OH MY GOOD FREAKING GOD THIS IS THE BEST GAME EVER CREATED!
Highest score in one run so far: 33244
Yeah, bitches.
I roll unicorn.
(Best time killer EVER!)
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Tomorrow!
Are you thinkin' about tomorrow?
'Cause I'm thinkin' about tomorrow.
April 29th. Yep.
I'm thinkin' about tomorrow.
'Cause I'm thinkin' about tomorrow.
April 29th. Yep.
I'm thinkin' about tomorrow.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Rollin' Sad Panda...
...I feel like mostly everything I do is pointless.
Or more, I feel as if I have no connection to the things I do now days.
No direction, no purpose, I just do things.
I feel disconnected from life, from people, from the world.
I feel like an outsider, eavesdropping on a world that was never actually meant for me...
(Though, I'm sure, since I'm human, it kind of was meant for me...?)
Someone, please.
Just look at me once, look at me and care, look at me and want to hold my hand, tell me it'll be okay... I need a fucking rock.
I'm so tired of all these pebbles. I miss my rock. Rocks. Rocks. I like rocks.
I don't believe that Cameron actually liked me, even for a minute... not anymore. No more hope. Logan doesn't like me as anymore than a friend. I'm mostly sure of that now. Blarrrrrrrg.
Nobody asks why I look so God awfully depressed when I walk into the lounge - nope.
The lounge makes me so sad. I need to be away. Summer needs to come.
I miss my rock.
Rocks. They're good things.
~.~ @ life, yo.
Or more, I feel as if I have no connection to the things I do now days.
No direction, no purpose, I just do things.
I feel disconnected from life, from people, from the world.
I feel like an outsider, eavesdropping on a world that was never actually meant for me...
(Though, I'm sure, since I'm human, it kind of was meant for me...?)
Someone, please.
Just look at me once, look at me and care, look at me and want to hold my hand, tell me it'll be okay... I need a fucking rock.
I'm so tired of all these pebbles. I miss my rock. Rocks. Rocks. I like rocks.
I don't believe that Cameron actually liked me, even for a minute... not anymore. No more hope. Logan doesn't like me as anymore than a friend. I'm mostly sure of that now. Blarrrrrrrg.
Nobody asks why I look so God awfully depressed when I walk into the lounge - nope.
The lounge makes me so sad. I need to be away. Summer needs to come.
I miss my rock.
Rocks. They're good things.
~.~ @ life, yo.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
French Comp
Darlene McCoy
162 mots
Je vais visiter la Nouvelle Orleans avec ma meilleurs amis, Cindy et Jacob. Cindy a dix-neuf ans, comme moi, et Jacob a vingt et un ans. Il est plue age que Cindy et moi. Cindy et Jacob ont les cheveux bruns, et je pense que ils ont les yeux noirs. J'ai les cheveux blonds, et les yeux bleus! Aussi, j'ai l'air contente. Nous allons prendre un avion dans le demain matin. Quand nous arrivons, nous allons manger au resturant, et puis, nous n'avons pas faim! J'ai envie de danser dans la Nouvelle Orleans, mais, Jacob n'aime pas danser, si, je pense que nous allons faire du shopping! Nous avons froid quand c'est le soir. Jacob et moi parlons en francais, parce que nous apprenons le francais dans l'ecole! Cindy n'apprend pas le francais dans l'ecole, si elle ne parle aussi que Jacob et moi. Quand le soir finit, nous allons a l'aeroport, et prenons un autre avoin pour returner a chez nous!
162 mots
Je vais visiter la Nouvelle Orleans avec ma meilleurs amis, Cindy et Jacob. Cindy a dix-neuf ans, comme moi, et Jacob a vingt et un ans. Il est plue age que Cindy et moi. Cindy et Jacob ont les cheveux bruns, et je pense que ils ont les yeux noirs. J'ai les cheveux blonds, et les yeux bleus! Aussi, j'ai l'air contente. Nous allons prendre un avion dans le demain matin. Quand nous arrivons, nous allons manger au resturant, et puis, nous n'avons pas faim! J'ai envie de danser dans la Nouvelle Orleans, mais, Jacob n'aime pas danser, si, je pense que nous allons faire du shopping! Nous avons froid quand c'est le soir. Jacob et moi parlons en francais, parce que nous apprenons le francais dans l'ecole! Cindy n'apprend pas le francais dans l'ecole, si elle ne parle aussi que Jacob et moi. Quand le soir finit, nous allons a l'aeroport, et prenons un autre avoin pour returner a chez nous!
Monday, April 19, 2010
I Kind of Miss
FFXI.
Why?
'cause the real world is no damn better.
There's still assholes here that will do anything, walk over any person, whatever, to get what they want. "Gear" is just defined differently in the real world.
It's fucking pitiful. Ugh. I see why Rubino just hates people.
Even if I was staring at a screen all day,
more times than none, I was happy.
and if not happy -- I was at least bored.
Now... most of my days are mediocre at best...
and still boring.
and I can't craft IRL! FUCK! XD
I really liked to make money.
and pizza.
so much pizza.
YUUUMM.
Blarrggg. Hella days in a slump.
Too confused to come out of it, too.
:( Sadface.
BUT! I am going to the Distant Worlds concert with Jacob this summer.
That'll be freakin' awesome.
Why?
'cause the real world is no damn better.
There's still assholes here that will do anything, walk over any person, whatever, to get what they want. "Gear" is just defined differently in the real world.
It's fucking pitiful. Ugh. I see why Rubino just hates people.
Even if I was staring at a screen all day,
more times than none, I was happy.
and if not happy -- I was at least bored.
Now... most of my days are mediocre at best...
and still boring.
and I can't craft IRL! FUCK! XD
I really liked to make money.
and pizza.
so much pizza.
YUUUMM.
Blarrggg. Hella days in a slump.
Too confused to come out of it, too.
:( Sadface.
BUT! I am going to the Distant Worlds concert with Jacob this summer.
That'll be freakin' awesome.
finaldraftthatisliketwowordsdifferentfromsecond
Darlene McCoy
Margaret Amis
Writing 2
19April 2010
Oh, Irony!
When he founded The New Yorker in 1925, Harold Ross' aim was to please. He wanted his readers to enjoy a sophisticated humor magazine, full of amusing yet intellectual comments, sometimes vicious satire, and overall – things to make even the most snobbish aristocrat chuckle so heartily that his over sized wig would simply slip off his shiny bald head. To this day, the magazine has persevered through the test of time, and holds true to its founder's intentions. It is no wonder, then, that a witty and well-crafted article such as Judith Thurman's “Counterfeit Roth” would be found in the modern day New Yorker. It is also no wonder, then, that she would use a well-known, and well-loved literary technique, coupled with an amusing tone and other garnishing techniques, to craft a frighteningly funny piece. Irony, the main technique used to amuse, abounds in Thurman's article, and that irony serves to accommodate and bolster the magazine's main purpose – to simply entertain. Yet through the hilarity of it all – a second purpose, the article's own purpose, shines through, and that purpose further makes the article a more profound work.
Counterfeit Roth tells the tale of a man who wrote a piece of fiction – for a newspaper. What's wrong with that? The man, Tommaso Debenedetti, was a reporter, not an author; his misleading words were read as fact. He had reported that a well known American author, Phillip Roth, in an interview, had made some rather unpleasant comments about President Barack Obama; about how his rhetoric about hope and change was empty, comments about his banality, and his failure. Yet, in fact, when asked about his statements in another interview, Roth seemed confused, and said, “It is completely contrary to what I think. Obama, in my opinion, is fantastic” (Thurman 22). He denied the validity of all that Debenedetti had reported, and furthermore explained that those comments could only be a mere figment of Debenedetti's imagination – for he had never met the man, nor even heard of the newspaper he wrote for, Libero. Later, Roth did some research of his own. That research lead him to uncover another false interview, with the same false comments, written by the same man, but with comments attributed to another's mouth. John Grisham, another well known American author, was victim number two! He was also the last victim, for he plans to travel to Italy to sue Mr. Debenetti. And after his exposure, those interviews would be the last reports he wrote; for his career will soon come to a close.
