Last Freewrite

Topics:

• Endings
• Slushies and Crushees
• Dolphins
• Bonus: Work in the quote "Your mother is a raspberry filling"
• Things that go in hats

Okay, so here it is. The end. The last free write. Not freewrite, or free-write. But free write. That is what I've finally settled on. Let it be known, from here on out, they what I have filled this blog with are FREE WRITES!

Yeah, no, that sounds silly, lets go back to freewrites. 

Anyways, the semester seems to be ending on a good note. Despite the apathy that's plagued our class, we're all finally coming together and laughing with one another. We're joking, we're teasing, and even occasionally fending off a good-natured pummeling. The magazines are done, the papers are... okay, no, the papers aren't finished, there are two more of them, so lets ignore the papers and focus on the magazines.

See, our magazine had things really all finished up before last class even began, but we wound up taking extra submissions in order to avoid sitting at our desks, bored for the rest of class. One of the submissions we accepted was off a beautiful bronze GAPING MOUTH I'M GOING TO EAT YOU fish statue, that Alison submitted just so that we could have a submission count divisible by 3. We argued about this fish for ages, finally agreed to post it, then I argued for it to be at the top of the page, then it was, then it wasn't, and then finally, finally the professor (you) put it up on the projector and went "Oh, it's a chocolate fish! That's really cool!".

Needless to say, we were dumb-founded. None of us had thought of that. In fact, the idea of it was absurd purely because we all knew it was bronze or some other silly metal. For a moment, no one said anything. Then, we all started arguing at once. I immediately jumped in to defend you, arguing that "the fish is chocolate, so it should be our title picture! It represents our Box of Chocolates!" but they all went "No, no, you're crazy, it's not actually chocolate!" to which I vehemently defended myself by pointing out a sort of purple-reddish part of the statue and going "No, no, look, right there! See that color, it's raspberry filling!" to which there was  dead silence, until Steph gave me possibly the best look ever and exclaimed loudly "YOUR MOUTHER IS A RASPBERRY FILLING!". And thus did we all break down laughing and agree on a proper title for that picture. There it still stands, proudly dubbing the picture of the gaping fish, an in-joke that no one will get but us. But you know what? That in-joke means a lot to us. It means that all of us could get together, laugh together, and share something we'll never have anywhere else. So Steph Hays, if you're reading this, thank you. It was good to share this with you and everyone else.

Also, your face is a raspberry filling.

So, I suppose that what really goes in a hat is your head and what really goes in your head is your brain and what really goes in your brain are your thoughts and your thoughts are mixed with your emotions which are the cause of your crushes on your crushees and really have nothing to do with slushies but you know what I just connected that whole thing, so THERE. I won't deny that I've had a crush this semester. It's not such a new thing to me that it was something I had to resolve or had to act on. I've had more crushes, more flirtations, more hook-ups and girlfriends than I really care to bore anyone with anymore, but this one was... fun. I enjoyed the time I spent with her, I enjoyed our tete a tete. I think that's more important than professing your feelings or kissing or holding hands. We enjoyed each other's company, and that... those simple moments of that are something I can now really appreciate in my life. We'll go our separate ways and likely never encounter each other again, but... I'm glad I met you.

Free Write - Love Letter

Prompt: Write a love letter.

The collective groans of the class spoke to the cliched nature of this free-writing prompt. My thoughts are quick to jump and pick her to write too, but she knows my love well with or without a letter. So, instead, I shall begin writing a letter for the person who probably doesn't know how much I love her. Who probably needs those words of reassurance and care more than she does right now. I love them both, but because I am secure with one, both of us worry about the other.

Do you know how many times I've started writing a letter to you? At least twice more than the letters I've sent, I can tell you that. And with so many, I started in my flirty, playful way. Innuendo would work it's way into the first paragraph, a light teasing that turned into a tender affection and a laughing promise. It started with our first little burst, but it did not die when that flame burnt out. The teasing continued long after that twig was ash, because there was still smoldering under the covering of dust. I've known you for longer than I think either of us really appreciate. And, in coming to know you, I've come to love you.

