Random Impulse- Last One

Below is the assignment from class last Monday.

Pam the barrista spins the coffee churn like a bug-eyed robot crushing insects. She never knew home, but she remembers Roberto holding his yellow umbrella that bright night 16 years ago. His loquacious manner made him many friends, including the pet monkey who was fed only spaghetti-o's. Monkey( he danced to Ronaldo) would sit and slurp and burg; thoroughly enjoying himself in sassy time. Pam never knew her home but she knew Roberto with his monkey(Ronaldo).

Sitting at the bar, waiting for the barrista, Kurt lets out a burp, shaking stone. Bright-eyes and young, Catherine spins, a puppet controlled by the clever, cruel robot called capitalism. Kurt crushes his teeth, draws a breath and ask, "What can I do to make this last in a umbrella-less world where monkeys toss shit out the windows"?
Catherine sighs and demands to be put on the next plane back to Albuquerque.
Kurt responds, "Fine, but one last plate of spaghetti before you go, and the kind that doesn't make me shit yellow, please".

Reading Response- Final

Another semester almost over! The knowledge gained from chapter 10 in Steering the Craft has proved invaluable for me. This chapter over crowding and leaping has helped me gain confidence in my writing approach. I have felt uncomfortable in my prose writing this semester. I think this is partly due to me trying to shape a story the way I think it should. After reading this chapter and subsequently researching the short short/flash/ prose poetry genres I feel more secure in the relevancy of my writing. I no longer feel inclined to shape my writing into the styles of respected peers or my preconceived ideas of what prose is. I worry a great deal about transitions, but maybe a smooth transition is not always needed. My favorite quote from the chapter is one that will stay with me for the foreseeable future; "And what you leave out is infinitely more that what you leave in" (142).

Junkyard- Final Week!

Trying to finish two papers this week so I have had time for little else. Shakespeare is a cool guy, here's some quotes from him courtesy of the internets!

I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the saying is true 'The empty vessel makes the greatest sound'.

How use doth breed a habit in a man.

He who has injured thee was either stronger or weaker than thee. If weaker, spare him; if stronger, spare thyself.

 Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.

Random Impulse- Break Up mostly finished?

Sans revisions from the class comments today, I feel this is mostly finished; especially after reading more into the flash fiction/short short/poetry prose genre. Comments and advice on my transitions would be most appreciated as well as any other glaring necessities!

Clever Title(advice appreciated)

She broke up with me over my former favorite form of communicating: the text message. She was an annoying drunk, always insisting I not correct her when she was wrong and gloat incessantly when she won at rummy. I told her I loved her and she responds by grinning and becoming addicted to artificial pot ("Black Mamba", because she is getting a job with the state thanks to her new degree).

I told her she might be an alcoholic; she laughed and flew into a rage. She wouldn't kiss me in the morning before we brushed our teeth, she really didn't like bad breath. I even quit smoking cigarettes around her because two of her grandparents died from complications due to smoking. What the fuck is the difference between smoke from pot (or artificial pot) and cigarette smoke when you really get down to it? Chemicals, bullshit, smoke is smoke.

We even picked out a new house; I got a key, although I never moved in. I did, however, help her move in. Pathetic.

*  *  *

Her eyes are pleading with mine now. Actually just her left eye, the right is swollen shut from the pistol whip I issued it with my Smith & Wesson .45 ACP Chief’s Special (the weight and accuracy are unsurpassed). The blood from her broken nose is coagulated on the kitchen’s Italian marble tile we picked out together. If she wasn’t gagged, I imagine she would be petitioning for her life right now. The gag used to only sit in my mouth. The knots, used to only be used on me. I taught her how to tie the knots though. Now she knows what an expert’s hand can do with braided polypropylene rope.

I crawl next to her and position my face to where our noses are nearly touching. She tries to squirm at first, but it is obvious that fatigue and fear from the ordeal have exhausted any remaining reserves of energy she might possess. “Eskimo kiss,” I whisper as I force her face to remain parallel to mine as I grind my nose into hers. The cartridge and bone crunch in her skull as she lets out a muffled whimper like a dog that has just had its vertebrae and lungs crushed under the weight of a mid-sized Japanese car. I spit on her, and rise. Her dull left eye connects with mine for the last time. I line that eye down the sights of my .45. Slight recoil is all I feel.

