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.

Free Write on the Uses of a Brick

Uses of a brick:

• A foundation for other bricks to be put on.
• Something to look at as an example of pattern.
• Something to look at as an example of random.
• Something to lift up your tables.
• Something to weigh down your papers.
• Something to throw on a fire.
• Something to sell for a profit.
• Something to throw in protest.
• Something to wield as a weapon.
• Something to wield as a threat.
• Something to symbolize solidarity.
• Something to keep in your pocket.
• Something to roughen a smooth surface.
• Something to smash a computer screen with.
• Something to write on.
• Something to write with.
• Something to use as a solid surface to place something to write on.
• Something to paint.
• Something to symbolize academia.

Free Write for Personal Essay

As I sit here, thirteen minutes until class begins, I feel it is a good idea to write about what I want to do for my personal essay.

Initially, I have wanted to write about how life cannot be resolved with sword fights. The phrase "I wish we could still solve our problems with sword fights" was to be my diving board, my stepping stone to a greater essay. And yet, I realize that somehow my heart is not in it. Is it because this is a new form of writing, this sort of philosophical, abstract sort of writing? Is it not grounded enough in reality for me? Is it because it's too pessimistic? With the new perspectives I've gained on life in the past few months, is my ability to write something cynical or sad stunted? Is it because it's too personal? Is it because I do not, on some level, want to write about the strange, complicated, overly-human troubles I find myself in? I do want to take on that challenge, but I believe it is a challenge to first be undertaken on my own terms, rather than as a graded assignment.

I think, instead, I want to write a story. My study group from last workshop helped me realize this, (as they appropriately just walk by). I can't really quite remember their names right now, but they helped me realize that I have so many stories in my life I could write of. My friends always tell me that my life is an anime. Why not write one of those episodes? The trick will be finding one of those episodes that really resonates, that really has detail that I can pay attention to. What about... the cove. We wrote that description piece about it, and there have been so many times that I have been there with someone that was dear and close to me. The cove... Or maybe the beach, in the chill October air, all alone together except for the stars and sea, dancing upon wet sand with moves we half-knew, half-made up right there and then. Would such a story be long enough? Seven to eight pages I believe the narrative was to be, which is to say three and a half to four pages.

Perhaps the multiple stories of the cove would be best. The different scenery each time. The first time I really arrived at it, that first summer after the divorce. Standing there against the grey sky, a storm keeping it cool even in June, looking at that ocean and trying to find comfort in that great, grey mass that was so larger than all of my troubles.

My first kiss at the cove, where I brought Kaitlyn... Well no, Kaitlyn brought me over six years ago. The darkness and the stars, the ocean black and lapping against the rocks. Climbing those rocks, the risk adding to the excitement as we finally found a place we could sit together, and... meet.

Going to that cove at 2AM all by myself, something, something troubling me enough to want to go down to the ocean at that late hour, leaving the hot, loud room that I shared with my sister and trying to find something cool, something refreshing, something comforting at the end of that long, dark tunnel of trees.

Bringing Sarah Judd there on our first date, before we even kissed. Bringing her there after the long car ride, the talk of appreciating the beauty in the world sparking the desire to bring her there, one of the most beautiful places I knew. Finding it to be instead full of fog, the stars long covered and yet still finding it beautiful to simply sit there together.

Bringing Alex there at the beginning of the summer, that memory that has faded more than I can even remember, but lying there with her on the path, talking about things, saying what I can look upon now as truly stupid things, but what meant so much at the time. The mix of all those feelings and confusion, and yet the comfort and joy of staring up at the stars with someone you barely know and yet care so much for.

The winter memory, bringing Lizzey there at the end of our first real date, our first real date after being together for long months. Feeling our way through the stomped down path in the newly-fallen snow, holding hands to catch one another as we fell. Gloves and scarves and coats and hats did not keep closeness from us as love was really acknowledged, if not said aloud.

And the very simple memory, the memory that has repeated itself with different scenery each time, of coming home from far away places and performing the ritual, seeing the old friend, going down to the water no matter the weather or season or tide, and touching it, just touching it, as a way of saying hello. My old friend.

All my old friends.

