There's something about words...

The human mind is capable of many things, building rockets, super computers, or genetically engineered vegetables, but through all of our accomplishments art, it seems is the most difficult thing to get right.  There are two kind of rocket, one that goes into space and one that blows up.  There are not many that are kind of in the middle, like they got the alloys right but, the fuel mixture could have been better, or it's exit from the earth's atmosphere could have been a bit more moving and have a more human touch. A rocket scientist either gets everything perfect, or stops being a rocket scientist.  On the other hand, artists and authors live an entirely different life and at the the upper levels are just as detail oriented. Authors have to have every aspect of their story right, every word in just the right place, every paragraph perfect, but they can still be building a rocket that wont fly.  In some cases it is this attention to detail that makes their story fall to the ground, uninspiring, and hard to clean up.  Many of the authors that we have read in this class share this problem.  They work so hard on getting all the word int he right order that the story becomes essentially a computer, spitting out sentences that work well together, punching periods in just the right place, splitting images and slicing them with others.  It is a beautiful thing to read, it makes it hard to put down, designed to take the reader to a different place.  All of the stories do this, but none of them grab hold and make the reader nostalgic for that story later. None of them become part of the reader, and emerge in surprising and sometimes startling ways.  An authors job is  to create beauty in the mind.  Beauty that hold the reader long after reading.  There are short stories that have become part of me. Only one in this collection got close, it was hiding, it took me a second look for it to get me a little. Jorge Luis Borges' August 25, 1983.

This story brings the reader to a hotel where the narrator  Borges, is checking in.  He finds that he had already checked in, and races to encounter his future self on his death bed.  The conversation they have is poignant, peaceful and a little hard to read at times.  They go through emotions of helplessness, victory, frustration and blinding disappointment.   The younger Borges is defiant in his youth, and hopeful for his future even though he can see what lies ahead.  At first I thought this story was a little cliche  but he does such a good job of encapsulating what one must feel when talking to another version of them self.  He clearly shows the foolishness we live by, the fact that we stand proud, looking to the future as a land of opportunities  even if we know that what lies ahead is a sad old man committing suicide in a dark hotel, alone.  He blends the barriers between dream and life, and makes the reader question what is real and what is dream, and who in the dream is doing the dreaming.  The story ends predictably like it should, no clever twist, no grand lesson. Just the simple fact that humans will keep going, hopeful and confidant that the man in that dream was just a character made up by the doubts and self loathing that we all carry with us into the night.

Fiction Packet 3

Although well written the works in this selection are missing something. Some ingredient that separates good work from great art.  It is one thing to tell a story, with great detail giving the reader a clear picture of what is happening, but another to make the reader care.  These stories are wonderful examples of what can be done with the English language, but not a good story do they make.  It is difficult to describe what it is they are missing, they leave the reader feeling unchanged, there is no contemplation of the how the work made one feel.  Peter Markus's When it Rains it Rains a River is a remarkable work of English.  It twists the language in ways that are sometime hard to understand, yet when read carefully it is coherent and detailed.  It flows like spoken story telling, and is perfect to the letter. At least the words are.  There is very little emotion involved, it was like the author worked so hard to make the story word perfect he left out a human element.  It could be I was reading it in the wrong context and missed this, but I didn't find my self reading it again, or considering the deeper meanings within.  I rad it, appreciated the language and moved on.  It was easily the best work in the packet.  The others, although well written, left me with nothing significant.  They felt dry, unemotional. The words explained emotions, clearly, but as the reader I had no compassion for the characters.  The end result of the stories didn't leave me breathless, or full of wonder.  They made me see the places, but not feel them. A great work of literature does this.  Short fiction is a challenge, the author only gets a short time to tell the story and needs to me concise and to the point.  To often authors will be either concise to the point of dryness, or cryptic to the level of poetry.  None of the authors herein were able to really bring the characters to life, the environments they were in were there, alive and detailed and electric, but the characters were just as dead as the wall that was being described.

a few poems

These poems are not from class, they are just a few I wrote long ago. Before all this.

This first one is inspired by a Calvin and Hobbs comic.

I AM SIGNAFICANT! Is what I will commonly yell to the sky in frustration.  I am significant, I will whisper in loneliness when I hear no response.  The sky will not yell back, it will not even hear me, because my voice is so small.  To an ant I am a mountain, to a rabbit I am huge, to a bear I am little, but to a tree I am small.  To a mountain I am an ant, and to the ocean, I am no bigger than a piece of sand, and to the Earth I am nothing more than an unnoticeable speck of nothing.  To the sun the earth is small, and to the solar system the earth is nothing but a piece of sand, and to the Galaxy the Earth is an undetectable bit of nothing at all.  Yet to the Universe the galaxy is only a tiny speck of light whose absence would not be seen.  So me, as a speck of sand to a speck of sand will not be heard, or responded to by the many specks of sand that make up our existence.

After my plea to the sky I will ask my self, why go on?  I will say whats the point in my doing anything if I am nothing to everything?  Why should I set goals, and even try to make a difference?  What is the point of it all?  Why am I in this building, what am I trying to accomplish?  What good can I be, as a tiny piece of sand?  These questions I ask only my self, and in the deep regions of my being I hear one word, whispering back at me in soothing tone, one word.

Breathe

Breathe and keep breathing and don’t stop until your final breath.  A laugh is a form of breath, as is a deep sigh.  Just keep breathing, and use your breath to spread goodness and health to the ants who hold theirs.  Never save your breath, never keep quiet, never stifle a cry or hesitate to say the words, I am significant. As long as I have my breath, I can go on.

As I climb the mountain that is my life, I must breathe the thin air, and see the details of where I am.  And when I reach the top, when I complete my goals, I must not stay in awe of the sight from there; but return to the ground with Knowledge and wisdom.  I must not be afraid of the sky, but continue shining my flashlight up so that they know where I am.  I must constantly change my self, so that I might someday inspire others.  I must examine the finest details everywhere I go so that I might someday notice that the most important thing to an ant can be the simple movement of a piece of sand.

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This is a song I wrote, it was one of those "wake up in the middle of the night" eureka moments.

Onions

I know you and you hate everyone

Cause the've counted the things you've never done

and you'll get around to it

sometime

Forget your line and come in after Q

They'll resent it but they'll forgive you

and hold on to those times

you've done

I have so many things I want to say

but can't figure out how to talk today

but i've got a few songs

to sing

The word don't walked into me one time

it asking me if I could spare a dime

I looked it in the eye

and said i'm broke

This may me just a wasted sentiment

but it will settle like all things sediment

and the rivers of our lives

reveal us.