* * *

As my right hand receives a splinter from the railing connected to the porch steps of her( it was supposed to be our) house, the fumes from the kerosene I am trailing irritate my nostrils and cause my eyes to water. I lift my head from the vapors to clear my eyes and notice the moon is new; all the stars are performing tonight. Orion is pleading with Little Dipper for a draft of vintage. I should get some Natties after this. As my right foot hits cement rather than pine, my gas jug empties. Perfect, just enough. I recover a Marlboro menthol 72 from its pack, place it in my mouth, strike my Zippo ( $19.95 at Wal-Mart), light the cigarette and drop the lighter in the puny puddle of flame starter. Time to leave.

* * *

 Mario’s 1up tone sounds, another message from her. “im sorry im doing this, i hope we can still be friends.”

Hm. “Of course sweetie, so you don’t get off until late tonight?”

“yea”

“Ok cool, I’ll just drop off your toothbrush and things at your house on my way to school. I’ll leave the key under the door mat, Eskimo kisses.”

Reading Response# 19

Chapter nine on indirect narration in Steering the Craft felt like it was directed straight at my writing. Standing out most is, "Unceasing violent action is usually a sign that there is, in fact, no story being told" (117). Up to this point, I feel most my prose writing has been focused on poorly attempting to replicate H.S. Thompson or Bret Ellis-like deranged characters while mostly avoiding telling any story. I need to work on actually telling a story. I keep reading about how I should let the story write itself, but so far I have had little luck. Anytime I get an idea, it usually fizzles out within the first page. I despise most of what I write and don't feel like any of it is worth reading. I guess I need to work on finishing a piece, however horrible it is, just to make progress.

Reading Response# 18

"Willi" by E.L Doctorow is probably my favorite reading we have taken up this semester( in case you couldn't tell by my incessant babble in class Wednesday). I really enjoy stories in which the protagonist has some sort of psychological abnormality. It gives me the opportunity to try and analyze what the condition is and what its cause is through close critical reading. Being so caught up with my character analysis, the whole masturbation bit at the beginning flew right over my head. Because of this, I believe my initial analysis in my first read may have been slightly off. The lesson I take from this is to not get so caught up in one aspect of the story to the detriment of the rest. I find this lesson applicable in my writing as well. So far with my writing, I have attempted to create intricate, disturbed, characters while making little advancement in plot and scenery. I will need to find a balance if I am going to develop anything worth reading.

Classmate Response#11 Dee Dairyan's "Random Impulse"

Below is Dee's piece which I chose to respond to. 

"At the club I was getting bumped every move I made. I saw people from all different cultural backgrounds. While walking around I notice that every group was hanging with their own kind. The club was segregated into different circles. When I walked passed the Latinos they were dancing with spice, the African Americans was moving their big butt and hips in only a way a man can imagine, the Asians was moving in swift motions, while the European Americans were off beat. I realize how different everyone was and I love them for their differences and also their similarities. And especially on thing everyone at the culb definently had in common. We all liked to get FUCKED UP/ CHOCLATE WASTED."

Very fun read Dee! I enjoyed your exploration of commonly held beliefs about different cultures. I would definitely enjoy an expansion of this further exploring the differences between cultures. Also, your ending observing the similarities is vital to make this piece work. Consider adding further commentary about the parallels between cultures. Giving multiple instances of likeness and difference can help persuade the reader further. Keep up the good work!

Junkyard- Week 12

A good bit of my writing and quotes have been depressing me lately so I thought I would dedicate my quotes this week to some of my favorite Biblical quotes. Enjoy!

