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.”

Free Writing... No.

No.

No, I will not be given an answer.

No, I will not ever really know what to do.

No, I will never stop wondering.

No, this is not meant for you.


(And since, no, my computer does not want to stay awake and see this to completion, I will not progress further. Let this stand on it's own.)

Directed Brainstorming for Braided Narrative

Three things you're (really) good at:

• Sailing
• Skiing
• Writing

Take a few minutes to write a common misconception about one of these three things:

People often assume that sailing is a luxury sport, an activity partaken of only by the rich. They imagine an older, pompous gentleman in a captain's hat standing behind an over-sized wheel grinning as the sun shines down on a bored looking bikini babe wearing sunglasses. Maybe this happens for some people. I wouldn't know. If I tried to wear a captain's hat on any boat I sail, it wouldn't go two minutes without getting knocked off. If someone tried to suntan on my deck, they couldn't lie there thirty seconds without me yelling at them to get out of the way, and that's acting under the assumption that I was careless enough to let a barefoot person on deck in the first place.

I didn't grow up learning to sail. I grew up learning to race. My dad, over 50 now, has probably not actually managed to go 'cruising' on a boat since he was six. He continued this tradition with me brining me on board at the age of six months, securely tying a line to my life-vest, and racing the boat with his motley crew on Tuesday nights. I grew up with the mentality that if you were the captain of the boat, then your absolute job was to make the boat go faster. Get those sneakers out over the rail, get your butt off the side, get that line in, it's causing drag. You can always go faster.



Write a list of 'Not's about one of your three things:

I am not going to define what sailing, skiing, or writing is not. I do not have the ferocity of belief or passion, the arrogance or pride to define those things myself. But, if I am to be honest and a bit deprecating, I have always been something of a priest of the sea.

The sea is not safe.
The sea is not dangerous.
The sea is not out to get you.
The sea is not out to get anyone.
The sea does not care.
The sea does not acknowledge.
The sea does not do anything but what it wants.
The sea does not begrudge you.
The sea does not bless you.
The sea does not care who you are.
The sea will not define you.
The sea will not hold you.
The sea will not comfort you.
The sea will not give a single damn about any part of your convoluted human drama.
The sea does not reflect your feelings.
The sea does not reflect you.
The sea is not so shallow.
The sea does not know any of this.
The sea does not know anything at all.
The sea is not anything but the sea.
And the sea will still be here when we are all gone.



Expain: What is _____ like?

What is skiing in the wilderness like?

What is it like, to ski off the man-made trails? What is it like, to throw these flimsy fiberglass foils on to what is otherwise untouched by humanity? Um. Well. Good question. That sort of feeling... is hard to comprehend for someone that's done it, let alone put into words. It's like hiking along a path, and then just turning off the path randomly into a thick wood. Except that you aren't just hiking, but you're running, as fast as you can. And it's not just a wood, but a steep hill covered in trees that you are running down. You have no idea how great the descent is, but it's so steep that you have no choice but to keep running until it levels out a bit. Problem is, the trees are really thick, and the ground is covered in roots, and the roots are covered in a thick layer of leaves so you can't see the roots, and the leaves are slippery in some places and sticky in others.



Write about one of the tools involved with one of the things you do well, about it's care and it's feeling:

A boat is far more than a tool. It is no mistake that boats are referred to as 'her' or 'she', because in many ways a boat is a person. Sailboats emulate this. A sailboat, even one as small as six feet, is made up of numerous other tools. The main sheet feeds into two different pulleys, one on the hull and the other on the boom, which is attached to the mast at the same place that the cunningham, vang, and plenty else all converge in their multicolored tangles, while the inside tip of the sail feeds into the mast, running the length up the stern-side of the mast, following the main halyard, which will generally run down the bow-side of the same metal pole. And that's assuming your boat has only one sail. A jib brings at least another three ropes into play, while it's bottom flops around without a boom, relying on dueling jib sheets to wrangle it like a bull. And that's just a fraction of the rigging. The hull itself must be kept clean of kelp and seaweed and other sea hitchhikers, and the same with the centerboard, or keel. And if you have a keel, woe be to you to keep that clean. You either have to lug your entire boat out of the water, (a process, I assure you, for any boat over 20 feet), or don a diving suit and plumb the depths with mop and scrub brush in hand to get that extra half a knot of speed out of your baby.

While doing one of these things, what could someone do wrong?

In sailing, if you have no idea what you're doing, things are likely to go wrong from the moment you get on the boat. The amount of skill, knowledge, experience, and sheer intuition it takes just to navigate out of a harbor can be to such a level that I suspect the reason you don't require a license is because no one could ever devise effective testing requirements. Fortunately, most boaters are self-policing, and you are highly unlikely to get a complete newbie trying to sail his boat with no skill or assistance. So, let us instead focus on what can go wrong even with some degree of competence. As mentioned above, m-word is key. Much of it is admittedly superficial. You don't *need* that extra half a not gotten from scrubbing down your keel every day. But plenty of it is also extremely serious. See that main halyard up there? If you haven't checked it for fraying or other signs of weakness, that thing could snap on you without warning, and then you've lost your main sail, and possibly your only source of movement. See those pulleys that you're running your main sheet through? Those can jam up, leaving your sail stuck in the same position, unable to move with the wind, and thus subject to being chucked around by the wind. Possibly one of the most terrible things that happened to me was when my tiller simply came off my rudder, without warning!

