Both of the essays I have enjoyed the most so far were assigned at the beginning of the semester. The first of my favorites was Will Baker's "My Children Teach me the Big Issues". I found it most intriguing how he took everyday occurences and related them to such big worldy concepts, like existentialism. The one I remember most, however, was his daughter Montana's story. With her little daiper and her cowboy boots as she hiked up a hill with her daddy. I thought it was amazing how the simple act of a girl falling down, then refusing help and getting up on her own could be so easily related to Feminism. The story fit perfectly with the situation and was so easy to relate to. It didn't matter what age the reader was, they would in some way understand.
The other essay I enjoyed, but mostly questioned was Susan Orlean's "The American Male at Age Ten". The part that stuck with me the most was one of young Colin's answers. "What is the most important thing in the world." His first response was the ever-popular Game-boy. Then, he paused and suddenly gave a ridiculously profane answer of, "The world is the most important thing in the world." Although this makes perfect sense it really did catch me off guard that someone so young who was in love with material things would actually correct his answer enough to say that the world was the most important thing in the world. Also, the transitions and the dialogue in this essay were memorable as well.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tattered and Torn
It was an old rocking chair now. Soft, baby blue, with three rows of little blue buttons down the middle of the back. The arms were now covered in stains from the food and drink of almost twelve years, making them appear almost black. The old wooden handle was still perfectly intact, as were the rungs on the bottom, making this the oldest and most sentimental thing we were giving away. I watched from the backseat of the truck as the men at Goodwill pulled the old rocking chair carefully out of the bed and set it with all the other valuables people had given away. . .
"Oh, Jim! It's wonderful," Stacey cried, her stomach swollen with a child of almost nine moonths. Me. My dad stood by her, looking as young as as thin as he ever was. Both of them were watching from the threshold of their apartment as Jim, Stacey's step-father unloaded a beautiful blue rocking chair from his truck. It was his gift to the young couple, who were not only short on furniture but had a baby on the way. A space was made right by the door for the huge, blue rocking chair. It contrasted violently with all the colors in the room, but seemed so benign, so peaceful, as though it's purpose in the room was not to contrast, but to calm instead. My mother sat down with effort, the soft padding encasing her (and me) protectively. My father, Carl, and Jim stood a little ways off, talking. The simple gift of a rocking chair had made their day. It was only two weeks later that I was born. I was taken to the little apartment where my parents lived and so many nights they rocked me to sleep in that huge, blue rocking chair. The number of family members that sat in that chair, the number of times I sat on my dad's lap in that chair while we watched t.v. . . it wasn't important to me then, where we sat or what we did. But as I watched the chair being unloaded and taken away forever I realized that it did matter. That chair had withstood so many years. . . it was dirty, it was tattered, but above all. . . it was fixable. It held so many memories that I wished I could tell the men at Goodwill that we had changed our minds and we were keeping it. But, just like in life, there isn't always room for everything. So, the chair stayed behind as I kept moving forward. All I could hope was that it would mean as much to someone else as it had to me. . .
"Oh, Jim! It's wonderful," Stacey cried, her stomach swollen with a child of almost nine moonths. Me. My dad stood by her, looking as young as as thin as he ever was. Both of them were watching from the threshold of their apartment as Jim, Stacey's step-father unloaded a beautiful blue rocking chair from his truck. It was his gift to the young couple, who were not only short on furniture but had a baby on the way. A space was made right by the door for the huge, blue rocking chair. It contrasted violently with all the colors in the room, but seemed so benign, so peaceful, as though it's purpose in the room was not to contrast, but to calm instead. My mother sat down with effort, the soft padding encasing her (and me) protectively. My father, Carl, and Jim stood a little ways off, talking. The simple gift of a rocking chair had made their day. It was only two weeks later that I was born. I was taken to the little apartment where my parents lived and so many nights they rocked me to sleep in that huge, blue rocking chair. The number of family members that sat in that chair, the number of times I sat on my dad's lap in that chair while we watched t.v. . . it wasn't important to me then, where we sat or what we did. But as I watched the chair being unloaded and taken away forever I realized that it did matter. That chair had withstood so many years. . . it was dirty, it was tattered, but above all. . . it was fixable. It held so many memories that I wished I could tell the men at Goodwill that we had changed our minds and we were keeping it. But, just like in life, there isn't always room for everything. So, the chair stayed behind as I kept moving forward. All I could hope was that it would mean as much to someone else as it had to me. . .