Hateful Things

One proceeds to stub one's little toe. To be sure, stubbing any toe is a particularly unpleasant experience, but stubbing one's little toe highlights just how much pain can come from such a small thing. Who are you, tiny, insignificant toe, that dares to cause me so much pain? The fact that it does not abide by it's station is truly hateful.

When one finds a splinter under their very fingernail, they will find it hateful for many days.

Orange girls have an appearance that is truly hateful. The idea of these insipid imitators endeavoring to encrust their skin with cancerous chemicals simply in order to receive appreciation for their appearance is most likely a conspiracy. I suspect that John Boehner is the leader.

One has just put a child to sleep, and has settled down with their partner when the child begins screaming.

On the subject of children, one's partner is taking care of a baby, allowing the child to lie on it's chest in order to encourage it to sleep. Finding the scene adorable, one lies down on the bed as well, cuddling up to the child and one's partner. The child proceeds to give the offending trespasser the most hateful of looks for daring to intrude.

One finds one's self desirous of a fresh sandwich, only to discover that there is only one piece of bread left. To add insult to injury, it is frequently the end piece.

The insulation one finds between walls and in attics is truly a hateful material. One can be reasonably sure that it does it's job when kept confined to it's usual area, but should one have to interact with it directly, one will find that it leaves an incredible itchiness whenever it comes in contact with skin. Also, it is bubblegum pink - how hateful!

Having a teacher explain something important while you are studiously doing the homework for your next class in his class -- Very hateful indeed.

Rough, Unfinished Draft of Personal Essay

I wish we could still solve our problems with swordfights.

You know what I’m talking about. The olden days, like what they sing of in song and speak of in story. From the greatest of epics to the smallest of folktales, a character’s problems can be solved or discarded by an appropriately dramatic sword fight with an appropriately antagonistic adversary.

No, no, do not cynically think of the classic villain who kidnaps the princess, the one with the sinister beard and the evil glint in his eye. An adversary can take any and all forms. From the troll that guards the bridge, to the dragon that guards his hoard, to the wolf that hunts in the night, human kind has endless stories of its ceaseless struggle against the world around it. Yet, does not such an adversary pale in comparison to a fellow person? When I think of the most memorable antagonists in story, I do not think of monsters or beasts. I think of people. For while humanity’s struggle against nature, against the world is truly an epic one, it is humanity’s struggles with itself that are the most emotional, the most bitter.

It is the enemy soldier who bitterly hates you and your nation for all you have done. It is the wide-eyed idealist who has been pushed to extremism. It is the protective father who will stop at nothing to protect his child. It is the mother who does not realize how her words sting. It is the dearest friend who cannot let you do this. It is the close companion who wants something you both cannot have. It is the noble youth who truly believes that his methods are just and right. It is the cynical elder who believes that no one is just and right.

The clash of two human adversaries is a clash of beliefs, a clash of emotion, a clash of intimacy. I identify with it, I empathize with it, I become enamored with it because, on some level, it reflects the clashes in my own life. My life very rarely entertains the struggle of man versus nature. There are very few inhuman beasts to inspire conflict in my life. No, the greatest source of conflict, the greatest of antagonists in reality comes from the same source that the great antagonists of story come from: other people.

I become most enamored by stories of human conflict because it is the closest to my own experience. In this world, where I am protected from monster and nature, my primary source of antagonists is people. So to watch, to listen, to read about human conflict is far more familiar to me than fighting monsters. I hang on the edge of my seat, wondering how this conflict will be resolved, while still wondering in the back of my mind how my own conflicts will be resolved. Yet, I am almost always guaranteed an ending. I am almost always promised a resolution. There is almost always the dramatic swordfight, the climax of conflict, which will somehow, someway be followed by a resolution. An understanding. An end to the fighting.

But there are no swordfights for me.

In this world where the majority of the conflict I face comes from my interactions with others, there is no definitive winner of the duel. There is no clean victory. There is no easy resolution. If someone is hurting myself or someone I care for, I cannot simply fight them to make it better. If I am hurting someone or being harmful in some way, no one can simply swing a fist at me and hope to resolve the issue. If people are being hurt, there is not even a promise that there is an antagonist somewhere that is the cause. If people are being harmed, there is no assurance of a right way to fix things.