How did you first come to _____?

As I hinted at earlier and above, I was brought to sailboats at a very young age. My dad tells stories of me crawling around on the deck, trying to untie the knot that kept me attached to the safety line. There are pictures of year-old me sitting on my dad's lap and holding the tiller with him, my little hands not even making it halfway around the thin metal pole that was probably twice my height in length. I can actually remember being old enough to move around on the deck myself, and going through a phase where I was six and wanted to read instead of sail. So, during a race, my dad would just send me to the snug cabin below and I'd read on one of the side cushions, the bouncing and rolling not bothering me a bit. Each time we tacked, I dutifully moved to the new high side of the boat, in order to do my part in trying to flatten it out. A flat boat is a fast boat, you see, and even if I wanted to read instead of race, I understood without prejudice that everyone does their part to make the boat go fast. Later on, I would get back up on deck, where I would make a game out of scrambling from one side of the deck to the other faster than the other crew mates, my small size making it much easier for me to duck the swinging, several hundred pound boom above me. Schoolwork and friendships gave me less and less time to race as I got older, but that was fine as my father was no longer quite the roaring buck he'd been when I was still very young.


What's so amazing about _____?

What's so amazing about sailing is the fact that it allows human beings to move and be in a way that we never intended by nature, and yet feels so natural at the same time. We're land animals. Adaptable land animals, yes, but we have to struggle and strive and endure long bouts of practice before we begin to feel comfort in even shallow water. And even good swimmers would blanch at the idea of riding the tops of ocean swells twenty miles off-shore. But by sailing, we can do it. We can exist in a world never made for humans, and move through it powered only by our intelligence and the wind itself. It's as if we all had a way to fly. Not just fly on an airplane, because then someone is flying for you, but a way to fly for ourselves. It's as if someone could reach down to you from the sky and say, "Here, let me show you how." And amazingly enough, in this day and age, some of us will be lucky enough to fly for ourselves. Little airplanes, hang-gliders, airfoils, there are bountiful ways to personally fly, even if there aren't bountiful opportunities. And like sailing, most of these methods of personal flight provide little tangible benefit. In fact, they almost always cost more than they return.  But, for many of us, they are worth the while. They are our vehicles to the human spirit. They're the wings for our dreams.

Why do I ...?

Prompt: Why do I ____ ? Fill it in with some sort of thing that may be perceived as 'bad'. Timing: Five minutes.

Why do I sleep in?

Why do I lie in bed after my alarm goes off? No, I've gotten a bit smarter than that. My alarm is far enough away from my bed that I must physically get out of bed and walk to it in order to cease it's shrill siren. Yet, even though the act of getting out of bed is accomplished, I will, more than occasionally but less than frequently, simply lumber back and climb into bed again.

Why do I do this? At any time other than the waking hours, I can say with certainty that I enjoy waking up early. Actually, that is probably incorrect. The act of waking up early isn't terribly enjoyable, but being up early is. The world is quiet, filled only with the gentle breathing of the many sleepers, and the quiet noises of the few awake. I have time to myself, but I am not alone. I may do as I please, but I do it quietly. I feel refreshed, the world feels brighter, and I find myself more inspired to do things for others. Quietly cleaning dishes, or making lists, or best of all, making breakfast for those still asleep. I have always loved to wake up to a breakfast freshly made, but I perhaps get even more joy out of making that breakfast for someone else.

Yet, time and time again, I shut off my alarm and am back in my bed before I know it, staring lazily at the rising sun, hoping that it's bright light might push me off my mattress.

Word Explosion

Listen to a piece. Pull out one or two words. Write furiously for a minute or two.

Words:
away randomosity

The randomosity of life endeavors to take me away from the things I love. Except is there anything random about it? It's the path and the place and the purpose that was set down before me; that I followed because it seemed appealing and there were no other opportunities that really presented their presence. Was I right to wait and weigh only what was in front of me?

Words:
to talk about

Something to talk about. You'd think that it's such a commonplace treasure that no one would even bother looking for it. Isn't the ground littered with things to talk about? Someone should really clean those up. There's the worry, though, that if they do, something will be found underneath the clutter.

Free Write on Lu Hsun's "Death"

Prompt: Imitate the will presented in Death by creating your own.

The Final... No, The Current Will and Testament of Seamus Doyle Patrick Reynolds

1. If you want the funeral to be private, that's fine, but let those that I loved be treated as family.
2. Cremate me, do not bury me in the ground. And give some of my ashes to anyone that's willing to go to some place beautiful for me... A mountain top, the open sea, a field of flowers, an island, a cliff, even a skyline... Wherever they find somewhere they think is beautiful in this world, and let them spread my ashes to the wind. Let me fly.
3. My wake should be open to everyone, and it should be a party. I want an Irish wake, a wake of dancing and singing and commemorating. I would much rather have those I leave behind celebrate the time I had than mourn the time I will not have. You are all very dear to me. I would like your last gathering because of me to be full of joy and energy.

This Is The Way We Always Free-Write

Prompt: This is the way we always do it.

This is the way we always do it. We all filter into the room, sitting at the seats we always sit at, sitting with the people we always sit by. A few conversations between a few individuals pervade the room for a few minutes before the professor speaks. Most of us just sit silently, either reading the piece that we put off until now, typing half-heartedly at our laptops, or simply staring at something very far away.