A piece packed with as much irony as Thurman's cannot be considered anything but downright funny. First of all – the article is about a fiction writer uncovering and undermining fiction. It would be more of the norm to find a fiction writer encouraging another to continue writing, continue imagining, and to continue telling tales. Yet, what happens is quite the opposite, is unexpected, and is therefore comical. Another point of irony in the article is the newspaper that Debenetti wrote for sympathized with the Prime Minister of Italy, and his report, which would have been an attempt to make the Prime Minister appear to be less-scandalous, and more well-suited for his position, only made another newspaper, the Corriere della Sera, produce an article praising Roth's harsh criticism of Obama, and through that article, imply that the citizens of Italy should evaluate their own non-existent criticisms of their own national leader. Debenetti's intentions were anything but bringing the Prime Minister's administration and behavior into question. Now, it would seem more plausible for a reporter to make up disapproving comments under another's name if that other person was one who actually somewhat believed in those comments. In that case, he would just be exaggerating on a general distaste – but Philip Roth nor John Grisham believe that Obama is a failure. They are in fact, both democrats, who believe that Obama will do good for America. It is very amusing that Mr. Debenetti could pick two people to imposter, and find that they not only simply disagree with the words put into their mouths, but are both on the complete opposite side of the spectrum. Thurman's tone and structure is even ironic in the sense that it does not follow the traditional form of an essay. Generally, in a essay, only information important to the argument is presented. Thurman adds additional information, that is not necessarily dire to the explanation and understanding of her argument using parentheses, to create more of a comical effect. In one instance, she writes, “(The only Facebook page bearing the writer's name shows a bearded, curly-haired, young hipster with a goofy expression)” (22). This tone, and the use of the words “goofy” and“hipster,” contradict the usual formality of her article, and the aforementioned idea of only mentioning ideas that support an argument in an essay. Thurman uses dialogue to amuse her readers further, at the end of her article, she mentions that Roth was asked if Debenetti impersonated him well, like the character in his novel, Operation Shylock, to which he simply replied, “No, that was literature, this is merely life, and I certainly did a better job of imposturing” (23).
Through all of the irony and the other comical effects in the article, a more serious message peeks out from in between the lines. Throughout its entirety, Thurman uses Philip Roth to convey how she feels, and her article's point, “'You have to wonder what the guy was thinking.' Roth concluded” (23). She implies that he was not thinking, and that publishing essentially lies was probably not the best idea he had. She includes Roth's attempt to give reason to the man's idea, to be fair, “The best explanation I can find is that this obscure freelancer had hit upon a way of selling articles by attributing anti-Obama sentiments to famous American writers. It was a good gimmick, and he probably had fun. But I can't imagine what he'll do now – surely his career is over” (23). Thurman uses Roth's words to emphasize her point – passing off false work, or false words, as genuine and true only hurts one in the end.
All in all, “Counterfeit Roth” is a piece that adequately deserves its place in The New Yorker. It is amusing, well-written, and has a point to it besides its entertainment value. Without Thurman's addition of comical effects, especially irony, this article could have very well been just another news story that could have possibly bored its reader to tears, or even death! Yet, without her additional, more subtle message, this article would have been only a simple pleasure for the mind – and what snobbish aristocrat would want to read that?
Works Cited
Thurman, Judith. "Counterfeit Roth." The New Yorker 5 Apr. 2010: 22-23. Print.
Self-Assessment Questions:
What are the strengths of your writing? Which parts work well, and which
parts work best?
-- I feel like the main strength of my writing is my voice. I've been told time and time again that it really shines through in my essays, fiction, or even my God-awful poetry! I'm not really sure what parts work best, but I'm very fond of my introduction paragraph.
What heights did you reach for? How much did you challenge yourself in this
writing?
-- I tried my best to produce a paper of quality. I don't know if I especially challenged myself, but, I tend to always do my best when I write papers, so I sort of always challenge myself. I always want to write a paper that I actually like - and while this one isn't my favorite, I'm pretty content with it. I also don't especially find writing essays challenging anymore.
Which elements, devices, punctuation, or rhetorical effects from Gorrell did you
use?
-- Honestly - I couldn't say without looking them up in the text and dissecting my paper - but I feel like I use parallel structure often. And of course, I use dashes. They're my favorite. I think there is a hefty amount of alliteration in there, too! I write very unconsciously, and just type whatever comes to mind - then edit later.
Which parts did you have trouble developing?
-- I had trouble developing my actual argument, because I really don't feel like someone would contradict me saying "This article is legit!" I also found dissecting my article to be more work than I had expected. So putting in the time that I did could be considered "hard."
Which mental processes did you sue during the drafting?
-- I organize my ideas on paper; in somewhat of an outline form, then: I sit, I put on classical music, I relax, and I write.
How many hours did you spend on it? How did you allocate your time?
-- Argh! I don't really know how many hours specifically I spent on this paper, but it was probably more than other people. I think I spent about an hour to two just dissecting my article, and then I think I spent maybe a good three hours putting it all together. I can't really say - for there were of course, times of distraction. Each edit I spent probably about a half hour to an hour on.
Is there anything in particular you'd like me to attend to as I read?
-- Not really. It is what it is!
Whom would you acknowledge as helpers? Sources? Someone who gave you
an idea? Peer edited?
-- Nobody in my group of friends cares for or is as interested in writing as I am, so discussions with them about this class have been very limited, so I'd have to say that my peer editors were my best "helpers," even though I didn't always use their corrections or advise. I trust myself more than anyone when it comes to writing!
Margaret Amis
Writing 2
19April 2010
Oh, Irony!
When he founded The New Yorker in 1925, Harold Ross' aim was to please. He wanted his readers to enjoy a sophisticated humor magazine, full of amusing yet intellectual comments, sometimes vicious satire, and overall – things to make even the most snobbish aristocrat chuckle so heartily that his over sized wig would simply slip off his shiny bald head. To this day, the magazine has persevered through the test of time, and holds true to its founder's intentions. It is no wonder, then, that a witty and well-crafted article such as Judith Thurman's “Counterfeit Roth” would be found in the modern day New Yorker. It is also no wonder, then, that she would use a well-known, and well-loved literary technique, coupled with an amusing tone and other garnishing techniques, to craft a frighteningly funny piece. Irony, the main technique used to amuse, abounds in Thurman's article, and that irony serves to accommodate and bolster the magazine's main purpose – to simply entertain. Yet through the hilarity of it all – a second purpose, the article's own purpose, shines through, and that purpose further makes the article a more profound work.
Counterfeit Roth tells the tale of a man who wrote a piece of fiction – for a newspaper. What's wrong with that? The man, Tommaso Debenedetti, was a reporter, not an author; his misleading words were read as fact. He had reported that a well known American author, Phillip Roth, in an interview, had made some rather unpleasant comments about President Barack Obama; about how his rhetoric about hope and change was empty, comments about his banality, and his failure. Yet, in fact, when asked about his statements in another interview, Roth seemed confused, and said, “It is completely contrary to what I think. Obama, in my opinion, is fantastic” (Thurman 22). He denied the validity of all that Debenedetti had reported, and furthermore explained that those comments could only be a mere figment of Debenedetti's imagination – for he had never met the man, nor even heard of the newspaper he wrote for, Libero. Later, Roth did some research of his own. That research lead him to uncover another false interview, with the same false comments, written by the same man, but with comments attributed to another's mouth. John Grisham, another well known American author, was victim number two! He was also the last victim, for he plans to travel to Italy to sue Mr. Debenetti. And after his exposure, those interviews would be the last reports he wrote; for his career will soon come to a close.
A piece packed with as much irony as Thurman's cannot be considered anything but downright funny. First of all – the article is about a fiction writer uncovering and undermining fiction. It would be more of the norm to find a fiction writer encouraging another to continue writing, continue imagining, and to continue telling tales. Yet, what happens is quite the opposite, is unexpected, and is therefore comical. Another point of irony in the article is the newspaper that Debenetti wrote for sympathized with the Prime Minister of Italy, and his report, which would have been an attempt to make the Prime Minister appear to be less-scandalous, and more well-suited for his position, only made another newspaper, the Corriere della Sera, produce an article praising Roth's harsh criticism of Obama, and through that article, imply that the citizens of Italy should evaluate their own non-existent criticisms of their own national leader. Debenetti's intentions were anything but bringing the Prime Minister's administration and behavior into question. Now, it would seem more plausible for a reporter to make up disapproving comments under another's name if that other person was one who actually somewhat believed in those comments. In that case, he would just be exaggerating on a general distaste – but Philip Roth nor John Grisham believe that Obama is a failure. They are in fact, both democrats, who believe that Obama will do good for America. It is very amusing that Mr. Debenetti could pick two people to imposter, and find that they not only simply disagree with the words put into their mouths, but are both on the complete opposite side of the spectrum. Thurman's tone and structure is even ironic in the sense that it does not follow the traditional form of an essay. Generally, in a essay, only information important to the argument is presented. Thurman adds additional information, that is not necessarily dire to the explanation and understanding of her argument using parentheses, to create more of a comical effect. In one instance, she writes, “(The only Facebook page bearing the writer's name shows a bearded, curly-haired, young hipster with a goofy expression)” (22). This tone, and the use of the words “goofy” and“hipster,” contradict the usual formality of her article, and the aforementioned idea of only mentioning ideas that support an argument in an essay. Thurman uses dialogue to amuse her readers further, at the end of her article, she mentions that Roth was asked if Debenetti impersonated him well, like the character in his novel, Operation Shylock, to which he simply replied, “No, that was literature, this is merely life, and I certainly did a better job of imposturing” (23).