Have I not commanded thee?  Be strong and of good courage;
       be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed; for the Lord thy
       God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.
                                                                                   - Joshua 1:9

Come unto me, ye who are weary and overburdened, and I
    will give you rest.
                                                                                 - Matthew 11:28

And why are you anxious about what to wear? Consider the
    lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they
    spin. And yet I say to you, that even Solomon in all his glory
    is not arrayed like one of these.
                                                                                 - Matthew 6:28-29

Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might.
                                                                                - Ecclesiastes 9:10

Happy is the man who finds wisdom and understanding for the
    gain from it is better than gain from silver and profit better than
    gold.
                                                                                     - Proverbs 3:13,14

Random Impulse- Break Up cont'd class assignment

As my right hand receives a splinter from the railing connected to the porch steps of her house, the fumes from the kerosene I am trailing irritate my nostrils and cause my eyes to water. While I lift my head from the vapors to clear my head, I notice it is a new moon, all the stars are performing tonight. Orion is pleading with the Little Dipper for a draft of vintage. I should get some beer after this. As my right foot hits cement rather than pine, my gas jug empties.Perfect, just enough. I recover a Marlboro menthol 72, place it in my mouth, strike my Zippo ( $19.95 at Wal-Mart), lite the cigarette and drop the lighter in the puny puddle of flame starter. Time to leave.

Random Impulse- Break Cont'd

Her eyes are pleading with mine now. Actually just her left eye, the right is swollen shut from the pistol whip I issued it with my Smith & Wesson .45 ACP Chief’s Special (the weight and accuracy are unsurpassed). The blood from her broken nose is coagulated on the kitchen’s Italian marble tile we picked out together. If she wasn’t gagged, I imagine she would be petitioning for her life right now. The gag used to only sit in my mouth. The knots, used to only be used on me. I taught her how to tie the knots though. Now she knows what an expert’s hand can do with braided polypropylene rope.

I crawl next to her and position my face to where our noses are nearly touching. She tries to squirm at first, but it is obvious that fatigue and fear from the ordeal have exhausted any remaining reserves of energy she might possess. “Eskimo kiss,” I whisper as I force her face to remain parallel to mine as I grind my nose into hers. I hear the cartridge and bone crunch in her skull, and she lets out a muffled whimper like a dog that has just had its vertebrae and lungs crushed under the weight of a mid-sized Japanese car. I spit in her face and rise as her dull right eye connects with mine for the last time. I line that eye down the sights of my .45. Slight recoil is all I feel.

Reading Response #17

Andre Dubus' "The Fat Girl" was a fun read and good example of a limited-third piece. For such a short story, I was impressed how Dubus was able to fluidly shift through early childhood to the middle adulthood of the protagonist. Over this shift in time, the protagonist is transformed from an insecure child who is forced to sneak snacks to a loving mother secure and accepting of her body and eating habits. The complexity of Louise is a great guide of how to construct an interesting protagonist. The character has a struggle, and the reader is forced to feel that struggle. Following Dubus' template for a protagonist, maybe I can make a story worth reading.

Reading Response #16

Chapter 7 on POV in Steering the Craft was very informative. I honestly never considered the fine differences between limited third, involved author, detached and observer-third person. The best advice I garnered from the chapter is limiting change in POV. Basically, being an amateur writer with little experience, I should practice with just one POV style until I become more comfortable with other styles and gain more knowledge in shifting POV. I think I have the most experience in first person since the majority of my writings have been on alter-egos of myself. One day, I hope to develop a clear piece using the involved POV. For now though, the involved style offers so many different devices that it feels overwhelming to use.

Classmate Response#10 Kacie's "It Was Written"

Great job Kacie! To start, I really liked your introduction. It made a fluid transition into the past while also developing the setting for the story. The narrator overhearing her parents was a nice way to introduce the dilemma. Something I might work on would be the transition from the past memories to situation where the narrator hears the doorbell. Consider using a transition phrase to make it clear to your readers of the change. I think you dialogue is spot on. It has a believable tone to it and I think if you expanded with more dialogue your story would be even stronger. I look forward to more dialogue-driven pieces!

Classmate Response #9 Cari Raymond's Random Impulse from 4/9/11

I've reproduced the piece in question below.


