on television. They were apparently thinking of the other President that's giving a speech in Tucson. The streets were absolutely swarming with people wandering around in a globular cluster claiming to be a line. "Let's just find some sort of an end and see what happens" The group found the end, about a half mile away. Shuffling towards the back of the line, conversations are picked up by those waiting. Most people are talking about what they expect of the speech, or the current political climate in the country. Though, an unhealthy amount of people aren't able to say who Joe Biden is (Fact). Stopping just short of a shady tree, yes somehow the weather is hot in January, the group takes their seat and begins to wait among the crowd.
"They've been saying this speech is suppose to mark his re-election campaign." "I don't really see it that way, I mean, would this really be an appropriate time for sound bites?" "What I want to know is, why are there so many people walking to the front of the line?!" She had a point. Among the crowd, a dramatic shift was seen in direction. Most people are skipping the line and going straight to the entrance. After a brief discussion about ethics, and a long period of laughter, the group sharpens their elbows and goes to deal with the crowd. "Why didn't the city try and actually set up the event?" The voice could barely be heard over the crowd, "Because it's Tucson, Sara, because it's Tucson!" "Oh yeah..."
The entrance is a complete disaster. A gate is set up in front, where two giant lines going opposite directions converge at this one point, resulting in a massive blob of people. Every tiny movement forward makes the crowd more compact. There's no where to go. A sense of uncertainty came over the shorter part of the group, and even the bigger ones. The mass inched little by little, then a large gap opened up in the front. The entire crowd pushed and shoved to get ahead, creating a small stampede that wound up being the worlds largest moshpit. If anyone were to trip, they would be in a world of hurt. Now, everyone is looking worried. They can't stop the ten thousand people behind them. Why aren't they opening the gates? Twenty minutes of invading private spaces later, the gates finally open. It's like popping a balloon, all of the pressure is expelled and people walk freely to the security checkpoints.
Exhausted from the hours of sun bathing, the group makes one last journey to the seats. Everyone has a half discussion about seeing the President, trying to re-orientate themselves, though in the end, fatigue wins out. The group plops down and naps for the next half hour, still waiting for the speech.
The group walked out from the cafeteria, "Holy sh... There's so many people!" Today President Obama is addressing the nation in Tucson, to help the community cope. Local news stations reported the stadium wouldn't fill up, that the empty seats should be noticeable on television. They were apparently thinking of the other President that's giving a speech in Tucson. The streets were absolutely swarming with people wandering around in a globular cluster claiming to be a line. "Let's just find some sort of an end and see what happens" The group found the end, about a half mile away. Shuffling towards the back of the line, conversations are picked up by those waiting. Most people are talking about what they expect of the speech, or the current political climate in the country. Though, an unhealthy amount of people aren't able to say who Joe Biden is (Fact). Stopping just short of a shady tree, yes somehow the weather is hot in January, the group takes their seat and begins to wait among the crowd.
"They've been saying this speech is suppose to mark his re-election campaign." "I don't really see it that way, I mean, would this really be an appropriate time for sound bites?" "What I want to know is, why are there so many people walking to the front of the line?!" She had a point. Among the crowd, a dramatic shift was seen in direction. Most people are skipping the line and going straight to the entrance. After a brief discussion about ethics, and a long period of laughter, the group sharpens their elbows and goes to deal with the crowd. "Why didn't the city try and actually set up the event?" The voice could barely be heard over the crowd, "Because it's Tucson, Sara, because it's Tucson!" "Oh yeah..."
The entrance is a complete disaster. A gate is set up in front, where two giant lines going opposite directions converge at this one point, resulting in a massive blob of people. Every tiny movement forward makes the crowd more compact. There's no where to go. A sense of uncertainty came over the shorter part of the group, and even the bigger ones. The mass inched little by little, then a large gap opened up in the front. The entire crowd pushed and shoved to get ahead, creating a small stampede that wound up being the worlds largest moshpit. If anyone were to trip, they would be in a world of hurt. Now, everyone is looking worried. They can't stop the ten thousand people behind them. Why aren't they opening the gates? Twenty minutes of invading private spaces later, the gates finally open. It's like popping a balloon, all of the pressure is expelled and people walk freely to the security checkpoints.
Exhausted from the hours of sun bathing, the group makes one last journey to the seats. Everyone has a half discussion about seeing the President, trying to re-orientate themselves, though in the end, fatigue wins out. The group plops down and naps for the next half hour, still waiting for the speech.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)