Through all of the irony and the other comical effects in the article, a more serious message peeks out from in between the lines. Throughout its entirety, Thurman uses Philip Roth to convey how she feels, and her article's point, “'You have to wonder what the guy was thinking.' Roth concluded” (23). She implies that he was not thinking, and that publishing essentially lies was probably not the best idea he had. She includes Roth's attempt to give reason to the man's idea, to be fair, “The best explanation I can find is that this obscure freelancer had hit upon a way of selling articles by attributing anti-Obama sentiments to famous American writers. It was a good gimmick, and he probably had fun. But I can't imagine what he'll do now – surely his career is over” (23). Thurman uses Roth's words to emphasize her point – passing off false work, or false words, as genuine and true only hurts one in the end.
All in all, “Counterfeit Roth” is a piece that adequately deserves its place in The New Yorker. It is amusing, well-written, and has a point to it besides its entertainment value. Without Thurman's addition of comical effects, especially irony, this article could have very well been just another news story that could have possibly bored its reader to tears, or even death! Yet, without her additional, more subtle message, this article would have been only a simple pleasure for the mind – and what snobbish aristocrat would want to read that?
Works Cited
Thurman, Judith. "Counterfeit Roth." The New Yorker 5 Apr. 2010: 22-23. Print.
Self-Assessment Questions:
What are the strengths of your writing? Which parts work well, and which
parts work best?
-- I feel like the main strength of my writing is my voice. I've been told time and time again that it really shines through in my essays, fiction, or even my God-awful poetry! I'm not really sure what parts work best, but I'm very fond of my introduction paragraph.
What heights did you reach for? How much did you challenge yourself in this
writing?
-- I tried my best to produce a paper of quality. I don't know if I especially challenged myself, but, I tend to always do my best when I write papers, so I sort of always challenge myself. I always want to write a paper that I actually like - and while this one isn't my favorite, I'm pretty content with it. I also don't especially find writing essays challenging anymore.
Which elements, devices, punctuation, or rhetorical effects from Gorrell did you
use?
-- Honestly - I couldn't say without looking them up in the text and dissecting my paper - but I feel like I use parallel structure often. And of course, I use dashes. They're my favorite. I think there is a hefty amount of alliteration in there, too! I write very unconsciously, and just type whatever comes to mind - then edit later.
Which parts did you have trouble developing?
-- I had trouble developing my actual argument, because I really don't feel like someone would contradict me saying "This article is legit!" I also found dissecting my article to be more work than I had expected. So putting in the time that I did could be considered "hard."
Which mental processes did you sue during the drafting?
-- I organize my ideas on paper; in somewhat of an outline form, then: I sit, I put on classical music, I relax, and I write.
How many hours did you spend on it? How did you allocate your time?
-- Argh! I don't really know how many hours specifically I spent on this paper, but it was probably more than other people. I think I spent about an hour to two just dissecting my article, and then I think I spent maybe a good three hours putting it all together. I can't really say - for there were of course, times of distraction. Each edit I spent probably about a half hour to an hour on.
Is there anything in particular you'd like me to attend to as I read?
-- Not really. It is what it is!
Whom would you acknowledge as helpers? Sources? Someone who gave you
an idea? Peer edited?
-- Nobody in my group of friends cares for or is as interested in writing as I am, so discussions with them about this class have been very limited, so I'd have to say that my peer editors were my best "helpers," even though I didn't always use their corrections or advise. I trust myself more than anyone when it comes to writing!
Hate Hate Hate
Sinking feelings.
Please, please, please, please.
Don't go away.
Please, happiness.
Stay?
Please, please, please, please.
Don't go away.
Please, happiness.
Stay?
Sunday, April 18, 2010
It's Been Such a Long Time
...since I've made a legitimate blog post.
Let's see..
update on life:
Spring break was really awesome. Spent a lot of time with Jacob, and threw a pretty good party. Danced on a table with the best friend. Yep. ♥
I think I really like this guy named Logan, but some other interesting things have happened lately and I'm not 100% sure about that right now.
Other interesting things meaning... my friend Cameron...
I think I'll let you know that story later, dear blog, 'cause I dunno how I feel about it right now.
In other words -- Kick Ass is an awesome movie. The little girl is wtf bat shit crazy and it's kind of totally freakin' awesome.
Now! Back to boys and blahblahblah
I dunno how comfortable I am with putting stuff so personal on the internet anymore.
Mostly because now I really have no idea who reads it, and in which way they take it. I know my now ex-BFF Mark used to read this blog often, and honestly I don't know if he does anymore. He hasn't talked to me in like, 3 months. ~.~ Julia has also read this before, and while I hope to God we're still fairly good friends, sometimes I worry because I'm scared, sad, and still more or less mortified by Mark's abandonment of me. I just don't want to post anything to make either of them think less of me... though I don't know if that would affect how Mark feels about me, anyway.
When this was a blog about FFXI, and FFXI only, well shit, I honestly didn't give a fuck what people thought -- they lived usually over 1,000 miles away and if I never wanted to speak to them again I didn't have to. I didn't have to deal wih their bullshit, their criticism, or their judgmental eyes... passing them in the hall, pretending they are non-existent... urrrghh!
The other thing about a blog about FFXI was it was just a game. I feel like I'm more or less not only posting my story online, but my friends' too. I guess it was the same for FFXI, but who the fuck would care if you were a little bit of a dick in a video game in the real world, really?
At least I think so... kind of.
I dunno. I just don't feel like it's okay for me to post things about other people. Not anymore. I care far too much for Logan, and Cameron, and Kendal, and Tanner, and Julia, and even Allyson and Mark to make our lives here a text based reality TV show. But I also miss writing. I miss ranting. I miss not giving a fuck about so and so's reaction. Because I am me when I write, and God damnit, I am not a bitch when I write. I have a backbone and I am strong, and the itty bitty bit of rage that does live within me can be unleashed.
Argh. I'm just so aggravated. So confused. So grouchy 'cause I got yelled at 'cause I kinda fail at DotA. (lol)
Oh -- in other other words: got my first hickey. I think? And by first I mean set of four.
Think on that, muthafucka.
I'd like to think my personal reaction to finding them this morning was kind of priceless.
OH! and James, sweet gay guy who used to live with Robert, said that I should write for FRL! again.
That kind of made my night. He's such a sweetheart.
Let's see..
update on life:
Spring break was really awesome. Spent a lot of time with Jacob, and threw a pretty good party. Danced on a table with the best friend. Yep. ♥
I think I really like this guy named Logan, but some other interesting things have happened lately and I'm not 100% sure about that right now.
Other interesting things meaning... my friend Cameron...
I think I'll let you know that story later, dear blog, 'cause I dunno how I feel about it right now.
In other words -- Kick Ass is an awesome movie. The little girl is wtf bat shit crazy and it's kind of totally freakin' awesome.
Now! Back to boys and blahblahblah
I dunno how comfortable I am with putting stuff so personal on the internet anymore.
Mostly because now I really have no idea who reads it, and in which way they take it. I know my now ex-BFF Mark used to read this blog often, and honestly I don't know if he does anymore. He hasn't talked to me in like, 3 months. ~.~ Julia has also read this before, and while I hope to God we're still fairly good friends, sometimes I worry because I'm scared, sad, and still more or less mortified by Mark's abandonment of me. I just don't want to post anything to make either of them think less of me... though I don't know if that would affect how Mark feels about me, anyway.
When this was a blog about FFXI, and FFXI only, well shit, I honestly didn't give a fuck what people thought -- they lived usually over 1,000 miles away and if I never wanted to speak to them again I didn't have to. I didn't have to deal wih their bullshit, their criticism, or their judgmental eyes... passing them in the hall, pretending they are non-existent... urrrghh!
The other thing about a blog about FFXI was it was just a game. I feel like I'm more or less not only posting my story online, but my friends' too. I guess it was the same for FFXI, but who the fuck would care if you were a little bit of a dick in a video game in the real world, really?
At least I think so... kind of.
I dunno. I just don't feel like it's okay for me to post things about other people. Not anymore. I care far too much for Logan, and Cameron, and Kendal, and Tanner, and Julia, and even Allyson and Mark to make our lives here a text based reality TV show. But I also miss writing. I miss ranting. I miss not giving a fuck about so and so's reaction. Because I am me when I write, and God damnit, I am not a bitch when I write. I have a backbone and I am strong, and the itty bitty bit of rage that does live within me can be unleashed.
Argh. I'm just so aggravated. So confused. So grouchy 'cause I got yelled at 'cause I kinda fail at DotA. (lol)
Oh -- in other other words: got my first hickey. I think? And by first I mean set of four.
Think on that, muthafucka.
I'd like to think my personal reaction to finding them this morning was kind of priceless.
OH! and James, sweet gay guy who used to live with Robert, said that I should write for FRL! again.
That kind of made my night. He's such a sweetheart.
