eng001: language and writing

kara's soundtrack

2008-05-03T17:23:00.020-05:00

Womanhood initiation: dancing in a tutu

After learning how to walk most children learn how to dance. It might begin with a small waggle of the behind, with or without music, and gradually evolve to twirls, arm movement, and perhaps a partner—a friendly stuffed animal of course. Dancing takes time and practice to completely coordinate the movements of the different body parts. When the legs are moving, the arms might have to move as well, and not to mention every now and then a twirl or double twirl in between the crisscrossing of the arms and legs takes place. Dancing is even more complex when music is involved. The feet have to touch the floor at a certain beat of the music in a particular rhythm. Then there are different types of dancing such as jazz, tap, and ballet.

When I was a little girl I begged my mom to get me ballet slippers, a tutu and sign me up for lessons. At my first group lesson, proudly wearing my very feminine pink and sparkly tutu, I learned first, second, and third position. The following week the group learned how to pilé and curtsy with perfect poise. Soon the weekly ballet lessons came to an end. My mother curled my bangs and allowed me to wear a hint of blush on my cheeks for my ballet recital. I put on my light pink tights, my pink tutu with the silver sparkles around the edge, and my satin ballet slippers. The teacher, Denise played the song Swan Lake by Tchaikovsky for the recital. I curtsied as fancy as I could and piléd with perfect grace. My arms and legs moved in perfect rhythm through the air from position one to position two. The recital ended and pictures were taken. In time, my ballet slippers and tutu became members of the dress up box—not forgotten, but occasionally pulled and admired in remembrance of my time spent as a ballerina.

Legos: just dump the bucket

A few years after the tutu and ballet slippers were put away I discovered legos. Scenes from The Bird and the Bee’s music video from their song La La La remind me of the legos from my childhood. The legos I had as a kid came in a plastic tote with a lid that looks like a giant lego, as well as a handle that curves over the top for easy transportation. The bucket contained various sizes and shapes of legos depending on the number of connecting circular knobs on the top of the small pieces of plastic. Some had four by two knobs, the big ones had eight by two, and others were only one knob thick and several knobs long. The legos also varied in color: blue, red, white, yellow, and sometimes green or silver, depending on the special feature of the lego bucket.

Almost anything could be made out of legos—at least a shape that resembled the object. (Since the legos only came in squares and rectangles, it was difficult to create anything spherical in shape.) The easiest thing to build out of legos of course was a block, a house, or some kind of boxy car. The tote usually came with a special step by step instruction booklet to build a car or some other pre-designed figure. When my brother and I played with legos, we made our own lego creations. We dumped the lego bucket and spread out all of the pieces, occasionally fighting over the special green or silver pieces, but eventually coming to a compromise. We created our own army of specially designed airplanes and jets, with detachable wheels and wings, laser guns, and even force fields and battle. An entire afternoon was spent designing lego jets, cars, or villages. When it was time to clean up, the best designed lego figures stayed assembled and placed carefully back into the lego tote, while the other pieces were hastily gathered and tossed in until the next time.

Boy bands: we all want it that way

In middle school, when I was too cool to play with legos, I had a passionate interest in boy bands—especially the Backstreet Boys. Kevin, Nick, Joey, Howie, and AJ were all the rave of the late 1990’s. They were the best looking boys on the planet and were talented too. They sang what any awkward, love seeking, junior high girl wanted to hear. The songs typically consist of stories involving emotions entering or ending relationships conveyed through romantic and rhyming lyrics with a catchy beat. In the song I Want It That Way, from the Millennium album it begins with the lines: “You are my fire, the one desire…” lines any preteen would die to hear from an admirer.

The Backstreet boys were on posters, t-shirts, notebooks, and even pencils. In junior high Kayla, a fellow classmate and a good friend, drove down to Florida with her family over spring break, saw the Backstreet Boys in concert, and came back with an autographed t-shirt. The following weekend I was invited to her sleepover. The other girls and I stared in awe at the autographed t-shirt. We gathered around it like a sacred relic knowing that only a week ago each one of the Backstreet Boys touched the shirt and signed it. The handsome and smiling faces of Kevin, Nick, Joey, Howie, and AJ were lined up across the chest of the white t-shirt. Below each backstreet boy head was the appropriate loopy and hustled signature in a black sharpie. Kevin’s was the only signature that was legible, as well as AJ’s, and the rest were too scribbled. Nonetheless, the shirt was already framed and the glass covering the shirt became foggy as my friends and I breathed over the boy band holy relic. Kayla protectively put back on the wall at the head of her boy band temple in her room. The rest of the night we talked about which Backstreet boy we would marry and planned our gaudy and fanciful weddings. Today, as a college student and an almost twenty year old, I still on occasion play a Backstreet Boy song, dance, sing along, and reminisce about my middle school days spent as an advocate for boy bands.