You probably don't realize it, but you've taught me so much that I never knew of  before. I didn't know about art, about brains, about chemicals and crazies, about overcoming adversity to achieve adventure, about what it means to want to be treated like a person, what it means to be a person. I've always cared for others, but you taught me how to really care for individuals. You brought out the kindness and compassion in me, you taught me how to listen, to sit there, to simply be there for someone. You taught me all of this, because I wanted to do all these things for you. Because I wanted to be better for you. Because I love you.

Feelings are problematic, and I know they're causing problems for us now. But I wouldn't trade them for the world, because I never want to give up the feelings I have for you. I love you, Lizzey. And I don't plan on leaving that, or you, anytime soon.

Freewrite - Nintendo

Prompt: Write a convincing cover letter for a job you don't want.


Dear Governor LePage,

I am writing to you today to express my interest in joining your political career as your chief of staff, chief advisor, and chief creator of great ideas. You see, I have been watching your political life for quite some time now, and I have been incredibly impressed with your boldness, rudeness, and good ol' southern style of ignoring anyone who disagrees with you. It's those characteristics and your (often publicised) flatulence that got you into your office in the great state of Maine, but I want to be there to help you keep it.


I have a number of great talents and abilities that will give you a great advantage over the competition. As a hippie liberal gay communist, I know how your enemy thinks. I know what they'll do. And I know just how to piss them off. That's how we're going to beat them, Mr. LePage. We're going to take what you do best and do it even better. We're gonna piss off those liberal democrats and worker's unions and women's rights organisations so much that they'll lose all control and soil themselves. Then the American people will know who's really in charge.

I have a number of great ideas on just how to get started, as well. For example, that state health care that the last governor put so much work into fixing? Use it! Take that money and build yourself a massive statue by the border! Tell those Canadians that we're Open For Business! Better yet, remember all those laptops that the state issues to middle school students in order to further they're education? Get rid of 'em! If we throw them all away, then we can pay another huge company to move in and figure out how to get rid of all their environmentally toxic computer parts! Normally that kind of environmental hazard would cause health problems and drain the health care budget, but that's my genius! There is no more health care budget!

Plus, Maine needs to make room. Those old farts and STD-ridden young folk will die off first from the chemical contamination, leaving room for big, powerful businessmen to take over their property and bring in their highly functional families (and more importantly, money), to make this into an upstanding state!

Free Write - Sprinting

A series of four free writes, of respective lengths 7, 11, 3, and 1 minutes.

What's in your pants/backpack/car/head?
7 minutes


The same usual items are in my pants. My wallet sits comfortably in my left pocket, while my cell phone holds court in my right. Between them, there lies a vast valley of dirty jokes and a ever-changing pillar of masculine symbology. I suppose one could also argue that my legs are in my pants, as each does occupy a legging. They are large legs, toned like always. Not quite tree-trunk thighs, but they have always been the thickest part of my thin self. I can feel the faint ache in my calves; the reminder of the run I took in Prospect Park today. It's a good ache, and, truth be told, not one that really bothers me. I remember true aches, aches that came from weeks of cross-country practice back at Gould, aches that persisted long after a shower, aches that made Lucien and I groan in unison as we descended the stairs of our dorm in the never-ending quest for food. These faint aches are practically friendly in comparison, gentle reminders saying "You did it, you went and worked me, you went outside, that is good." I appreciate such gentle remarks because, at least in regards to running, they are all I am likely to receive these days. I do not have a running partner, and my old cross-country team has long since scattered to the winds of adulthood. My friends and lovers are not runners in any way, shape, or form, and I'm more likely to have to defend my sanity then fend off flattery should I bring up a run I went on the other day. So really, these days I am running for myself. And when I am the only motivator I have, I do run considerably less. I run less for the physical exercise and more for the hope of mental peace. I am no longer.

The last thing that made us feel disgusting
11 minutes


If I try to think of the last thing that made me feel disgusting, nothing actually immediately jumps to mind. Maybe today, at the end of my run, when I was sweaty and hot and cold all at the same time? Maybe how I felt as I got in the car and drove while sitting in that pile of my own sweat? Sweat is definitely something that makes me feel gross, which is a pity, as I sweat pretty easily. Sleeping in my bed, I can fall victim to that a lot. I like to have really heavy blankets, not for their warmth, but because the weight is comforting. However, heavy frequently equals warm, which means that in my search for comfort, I am likely to overheat, and sweat in my sleep. Waking up to a sweaty bed with covers and sheets twisted and strewn about from my uncomfortable shifting definitely makes me want to take a shower. But, the feeling there is more aptly described by 'gross'. To me, 'disgusting' is a whole other level, one that implies sheer repulsion. 'Disgust' is an emotion, a feeling towards something, and perhaps I feeling that I am very afraid to be the recipient of.