Friday, April 16, 2010
lawlessaydraftishnumbertwo
Darlene McCoy
Margaret Amis
Writing 2
16 April 2010
Big-Wiged Readin'
When he founded The New Yorker in 1925, Harold Ross' aim was to please. He wanted his readers to enjoy a sophisticated humor magazine, full of amusing yet intellectual comments, sometimes vicious satire, and overall – things to make even the most snobbish aristocrat chuckle so heartily that his over sized wig would simply slip off his shiny bald head. To this day, the magazine has persevered through the test of time, and holds true to its founder's intentions. It is no wonder, then, that a witty and well-crafted article such as Judith Thurman's “Counterfeit Roth” would be found in the modern day New Yorker. It is also no wonder, then, that she would use a well-known, and well-loved literary technique, coupled with an amusing tone and other garnishing techniques, to craft a frighteningly funny piece. Irony, the main technique used to amuse, abounds in Thurman's article, and that irony serves to accommodate and bolster the magazine's main purpose – to simply entertain. Yet through the hilarity of it all – a second purpose, the article's own purpose, shines through, and that purpose further makes the article a more profound work.
Counterfeit Roth tells the tale of a man who wrote a piece of fiction – for a newspaper. What's wrong with that? The man, Tommaso Debenedetti, was a reporter, not an author; his misleading words were read as fact. He had reported that a well known American author, Phillip Roth, in an interview, had made some rather unpleasant comments about President Barack Obama; about how his rhetoric about hope and change was empty, comments about his banality, and his failure. Yet, in fact, when asked about his statements in another interview, Roth seemed confused, and said, “It is completely contrary to what I think. Obama, in my opinion, is fantastic” (Thurman 22). He denied the validity of all that Debenedetti had reported, and furthermore explained that those comments could only be a mere figment of Debenedetti's imagination – for he had never met the man, nor even heard of the newspaper he wrote for, Libero. Later, Roth did some research of his own. That research lead him to uncover another false interview, with the same false comments, written by the same man, but with comments attributed to another's mouth. John Grisham, another well known American author, was victim number two! He was also the last victim, for he plans to travel to Italy to sue Mr. Debenetti. And after his exposure, those interviews would be the last reports he wrote; for his career will soon come to a close.
A piece packed with as much irony as Thurman's cannot be considered anything but downright funny. First of all – the article is about a fiction writer uncovering and undermining fiction. It would be more of the norm to find a fiction writer encouraging another to continue writing, continue imagining, and to continue telling tales. Yet, what happens is quite the opposite, is unexpected, and is therefore comical. Another point of irony in the article is the newspaper that Debenetti wrote for sympathized with the Prime Minister of Italy, and his report, which would have been an attempt to make the Prime Minister appear to be less-scandalous, and more well-suited for his position, only made another newspaper, the Corriere della Sera, produce an article praising Roth's harsh criticism of Obama, and implying that the citizens of Italy should evaluate their own non-existent criticisms of their own national leader. Debenetti's intentions were anything but bringing the Prime Minister's administration and behavior into question. Now, it would seem more plausible for a reporter to make up disapproving comments under another's name if that other person was one who actually somewhat believed in those comments. In that case, he would just be exaggerating on a general distaste – but Philip Roth nor John Grisham believe that Obama is a failure. They are in fact, both democrats, who believe that Obama will do good for America. It is very amusing that Mr. Debenetti could pick two people to impostor, and find that they not only simply disagree with the words put into their mouths, but are both on the complete opposite side of the spectrum. Thurman's tone and structure is even ironic in the sense that it does not follow the traditional form of an essay. Generally, in a essay, only information important to the argument is presented. Thurman adds additional information, that is not necessarily dire to the explanation and understanding of her argument using parentheses, to create more of a comical effect. In one instance, she writes, “(The only Facebook page bearing the writer's name shows a bearded, curly-haired, young hipster with a goofy expression)” (22). This tone, and the use of the words “goofy” and“hipster,” contradict the usual formality of her article, and the aforementioned idea of only mentioning ideas that support an argument in an essay. Thurman uses dialogue to amuse her readers further, at the end of her article, she mentions that Roth was asked if Debenetti impersonated him well, like the character in his novel, Operation Shylock, to which he simply replied, “No, that was literature, this is merely life, and I certainly did a better job of imposturing. (23)”
Through all of the irony and the other comical effects in the article, a more serious message peeks out from in between the lines. Throughout the entirety, Thurman uses Philip Roth to convey how she feels, and her article's point, “'You have to wonder what the guy was thinking.' Roth concluded” (23). She implies that he was not thinking, and that publishing essentially lies is probably not the best idea he had. She includes Roth's attempt to give reason to the man's idea, to be fair, “The best explanation I can find is that this obscure freelancer had hit upon a way of selling articles by attributing anti-Obama sentiments to famous American writers. It was a good gimmick, and he probably had fun. But I can't imagine what he'll do now – surely his career is over” (23). Thurman uses Roth's words to emphasize her point – passing off false work, or false words, as genuine and true only hurts one in the end.
All in all, “Counterfeit Roth” is a piece that adequately deserves its place in The New Yorker. It is amusing, well-written, and has a point to it besides its entertainment value. Without Thurman's addition of comical effects, especially irony, this article could have very well been just another news story that could have possibly bored its reader to tears, or even death! Yet, without her additional, more subtle message, this article would have been a simple pleasure for the mind – and what snobbish aristocrat would want to read that?
Margaret Amis
Writing 2
16 April 2010
Big-Wiged Readin'
When he founded The New Yorker in 1925, Harold Ross' aim was to please. He wanted his readers to enjoy a sophisticated humor magazine, full of amusing yet intellectual comments, sometimes vicious satire, and overall – things to make even the most snobbish aristocrat chuckle so heartily that his over sized wig would simply slip off his shiny bald head. To this day, the magazine has persevered through the test of time, and holds true to its founder's intentions. It is no wonder, then, that a witty and well-crafted article such as Judith Thurman's “Counterfeit Roth” would be found in the modern day New Yorker. It is also no wonder, then, that she would use a well-known, and well-loved literary technique, coupled with an amusing tone and other garnishing techniques, to craft a frighteningly funny piece. Irony, the main technique used to amuse, abounds in Thurman's article, and that irony serves to accommodate and bolster the magazine's main purpose – to simply entertain. Yet through the hilarity of it all – a second purpose, the article's own purpose, shines through, and that purpose further makes the article a more profound work.
Counterfeit Roth tells the tale of a man who wrote a piece of fiction – for a newspaper. What's wrong with that? The man, Tommaso Debenedetti, was a reporter, not an author; his misleading words were read as fact. He had reported that a well known American author, Phillip Roth, in an interview, had made some rather unpleasant comments about President Barack Obama; about how his rhetoric about hope and change was empty, comments about his banality, and his failure. Yet, in fact, when asked about his statements in another interview, Roth seemed confused, and said, “It is completely contrary to what I think. Obama, in my opinion, is fantastic” (Thurman 22). He denied the validity of all that Debenedetti had reported, and furthermore explained that those comments could only be a mere figment of Debenedetti's imagination – for he had never met the man, nor even heard of the newspaper he wrote for, Libero. Later, Roth did some research of his own. That research lead him to uncover another false interview, with the same false comments, written by the same man, but with comments attributed to another's mouth. John Grisham, another well known American author, was victim number two! He was also the last victim, for he plans to travel to Italy to sue Mr. Debenetti. And after his exposure, those interviews would be the last reports he wrote; for his career will soon come to a close.
A piece packed with as much irony as Thurman's cannot be considered anything but downright funny. First of all – the article is about a fiction writer uncovering and undermining fiction. It would be more of the norm to find a fiction writer encouraging another to continue writing, continue imagining, and to continue telling tales. Yet, what happens is quite the opposite, is unexpected, and is therefore comical. Another point of irony in the article is the newspaper that Debenetti wrote for sympathized with the Prime Minister of Italy, and his report, which would have been an attempt to make the Prime Minister appear to be less-scandalous, and more well-suited for his position, only made another newspaper, the Corriere della Sera, produce an article praising Roth's harsh criticism of Obama, and implying that the citizens of Italy should evaluate their own non-existent criticisms of their own national leader. Debenetti's intentions were anything but bringing the Prime Minister's administration and behavior into question. Now, it would seem more plausible for a reporter to make up disapproving comments under another's name if that other person was one who actually somewhat believed in those comments. In that case, he would just be exaggerating on a general distaste – but Philip Roth nor John Grisham believe that Obama is a failure. They are in fact, both democrats, who believe that Obama will do good for America. It is very amusing that Mr. Debenetti could pick two people to impostor, and find that they not only simply disagree with the words put into their mouths, but are both on the complete opposite side of the spectrum. Thurman's tone and structure is even ironic in the sense that it does not follow the traditional form of an essay. Generally, in a essay, only information important to the argument is presented. Thurman adds additional information, that is not necessarily dire to the explanation and understanding of her argument using parentheses, to create more of a comical effect. In one instance, she writes, “(The only Facebook page bearing the writer's name shows a bearded, curly-haired, young hipster with a goofy expression)” (22). This tone, and the use of the words “goofy” and“hipster,” contradict the usual formality of her article, and the aforementioned idea of only mentioning ideas that support an argument in an essay. Thurman uses dialogue to amuse her readers further, at the end of her article, she mentions that Roth was asked if Debenetti impersonated him well, like the character in his novel, Operation Shylock, to which he simply replied, “No, that was literature, this is merely life, and I certainly did a better job of imposturing. (23)”
Through all of the irony and the other comical effects in the article, a more serious message peeks out from in between the lines. Throughout the entirety, Thurman uses Philip Roth to convey how she feels, and her article's point, “'You have to wonder what the guy was thinking.' Roth concluded” (23). She implies that he was not thinking, and that publishing essentially lies is probably not the best idea he had. She includes Roth's attempt to give reason to the man's idea, to be fair, “The best explanation I can find is that this obscure freelancer had hit upon a way of selling articles by attributing anti-Obama sentiments to famous American writers. It was a good gimmick, and he probably had fun. But I can't imagine what he'll do now – surely his career is over” (23). Thurman uses Roth's words to emphasize her point – passing off false work, or false words, as genuine and true only hurts one in the end.