Violin: finding my musical niche and hating the practice

After listening to the Backstreet Boys endlessly—to the point where every song was memorized as well as the musical bridges, I decided to make my own music. I took interest in the violin. Hunting around the house, and finally, in the front hall storage closet, behind the snow boots and dusty jackets, I found a beat up violin case. The case was black, its hard textured surface was dry and cracked and the handle was beginning to fray at the edges. It smelled of must and rosin. The metal clasps were a little sticky from years of nonuse, but opened with ease. The violin rested simply in the case: elegant and graceful. The yellow brown color of the wood was striking against the green interior of the case. I traced my forefinger around the curves of the scroll, down the smooth ebony fingerboard and down the tail piece. New strings were needed as well as a new bridge for the instrument to be playable. The chin rest buzzed whenever it was played and had to be tightened weekly and the rosin collected around the base of the bridge and had to be cleaned. I lifted the it out of the case. The violin was three-fourths in size—a perfect fit for the length of my ten year old arms and once a perfect fit for my mother who played as a child.

Eventually my ten year old arms turned into sixteen year old arms and a new violin was needed. I felt sorry for the old violin. It was like giving away a favorite childhood toy—rich in memories and exhausted with play. I learned how to play the Twinkles, Minuet Three, and Ashokan Farewell by Jay Ungar on the small violin. It endured hours of fitful practicing and an attempt at vibrato. The metal clasps snapped open with ease the last time I put the violin into its beat up resting place and said farewell to my friend.

Independence: not a price, just a plastic card

The same year I got the new violin for my sixteen year old arms, I got a driver’s license. The first time I was alone in a car and driving it felt awkward. It was on my way to orchestra. My mother was not sitting beside me telling me to brake, brake, BRAKE!! Nor was my driver’s instructor sitting on the passenger’s side making notes on my driving skills—thankfully I no longer had to listen to his pen scribbling on the clipboard, it had a tendency to intimidate me. A year later I had my license gripped tightly in my hand. The trips to the DMV were exhausting. I ended up failing my drivers test three times before I got my license. All the hours spent behind the wheel listening to my mother yell brake and the pen scribbling finally paid off. There it was: a piece of plastic the size of a credit card, my height, weight, hair color, eye color, and a carefully planned outfit and hairdo for the picture. The purple word Nebraska in Times New Roman font was at the top and endless warnings about being under 21 in red print were just beneath the state logo. There was another warning on the back that said I wear corrective lenses. It was in fine print, ironically, but it kind of bothered me, making me feel as if I was a hazard on the road. This piece of plastic, warnings and all, guaranteed freedom—independence of carpooling and calling mom or dad to come pick me up.

It almost felt surreal. This was a monumental event—it began a new chapter of my life. I got into the car and turned the ignition. At last I was free! Out of habit I gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, used my turn signal at every turn, and did a roll back stop at every stop sign. When gas was cheap I would go out and just drive. Norah Jones’s video Come Away with Me reminds me of my luxurious drives in the back roads of Omaha and my plastic driver’s license sitting in the passenger seat.

Lunchroom sing-a-long: back here baby

I liked driving myself to school every morning. I never had to wait for my mom to finish putting on her makeup, blow drying her hair, or nagging me about the chores I had to do when I got home. It only took about twelve minutes to get from my house to Marian, a catholic all girls high school. Marian was my second family. In the spring Mr. Zach, the dad of our class president, Clair, would plant tulips, zinnias, daffodils, and snap dragons. In the winter the small trees and bushes would have lights and ordainments in the school colors: blue and white. Every other Thursday was a themed Marian Mom’s salad lunch with baked goods (special k bars, puppy chow, and better than sex cake) for only twenty-five cents. During Halloween all the moms dressed up in costumes and at Easter there was a giant bunny that gave away candy. The hallways were always decorated with the most recent artwork as well as the trophies for state cross country, swimming, bowling, and golf champions. Prayers, hail Maries, and the pledge of allegiance were said every morning before the announcements of Harry Potter club, knitting club, and chemistry club meeting times. All the girls were nice to each other: helping with Calculus homework, tucking in shirts when teachers had stacks of point slips, or sharing cookies at lunch.

Some of my best Marian memories involved lunch time. The seniors at Marina get to eat in the quad—an open space away from the underclassmen. There was a ghetto blaster on top of the microwave that played CDs and we would listen to music or the radio while we ate lunch. I brought a CD to listen to at lunch. The songs on the CD NOW 5 were hits of the mid to late 1990’s and were easy sing-a-long at lunch tunes. When I popped in the CD I had no idea that I was going to make a life long Marian memory. The song Back Here by BBMak came on. My friends and I, and pretty much the rest of the entire senior class, went nuts. Every girl that knew the words (or didn’t) sang along, and towards the end of the song were up and dancing—hands in the air, uniform skirts twirling, and lots of interpretive dancing. Since it was out senior year the song was rather sentimental: “Until you’re back here baby, miss you, want you, need you so, there’s a feeling inside I want you to know, you are the one, and I can’t let you go…”. The song was adopted as the class song and every time I listen to Back Here I can’t help but think of my second family.