This is always followed by the professor standing and speaking. The few conversations die down with little prompting, as the class is prompted to free-write about the prompt we are prompted with. Whatever it may be, whatever randomosity we contrive to see, we sit and write and type away, the beginning of the end of day.

This is the way we always do it. Bad things happen, and they seem to happen in waves. You can't have one suicide attempt without another. Is it the season, is it the air? Is it the way you think no one cares? You're trying to leave behind all those you know. What can we say to convince you not to go? I get distracted and depressed, even about the things I love the best. What is refreshing on any other day is suddenly melancholy and dull... A game I do not wish to play.

I'm sorry for my dreary view, in truth I do appreciate you. It's just that on today, writing does not seem the way.

Forces on the Parents Free-Write

Prompt: What social forces (or other force) affected your parents, that may also have affected you?

My mother and father has very different childhoods with eerie similarities.

For my mother, the force that affected her was most likely the feminist movement. I can't say I have the historical knowledge of whether it was second or third-wave feminism, or some other movement entirely, but the struggle to gain equal rights for women was something that I think really affected my mother. She's always been an incredibly strong woman. She had four kids, took care of them while working constantly from home. Her work would take her once a year to far-away countries where she would broker deals with the local vineyards that would affect global wine prices for the year to come. This didn't stop her from always making a different dinner for each of her four children, spoiling them with their favorites when it would have been far easier to just make the same meal for all of us. Even cancer couldn't stop her. Six months after chemo, she ran a half marathon just to prove she could, putting her two cross-country sons to shame. She wants no one else in her life, preferring to be what is called the 'strong, independent woman', despite the great effort of raising and championing four children. To be fair, this strength can manifest itself in aggravating ways. Many a time have I been sent back to the bathroom to 'put the seat down', silently fuming and constructing an argument that making me do such a thing was actually defeating gender equality everywhere, an argument I never had the guts to make. But it also gives her an incredible acceptance. Despite being a devout Catholic and going to church every Sunday, she accepted it with only mild disappointment when I told her that institution was no longer in harmony with my own spiritual beliefs. In the middle of my long and rambling explanation to her of polyamoury, she mistakenly believed that I was coming out to her, and assured me that she didn't care who I liked or who I brought home. She's never even preached to us about feminism, either. It's always just been our mom, being strong. It's only now as we grow older and familial lies break down that we begin to see her as a real person, a person that has suffered for us. Perhaps it's too late for recompenstation, and I doubt she'd accept any if put like that. But it is time we started appreciating her for everything she does, and letting our hearts appreciation carry to our mouths.

Combinational Free-Write

Topics for combination/writing: Stole something, shoes indoors?, someone you don't talk to anymore.

Three topics. Of the three, one brings a blank, the other brings a vague curiosity, and only the last actually inspires at all. If I'm to be fair, my mind is in all sorts of places at the moment, and only one of those places is this classroom. I'm slowly trying to pull it back in, but the urge to be in those other places is really strong. I made a to-do list, in order to focus myself over the next few days, we'll see if it's actually of any use. I have gotten a few of those things done, so that's good. I forgot to cross them off. Maybe tonight's meditation will help to settle my brain a bit.

Heh, I guess that 'stole something' isn't a blank after all. I stole my brother's sunglasses while I was home, thinking I might need them, but without any real honest of intention of returning them before winter break. They don't fit quite right, sized for his slightly smaller skull, but they do keep the surprisingly sunny snow from blinding me. If I'm to be honest, I do have a bit of klepto in me. Mostly around my family, in a sense that I think we all do. We'll grab little things that belong to another sibling or parent when we need it, and those that were stolen from will simply attribute it to stuff getting lost in our house. We all sort of know it happens, and make jokes about "Oh, that's a nice sweater! You know, I used to have one just like that..." but it works itself out. I'm much less apt to steal things from people outside of my family, but I do have a tendency to take little things. A rock, a bit of sea glass, a nice pen, an eraser, a little scrap of a picture, a little yarn from a blanket, maybe even a whole hat or shirt if it gets left in one of my various abodes. I lovingly hoard these little prizes, and each reminds me of the person I pilfered from. A little physical object that lets me feel closer to them when I am, as I often am, far away.

On the other hand, the matter of wearing shoes indoors is pretty much an academic one to me. I am sort of half Japanese in that respect; I do not like shoes to be worn inside a house or living space, but wearing shoes in a school building or business makes sense to me. I used to enjoy shoes, or at least socks, and always liked to have something covering my feet. Recently, though, I have begun to appreciate the world as felt through bare feet. Tae Kwon Do can probably take credit for that, as it has me practice barefoot for an hour or so twice a week. There is so much to be felt in this world. I think that we rely too much on our sight, wonderful sense though it is, and forget to actually touch the things around us. How many of us know how a blackboard feels against our cheeks? How many of us have lain naked on pavement? How many of us have stopped and stooped down to feel the wet, cold, outside stone steps with our own bare hands? There are so many sensations that this world has to offer us that we cannot hope to feel them all before we pass away. And to be sure, I do not have the time in my life to devote to feeling as many as I can. But, sometimes I can remember to try, and in trying, do my best to appreciate each feelings, as old or as new as it may be.

Freewrite on Inappropriate Dress

Prompt: Write about a time, any time, when you were very inappropriately dressed.