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Taken
As a breakdown for those of you who have not seen the movie, Taken, is the story of a man who was divorced by his wife and whose job did not allow him to see much of his daughter. Now, he has quit his job and has moved closer to his family in a hopes that he and his daughter, Kim, might spend more time together. The director clearly shows the rockiness in their relationship when the father shows up at his daughter's birthday party (conveniently held in a mansion-size house that his ex-wife and her new husband live in). Everything is huge and well-organized, while his gift is thoughtful, but not as expensive. He quickly meets up with his daughter who opens the present in front of both him and his ex-wife Lenore. She loves it and gives him a hug, but quickly forgets and puts the present on the ground when her stepfathers brings out her latest present: a white horse. Even the juxtaposition in clothing showed just how out of place the father was in the new family's setting. As for when Kim asks to go to Europe, he refuses outright, thinking of her saftey first. Then, on a few conditions, he changes his mind and Kim is ecstatic. However, it turns out her plans were not to go visit museums and toursits sights, but rather follow U2 on their concert tour. He doesn't say anything to Kim, hoping that she will see the world and not end up like Lenore, pampered and taken care of. His attention to detail was clearly shown at the beginning of the movie when he wraps Kim's present, his fighting skills were seen a little bit later when he takes a job with his friends and saves a young singer from a knife attack. So, when Kim is kidnapped in France, his only motivation was to get his baby girl back. There was no thinking process, no creation of a plan, it was get to France and kill who took his daughter. His connections in France were numerous, but never went into real detail about how he knew them or why, all that mattered was that he did and he would use those connections to get to his daughter. The bad guys (to me) seemed a little one-dimenisional, but that was the point. This movie wasn't about the bad guys or what their history was, it was about a father and a daughter and the lengths he would go to get her back. From jumping off bridges, stealing cars, breaking laws and more, Taken, was a Daddy movie to the extreme.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Scarified
My roommate and I are a little bit eccentric and well, kind of dorky. So, it's only natural, being the dorks that we are, that we have a tendency to make up words. The latest "word" added to our dictionary was "cutenize", clearly defined as the act of making something cuter. Whether it's cutenizing the room (a.k.a. cleaning) or cutenizing the appearance of something, we sure do cutenize a lot. This morning I woke up a smidgen early for once and cutenized myself. I picked out a matching, casual little outfit (something I rarely worry about) and even topped it off with an adorable hat. My roomy (Margo) still in bed, peeks up at me as I'm leaving.
"Aw, you're all cutenized," she tells me with a grin. I smile and thank her before I head down to my Chemistry lecture. Being my dorky self, I sit in the first row, just like I always do and pay close attention.
"Okay, class, now we're going to talk a bit about nomenclature," Dr. Briggs said.
Ugh, I thought. Why does naming things have to be a subject of study if they're already named?!
"I found some of these more commonly named compounds on the internet, and I thought they were rather interesting."
I groaned. His definition of interesting is generally not even close to mine. . .
He displayed the names with pictures one at a time on the screen. One was Rabitol and showed a picture of Bugs Bunny. I chuckled lightly. The next few were unremarkable, until we came upon a compound named Arsole.
"I'm glad you all can read, since I'm not allowed to say that one out loud," Dr. Briggs says with a grin. The class chuckled a bit.
"And lastly. . . what you're all probably thinking about this course right now. . ."
I was intrigued now. He displayed the last one that was met with a defeaning roar of laughter from the class: Focital.
"Thank you, thank you. But starting soon, due to the mandatory furlough, my jokes will all be ten percent less funny," he continues.
This also is met with a laugh from the class. He seems pleased that we've at least paid attention so far.
"And lastly, before I send you off I'm going to show you a video clip. Please pay attention to the white automobile."
The lights go off and the video is displayed. There's a white car, cruising down a curvy, windy road. The scenery is beautiful and green with lush trees. I watched as the car drove along, thinking how this dealt with Chemistry. Emissions, perhaps? The car disappeared behind a group of trees. I waited for it to re-emerge. I leaned forward; why wasn't it out yet? Then suddenly this hideous, grotesque, bloody zombie face fills the screen and yells. I shrieked, covering my eyes with my hat as a reflex reaction. Dr. Briggs laughs and explains the supposed "chemical reactions" involved. How the light and photons created an image which was captured by our eyes, which was converted into a picture, while the sound reached our ears, causing our sympathetic nervous systems to activate and make us shriek like little girls. But none of that mattered, because suddenly, I'd thought of a new word. Scarified.
"Aw, you're all cutenized," she tells me with a grin. I smile and thank her before I head down to my Chemistry lecture. Being my dorky self, I sit in the first row, just like I always do and pay close attention.
"Okay, class, now we're going to talk a bit about nomenclature," Dr. Briggs said.
Ugh, I thought. Why does naming things have to be a subject of study if they're already named?!
"I found some of these more commonly named compounds on the internet, and I thought they were rather interesting."
I groaned. His definition of interesting is generally not even close to mine. . .
He displayed the names with pictures one at a time on the screen. One was Rabitol and showed a picture of Bugs Bunny. I chuckled lightly. The next few were unremarkable, until we came upon a compound named Arsole.
"I'm glad you all can read, since I'm not allowed to say that one out loud," Dr. Briggs says with a grin. The class chuckled a bit.
"And lastly. . . what you're all probably thinking about this course right now. . ."
I was intrigued now. He displayed the last one that was met with a defeaning roar of laughter from the class: Focital.
"Thank you, thank you. But starting soon, due to the mandatory furlough, my jokes will all be ten percent less funny," he continues.
This also is met with a laugh from the class. He seems pleased that we've at least paid attention so far.
"And lastly, before I send you off I'm going to show you a video clip. Please pay attention to the white automobile."
The lights go off and the video is displayed. There's a white car, cruising down a curvy, windy road. The scenery is beautiful and green with lush trees. I watched as the car drove along, thinking how this dealt with Chemistry. Emissions, perhaps? The car disappeared behind a group of trees. I waited for it to re-emerge. I leaned forward; why wasn't it out yet? Then suddenly this hideous, grotesque, bloody zombie face fills the screen and yells. I shrieked, covering my eyes with my hat as a reflex reaction. Dr. Briggs laughs and explains the supposed "chemical reactions" involved. How the light and photons created an image which was captured by our eyes, which was converted into a picture, while the sound reached our ears, causing our sympathetic nervous systems to activate and make us shriek like little girls. But none of that mattered, because suddenly, I'd thought of a new word. Scarified.
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