Art: I’ve never been able to color in the lines…

After spending several long hours in the art room at Marian I discovered my love of art. It was difficult finding the medium I was best at. Drawing was not my favorite because I had a difficult time with proportions and coloring exactly in the lines. Regina’s video to the song Fidelity (on the album Begin to Hope), reminds me of my search for color—for art. My junior year in advanced art 2, the class started the oil painting project. I had to find a fruit or vegetable and paint it. I ended up choosing a red bell pepper.

The red pepper, slightly tilted to the left, was in a picture with other peppers in the background, almost like it was in a vegetable stand at the grocery store or market. The pepper obviously was red, but at a closer look it was more orangish-reddish in some areas, deep blood red, a hint of yellow here and there, and even the a brown color that hid in the shadows of the pepper. It had reflection spots near the top on the curves rounding off towards the stem in the shape of a lima bean. The stem was green, a little hairy, and had darker green streaks that tapered at the ends.

I fell in love with oil paint the minute I put the paint on the canvas. The smooth red paint went on easy in thick, wide steaks. I soon learned how to mix the paint with turpenoid to make various thicknesses and use a fan brush to blend colors together. I have a mini studio in my room at home comprised of an easel my parents gave me, a shower curtain that acts as a floor cover, glass jars full of assorted brushes with dried paint on them, and my paint tubes—fat and curled at the ends. Whenever I begin a painting, I enjoy watching the paint come out of the tubes, the smell of the turpenoid, and the feeling of the smooth paint, capturing a whimsical thought on canvas.

Relationships: You’ve gotta give a little love

My discovery of art was a newfound love in high school. Now, in college, there are new and different kinds of love: such as best friend love. A best friend love is unique. It requires two personalities that compliment and enhance each other, as well as two souls that can easily read each other’s hearts. A best friend love involves a person that makes you laugh about silly and pointless things, someone you can say anything to (in context or not), and a friend who knows yours and hers strengths and weaknesses. Over time the relationship deepens, growing and maturing.

However, it takes time, effort, and a lot of work to develop a relationship. Rilo Kiley’s song Give a Little Love, says: “you’ve got to give a little love, to get a little love”. Without work or effort, the relationship would be of little value and the individual would an acquaintance rather than a life long best friend. I remember my first few weeks of college when everything was new and awkward. Latching onto people I already knew was easy, and meeting new people proved to be more difficult than I thought. Eventually I met my best friend. Over time we grew together, past the awkward college stage, and into best friends. I had to give love to get some love back. I had to share the last of the wheat thins while we watched Rock of Love 2, drive her to target to pursue the end of the year sales, and not bat an eye when she bought another pair of shoes that were not as cute as the last pair. Despite these sacrifices, and others not mentioned, I have learned to love my best friend and share good memories and times spent together. Not only is she my favorite chum, but a long lost sister and my better half

Boy bands: we all want it that way

2008-05-03T17:22:00.004-05:00

In middle school, when I was too cool to play with legos, I had a passionate interest in boy bands—especially the Backstreet Boys. Kevin, Nick, Joey, Howie, and AJ were all the rave of the late 1990’s. They were the best looking boys on the planet and were talented too. They sang what any awkward, love seeking, junior high girl wanted to hear. The songs typically consist of stories involving emotions entering or ending relationships conveyed through romantic and rhyming lyrics with a catchy beat. In the song I Want It That Way, from the Millennium album it begins with the lines: “You are my fire, the one desire…” lines any preteen would die to hear from an admirer.

Most middle school girls are exposed to boys of their own age that are only interested in burping, eating, making fart noises, and video games. For a middle school boy, any sort of romantic endeavor involving a girl is either considered gross or never thought of. So, that’s why there were boy bands. They replaced the disinterested, voice cracking middle school boys for much finer substitutes. The typical boy band fan was a young girl--young teenager or preteen who has smartly given up on awkward boys in hopes of snatching a glance from Kevin or Nick. With this smart and popular transition, pretty soon, the boy band appeared everywhere. The Backstreet boys were on posters, t-shirts, notebooks, and even pencils. In junior high Kayla, a fellow classmate and a good friend, drove down to Florida with her family over spring break, saw the Backstreet Boys in concert, and came back with an autographed t-shirt. The following weekend I was invited to her sleepover. The other girls and I stared in awe at the autographed t-shirt. We gathered around it like a sacred relic knowing that only a week ago each one of the Backstreet Boys touched the shirt and signed it. Today, as a college student and an almost twenty year old, I still on occasion play a Backstreet Boy song, dance, sing along, and reminisce about my days spent as an advocate for boy bands.