Even though it has only been a few days since my bother-in-law left for Iraq and we all say his name when he talk about him, somehow I think that his daughter, my niece Mollie, knows that he is gone. Lately she has been walking around calling his name through the house to the point that it has become unusual not to hear the echoes of “daddy” and “dada” ring through the rooms. We all try to help make her feel better, my Aunt showed Mollie a picture of her dad and she began to smile again that morning, but we all know that nothing will every replace him. When I was in middle school dad went back into the Army and I can still remember how empty and quite the house felt once his deployment began and I know that no matter how hard my family tried to cheer everyone around them up, there are some things that can only be done by a certain person. I can only watch over these two, soon to be three, and pray that I can help make this time of uncertainty pass as soon as possible and that he will came home safe.

 First, great job Cari! Your piece is touching and is off to a great start. My first suggestion would be to keep on writing, see how far you can go. In the second line, you use the word 'somehow'. Instead, try adding more detail on why Mollie appears to know her father is missing. Doing this will add more depth and intrigue to your story. Maybe also consider carefully if you want to shift between the present and past in the same paragraph. I really enjoy your story though and look forward to future expansions!

Random Impulse- Break Up

Another old piece, maybe I can generate a prose piece off of it.

She broke up with me over my former favorite form of communicating: the text message. She was an annoying drunk, always insisting I not correct her when she was wrong and gloat incessantly when she won at rummy. I tell her I love her and she responds by becoming addicted to artificial pot("Black Mamba", because she is getting a job with the state thanks to her new degree).

I told her she might be an alcoholic, she laughed and flew into a rage. She wouldn't kiss me in the morning before we brushed our teeth, she really didn't like bad breath. I even quit smoking cigs around her because two of her grandparents died from complications due to smoking. What the fuck is the difference between smoke from pot(or artifical pot) and cigarette smoke when you really get down to it? Chemicals, bullshit, smoke is smoke.

We even picked out a new house, I never moved in though. I did, however, still help her move in. Pathetic.

Random Impulse- Fall(poem)

Here is a piece from earlier in the semester that I have been playing with since I seem incapable of writing prose at the moment.

I saunter through the cementary
Seducing bronze children
Waiting for the Sistine to shatter.

The necktie troubador named Nova
Catches me
Freeze, expand, explode.

Still the parade for Jupiter goes on
People lap up the river of dark earth.
No more dizziness, only fall.

Reading Response #15

Chapter 6 of Steering the Craft is a goldmine of utility. To begin, passive voice is something I have to constantly look for in my writing. Whenever I write an essay, I always unwittingly incorporate copious amounts of it. The many years of grade school have nearly ruined how I think when I write. Also, tense of the verb is something I have struggled with in the past, though I feel I am gaining ground on its proper use. The biggest point I continue to struggle with is properly utilizing my shifts between past and present. I really enjoy the idea of my characters having flashbacks, but can't ever seem to get them to flow well. I will post some of the exercises suggested in the chapter tonight to practice changing tense.

Reading Response #14

I found chapter 5 of Steering the Craft helpful in the development of my writing. I really enjoyed the metaphor likening adjectives and adverbs to fatty foods. In my writing, I believe I get carried away with both. I attempt to make my stories more visual by piling on the descriptors and the result is many words with very little being said. Also, my overindulgence of adjectives and adverbs seems to take away the power of each individual descriptor. I think this may be one of the main reasons I am struggling with producing a complete short story. I am finding it hard to balance my plot with my descriptions. Hopefully some of the exercises out of the book will aid me.

Random Impulse- Smurfs

I've been trying to write a Smurf parody for awhile now, just lacking in motivation. Here is where I am at:

Gargamel sits, inebriated and fuming over another failed attempt at securing revenge over the Smurfs. It's been 30 years since Papa Smurf, formerly know as General Bonecrusher of the Army for Spiritual Purity, razed Gargamel's home, raped and crucified his wife, and disemboweled his two children. The sneer of contempt through victory of Bonecrusher's visage is emblazoned on Gargamel's psyche.
"You, you will be allowed to live thanks to my infinite maganimity. Your life will serve as a reminder to all peoples who oppose the will of the one true God."

These words are the last Gargamel recalls before awaking in Castle Lonely. Out of his stupor, he gazes in the mirror at his once handsome profile, now nothing more than a pathetic shell riddled with scars and deformations procured by Bonecrusher's elite fighting force, the Peacemakers.