Application of Rules 14-17

Original: The roads were plowed by township vehicles equipped for the task. Those operating the vehicles were not too careful, and in certain cases mail boxes, of the type supported by posts made of wooden materials, were not too gently removed from the ground. Protests were made by home owners, but they were not attended to by the operators of the vehicles, who made the claim that the snow emergency created the requirement for drastic measures; mishaps could not be avoided. The responses to that of some of the home owners were quite concise and can not be printed here. 99 words

Revised: Careless operators plowed the roads haphazardly, causing mailboxes to be uprooted. Upset homeowners filed protests, but the plowman made no apologies, instead excusing themselves by saying that accidents are unavoidable in blizzard conditions. The home owner's responses were vigorous, but inappropriate for print. 43 words.

Description of the Cove

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

It is a small cove, no more than a hundred yards across. At low tide, one can walk perhaps fifty paces down a slippery slope of wet rocks to meet the sea, being wary of the fresh flotsam washed ashore. At high tide, you will be lucky to walk five paces before your toes are awash in startling cold.

A small cliff borders the cover, green grass atop it, that gives way to tan and brown rocks as it goes further down. The brown boulders turn to grey globs of a volcano's leftovers, perfectly smooth and speckled from the sea's constant care. As one follows the shoreline down, they go from grey to black, smooth to slippery, cool to cold, and no longer are they the lone inhabitants of the shore line. A crab's crusted shell, a oyster's open, empty home, and innumerate strands of seaweed stuck in between, all subject to the ebb and flow of the waves, destined to appear or disappear in an instant of white spray.

The sound, which can be faintly heard from my father's house, is deafening here. Yes, the waves crash and boom against the sharp slope, but it is not their influx that creates the cacophony. Rather, it is the outflow. As each wave reaches it's limit and begins it's return to the sea, it refuses to leave empty-handed. Hundreds of tiny rocks scramble and scrabble over one another as the water pulls them along, like a great instrument made of a million landslides. (End ten minutes.)

Revision of a Common Saying

It is often said among all people, from the plebeians to the proletariats, that it is a nigh impossible task to both posses a confectionery cylinder with well-regarded palatableness, and also consume the confection in question without losing one's possession of it. The implication of this aphorism is that there are a multitude of elements in existence that possess the unique property of exclusively being able avail one's self of, or be in one's possession, but that may never contain both states of existence at once.

To put it succinctly, "you can’t have your cake and eat it too".

Finding Pennies In The Walls

"The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand. But--and this is the point--who gets excited by a mere penny?"

Assignment: Strewn throughout the world are little pennies, little things that are in some way beautiful, little things that can be in some way appreciated. Yet, we so often pass over these pennies in the routine of our everyday lives. This assignment is to find a 'penny', anything, and write about it.

There is a landscape surrounding me.

And no, I do not speak of the white winter that wraps us in whizzing wind while we wonder when the sun will show again. I do not speak of the skeleton trees, standing a silent vigil, secretly sleeping at their posts until the leaves begin to bud. I do not speak of the vaunted, valued outside world that has inspired so many to equally many feelings. My landscape is closer, yet harder to see. My landscape is all around me, yet so easy to forget. My landscape is as white as the snow outside, yet no one will feel anything for it.

You perform a thankless job, my dear walls.

You, a marvel of engineering. You, the silent protector of my hearth and home. You who endures the wailing wind, the swirling snow, the cutting cold so that I might be spared the harshness of my environment. So often will I and others write of the beautiful, the incredible outside world. Yet so seldom is everything you do for us appreciated in words.

There is beauty in you too, after all.

A blank expanse of white becomes, upon closer examination, endless miles of bumpy tundra, each bit unique yet uniform. Residing with that tundra are the imperfections of a room well lived in. The small stains and cracks, the chips that speak to those whose lives you also protected, that speak of the human presence that was once here before us. With a good memory, one can even attribute a little crack, a smudge or stain to one's own life within these walls. You have borne our unintended abuse, and yet your marks are the small bits of proof that a person was here. A person lived here. This was a place where people could live... Because of you.

Yes, I know you care not.

You are an anthropomorphic creation of my own imagination. My praises will fall not on deaf ears, but on a lack of ears entirely. Yet I will sing them anyway, following the forlorn hope that there is value in the appreciation of a simple thing. Thank you, my walls. Thank you for everything.