Oh dear. Huh. Okay. A time when I was inappropriately dressed. That's... hard to say, actually. I'm not really a fashionable person, but for the most part, I'm dressed either practically or appropriately for the situation I'm in. Sure, I may not always wear clothes as warm as I should, given the climates I like to live in, but otherwise I'm actually hard-pressed to think of a time when I was wearing something blatantly wrong and not just unfashionable in some way.

Ah, no, wait, here we go. For what have I worn the most ridiculous outfits? For what have I worn the most comic of costumes? My dear, dear larping. Oh, but does that even count? If I'm wearing a costume for a larp, no matter how ridiculous, the costume is usually appropriate for the larp. Ah, but wait, it's not infrequent that I wear a larp costume outside of a larp. In Dragon I ate dinner in the Commons Dining Hall, decked out in a regal purple cape, tight black vest, and chain mail sleeves. That... Was a good costume. And I wasn't even the best or most absurd of them there. Then we have dear Oscar Wilde. Oh, Oscar, how much fun you were to play. A ruffled white collared shirt over-adorned by a tight black long coat made of something that felt like, well... felt. Tight black pants clashed terribly with sneakers, (I never have proper footwear), but it was all brought together by the glory of the Drascot, dubbed such for being a black ascot emblazoned with a golden dragon. I wore that with pride as I obtained breakfast from baffled cashiers, and lunch from amused sandwich makers. There is something about dressing in utterly ridiculous and fabulous ways that gives you a strange confidence. No longer was I afraid of what people would think, because I had given them license to think anything at all!

Refuge in audacity, is that what it's called? Well, I certainly approve. Perhaps that is why I have always liked the bold and the unusual, the mad and the crazy. The sheer improbability of actions gives one a freedom from the opinions of others in a way that I have found little else can...

Free Write on Blindness

Prompt: If you were told by a doctor that you were going to go blind in the general near-future, what are some things you would try to do before that happened?

I'm honestly not sure of what I would do, because given the limited time frame, I'd have to rank things by what I felt was more important than others. But I know what I would want to do. I would want to take time to spend alone with each and every person I care about. I would want to etch their face, their smile, their visual selves into my mind. People's appearances are always changing, and memories are always tenuous at best, so I suppose etching them into my mind isn't what I'd really want to do. I'd want to take that time and appreciate what I can see, appreciate what they look like, every inch of them, because I will not be able to appreciate that again later.

I would want to wander the places I've called home, wander through them and look at everything, both what is near and familiar to me and what I am noticing for the first time.

I would take my friends that know of such things and see as much visual artwork as I could. The greats and the famous, to be sure, but also the little things. Lizzey's drawings and paintings, Izzy's various creations, my brother's little sketches, my own scribbles from when I was young.

With time running out, I would try to appreciate everything that I could one last time. Not for the memories, but for the worth in appreciating things that will someday be lost to us.

Freewrite on Close Reading of Monstrous Child

Prompt: "Do you think we are trained to only be accepting of the regular, or is it human nature?"

Ah, yes, the classic problem of nature vs. nurture. How much of our actions, our personalities, our perks and our quirks are the product of the environment we develop in, or the genetics that define us? How much can you blame on the circumstances of your birth, and how much can you blame on the circumstances of your life? There is no solid answer to this question, I think. Very few things will ever be as black and white as that. But for this particular question, I have, at least, an opinion. An opinion that is admittedly only backed up by anecdotal evidence and has no science with which to reinforce it, but an opinion asked for is an opinion given.

I do not believe that society trains us to be startled by the unusual. Rather, society defines what is usual by giving us constant exposure to what we consider to be day-to-day things. Human beings are incredibly adaptable creatures. We've expanded to almost all corners of the globe through our technology, but even before modern times, humans lived everywhere from Alaska to the rain forest, running off the same genetic material. We grow up intrinsically adapted to our initial environment, but retain an ability to adapt to radically new environments very quickly. I believe part of that adaptability comes from the fact that we are able to be startled by the new and the unseen. (end of time)

More Final Final Draft

(This draft comes after revision by both Steph and Ben, and my own reading aloud. The last changes will probably be made in class tomorrow.)

Seamus Reynolds

2-18-2011

Creative Non-Fiction

Personal Narrative

There is a cove not more than a four minute walk from my father’s old house.

It is a small cove; the spines of rock that encase it no more than a hundred yards from each other. At low tide, I can take maybe thirty steps before my sneakers(shoes) are awash in the Gulf of Maine. I always have to be careful where I step. The beach is covered in fat, smooth, speckled stones that shade from a seagull’s grey to a wet black as one gets closer to the sea. Flotsam and jetsam are like tourists that come and go with the tides. A crab's crusted shell, a oyster's open, empty home, and innumerate strands of seaweed stuck in between, hold on desperately as though they cannot stand the thought of their holiday ending. I do not mind them vacationing here, for this cove is blissfully bereft of the other, human tourists that wash up on to this beach town. It is true, technically, that this cove belongs to the rich Bostonian who owns the mansion resting on the cliff behind it. I only hope that he is a generous man and does not mind the moments that I make here. This cove holds memories far better than my leaky mind does.

The sound, which can be faintly heard from my father's house, is deafening here. The waves crash and boom against the sharp slope, but it is not their relentless invasion that creates the cacophony. It is their inevitable retreat. As each wave reaches its limit and begins to return to the sea, it refuses to leave without plunder. Hundreds of smooth stones scramble and scrabble over one another as the water pulls them along; the sound is like a great instrument made of a million miniature landslides. It is a sound that is at once both uniform and complex. Tumultuous and pure. Overwhelming…

Soothing.