Random Impulse- Jack

Just some jotting I did the other night playing with words and a deck of cards.

Why is the jack a jack and a king a king? Is the king really greater than the jack or has the jack simply chose to not limit himself by choosing a specialty? Doesn't Jack have greater potential than King? Is he simply unable to choose which crown he desires? What really separates a jack from a king...a queen?

Junkyard- Week 10 and 11

I just discovered that Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test is scheduled for a new film adaptation this year. One of my favorites, I decided take the book off the shelf and pick out some favorite quotes. It is a fun book that explores the hippie and LSD movement in America, so if that’s your cup of tea then I suggest picking it up! Even though Wolfe is a journalist and this book is a “nonfiction novel”, he is able to harness his language in a way that allows you to feel and see the chaos described in the book. Here are a few nuggets:

"The cops now know the whole scene, even the costumes, the jesuschrist strung-out hair, Indian beads, Indian headbands, donkey beads, temple bells, amulets, mandalas, god's-eyes, fluorescent vests, unicorn horns, Errol Flynn dueling shirts—but they still don't know about the shoes. The heads have a thing about shoes. The worst are shiny black shoes with shoelaces in them. The hierarchy ascends from there, although practically all lowcut shoes are unhip, from there on up to the boots the heads like, light, fanciful boots. English boots of the mod variety, if that is all they can get, but better something like hand-tooled Mexican boots with Caliente Dude Triple A toes on them. So see the FBI—black—shiny—laced up—FBI shoes—when the FBI finally grabbed Kesey—"

“I make out a schoolbus...glowing orange, green, magenta, lavender, chlorine blue, every fluorescent pastel imaginable in thousands of designs, both large and small, like a cross between Fernand Liger and Dr. Strange, roaring together and vibrating off each other as if somebody had given Hieronymous Bosch fifty buckets of day-glo paint and a 1939 International Harvester schoolbus and told him to go to it.”

"None of us are going to deny what other people are doing. If saying bullshit is somebody's thing, then he says bullshit. If somebody is an ass-kicker, then that's what he's going to do on this trip, kick asses. He's going to do it right out front and nobody is going to have anything to say about it. He can just say, 'I'm sorry I kicked your ass, but I'm not sorry I'm an ass-kicker. That's what I do. I kick people in the ass.' Everybody is going to be what they are, and whatever they are, there's not going to be anything to apologize about."

“Everything was becoming allegorical, understood by the group mind, and especially this: ‘You're either on the bus...or off the bus.’”

“...We are all of us doomed to spend our lives watching a movie of our lives - we are always acting on what has just finished happening. It happened atleast 1/30th of a second ago. We think we're in the present, but we aren't.”

"Sometimes we don't even realize what we really care about, because we get so distracted by the symbols."

“’An LSD experience without the LSD’ -that was a laugh. In fact, the heads are pouring in by the hundreds, bombed out of their gourds, hundreds of heads coming out into the absolute open for the first time. It is like the time the Pranksters went to the Beatles concert in full costume, looking so bizarre and so totally smoked that no one could believe they were. Nobody would risk it in public like that. Well the kids are just having an LSD experience without the LSD, that's all, and this is what it looks like. A hulking crazed whirlpool. That's nice.”

“It's like a boulder rolling down a hill - you can watch it and talk about it and scream and say Shit! but you can't stop it. It's just a question of where it's going to go.”

“Agent number one wasn’t the most brilliant cop in the Americas, but time was obviousally running out in old Mexico. It was time to get the Movie going on all projectors. And the bus. The new fantasy was to get on the bus and keep moving; roam through Mexico and give Acid Tests and be on the bus, keeping the Pranksters movie going at top speed at all times.”

“Sandra, the girl from Bucks County, sits in a clump at the foot of the mattress. She is a very pale, tender little teenage clump. A single morsel, gone in one gulp, sitting under the room’s one article of furniture, a bridge lamp, no longer goofing off the radio, just sitting in a teenage clump and listening to Jack tell about the letter:”