All in all, “Counterfeit Roth” is a piece that adequately deserves its place in The New Yorker. It is amusing, well-written, and has a point to it besides its entertainment value. Without Thurman's addition of comical effects, especially irony, this article could have very well been just another news story that could have possibly bored its reader to tears, or even death! Yet, without her additional, more subtle message, this article would have been a simple pleasure for the mind – and what snobbish aristocrat would want to read that?
I Really Wish!
...that you weren't so busy...
but hopefully, this weekend will be good...
and I'd like to think the "You're awesome" on my cork board came from you...
...but I know you can't get into the dorms...
D'aww :(
I really wish...
I wasn't so shy...
Blarrrgg!
but hopefully, this weekend will be good...
and I'd like to think the "You're awesome" on my cork board came from you...
...but I know you can't get into the dorms...
D'aww :(
I really wish...
I wasn't so shy...
Blarrrgg!
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Bad Paper is Bad.
...but I've got to print it out at the computer lab, so on the blog it goes!
Darlene McCoy
Margaret Amis
Writing 2
13 April 2010
Oh, Irony!
When he founded The New Yorker in 1925, Harold Ross' aim was to please. He wanted his readers to enjoy a sophisticated humor magazine, full of amusing yet intellectual comments, sometimes vicious satire, and overall – things to make even the most snobbish aristocrat chuckle so heartily that his over sized wig would simply slip off his shiny bald head. To this day, the magazine has persevered through the test of time, and holds true to its founder's intentions. It is no wonder, then, that a witty and well-crafted article such as Judith Thurman's “Counterfeit Roth” would be found in the modern day New Yorker. It is also no wonder, then, that she would use a well-known, and well-loved literary technique, coupled with an amusing tone and other garnishing techniques, to craft a frighteningly funny piece. Irony, the main technique used to amuse, abounds in Thurman's article, and that irony serves to accommodate and bolster the magazine's main purpose – to simply entertain. Yet through the hilarity of it all – a second purpose, the article's own purpose, shines though.
Counterfeit Roth tells the tale of a man who wrote fiction – for a newspaper. What's wrong with that? The man, Tommaso Debenedetti, was a reporter, not an author; his misleading words were read as fact. He had reported that a well known American author, Phillip Roth, in an interview, had made some rather unpleasant comments about President Barack Obama; about how his rhetoric about hope and change was empty, comments about his banality, and his failure. Yet, in fact, when asked about his statements in another interview, Roth seemed confused, and said, “It is completely contrary to what I think. Obama, in my opinion, is fantastic.” He denied the validity of all that Debenedetti had reported, and furthermore explained that those comments could only be a mere figment of Debenedetti's imagination – for he had never met the man, nor even heard of the newspaper he wrote for, Libero. Later, Roth did some research of his own. That research lead him to uncover another false interview, with the same false comments, written by the same man, but containing comments out of another's mouth. John Grisham, another well known American author, was victim number two! He was also the last victim, for he plans to travel to Italy to sue Mr. Debenetti. That would be all he wrote.
A piece packed with as much irony as Thurman's cannot be considered anything but downright funny. First of all – the article is about a fiction writer uncovering and undermining fiction. It would be more of the norm, and expected, to find a fiction writer encouraging another to continue writing, continue imagining, and to continue telling tales. Yet, what happens is quite the opposite, is unexpected, and is therefore comical. Another point of irony in the article is the newspaper that Debenetti wrote for sympathized with the Prime Minister of Italy, and his report, which would have been an attempt to make the Prime Minister appear to be less-scandalous, and more well-suited for his position, only made another newspaper, the Corriere della Sera, produce an article praising Roth's harsh criticism of Obama, and implying that the citizens of Italy should evaluate their own non-existent criticisms of their own national leader. Debenetti's intentions were anything but bringing the Prime Minister's administration and behavior into question. Now, it would seem more plausible for a reporter to make up disapproving comments under another's name if that other person was one who actually somewhat believed in those comments, so in that case, he would just be exaggerating on a general distaste – but Philip Roth nor John Grisham believe that Obama is a failure. They are in fact, both democrats, who believe that Obama will do good for America. It is very amusing that Mr. Debenetti could pick two people to imposter, and find that they not only simply disagree with the words put into their mouths, but are both on the complete opposite side of the spectrum. Thurman's tone and structure is even ironic in the sense that it does not follow the traditional form of an essay. Generally, in a essay, only information important to the argument is presented. Thurman adds additional information, that is not necessarily dire to the explanation and understanding of her argument using parentheses, to create more of a comical effect. In one instance, she writes, “(The only Facebook page bearing the writer's name shows a bearded, curly-haired, young hipster with a goofy expression.)” This tone, and the use of the words “goofy” and“hipster,” contradict the usual formality of her article, and the aforementioned idea of only mentioning ideas that support an argument in an essay. Thurman uses dialogue to amuse her readers further, at the end of her article, she mentions that Roth was asked if Debenetti impersonated him well, like the character in his novel, Operation Shylock, he simply replied, “No, that was literature, this is merely life, and I certainly did a better job of imposturing.”
Through all of the irony and other comical effect in the article, a more serious message peeks out from in between the lines. Throughout the entire article, Thurman uses Philip Roth to convey how she feels, and her article's point, “'You have to wonder what the guy was thinking.' Roth concluded.” She implies that he was not thinking, and that publishing basically lies is probably not the best idea he had. She includes Roth's attempt to give reason to the man's idea, to be fair, “The best explanation I can find is that this obscure freelancer had hit upon a way of selling articles by attributing anti-Obama sentiments to famous American writers. It was a good gimmick, and he probably had fun. But I can't imagine what he'll do now – surely his career is over.” Thurman uses Roth's words to emphasize her point – doing it wrong only hurts one in the end.
All in all, “Counterfeit Roth” is a piece that adequately deserves its place in The New Yorker. It is amusing, well-written, and has a point to it besides a piece written for enjoyment.
Darlene McCoy
Margaret Amis
Writing 2
13 April 2010
Oh, Irony!
When he founded The New Yorker in 1925, Harold Ross' aim was to please. He wanted his readers to enjoy a sophisticated humor magazine, full of amusing yet intellectual comments, sometimes vicious satire, and overall – things to make even the most snobbish aristocrat chuckle so heartily that his over sized wig would simply slip off his shiny bald head. To this day, the magazine has persevered through the test of time, and holds true to its founder's intentions. It is no wonder, then, that a witty and well-crafted article such as Judith Thurman's “Counterfeit Roth” would be found in the modern day New Yorker. It is also no wonder, then, that she would use a well-known, and well-loved literary technique, coupled with an amusing tone and other garnishing techniques, to craft a frighteningly funny piece. Irony, the main technique used to amuse, abounds in Thurman's article, and that irony serves to accommodate and bolster the magazine's main purpose – to simply entertain. Yet through the hilarity of it all – a second purpose, the article's own purpose, shines though.
Counterfeit Roth tells the tale of a man who wrote fiction – for a newspaper. What's wrong with that? The man, Tommaso Debenedetti, was a reporter, not an author; his misleading words were read as fact. He had reported that a well known American author, Phillip Roth, in an interview, had made some rather unpleasant comments about President Barack Obama; about how his rhetoric about hope and change was empty, comments about his banality, and his failure. Yet, in fact, when asked about his statements in another interview, Roth seemed confused, and said, “It is completely contrary to what I think. Obama, in my opinion, is fantastic.” He denied the validity of all that Debenedetti had reported, and furthermore explained that those comments could only be a mere figment of Debenedetti's imagination – for he had never met the man, nor even heard of the newspaper he wrote for, Libero. Later, Roth did some research of his own. That research lead him to uncover another false interview, with the same false comments, written by the same man, but containing comments out of another's mouth. John Grisham, another well known American author, was victim number two! He was also the last victim, for he plans to travel to Italy to sue Mr. Debenetti. That would be all he wrote.