The first time I ever visited the cove, that orchestra could not play loud enough for me. The tide was high that day, the storm surge pushing the waves beyond the high water mark and on to the last few steps where I stood, watching the ocean reflect and distort the steely sky. With the pounding surf pummeling the shore, the roar was almost continuous. Almost. It drowned out the thoughts I didn’t want to think, but in every brief pause between the swells, there was a moment of silence that my brain desperately filled. As the oldest of four siblings, I would not permit myself to burden my brother and sisters with my own feelings. Especially not then, two days after we had moved into our parents new, separate houses. I simply had no goddamn clue what to say to them, no idea how I could make this betrayal better. So if I couldn’t make it better, there was no way I would burden them further with my own pain. Thus I came here. If a person could not soothe me with words, then the ocean would soothe me with volume. Create comfort from the cold fact that its existence would far outlast all our troubles.

I whispered my thanks to the wind.

The cove was something that quickly became near and dear to me so I suppose it’s no surprise that I brought others there with me. Not just any others, though; those that were already close to me… and those that I wanted still closer. I still remember the way the moonlight shone off of Kaitlyn’s eyes the first time I brought her - brought anyone - there. The ocean was calm, contentedly lapping at the shore. We climbed the rocks together, her hand gripping mine and mine gripping hers, as I lead her up uneven steps, my own steps sure-footed as they followed this strange, fluttery confidence in my chest that I could only describe as the passion of youth. The small ledge we found to sit upon was just a little too small, and our thighs pressed against one another. Our lips met, the distant lighthouse beamed, and the flash was all that bore witness to my first true kiss. Every eleven seconds the light would come ‘round again; I quickly lost count.

Time is an unwelcome visitor in memories of joy.

Visits at two in the morning were not uncommon. In the summer, I worked in the kitchen in a local general store. My days were filled with obnoxious tourists, chaotic sandwich orders, and a grill that raised the already hot temperatures another twenty terrible degrees. And yet, I was glad to go to every shift. I could laugh and joke and smile with my coworkers. We were comrades-in-arms. There was no laughter in these new houses that my family now lived in. Each rare smile was tinged with sadness. We had all been shown that blood was not nearly thick enough. One summer night, when I could no longer stand the suffocating heat and silence that constantly inhabited the room I shared with my sister, I ran as fast as I could through the tunnel of trees. There were no stars or moon that night. A hurricane was dying a few hundred miles off the coast, suffocated by the cold waters of the North Atlantic. Clouds covered the night sky, and my heavy breathing could barely be heard over the thunder from the waves that the darkness hid from me. I stood there like the air – still but heavy; silent yet boiling. I felt empty. Drained. The turmoil of feelings that had powered my run to this place were now spent. I stood with that emptiness for a long while and found it good. With a weary satisfaction, I entertained the idea of returning home… and all of the feelings came crashing back.

I ran in to the sea. In pajama bottoms and sneakers I charged the ocean like Tolkien’s Rohirrim charged Helm’s Deep; desperate, enraged, and with no thought for the superior force that I crashed against. I do not know how large these waves, these children of a dying hurricane, were. The water was as dark as the rest of the night and it fell to my other senses to even let me know it was there at all. Cold brine smashed against me, lifting me off my feet and hurling me every which way. Salt burned my nose as my head sunk underneath, and the roaring of the waves alternated with the eerie silence as my boiling head was thrown around. I think I was screaming, because the taste of harsh salt reached the back of my throat. It was probably only the sheer fortune of an incoming tide that caused one final wave to fling me onto the hard, round rocks of the shore. My knee was banged up and my elbow smarted from where I had landed on it. I coughed and laughed at the same time, the absurdity of my action and the relief of life overwhelming me. I had done something ‘manly and impulsive’. The cynical side of me scoffed as I limped back home, saying it would change nothing about my life. It was wrong.

Life is far more precious when you’ve been reminded just how short it can be.

Sometimes my experiences at the cove are filled with neither rage, nor pain, nor joy. Sometimes… they are just filled with life. It was early last summer when I brought Alex there. I had driven her home after a night with friends, but upon reaching that home, I realized that she did not want to be there. “Okay,” I said, and drove off. We sped down back roads in my little blue truck, two newly minted adults groping our way blindly through the world. Eventually my aimless driving brought us to the path to my old cove. She held my hand as we walked down the dark gravel path, but there wasn’t any fear in her grip. She wasn’t the first, second, or even the third girl I’d brought to this cove, but she was the first in months. My dad had moved out of that old house when I moved in to college, and I had found other places to visit the sea. I didn’t know what I was doing here with this girl I’d met so recently yet felt so strongly for, so the memories of the past worked their way into my nervous babble as we reached the cliff of the cove. I talked about how special this place was to me as we looked out at the harbor lights, well-populated from the summer influx. She talked a little about her parent’s divorce, and I did the same. We both talked a lot about the girl that we both loved fiercely but differently, each in our own way. And when we had finally talked about everything but our feelings for one another, neither of us had the proper words. No, it was more than that… Neither of us knew what to do about those feelings at all. But she was beautiful to me. Lying there in the moonlight, her presence reminded that ‘ache’ is an appropriate word for the heart’s feelings. I kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around me. Eventually she asked me if I had planned for something to happen and I honestly replied that, at the time, I didn’t have the ability to plan anything. But despite everything, I was glad, because I always want my first kiss with a girl to occur in a place as beautiful as she is.