Legos: just dump the bucket

2008-05-03T17:22:00.003-05:00

Almost anything could be made out of legos—at least a shape that resembled the object. (Since the legos only came in squares and rectangles, it was difficult to create anything spherical in shape.) The easiest thing to build out of legos of course was a block, a house, or some kind of boxy car. The tote usually came with a special step by step instruction booklet to build a car or some other pre-designed figure. When my brother and I played with legos, we made our own lego creations. We dumped the lego bucket and spread out all of the pieces, occasionally fighting over the special green or silver pieces, but eventually coming to a compromise. We created our own army of specially designed airplanes and jets, with detachable wheels and wings, laser guns, and even force fields and battle. An entire afternoon was spent designing lego jets, cars, or villages. When it was time to clean up, the best designed lego figures stayed assembled and placed carefully back into the lego tote, while the other pieces were hastily gathered and tossed in until the next time

Violin: finding my musical niche, but hating the practice

2008-05-03T17:21:00.003-05:00

After listening to the Backstreet Boys endlessly—to the point where every song was memorized as well as the musical bridges, I decided to make my own music. I took interest in the violin. Hunting around the house, and finally, in the front hall storage closet, behind the snow boots and dusty jackets, I found a beat up violin case. The case was black, its hard textured surface was dry and cracked and the handle was beginning to fray at the edges. It smelled of must and rosin. The metal clasps were a little sticky from years of nonuse, but opened with ease. The violin rested simply in the case: elegant and graceful. The yellow brown color of the wood was striking against the green interior of the case. I traced my forefinger around the curves of the scroll, down the smooth ebony fingerboard and down the tail piece. New strings were needed as well as a new bridge for the instrument to be playable. I lifted it out of the case. The violin was three-fourths in size—a perfect fit for the length of my ten year old arms and once a perfect fit for my mother who played as a child.

Eventually my ten year old arms turned into sixteen year old arms and a new violin was needed. I felt sorry for the old violin. It was like giving away a favorite childhood toy rich in memories and exhausted with play. I learned how to play the Twinkles, Minuet Three, and Ashokan Farewell by Jay Ungar on the small violin. It endured hours of fitful practicing and an attempt at vibrato. The metal clasps snapped open with ease the last time I put the violin into its beat up resting place and said farewell to my friend.

Independence: not a price, just a plastic card

2008-05-03T17:21:00.001-05:00

Lunchroom sing-a-long: back here baby

2008-05-03T17:20:00.000-05:00

Art: I've never been able to color in the lines...

2008-05-03T17:18:00.000-05:00

Relationships: you've gotta give a little love

2008-05-03T17:16:00.000-05:00

the least favorite song.....since preschool

2008-04-23T17:12:00.001-05:00

My preschool carpool buddy, Eric, and his Mom with frizzy brown hair took me to the Lutheran church for preschool on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Then van Eric's mom drove was a reddish-brown and had soft velvety seats. I always liked to sit on the driver's side in the back seat as far from Eric as possible. After all, he was a boy.

Eric's mom always let him sit in the front seat. It has not occurred to me until now that this could be dangerous. She did not even make him wear his seat belt. She also let him play his cassette tape on the way to preschool. His favorite song was "puff the magic dragon". It was the first song on the tape. When the song finished he played it over and over until the reddish brown van arrived at the church.

The song was played every morning on the way to preschool. At first I thought Eric was cool because he knew all the words to the song. At that age the majority of the songs I liked were the ones I made up when I played outside or sang to my stuffed animals before I went to bed. I grew to despise the song. I also grew to despise Eric and his love of magical dragons. I do not remember if I dislike the song because it was played so often or if it is because I was jealous of Eric knowing all the words.

I was always polite in the van. I did not verbalize my hatred towards the dragon or towards Eric and when he routinely requested the puff the magic dragon song, I did not object. I sat quietly in the back of the van on the velvet seat and looked out the window. I made up fantasies of riding horses and picking flowers in a meadow to preoccupy my thoughts. Puff the magic dragon has forever been my least favorite song since I can remember.

lion's mane

2008-04-23T16:01:00.004-05:00

I have the habit of listening to iron and wine on my way home in the summer evenings. I take the usual route home, down blondo street and past the house with the tall pine tree that, every year, is pleasantly decorated for the winter holidays.

The first song, lion's mane, begins my journey home. At this hour in the evening I am exhausted from the day's activities. It is my chance to immerse myself in the smooth, subtle music. The song usually starts when I get on fontelle boulevard, one of the busiest and accident prone streets in Omaha during rush hour. My mother always warns me to check my mirrors twice and look over my shoulder when I change lanes on that street. This is a continuous reminder as I hurry out the door for my evening activity. She doesn't stop her speech on safe and proper lane changing until I am in my car backing out the driveway. To spite her nagging, I only use my mirrors to merge and only check once if there are any cars in the other lanes on my way home.

About a fourth of the way though the song, my car drifts into the next lane out of routine habit. I like having the road to myself. I feel no guilt in my greed of fontelle boulevard. Soon my next turn appears. It is the curvy road with the roundabout at the end. On this street there is always a blue car parked in front of the cottage style house and on Tuesdays the garbage and recycle bins are on the curb. I have sometimes wondered if the recycling bins and the garbage cans get scared when they are left out at night. Usually they are tucked safely away in the garage and not so close to the street. Nonetheless, their owners put them away in the mornings when they almost back into them with their cars.

After the dizzying turns on the roundabout lion's mane is about half way done. I alternate in singing along with the words and humming. My attention to the song drifts towards the end. My mother's voice alerts and wakens me, cautioning me to drive safely. By then the next song is playing and take notice of the tall pine tree and wonder how many other cars it has seen drive by.