A piece packed with as much irony as Thurman's cannot be considered anything but downright funny. First of all – the article is about a fiction writer uncovering and undermining fiction. It would be more of the norm, and expected, to find a fiction writer encouraging another to continue writing, continue imagining, and to continue telling tales. Yet, what happens is quite the opposite, is unexpected, and is therefore comical. Another point of irony in the article is the newspaper that Debenetti wrote for sympathized with the Prime Minister of Italy, and his report, which would have been an attempt to make the Prime Minister appear to be less-scandalous, and more well-suited for his position, only made another newspaper, the Corriere della Sera, produce an article praising Roth's harsh criticism of Obama, and implying that the citizens of Italy should evaluate their own non-existent criticisms of their own national leader. Debenetti's intentions were anything but bringing the Prime Minister's administration and behavior into question. Now, it would seem more plausible for a reporter to make up disapproving comments under another's name if that other person was one who actually somewhat believed in those comments, so in that case, he would just be exaggerating on a general distaste – but Philip Roth nor John Grisham believe that Obama is a failure. They are in fact, both democrats, who believe that Obama will do good for America. It is very amusing that Mr. Debenetti could pick two people to imposter, and find that they not only simply disagree with the words put into their mouths, but are both on the complete opposite side of the spectrum. Thurman's tone and structure is even ironic in the sense that it does not follow the traditional form of an essay. Generally, in a essay, only information important to the argument is presented. Thurman adds additional information, that is not necessarily dire to the explanation and understanding of her argument using parentheses, to create more of a comical effect. In one instance, she writes, “(The only Facebook page bearing the writer's name shows a bearded, curly-haired, young hipster with a goofy expression.)” This tone, and the use of the words “goofy” and“hipster,” contradict the usual formality of her article, and the aforementioned idea of only mentioning ideas that support an argument in an essay. Thurman uses dialogue to amuse her readers further, at the end of her article, she mentions that Roth was asked if Debenetti impersonated him well, like the character in his novel, Operation Shylock, he simply replied, “No, that was literature, this is merely life, and I certainly did a better job of imposturing.”
Through all of the irony and other comical effect in the article, a more serious message peeks out from in between the lines. Throughout the entire article, Thurman uses Philip Roth to convey how she feels, and her article's point, “'You have to wonder what the guy was thinking.' Roth concluded.” She implies that he was not thinking, and that publishing basically lies is probably not the best idea he had. She includes Roth's attempt to give reason to the man's idea, to be fair, “The best explanation I can find is that this obscure freelancer had hit upon a way of selling articles by attributing anti-Obama sentiments to famous American writers. It was a good gimmick, and he probably had fun. But I can't imagine what he'll do now – surely his career is over.” Thurman uses Roth's words to emphasize her point – doing it wrong only hurts one in the end.
All in all, “Counterfeit Roth” is a piece that adequately deserves its place in The New Yorker. It is amusing, well-written, and has a point to it besides a piece written for enjoyment.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Whoa!
I've made 400 posts!
This is post 401 :]
...that's a lot of freakin' blogging...
Deeeeeeeeeeeerp.
Derpderp.
'kay so,
Today:
"Why do my friends always run into the guys I like?!" D:
This is post 401 :]
...that's a lot of freakin' blogging...
Deeeeeeeeeeeerp.
Derpderp.
'kay so,
Today:
"Why do my friends always run into the guys I like?!" D:
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Oh Lord...
The drama is never going to end this year.
Why is college high school 2.0? =.=
But tonight,
tonight,
last night,
and the night before
were good nights.
Not perfect... but a few good nights in a row make me content-ish.
But grrr.... grrr at stupid roommates... not mine, of course, 'cause mine aren't stupid and I love them; but yeah, GRRRRR~!
Why is college high school 2.0? =.=
But tonight,
tonight,
last night,
and the night before
were good nights.
Not perfect... but a few good nights in a row make me content-ish.
But grrr.... grrr at stupid roommates... not mine, of course, 'cause mine aren't stupid and I love them; but yeah, GRRRRR~!
Friday, March 19, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Living Writers Crap
Darlene McCoy
dmmccoy@ucsc.edu
Living Writers – Aja Duncan & Deborah Earling
When Aja Duncan first started reading her alphabet poems, I was more or less very calmed by her words. She was also very good with her tone of voice. It was very even, and soft. Her pacing was wonderful. Even though I couldn’t understand some of the words in her poetry, I heard each syllable, and that was good enough for me. I really liked her idea of doing a series of poems using the alphabet. It’s kind of neat considering some of her words aren’t even English, so that could be playing on that fact. I remember she said that she wrote her best at 5 AM, and that she got up and wrote every day. Most of the writers we’ve seen haven’t been so precise in when and how they write. I really liked her details and imagery. Sometimes I found them a little odd, but I more or less appreciate those odd bits – the make her work different from someone else’s. Sadly, poor Ms. Aja Duncan got blown away by the crazy lady who came on next, Deborah Earling.
Deborah Earling proclaimed to us that writing was for her, a spiritual experience, and that she could feel Sacajewea speaking to her. Her writing channeled Sacajewea. She has fever dreams when she writes, sometimes. We also thought that she was a prophet. I had a lot of fun listening to this writer, because she was so excited and happy about her work that it would be difficult to not be excited about it myself. It’s also just really nice to see someone who actually enjoys what they do for a living. She gave me hope for the world! Yes! She also told us, with much excitement, that she adores writing. She was the only one in the entire series to just go out and say something like that. Most of the other responses from the other writers to whether or not they enjoy writing was, “It’s a love-hate relationship.” She was extremely outgoing, and proud of her work. Her voice projected really well. I don’t think anyone had any issues hearing her. I liked how she had the idea of writing history over, more or less, in the woman’s point of view. I think if history was written by primarily women, that it might’ve been recorded differently, and it’s neat to think about those differences. I also appreciated her sense of humor – humor always makes anything more enjoyable. Oh, and she is capable of writing for 6-18 hours straight. That’s just physically impressive. She even wakes her husband up to tell him just how awesome her recently worked-on work is!
They both talked about the power of concentration, and getting into that zone that allows for creative flow. They also both mentioned learning a new language is scary – and yes, it very much is. I don’t remember which one of them talked about feeling out words, and maybe scratching them out if they don’t work, but I thought that was a good idea, and I find myself doing that often. They talked about the power of voice – and that following your ideas with your voice was a very powerful thing. They told us that our own stories even have that power. But! I think the best thing they said was to make sure to enjoy working, and to be happy in life.
All in all – it was a wonderful living writers installment and I’m glad I was there to observe the craziness that was Deborah Earling!
dmmccoy@ucsc.edu
Living Writers – Aja Duncan & Deborah Earling
When Aja Duncan first started reading her alphabet poems, I was more or less very calmed by her words. She was also very good with her tone of voice. It was very even, and soft. Her pacing was wonderful. Even though I couldn’t understand some of the words in her poetry, I heard each syllable, and that was good enough for me. I really liked her idea of doing a series of poems using the alphabet. It’s kind of neat considering some of her words aren’t even English, so that could be playing on that fact. I remember she said that she wrote her best at 5 AM, and that she got up and wrote every day. Most of the writers we’ve seen haven’t been so precise in when and how they write. I really liked her details and imagery. Sometimes I found them a little odd, but I more or less appreciate those odd bits – the make her work different from someone else’s. Sadly, poor Ms. Aja Duncan got blown away by the crazy lady who came on next, Deborah Earling.
Deborah Earling proclaimed to us that writing was for her, a spiritual experience, and that she could feel Sacajewea speaking to her. Her writing channeled Sacajewea. She has fever dreams when she writes, sometimes. We also thought that she was a prophet. I had a lot of fun listening to this writer, because she was so excited and happy about her work that it would be difficult to not be excited about it myself. It’s also just really nice to see someone who actually enjoys what they do for a living. She gave me hope for the world! Yes! She also told us, with much excitement, that she adores writing. She was the only one in the entire series to just go out and say something like that. Most of the other responses from the other writers to whether or not they enjoy writing was, “It’s a love-hate relationship.” She was extremely outgoing, and proud of her work. Her voice projected really well. I don’t think anyone had any issues hearing her. I liked how she had the idea of writing history over, more or less, in the woman’s point of view. I think if history was written by primarily women, that it might’ve been recorded differently, and it’s neat to think about those differences. I also appreciated her sense of humor – humor always makes anything more enjoyable. Oh, and she is capable of writing for 6-18 hours straight. That’s just physically impressive. She even wakes her husband up to tell him just how awesome her recently worked-on work is!
They both talked about the power of concentration, and getting into that zone that allows for creative flow. They also both mentioned learning a new language is scary – and yes, it very much is. I don’t remember which one of them talked about feeling out words, and maybe scratching them out if they don’t work, but I thought that was a good idea, and I find myself doing that often. They talked about the power of voice – and that following your ideas with your voice was a very powerful thing. They told us that our own stories even have that power. But! I think the best thing they said was to make sure to enjoy working, and to be happy in life.
All in all – it was a wonderful living writers installment and I’m glad I was there to observe the craziness that was Deborah Earling!
Monday, February 22, 2010
LFG!