And the story of life went on.

The last of these memories has been repeated so many times that it has become more precious ritual than whimsical moment. I’ve been away from home, living at school, for eight years now. First boarding school, and now college. Neither of these two homes away from home have ever been close to an ocean, so each time I come back to my little town I make my way to the ever-present sea. The first visit in October is generally sunny, brisk but comfortable, with the water flecked by playful whitecaps from the autumn breeze. By Thanksgiving the sea has turned more grey than green and the seagulls are forlornly pecking at the barren rocks. Christmas makes always makes for an adventure; if I’m lucky, someone else’s boots have already flattened a path in the snow. By March, the mud makes December’s ice look easy by comparison, and when May comes, I once again share my shore with the others in the world. Yet the season doesn’t change the little ceremony. Each time I make my way to the ocean’s edge and stand just beyond the wave’s reach. I wait for my chance, trying to get my timing right, before I dash forward to stick a hand in the receding water. If I’m lucky I can jump back in time, but more often than not I pay the price of a soaked sneaker or two. As the evaporating sea cools my hand, I straighten up and look out over the great expanse. “Hey you,” I say fondly.

“I’m home.”

Rough Final Draft of Personal Narrative

(Yeah, the above's a contradiction. There'll be further editing done before tomorrow, but no major changes. Here's what I've got so far.)

Seamus Reynolds

2-18-2011

Creative Non-Fiction

Personal Narrative

There is a cove, not more than a four minute walk from my father’s old house, that holds memories better than my leaky mind does.

It is a small cove; the spines of rock that encase it no more than a hundred yards from each other. At low tide, I can take maybe thirty steps before my sneakers are awash in the Gulf of Maine. I always have to be careful where I step. The beach is covered in fat, smooth, speckled stones that shade from a seagull grey to a wet black as one gets closer to the sea. Flotsam and jetsam are like tourists that come and go with the tides. A crab's crusted shell, a oyster's open, empty home, and innumerate strands of seaweed stuck in between, holding on desperately as though they cannot stand the thought of their vacation ending. I do not mind them (synonym for vacationing) here, for this cove is blissfully bereft of the other, human tourists that stick to this beach town. It is true, technically, that this cove belongs to the rich Bostonian who owns the mansion resting on the cliff behind it. I only hope that he is a generous man and does not mind the moments that I make there.

The sound, which can be faintly heard from my father's house, is deafening here. The waves crash and boom against the sharp slope, but it is not their relentless invasion that creates the cacophony. It is their inevitable retreat. As each wave reaches its limit and begins to return to the sea, it refuses to leave without plunder. Hundreds of smooth stones scramble and scrabble over one another as the water pulls them along, like a great instrument made of a million miniature landslides. It is a sound that is at once both uniform and complex. Tumultuous and pure. Overwhelming… and soothing.

The first time I ever visited the cove, that orchestra could not play loud enough for me. The tide was high that day, the storm surge pushing the waves beyond the high water mark and on to the last few steps where I stood, watching the ocean reflect and distort the steely sky above. With the pounding surf pummeling the shore, the roar was almost continuous. Almost. It drowned out the thoughts I didn’t want to think, but in every brief pause between the swells, there was a moment of silence that my brain desperately filled. As the oldest of siblings, I would not permit myself to burden my brother and sisters with my own feelings. Especially not then, two days after we had moved into our parents new, separate houses. I had no goddamn clue what to say to them, no idea how I could make this betrayal better. So if I couldn’t make it better, there was no way I would burden them further with my own pain. So I came here. If a person could not soothe me with words, then the ocean would soothe me with volume. Create comfort from the cold fact that its existence would far outlast all our troubles.

I whispered my thanks to the wind.

The cove was something that quickly became near and dear to me, so I suppose it’s no surprise that I brought others there with me. Not just any others, though; those that were already close to me… and those that I wanted closer. I still remember the way the moonlight shone off of Kaitlyn’s eyes the first time I brought her (brought anyone) there. The ocean was calm, contentedly lapping at the shore. We climbed the rocks together, her hand gripping mine and mine gripping hers, as I lead her up uneven steps, my own steps sure-footed as they followed this strange, fluttery confidence in my chest that I could only describe as the passion of youth. The small ledge we found to sit on was just a little too small, and our thighs pressed up against one another. Our lips met, the distant lighthouse beamed, and the flash was all that bore witness to the first true kiss. Every eleven seconds the light would come ‘round again; I quickly lost count.

Time is an unwelcome visitor in memories of joy.

Visits at 2AM were not uncommon. In the summer, I worked in the kitchen in a local general store. My days were filled with obnoxious tourists, chaotic sandwich orders, and a grill that raised the already hot temperatures another twenty degrees. And yet, I was glad to go to every shift. I could laugh and joke and smile with my coworkers. We were comrades-in-arms. There was no laughter in these new houses that my family now lived in. Each rare smile was tinged with sadness. We had all been shown that blood was not nearly thick enough. One summer night, when I could no longer stand the suffocating heat and silence that constantly inhabited the room I shared with my sister, I ran as fast as I could through the tunnel of trees. There were no stars or moon that night. A hurricane was dying a few hundred miles off the coast, suffocated by the cold waters of the North Atlantic. Clouds covered the night sky, and my heavy breathing could barely be heard over the thunder from the waves that the darkness hid from me. I stood there like the air – still but heavy, silent yet boiling. I felt empty. Drained. The turmoil of feelings that had powered my run to this place were now spent. I stood with that emptiness for a long while and found it good. With a weary satisfaction, I entertained the idea of returning home… and all of the feelings came crashing back.