Often times, it is my interactions with others that make me feel disgust. Very rarely do I feel disgust for another, but all too frequently will I review a past interaction in my head and find my actions, words, everything I did to be disgusting. To point to a mild example, I was alone with Alex the night before last. She had told me two weeks hence that she was probably not going to want to get very physical for awhile, due to the grief caused by a close friend of hers dying. I understood completely, and while my hormones were disappointed, my hearts empathy was the far stronger cry in my head. However, this sort of situation was one I was familiar with. I didn't want to misread signals and go to far, only to have her be uncomfortable and stop me, as that would make neither of us feel good. So I asked her what sort of limits she'd like to set, but she declined to set any specifics. It was going to be too variable, she said. I'd just have to listen to her, and try to gauge things as best I could. That night, she had been going after my neck while we were watching a movie, and then there was talking, and at one point the mood seemed to be right, we were both grinning as I pinned her hand while my other found her breast until all of a sudden
"Don't."
My hands were instantly away, touching nothing but themselves, as I recoiled, terrified of the simple word. It was precisely what I was afraid of, precisely what I didn't want to do, but it had done. I stopped being afraid of myself long enough to see she still wanted to be held, which is something, and eventually calmed myself down, but in that moment I felt nothing but disgust for myself. Upon recollection, I know that it wasn't nearly as bad as my first reaction. It was what was expected to happen, and I did what she wanted, she wasn't bothered by that, only I was obsessing over it. Rationally, I can look back at that now. But at that moment, in that time, disgust with myself was all I could help to feel.

Hakuna Matata - What does it mean to you?
4 minutes


I could write something in response to this prompt. Or...

I could just listen to it.

Yeah, listening to it. No worries.

Write about a weird or shitty or awesome job that you had. Preferably a weird one.
1 minute


The general store. Man, what a mundane job with such weird people. In that tiny little kitchen (with the temperature always 30 degrees hotter than it was outside), worked an executive chef, a world-class tattoo artist, a brilliant musician who could play eleven different instruments, a Harvard student, a Chicago Institute of the Arts student, and some kind of crazy writer/computer programmer combo.

Freewrite on Childhood

Prompt: Tell a story from your childhood from the perspective of the age you were. (Imitating the voice of Self-Portrait)

Sometimes I lie to my parents and ride my bike down to the beach all alone.

I like to do it on cloudy days, when the wind is blowing, gusty and cool off the gray water. I can feel that wind threatening to blow me over as I ride across the little stone bridge, but the suddenness of it no longer thrills me. I don't wanna forget what it's like to fall off my bike but I've gone so many times that pedaling can't distract me from my head.

They always believe my lies, too. It's cause they think I'm a good kid. I'm smart, I do okay in school, I don't argue with them, cause Mom will get angry and Dad'll look disappointed at me until I can't look at him anymore. So I never fight. I just nod and nod and finally they let me go to my room and read but sometimes, sometimes the book won't let me get out, I'm still in that room, in that house, and the birds are all quiet outside and the wind is like a roar from very far away and I don't want to be there anymore.

I know I'm smart because I get good grades and I read really fast and I can make plans on how to get out the door while my mom is folding laundry and I remember to close the squeaky screen slowly. I'm afraid they'll look out the window as I ride away and stop me or yell at me or they might think I'm running away. I'm not running away. I'm not a bad kid. I just want to go and be with the storm and the waves. It's easier if I don't ask.

Free Write for Narrative Essay

So, here we are.

Well, I'm not sure there's really a we. I'm sitting alone in a walled-off room of the library, as I usually do when I need to hunker down and write. Given that this essay is due come next Monday, sitting down and writing is something I kind of need to do, either through willingness or force. That's why I'm free-writing right now, in order to get the juices flowing, because if I'm to be entirely honest, I don't know what my brain wants to write about.

I've had two ideas in my head for awhile now. I can write about the experience of Eilish's suicide attempt, or I can write about sailing and some crazy story involving that. With Eilish's suicide attempt, I have the advantage of lots of feelings and recent experience, but the disadvantage of a lack of knowledge to braid in. With sailing, I have the advantage of expert knowledge to the point where I could write pages about sailing itself, but no solid idea for an actual narrative story type thing.