Hilarious web comic. Read like half of it last night. Yay 4 AM bedtime.
http://www.lfgcomic.com/
I ♥ Richard.
http://www.lfgcomic.com/
I ♥ Richard.
Work Today II
Ever since I was a little kid, I've loved the rain. It was always an odd little quirk of mine, and rather inexplicable. Inexplicable, even to me, and I'm the person with the odd obsession. I've always felt like rain gives the world a nice warm bath, it makes everything all new and fresh, it washes away the dirt, the grime, and the unpleasantness. I love the smell right after; it's just so sweet, so delicious. I've always figured that if it had a taste it'd probably taste somewhat like a fruit smoothie with a touch of peppermint. Crisp, fresh, pure. Because of this mass love of the rain, I've always ran outside, sometimes to jump in puddles and be silly- rolling like a five year old was sometimes my style -or just to hold still and listen to the soft rhythms the pitter-patters of the droplets create on the thirsty Earth's surface. The rain - so calm, so soothing, so the entire reason my life is anything but usual.
Yep. This is one of those stories.
Now-- because I do love the rain so much, and I do not exaggerate when I say I always ran out to enjoy it, one fine afternoon, a little after a sandwich from the local Delyani's even, I was out in the middle of a thunderstorm. What can I say? Lightning always sparks my imagination, and my imagination is my escape from anything and everything negative on Earth.
Anyway, this thunderstorm was one of those mini-hurricane type things that we got about once every five years back in Rancho Cordova, it was the sort that sometimes caused the power lines to crash, fences to blow over, and flags to be whipped around so furiously they could actually be considered whips. Intense stuff, don'tcha know.
I ventured out to the middle of my lawn, on to the weird metal box thing that had been there ever since me, my Mom, and my little brother had moved in. We'd been living there almost ten years and we still had no idea what it was for, but I found it to be a rather convienent seat for enjoying, in this case, the force of nature. I'd always enjoyed being in the front row, the person right at the tip of the action-- well, the person observing the tip of the action, because I didn't really do a whole lot besides usual life. Life just always had, kind of hit me, and I'd always been okay with that fact. What happens, happens. Once I was settled and comfortable, which took a second because I had to adjust to the little rivets that lined the box, I took deep breaths, so that my lungs would fill with that crisp peppermint feeling I adore so much. The natural rhythm of my heartbeat kept my breathing in line. Calm, peaceful, simple. I just closed my eyes and floated away, away to my own world. I didn't care that my butt was sopping wet or if I caught a cold. I'd get over it. My usual resentment toward wet denim was quelled by my imagination. I'd say I've always been a day dreamer, and at that moment in time, I had soon become so enveloped in my own thoughts, my own physical being, that I'm sure I was in some sort of a trance. I was away-- floating-- in clouds, space, or something. I don't even know what I think about half the time. It's just beautiful, fantastic, and much better than the usual world.
Of course, because I was in a nearest state I had ever been to Nirvana, the world, pretty literally, had to come crashing down on me.
Literally.
So, I kind of forgot to mention that sometimes I lack in the common sense department. Basically, the winds around me were picking up, and very well nearing extremley dangerous speeds- I could feel my wet hair slapping the sides of my near frozen face - but the cold slaps were completely irrelevant. I was just in such a state of bliss that danger was pretty much a concept as foreign as Scandinavia. Who the hell gets hurt in their daydreams? That's just silly.
I opened my eyes for a split second to notice a tree. A tree moving toward me. A tree, blown over by the winds, crashing toward me. Plummeting toward me. Me. Tree. Ow. I sighed and closed my eyes, and then it hit me. Boom. Blank.
Because this is one of those stories, I didn't just like, die, become horribly mangled, or get crippled for life or anything.
I kind of went to another world.
Sweet.
My eyelids fluttered open to reveal a winter wonderland, something like out of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Except it wasn't. Not that story. I figured that if I was hallucinating, in a coma, or otherwise trapped inside my own head, my world would be much more original, but maybe my mind had taken some ideas. That is, if I was in my mind. I fumbled around to find myself in a bed of snow, and a light blanket of soft snowflakes draped carefully over my body. I at first thought how odd it was that the frozen water was comforting, and how strange it was that I was not dying of hypothermia or uh, the recent collision with a tree. I wasn't shivering, I wasn't even cold. Was this frostbite? Were my toes going to fall off? Did they already fall off? Did the tree knock them off? How was I not dead, anyway? Why was there no pain, no broken bones, no minor sign of being injured whatsoever? What the crap? I blinked my eyes in utter confusion.
I shook off my blanket, and watched the cotton flakes reflect the minuscule amount of sun that was attempting to peek out from behind the white skies. I took a little gander around me, and took my surroundings in. It took a second for my brain to process them. I realized that I was in the middle of a giant pass surrounded by the white flurry that is a blizzard. Ice. Snow. Hail. Have I mentioned that I lived in California? In the Central Valley? Snow? What the hell? Why was there snow? I only even know what a blizzard was thanks to Little House on the Prairie.
My bafflement was soon interrupted by this new world hitting me.
Apparently, worlds make a sport of abusing me. That's fun.
A carriage, drawn by horses, or something that looked like horses, came around a bank and roared into my view. Its wheels ricketed and rattled and spewed snow absolutely everywhere. Against the blizzard, it looked like a giant white yeti, bounding toward me on all fours. Kind of terrifying. As it passed me, two figures abandoned ship, and conveniently rolled right into me.
Oh dear, I thought, rolling my eyes. Now I've got to deal with this. Fun fun fun. I sighed, and just hoped they were human and I could communicate with them. Communication is a cool thing. I really like words and stuff. Even though I wasn't freezing to death, which still confused the hell out of me, my stomach was telling me that I hadn't become immune to it's cries of "FEED ME!" so I had to find something to quell that little annoyance, and the sooner the better. Me without food is a demon that destroys all, consumes all, and that shall not be named. I was sure of myself to know that I could deal with people for long enough to "borrow" some food.
I peered over at the slumps on the frozen terrain, they had a humanoid shape, so I started to make my way toward them, crawling and creeping ever so slightly, until I could make out more distinct features. I noticed normal eyes, noses, ears, even facial hair. Men.
I breathed a short "Oh thank God" sigh of relief, and decided to make sure the more rigid and unhappy looking slump was still able to function. That damned stomach of mine was getting to be rather furious, and it's tone was nearing that of an abusive stepmother's more and more.
As my hand reached toward the neck of that unhappy slump, I felt my balance immediately usurped, and found myself slammed to the ground, with a knife conveniently placed about my neck. The only thing I could think, besides the sharp pain in my lower back caused by the impact, was, "Oh, it's going to be one of those days. Freakin' fantastic."
I stared into the eyes of the man who had pinned me down. Chilling ice daggers. Oh dear lord, what madness had I stumbled upon? All I wanted to do was enjoy the rain...
He grumbled at me, "Don't move."
I complied. Didn't really have an issue with his order, either. He was at least ten times bigger, and ten times more in shape than me. Was not going to fight that. Oh hell no.
The slump I'd attempted to check the pulse of came to and sat up awkwardly in the snow. He tilted his head, and glanced over at the scene next to him. He chuckled lightly, and spoke.
"Tobias."
"What..?"
The ice daggers released me. Phew. I didn't ever want to be in a staring contest that intense again...
"Do you always have to be so damn dramatic? Let the poor thing go."
Tobias, the big guy, grunted, retracted his blade, and picked me up by my shirt collar, which promptly ripped it, and I wouldn't say I was set, nor tossed, but I ended up sitting up on the ground somehow. My back still hurt. Ugh.
The other guy crawled over to me and waved at my face to make sure that I hadn't been too horribly mortified by his companion's "over-dramaticness". He had deep brown eyes. They almost seemed to smolder or ember, but their general luster gave off a presence of warmth and comfort. I liked him almost as immediately as I had been thrown on the ground just a minute earlier. He smiled a sheepish, cheeky smile at me, and asked my name.
I took a breath and told him that I was Amymone, but I much preferred to be called Amy, since Amymone was such an odd name. Odd name. Odd person. Amymone. Me.
"Where you from miss?"
"California."
"...what?"
"California!"
"What's that?"
"...what?"
I squinted my eyes at him, and he proceeded to do the same. We just sat there, and stared at each other, both dazed and confused by the other's words. He didn't know what California was...?
Tobias, who had been watching our little game of who can confuse the other more, grew sick of his free entertainment, and decided that the show would not go on. He proceeded to knock both mine and the other guy's heads together, like two balls in a Newton's Cradle. I would have found it more amusing if our heads had retaliated and collided again, because I've always liked those things, but, our reactions were more of the "Ow, damnit!" sort, with a side of head rubbing and grumpy glares at Tobias. Well, the other guy did, 'cause my feeble little grumpy glares would turn tail and run at the mere thought of Tobais' ice daggers. He picked us both up by the back of our clothing, and placed us upon our feet.
"Okay, so, um," I stuttered, "Where the hell am I?"
"You're on the border of Haggernon and Amanthia!"