More Living Room Talk with Grandpa

2008-04-17T10:44:00.002-05:00

Growing up during the Great Depression my grandfather learned: “You had to work and work hard and spend your money wisely.” Extra spending money was scare as was extra clothes, food, and toys. However, Fred worked hard to get what he wanted. When he was eight years old, he worked all summer to save up his money for a wagon that cost $13 from the Spegal Catalogue. When Fred was asked why he wanted the wagon so much he explained: “I thought that the wagon would make my life more enjoyable.” Fred knew the wagon was capable of expanding the boundaries of a little boy’s imagination and helping out with the chores such as carrying in firewood. Fred worked and worked hard. He and his father worked on a cotton farm and picked cotton all summer. When Fred picked cotton, he filled his bag so full that he was not able to carry it himself and had to have his dad carry the bag for him. At the end of the summer he finally had enough money to buy a wagon and asked his father permission to buy the wagon with his extra money. Even though Fred’s father worked two jobs, there still was not enough money to buy desperately needed school clothes. Fred was crestfallen when his father told him his hard earned money was going to be used to buy new clothes. He remembers this moment as being one of the greatest disappointments of his childhood. Since then he has always longed for a wagon, and he finally got one for Christmas a couple years ago.

In 1943, Fred moved to Lancaster, California from his hometown, Ashland, Oklahoma, to stay with his older brother. Fred’s older brother was a foreman on a ranch and because so many men were fighting in the war and laborers were hard to come by, Fred was asked to work even though he was only fourteen. Fred worked hard at any job, “If you work for a man he pays you a wage. You have to earn that wage. Honest days work for honest days pay.” Fred was proud to say that as a fourteen year old he was paid a man’s wage of $58 a week. Fred would operate the farm machinery and do other odd jobs. One of Fred’s most embarrassing moments happened while he was working. He was fourteen years old when he was driving the pickup truck around on the farm. As he was driving he approached an irrigation ditch. He needed to get on the other side and instead of finding an alternative route, he backed the truck up, accelerated, and tried to fly the truck over the ditch. Well, all did not go as planned. The truck nose-dived into the ditch. Luckily Fred was not hurt, but the truck was in pretty bad shape. Fred was able to back the truck out of the ditch, but while he backed the truck out he ran into a plow and snapped the handles off of the plow. In the mean time Fred’s brother and the boss came to see what happened. Fred denied the entire thing, which was embarrassing because it was clearly evident that nobody else could have crashed the truck and he lied to his brother. Fred’s brother was upset at him, but their boss told Fred’s brother to calm down, leave Fred alone, and go get the truck fixed. Despite the embarrassing mishap and long hours of work, in his free time Fred enjoyed taking his girlfriend out on dates. One time during the state fair, Fred spent $20 on one date, which was a lot of money, but that was fine with him because he figured he was the richest 14 year old around.

Living Room Talk with Grandpa

2008-04-17T10:19:00.003-05:00

“Striving with all of your abilities to do good is what I tried to do.”

In the small, dusty farm community of Ashland, Oklahoma, Fred Maddox was born on May 15, 1930. He was the last of seven children born to Victor and Roxanne Maddox. Roxanne was English and Dutch, and Victor was Irish. Fred also had a half brother, Guy who was born to Victor and Eva Maddox. Eva was Victor’s first wife who died of tuberculosis when Guy was five. Several years after the death of Victor’s first wife, he married Roxanne. One of Fred’s first memories as a child was when he was four years old. He remembers when his mother sat down and talked to him and his sister Louise, and explained that she was going to the hospital. That was the last memory he had of his mother. Roxanne went to the hospital to have a hysterectomy and because of surgical complications and hemorrhaging she died during the surgery. Victor never remarried, despite the attempts made by Fred’s older brothers to find their father a new companion.

When Fred was 14, he remembered when it was just him and his father living together. One morning Fred woke up and his father was sitting on the side of the bed. Fred got out of bed and went around to sit next to his father. As Fred sat down next to his father and put his arm around him, he noticed that his father was crying. His father was crying and was looking a picture of his first wife. Fred quietly asked him what was wrong. His father replied: “I was just thinking of my first wife. There’s no love like your first love.” Fred’s father told him how kind and strong she was and how much he missed her. Losing his first love, Eva, and then losing his second wife, Roxanne, was a great struggle for Fred‘s father. Growing up without a mother was one of the greatest struggles for Fred as well. When Fred was fourteen, he remembered the effects of not having a mother. “I came to realize the impact on life of not having a mother, which bothered me a lot. I would frequently ask God why I didn’t have a mother.” Fred believed that not having a mother helped strengthen his character and helped him rely on himself to do things on his own. Fred would have the responsibility of cleaning the house and doing the laundry¾chores a mother would typically take care of. Fred did not mind doing the extra work, but has always questioned why his mother was taken away from him at such a young age.