I ran in to the sea. In my pajama pants and sneakers I charged the ocean like Tolkien’s Rohirrim charged Helm’s Deep. Desperate, enraged, and with no thought for the superior force that I crashed against. I do not know how large these waves, these children of a dying hurricane, were. The water was as dark as the rest of the night and it fell to my other senses to even let me know it was there at all. Cold brine smashed against me, lifting me off my feet and hurling me every which way. Salt burned my nose as my head sunk underneath, and the roaring of the waves alternated with the eerie silence as my boiling head was thrown around. I think I was screaming, because the taste of harsh salt reached the back of my throat. It was probably only the sheer fortune of an incoming tide that caused one final wave to fling me onto the hard, round rocks of the shore. My knee was banged up and my elbow smarted from where I had landed on it. I coughed and laughed at the same time, the absurdity of my action and the relief of life overwhelming me. I had done something ‘manly and impulsive’. The cynical side of me scoffed as I limped back home, saying it would change nothing about my life. It was wrong.

Life is far more precious when you’ve been reminded just how short it can be.

Sometimes my experiences at the cove are filled with neither rage, nor pain, nor joy. Sometimes… they are just filled with life. It was early last summer when I brought Alex there. I had driven her home after a night with friends, but upon reaching that home, I realized that she did not want to be there. “Okay,” I said, and drove off. We sped down back roads in my little blue truck, two newly minted adults groping our way blindly through the world. Eventually my aimless driving brought us to the path to my old cove. She held my hand as we walked down the dark gravel path, but there wasn’t any fear in her grip. She wasn’t the first, second, or even the third girl I’d brought to this cove, but she was the first in months. My dad had moved out of that old house when I moved in to college, and I had found other places to visit the sea. I didn’t know what I was doing here with this girl I’d met so recently and yet felt so strongly for, so the memories of the past worked their way into my nervous babble as we reached the cliff of the cove. I talked about how special this place was to me as we looked out at the harbor lights, well-populated from the summer influx. She talked a little about her parent’s divorce, and I did the same. We both talked a lot about Lizzey, the girl that we both loved but in different ways. And when we had finally talked about everything but our feelings for one another, neither of us had the proper words. No, it was more than that… Neither of us knew what to do about those feelings at all. But she was beautiful, lying there in the moonlight, and I was once again reminded that ‘ache’ is an appropriate word for the heart’s feelings. I kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around me. Eventually she asked me if I had planned for something to happen, and I honestly replied that, at the time, I didn’t have the ability to plan anything. But… despite everything, I was glad, because I always want my first kiss with a girl to occur in a place as beautiful as she is.

And the story of life went on.

The last of these memories has been repeated so many times that it has become more precious ritual than whimsical moment. I’ve been away from home, living at school, for eight years now. First boarding school, and now college. Neither of these two homes away from home have ever been close to an ocean, so each time I come back to my little town I make my way to the ever-present ocean. The first visit in October is generally sunny, brisk but comfortable, the ocean covered in playful whitecaps from the autumn breeze. By Thanksgiving the sea has turned more grey than green, and the seagulls are forlornly pecking at the barren rocks. Christmas makes always makes for an adventurous journey; if I’m lucky, someone else’s boots have already flattened a path in the snow. By March, the mud makes December’s ice look easy by comparison, and when May comes, I once again share my shore with the others in the world. Yet the season doesn’t change the little ceremony. Each time I make my way to the ocean’s edge and stand just beyond the wave’s reach. I wait for my chance, trying to get my timing right, before I dash forward to stick a hand in the receding water. If I’m lucky I can jump back in time, but more often than not I pay the price of a soaked sneaker or two. As the evaporating sea cools my hand, I straighten up and look out over the great expanse. “Hey you,” I say fondly.

“I’m home.”

Further drafts of Personal Narrative

There is a cove, not more than a four minute walk from my father’s old house, that holds memories better than my leaky mind does.

It is a small cove; the spines of rock that encase it no more than a hundred yards from each other. At low tide, I can take maybe thirty steps before my sneakers are awash in the Gulf of Maine. I always have to be careful where I step. The beach is covered in fat, smooth, speckled stones that shade from a seagull grey to a wet black as one gets closer to the sea. Flotsam and jetsam are like tourists that come and go with the tides. A crab's crusted shell, a oyster's open, empty home, and innumerate strands of seaweed stuck in between, holding on desperately as though they cannot stand the thought of their vacation ending. I do not mind them (synonym for vacationing) here, for this cove is blissfully bereft of the other, human tourists that stick to this beach town. It is true, technically, that this cove belongs to the rich Bostonian who owns the mansion resting on the cliff behind it. I only hope that he is a generous man and does not mind the moments that I make there.

The sound, which can be faintly heard from my father's house, is deafening here. The waves crash and boom against the sharp slope, but it is not their relentless invasion that creates the cacophony. It is their inevitable retreat. As each wave reaches its limit and begins to return to the sea, it refuses to leave without plunder. Hundreds of smooth stones scramble and scrabble over one another as the water pulls them along, like a great instrument made of a million miniature landslides. It is a sound that is at once both uniform and complex. Tumultuous and pure. Overwhelming… and soothing.