"...what?"
I think I felt my jaw hit the ground. Kind of like how they do in a cartoon. I wasn't really all that amazing at geography, and God knows I didn't know all the countries of the world, but I'd never, ever, heard of Amanthia or Haggernon. Was I in some weird part of Russia or something? What the hell--
Ice daggers.
I stopped being confused real quick-like. I wasn't about to get my head hit again. Pain is too much effort, and I wasn't a fan of headaches, either. Why did Tobias have to be so big and grouchy...
Yep. This is one of those stories.
Now-- because I do love the rain so much, and I do not exaggerate when I say I always ran out to enjoy it, one fine afternoon, a little after a sandwich from the local Delyani's even, I was out in the middle of a thunderstorm. What can I say? Lightning always sparks my imagination, and my imagination is my escape from anything and everything negative on Earth.
Anyway, this thunderstorm was one of those mini-hurricane type things that we got about once every five years back in Rancho Cordova, it was the sort that sometimes caused the power lines to crash, fences to blow over, and flags to be whipped around so furiously they could actually be considered whips. Intense stuff, don'tcha know.
I ventured out to the middle of my lawn, on to the weird metal box thing that had been there ever since me, my Mom, and my little brother had moved in. We'd been living there almost ten years and we still had no idea what it was for, but I found it to be a rather convienent seat for enjoying, in this case, the force of nature. I'd always enjoyed being in the front row, the person right at the tip of the action-- well, the person observing the tip of the action, because I didn't really do a whole lot besides usual life. Life just always had, kind of hit me, and I'd always been okay with that fact. What happens, happens. Once I was settled and comfortable, which took a second because I had to adjust to the little rivets that lined the box, I took deep breaths, so that my lungs would fill with that crisp peppermint feeling I adore so much. The natural rhythm of my heartbeat kept my breathing in line. Calm, peaceful, simple. I just closed my eyes and floated away, away to my own world. I didn't care that my butt was sopping wet or if I caught a cold. I'd get over it. My usual resentment toward wet denim was quelled by my imagination. I'd say I've always been a day dreamer, and at that moment in time, I had soon become so enveloped in my own thoughts, my own physical being, that I'm sure I was in some sort of a trance. I was away-- floating-- in clouds, space, or something. I don't even know what I think about half the time. It's just beautiful, fantastic, and much better than the usual world.
Of course, because I was in a nearest state I had ever been to Nirvana, the world, pretty literally, had to come crashing down on me.
Literally.
So, I kind of forgot to mention that sometimes I lack in the common sense department. Basically, the winds around me were picking up, and very well nearing extremley dangerous speeds- I could feel my wet hair slapping the sides of my near frozen face - but the cold slaps were completely irrelevant. I was just in such a state of bliss that danger was pretty much a concept as foreign as Scandinavia. Who the hell gets hurt in their daydreams? That's just silly.
I opened my eyes for a split second to notice a tree. A tree moving toward me. A tree, blown over by the winds, crashing toward me. Plummeting toward me. Me. Tree. Ow. I sighed and closed my eyes, and then it hit me. Boom. Blank.
Because this is one of those stories, I didn't just like, die, become horribly mangled, or get crippled for life or anything.
I kind of went to another world.
Sweet.
My eyelids fluttered open to reveal a winter wonderland, something like out of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Except it wasn't. Not that story. I figured that if I was hallucinating, in a coma, or otherwise trapped inside my own head, my world would be much more original, but maybe my mind had taken some ideas. That is, if I was in my mind. I fumbled around to find myself in a bed of snow, and a light blanket of soft snowflakes draped carefully over my body. I at first thought how odd it was that the frozen water was comforting, and how strange it was that I was not dying of hypothermia or uh, the recent collision with a tree. I wasn't shivering, I wasn't even cold. Was this frostbite? Were my toes going to fall off? Did they already fall off? Did the tree knock them off? How was I not dead, anyway? Why was there no pain, no broken bones, no minor sign of being injured whatsoever? What the crap? I blinked my eyes in utter confusion.
I shook off my blanket, and watched the cotton flakes reflect the minuscule amount of sun that was attempting to peek out from behind the white skies. I took a little gander around me, and took my surroundings in. It took a second for my brain to process them. I realized that I was in the middle of a giant pass surrounded by the white flurry that is a blizzard. Ice. Snow. Hail. Have I mentioned that I lived in California? In the Central Valley? Snow? What the hell? Why was there snow? I only even know what a blizzard was thanks to Little House on the Prairie.
My bafflement was soon interrupted by this new world hitting me.
Apparently, worlds make a sport of abusing me. That's fun.
A carriage, drawn by horses, or something that looked like horses, came around a bank and roared into my view. Its wheels ricketed and rattled and spewed snow absolutely everywhere. Against the blizzard, it looked like a giant white yeti, bounding toward me on all fours. Kind of terrifying. As it passed me, two figures abandoned ship, and conveniently rolled right into me.
Oh dear, I thought, rolling my eyes. Now I've got to deal with this. Fun fun fun. I sighed, and just hoped they were human and I could communicate with them. Communication is a cool thing. I really like words and stuff. Even though I wasn't freezing to death, which still confused the hell out of me, my stomach was telling me that I hadn't become immune to it's cries of "FEED ME!" so I had to find something to quell that little annoyance, and the sooner the better. Me without food is a demon that destroys all, consumes all, and that shall not be named. I was sure of myself to know that I could deal with people for long enough to "borrow" some food.
I peered over at the slumps on the frozen terrain, they had a humanoid shape, so I started to make my way toward them, crawling and creeping ever so slightly, until I could make out more distinct features. I noticed normal eyes, noses, ears, even facial hair. Men.
I breathed a short "Oh thank God" sigh of relief, and decided to make sure the more rigid and unhappy looking slump was still able to function. That damned stomach of mine was getting to be rather furious, and it's tone was nearing that of an abusive stepmother's more and more.
As my hand reached toward the neck of that unhappy slump, I felt my balance immediately usurped, and found myself slammed to the ground, with a knife conveniently placed about my neck. The only thing I could think, besides the sharp pain in my lower back caused by the impact, was, "Oh, it's going to be one of those days. Freakin' fantastic."
I stared into the eyes of the man who had pinned me down. Chilling ice daggers. Oh dear lord, what madness had I stumbled upon? All I wanted to do was enjoy the rain...
He grumbled at me, "Don't move."
I complied. Didn't really have an issue with his order, either. He was at least ten times bigger, and ten times more in shape than me. Was not going to fight that. Oh hell no.
The slump I'd attempted to check the pulse of came to and sat up awkwardly in the snow. He tilted his head, and glanced over at the scene next to him. He chuckled lightly, and spoke.
"Tobias."
"What..?"
The ice daggers released me. Phew. I didn't ever want to be in a staring contest that intense again...
"Do you always have to be so damn dramatic? Let the poor thing go."
Tobias, the big guy, grunted, retracted his blade, and picked me up by my shirt collar, which promptly ripped it, and I wouldn't say I was set, nor tossed, but I ended up sitting up on the ground somehow. My back still hurt. Ugh.
The other guy crawled over to me and waved at my face to make sure that I hadn't been too horribly mortified by his companion's "over-dramaticness". He had deep brown eyes. They almost seemed to smolder or ember, but their general luster gave off a presence of warmth and comfort. I liked him almost as immediately as I had been thrown on the ground just a minute earlier. He smiled a sheepish, cheeky smile at me, and asked my name.
I took a breath and told him that I was Amymone, but I much preferred to be called Amy, since Amymone was such an odd name. Odd name. Odd person. Amymone. Me.
"Where you from miss?"
"California."
"...what?"
"California!"
"What's that?"
"...what?"
I squinted my eyes at him, and he proceeded to do the same. We just sat there, and stared at each other, both dazed and confused by the other's words. He didn't know what California was...?
Tobias, who had been watching our little game of who can confuse the other more, grew sick of his free entertainment, and decided that the show would not go on. He proceeded to knock both mine and the other guy's heads together, like two balls in a Newton's Cradle. I would have found it more amusing if our heads had retaliated and collided again, because I've always liked those things, but, our reactions were more of the "Ow, damnit!" sort, with a side of head rubbing and grumpy glares at Tobias. Well, the other guy did, 'cause my feeble little grumpy glares would turn tail and run at the mere thought of Tobais' ice daggers. He picked us both up by the back of our clothing, and placed us upon our feet.
"Okay, so, um," I stuttered, "Where the hell am I?"
"You're on the border of Haggernon and Amanthia!"
"...what?"
I think I felt my jaw hit the ground. Kind of like how they do in a cartoon. I wasn't really all that amazing at geography, and God knows I didn't know all the countries of the world, but I'd never, ever, heard of Amanthia or Haggernon. Was I in some weird part of Russia or something? What the hell--
Ice daggers.
I stopped being confused real quick-like. I wasn't about to get my head hit again. Pain is too much effort, and I wasn't a fan of headaches, either. Why did Tobias have to be so big and grouchy...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)