Guernica

2008-04-12T11:23:00.010-05:00

At first glance the painting Guernica displays one of Picasso’s signature styles, cubism. The black and white painting, in its original form a mural, depicts several white characters: round and curvy with exaggerated limbs and body formations. On the far left there is a woman screaming and holding a dead child. Beneath her is a wounded solider with a severed arm. There is another woman looking towards the light in the top center of the painting while the woman to the right is burning in a building. Alongside the characters are animals, a horse and a bull, also distorted and misshapen in form. The horse is pierced in the side by a spear and the bull looks dazed and lost as it slowly fades into the dark background. The crowded and smooth bodies of the characters and animals are intersected by dark, straight, and sharp angled lines. Ultimately, the cubist painting is an illustration of the bombings of Guernica, a time of war, loss, and suffering. Picasso successfully captures the true essence of war in his painting through the fusion and integration of artistic styles, cubism and futurism, and the rhetorical strategies of illustration and analogy as well as the rhetorical appeals of pathos and logos.

The artistic style that conveys and reflects the rhetorical appeal of logos is cubism. Cubism was explored and invented by Picasso in the early 20th century and depicts an alteration of perspectives: three dimensional viewpoints isolated, analyzed, and painted onto a two dimensional surface. It can also be defined as: “objects are broken up, analyzed, and re-assembled in an abstracted form…” The formulation of a new and innovative perspective achieved through a collage of old, manipulated perspectives characterizes cubism. This establishes an important aspect of cubism: the end of ambiguity. Art historian Ernst Gombrich described cubism as "the most radical attempt to stamp out ambiguity and to enforce one reading of the picture - that of a man-made construction…” A message or statement is clearly and best understood when one perspective is conveyed. This was one of Picasso’s primary goals in his painting Guernica. Picasso clearly reasons with his audience, through the presentation of perspective, that war is painful and full of suffering. He utilizes the rhetorical appeal of logos via illustration to establish a rational argument: that of anti-war. Picasso explains his perception and successful isolation of argument in his painting: “In the panel on which I am working, which I shall call Guernica, and in all my recent works of art, I clearly express my abhorrence of the military caste which has sunk Spain in an ocean of pain and death.”

The figures in Picasso’s painting are clearly seen in pain, near death, or already dead. His use of illustration powerfully establishes his anti-war argument. The characters in the painting are contorted in agony. The woman on the far left of the painting is holding her dead child twisting her head back, weeping and mourning her loss. The horse in the center of the painting is twisted and tangled in pain as it is being pierced in the side by a spear. The curvy figures are intersected by sharp dark lines while the background and foreground overlap creating a sense of chaos and confusion. The woman on the far left disappears into the dark background—burning alive in a building. Only the head and upper appendages of fallen warrior can be detected in the painting as the rest of his body is enveloped in darkness. The bull is also swallowed into the dark background. These characters, in cubistic form, present one perspective, as well as an appeal to reason (anti-war) through the use of the rhetorical strategy illustration to establish the rhetorical appeal of logos.

Logical fallacies are also at work in the painting. Guernica was painted during the Spanish Civil War in the late 1930’s (fascism takeover of a peaceful republic). Picasso was asked to present a painting at the National Exposition in Paris for the world fair. Picasso lacked inspiration for the painting until he saw a photo in the newspaper of the Nazi bombing of Guernica in Spain. Outraged at the violence in his native country, he began the painting. The painting clearly depicts war—specifically the side of war involving mass destruction, loss, and suffering—and reduces the argument to an extreme: the logical fallacy of the either-or argument. Only one side, one perspective, is depicted in the painting. This painting later became one of the most famous anti-war sentiments and propaganda icons of all time.

Picasso’s powerful and moving icon, Guernica, incorporates another artistic style: futurism. Futurism is close in technique and style to cubism, but subject matter greatly differs. Cubism subject matter appeals to still life objects and buildings; futurism subject matter commonly depicts modern urban scenes. Popular scenes include war and violence. “Futurism had from the outset admired violence and was intensely patriotic.” Picasso’s subject matter in Guernica directly agrees with the ideas of futurism. The setting of the painting is war and extreme violence as well as demonstrates Picasso’s loyalty to Spain and his personal stance against fascism. The use of the artistic style and subject matter, futurism, leads towards another rhetorical appeal, that of pathos.

The subject matter of war overwhelmingly appeals to pathos. War is a time of misery, grief, disorder, and chaos. It has an extremely strong connection to emotion: “The work attempts to convey feelings and sensations experienced in time, using new means of expression, including ‘lines of force’, which were intended to convey the directional tendencies of objects through space, ‘simultaneity’, which combined memories, present impressions and anticipation of future events, and ‘emotional ambience’ in which the artist seeks by intuition to link sympathies between the exterior scene and interior emotion.” Guernica successfully directs emotions, sympathies, and expression from the canvas to its audience utilizing the rhetorical strategy of analogy, as well as symbolism, to support the strong rhetorical appeal to pathos.