Though, considering it, is Eilish's suicide attempt really a topic I can write about? If I think about it, her suicide attempt was really only the catalyst for a larger over-all experience. Yes, those hours where we didn't know if she would live or not were terrifying and tragic, but they were over with quickly, and since then, what has really struck my heart has been my family and how we're all reacting to things, and especially what Eilish told us her secret was. What I could really write about, maybe, or at least, what maybe wants to get out of my head, is the experience with the family. But that's also raw and uncensored and still fresh, and I am unsure what sort of exposition to weave with it.

So then, is sailing better? Or maybe skiing? I could write about technique and injuries, maybe even history of skis being used to explore the unknown. Or what about ski patrol? My knowledge of medicine is still rusty, but aren't there so many stories I could take from that? Isn't that something you've used as examples in plenty of essays before?

So, now we come to a different choice altogether. Sailing, or ski patrol? I'd have to decide on some kind of solid narrative for both. Sailing is good for little stories, funny things that happened on the water. For the most part sailing is a long, relatively flat journey, much like the ocean itself, and there isn't much to say about it. I could write about hitting a whale, but that's a short story. Maybe about the thunder squam? Or trying to get past waves at the mouth of the channel? Those are all little stories, though. Connecting them, while possible, isn't something I have immediate inspiration for.

So what about ski patrol, then? Maybe I can pick out a story more easily from there. The one that immediately jumps to mind is my first Code 3, the woman who had punctured her spleen and was bleeding out internally. I held her head while my instructors did their jobs, and mine was to make sure she didn't move her c-spine at all. Blunt trauma of that level meant that we could never rule out a c-spine injury, so I stood and kneeled and took whatever position I had to that allowed me to keep a flat palm on either side of her head, while I looked down at her scared face and watch it drain of color in a matter of minutes, watched her wild eyes slow and her terrified expression slacken as she lost more and more blood. I stood over her and watched and said everything I could think of to comfort her while she slowly started to die. That might be a worthwhile experience to write about. And ski patrol might be a worthwhile experience to write about. It has knowledge and facts and exposition that I don't think I'll even need to separate from the narrative, because they're part of the narrative.

So there we go. A whole new idea to try. Probably a whole new idea to go with. I spent the last two weeks trying to decide between two ideas and thinking of stuff for those two ideas, and now I'm Taking A Third Option. Typical muse. You never let me know what you really want. I have to coax you and ease you out of hiding by writing or thinking or whatever, and hope that what I heard you whisper is what you actually meant. So lets go. Lets do this. Once more into the breach.

Revision of a Paragraph

Original:

Yesterday I was looking at pictures of great white sharks leaping out of the water.  The first things that struck me were their jaws, gaping and filled with seawater and teeth.  After looking at a bunch of these shark pictures I began to start focusing on their eyes.  Have you ever looked long at shark eyes?  They’re round in an earnest open faced way, totally black.  They look hollow, they can’t blink.  When killing they sometimes cover their eyes with a thin, filmy, third eyelid, but their two normal eyelids can’t move.  You can’t see anything in a shark’s eyes but darkness, unabashed, opaque blackness.  I jokingly said to a friend in the room, “Sharks must have no souls, their eyes are empty.”  They replied by saying, “You know, I’ve actually always struggled drawing people, because I could never draw the soul in their eyes right.  Sharks were always easy to draw.  I suppose that’s probably why.”

Revised: 

Yesterday I was looking at pictures of great white sharks leaping out of the water.  As I studied more and more of them, I began to start focusing on their eyes.  Have you ever taken a long look at shark eyes?  They’re round in an earnest, open-faced way - totally black.  They look hollow. They can’t blink.  When killing they sometimes cover their eyes with a thin, filmy, third eyelid, but their two normal eyelids can’t move.  You can’t see anything in a shark’s eyes but darkness; unabashed, opaque blackness.  I joked to a friend in the room, “Sharks must have no souls, their eyes are empty.” S/he looked thoughtful.

“You know, I’ve actually always struggled drawing people, because I could never draw the soul in their eyes right.  Sharks were always easy to draw.  I suppose that’s probably why.”