The first time I ever visited the cove, that orchestra could not play loud enough for me. The tide was high that day, the storm surge pushing the waves beyond the high water mark and on to the last few steps where I stood, watching the ocean reflect and distort the steely sky above. With the pounding surf pummeling the shore, the roar was almost continuous. Almost. It drowned out the thoughts I didn’t want to think, but in every brief pause between the swells, there was a moment of silence that my brain desperately filled. As the oldest of siblings, I would not permit myself to burden my brother and sisters with my own feelings. Especially not then, two days after we had moved into our parents new, separate houses. I had no goddamn clue what to say to them, no idea how I could make this betrayal better. So if I couldn’t make it better, there was no way I would burden them further with my own pain. So I came here. If a person could not soothe me with words, then the ocean would soothe me with volume. Create comfort from the cold fact that its existence would far outlast all our troubles.

I whispered my thanks to the wind.

The cove was something that quickly became near and dear to me, so I suppose it’s no surprise that I brought others there with me. Not just any others, though; those that were already close to me… and those that I wanted closer. I still remember the way the moonlight shone off of Kaitlyn’s eyes the first time I brought her (brought anyone) there. The ocean was calm, contentedly lapping at the shore. We climbed the rocks together, her hand gripping mine and mine gripping hers, as I lead her up uneven steps, my own steps sure-footed as they followed this strange, fluttery confidence in my chest that I could only describe as the passion of youth. The small ledge we found to sit on was just a little too small, and our thighs pressed up against one another. Our lips met, the distant lighthouse beamed, and the flash was all that bore witness to the first true kiss. Every eleven seconds the light would come ‘round again; I quickly lost count.

Time is an unwelcome visitor in memories of joy.

Revision Quiz, Rules 17-19.

Style Revision – Principles 17-19

Bowdlerized from “Joyas Voladoras” by Brian Doyle. Revise with the stated principle in mind. Your task is to show an understanding of the aspects of style at hand; the result may or may not approximate the original. Work in pairs if you’re willing to share the score (0-3). Move this to your word-processing program and work there. Send signed work to gordoe3@rpi.edu. You’ll have 15 minutes.

Purple passages are unchanged from the original.

#17 - Omit Needless Words

It is no doubt useful and interesting to consider the hummingbird. A hummingbird's heart beats ten times per second. A hummingbird's heart is the size of a pencil eraser. A hummingbird's heart constitutes a good portion of it's actual weight. Joyas Voladoras, or “flying jewels,” is what the first white explorers of the Americas gave to them, having never seen them before, for hummingbirds came into the world only in the Americas, and nowhere else in the universe. There are more than three hundred species of them whirring and zooming and nectaring[e1] in hummer time zones nine times removed from ours, their hearts hammering faster than we could clearly hear if we pressed our elephantine ears to their infinitesimal chests.

#18 – Avoid a succession of loose sentences (continues from the above passage).

Each hummingbird visits a thousand flowers a day. They can dive at sixty miles an hour, fly backwards, and fly more than five hundred miles without pausing to rest. Rest, however, brings them close to death. On frigid nights they retreat into torpor; their metabolic rate slows to a fifteenth of their normal sleep rate. Barely beating are their hearts, and if they are not soon warmed, if they do not soon find that which is sweet, their hearts grow cold, and they cease to be.

#19 – Express coordinate ideas in coordinate form

Hummingbirds, like all flying birds but more so, have incredible enormous immense ferocious metabolisms. To drive those metabolisms they have racecar hearts that eat oxygen at an eye-popping rate. To support that eye-popping rate, their hearts are built of thinner, leaner fibers than ours. Their arteries are stiffer and more taut.[e2] They have more mitochondria in their heart muscles—anything to gulp more oxygen. Their hearts are stripped to the skin for the war against gravity, inertial forces, the mad search for food, the insane idea of flight. The price of their ambition is a life closer to death; they suffer more heart attacks and aneurysms and ruptures than any other living creature. It's expensive to fly. You burn out. You fry the machine. Your engines are melted. Every creature on earth has approximately two billion heartbeats to spend in a lifetime. You can spend them slowly, like a tortoise, and live to be two hundred, or you can spend them quickly, like a hummingbird, and live to the age of two.

[….]

#19 (help with). Coordinate ideas expressed in coordinate form. Unchanged. Nothing to do here. An example.

Mammals and birds have hearts with four chambers. Reptiles and turtles have hearts with three chambers. Fish have hearts with two chambers. Insects and mollusks have hearts with one chamber. Worms have hearts with one chamber, although they may have as many as eleven single-chambered hearts. Unicellular bacteria have no hearts at all; but even they have fluid eternally in motion, washing from one side of the cell to the other, swirling and whirling. No living being is without interior liquid motion. We all churn inside.

---

[e1]Hint to help later with Rule #19: Nectaring is an invented word that is better than gathering nectar, say, because it makes the list of 3 verbs, all gerunds (-ing words), coordinate.

[e2]Hint: Is there a word parallel to stiffer that says more taut? “Tauter” is not a word and as a coined word sounds odd. But if it were a word and the writer didn’t mind the sound, it would coordinate better with stiffer better than more taut does.

[e3]Hint: and usually joins coordinate words.