Picasso's Guernica is extremely symbolic. The use of symbolism supports analogy as well as the appeal to pathos, expressing an overwhelming amount of emotions. The painting is an open, dark, isolated area that gives rise to crowded pale figures portraying moments of loss, suffering, and chaos. The figure on the far left is a woman is engulfed in flames, most likely burning in a building—a possible scenario after the intense bombing of the city. (Guernica was said to have burned for three days after the bombings.) Below her is a fleeing woman. She looks towards the light in the top center of the paining as if to look for hope and relief from darkness. There is another woman in the painting holding a lantern. She also provides light for this scene, creating awareness and attention for the viewer as to what is happening in this scene. In the center of the painting is a horse. Its face is in shock and agony as its side is pierced by a spear. The horse’s upper teeth and nose form to look like a human skull, an illustration of death and destruction. Underneath a horse is a fallen warrior. The warrior’s body is in pieces. His severed arm is clutching a shattered sword and flower. The flower is a representation of hope and ultimately new life and growth. The bull, an icon of Spain, is partially engulfed into the dark background. This parallels the attempt of fascist takeover of the republican government and the disappearance of a peaceful Spain. The story continues with a woman morning the loss of her child. This is one of the most powerful images in the painting. Her contorted body positions itself in agony and ultimate loss. Her head is back and she is screaming, wailing, and suffering. The child in her arms is lifeless, its eyes are shut and its body dangles in its mother’s arms.

There are also several analogies present in Picasso’s painting that portray raw and powerful emotions. Pain, suffering, and chaos are evident emotions depicted in the painting, but there are fiercer and greater emotions present that build an ultimate sentiment—that of dehumanization. War is dehumanizing and degrading and it is cleverly represented in Guernica. The breakdown of human character is exposed through the contortion and twisting of the figure’s bodies, the presence of animals among the humans, and the monochromatic color scheme. The lack of figuration and form of the characters contorts the figures to such an extreme that they are nearly unrecognizable as humans. Their bodies look as if they are being tortured, ripped apart, and openly exposed—creating emotions of horror and intense agony. The presence of animals, the horse and the bull, in the painting is analogous to animal behavior in humans. In a time of war, survival and out performance of the enemy are essential, most times reducing humans to instinctive and innate behavior, appealing to the emotions of disgust and repulsion. Lastly, the lack of color in the painting is also analogous to the reduction of humanity. The black and while color scheme degrades and reduces the figures to their most basic form. It strips them of their character and personality, their color, to the point where the figures are not seen as human, but a composition of lines and shapes. The convention of war and dehumanization is strongly and powerfully presented in Picasso’s painting. It successfully uses the rhetorical strategy of analogy to support its appeal to pathos.

Overall, Picasso’s union of different artistic styles, cubism and futurism, in the painting Guernica, conceives an image of powerful appeal and perspective. When filtered through a rhetorical lens it uses strategies of illustration and analogy to support is rhetorical appeals to logos and especially pathos. To this day, Guernica, a portrayal of suffering, conflict, and sentiment, is one of the most influential and compelling paintings of modern art.

Works Cited:

"Cubism." Wikipedia. 2008. 7 Apr 2008 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cubism.

"Futurism." Wikipedia. 2008. 7 Apr 2008 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Futurism.

Moffat, Charles. "Cubism." Art History Archive-Art Movements 07 Apr 2008 http://www.arthistoryarchive.com/arthistory/cubism/.

"The Meaning of Cubsim." Cubism FAQ 04 Apr 2008 http://web-facstaff.sas.upenn.edu/~jenglish/Courses/Spring02/104/cubismFAQ.html.

"Guernica: Testimonies of War." Treasures of the World: Guernica 05 Apr 2008 http://www.pbs.org/treasuresoftheworld/a_nav/guernica_nav/main_guerfrm.html.

Hart, David. "PABLO PICASSO (1881-1973): FROM THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR TO VIETNAM ." Picasso's War Art 29 Jan 2004 04 Apr 2008 http://homepage.mac.com/dmhart/WarArt/StudyGuides/Picasso.html.

Guernica

2008-04-08T13:24:00.000-05:00

All art is created with a purpose. It has meaning. Every art piece is drawn, sculpted, or painted to convey a message or emotion—to make a statement and to gain perspective. Picasso, a talented and innovative artist, was an artist that painted, drew, and sculpted with a purpose. His distinctive style and interpretation of perspective significantly impacted his audience and simultaneously revolutionized the world of visual art. Picasso’s success can be attributed to his approach of art through several lenses, particularly the rhetorical lens. The use of this lens can be seen in several of Picasso’s paintings, but especially in Guernica. Picasso’s painting, Guernica, successfully utilizes rhetorical strategies and appeals through the integration and fusion of artistic style, subject matter, and creative expression.

At first glance the painting Guernica displays one of Picasso’s signature styles, cubism. Cubism was explored and invented by Picasso in the early 20th century and depicts an alteration of perspectives: three dimensional viewpoints isolated, analyzed, and painted onto a two dimensional surface. In greater detail it can be defined as: “objects are broken up, analyzed, and re-assembled in an abstracted form—instead of depicting objects from one viewpoint, the artist depicts the subject from a multitude of viewpoints to represent the subject in a greater context.” The formulation of a new and innovative perspective achieved through a college of old, manipulated perspectives characterizes cubism. This establishes the most important aspect of cubism: the end of ambiguity. Art historian Ernst Gombrich described cubism as "the most radical attempt to stamp out ambiguity and to enforce one reading of the picture - that of a man-made construction, a coloured canvas.”

