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!