The end of ambiguity in cubism artwork leads directly to the rhetorical appeal of logos. The viewer is forced to look the one perspective presented in the piece of art. In Picasso’s Guernica, the use of cubism, the convention of one perspective from many, establishes a rational argument. Picasso directly presents his argument and perspective without conflicting viewpoints. He precisely conveys his message, or the meaning of the painting, through the use of cubism as well as the rhetorical strategies of description, illustration, and example. The perspective Picasso presents in his Guernica is one of suffering and pain, chaos and confusion: the stark and harsh perspectives brought about in the time of war. The characters in the painting are contorted in agony. The woman on the far left of the painting is holding her dead child twisting her head back, weeping and mourning her loss. The horse in the center of the painting is twisted and tangled in pain as it is being pierced in the side by a spear. The curvy figures are intersected by sharp dark lines while the background and foreground overlap creating a sense of chaos and confusion. The woman on the far left disappears into the dark background—burning alive in a building. Only the head and upper appendages of fallen warrior can be detected in the painting as the rest of his body is enveloped in darkness. The bull is also swallowed into the dark background. This establishes a setting of chaos and disorientation in the midst of grief and anguish. Picasso explains his perception and successful isolation of argument in his painting: “In the panel on which I am working, which I shall call Guernica, and in all my recent works of art, I clearly express my abhorrence of the military caste which has sunk Spain in an ocean of pain and death.”

Logical fallacies are also at work in the painting. Guernica was painted during the Spanish Civil War in the late 1930’s (fascism takeover of a peaceful republic). Picasso was asked to present a painting at the National Exposition in Paris for the world fair. Picasso lacked inspiration for the painting until he saw a photo in the newspaper of the Nazi bombing of Guernica in Spain. Outraged at the violence in his native country, he began the painting. The painting clearly depicts war—specifically the side of war involving mass destruction, loss, and suffering—and reduces the argument to an extreme: the logical fallacy of the either-or argument. Only one side, one perspective, is depicted in the painting. This painting later became one of the most famous anti-war sentiments and propaganda icons of all time.
Picasso’s powerful and moving icon, Guernica, incorporates another artistic style: futurism. Futurism is close in technique and style to cubism, but subject matter greatly differs. Cubism subject matter appeals to still life objects and buildings; futurism subject matter commonly depicts modern urban scenes. Popular scenes include war and violence. “Futurism had from the outset admired violence and was intensely patriotic.” Picasso’s subject matter in Guernica directly agrees with the ideas of futurism. The setting of the painting is warfare. It also demonstrates Picasso’s loyalty to Spain and his personal stance against fascism. This leads towards another rhetorical appeal, that of pathos.
The subject matter of war strongly appeals to pathos. Warfare is a time of misery, grief, disorder, and chaos. It has an extremely strong connection to emotion: “The work attempts to convey feelings and sensations experienced in time, using new means of expression, including ‘lines of force’, which were intended to convey the directional tendencies of objects through space, ‘simultaneity’, which combined memories, present impressions and anticipation of future events, and ‘emotional ambience’ in which the artist seeks by intuition to link sympathies between the exterior scene and interior emotion.” Guernica successfully directs emotions, sympathies, and expression from the canvas to its audience utilizing the rhetorical strategies of narration and again example and illustration.
Picasso uses narration, as well as example and illustration through creative expression, to tell a story. It is the story of the bombing of the Spanish city Guernica. The setting is an open, dark, isolated area that gives rise to crowded pale figures portraying moments of loss, suffering, and chaos. The figure on the far left is a woman is engulfed in flames, most likely burning in a building—a possible scenario after the intense bombing of the city. (Guernica was said to have burned for three days after the bombings.) Below her is a fleeing woman. She looks towards the light in the top center of the paining as if to look for hope and relief from darkness. There is another woman in the painting holding a lantern. She also provides light for this scene, creating awareness and attention for the viewer as to what is happening in this scene. In the center of the painting is a horse. Its face is in shock and agony as its side is pierced by a spear. The horse’s upper teeth and nose form to look like a human skull, an illustration of death and destruction. Underneath a horse is a fallen warrior. The warrior’s body is in pieces. His severed arm is clutching a shattered sword and flower. The flower is a representation of hope and ultimately new life and growth. The bull, an icon of Spain, is partially engulfed into the dark background. This parallels the attempt of fascist takeover of the republican government and the disappearance of a peaceful Spain. The story continues with a woman morning the loss of her child. This is one of the most powerful images in the painting. Her contorted body positions itself in agony and ultimate loss. Her head is back and she is screaming, wailing, and suffering. The child in her arms is lifeless, its eyes are shut and its body dangles in its mother’s arms.
The story concludes when the painting is viewed in its entirety. The color scheme is monochromatic: empowering and authorizing the painting’s manifestation. The serious tone allows the images to convey the harsh emotions in a raw and distinct manner to its audience. Newspaper print is also found in the painting. This use of text, a common informer of current events—specifically the bombing of Guernica, creates an unforgettable emotional link between this painting and the articles about the bombings. Picasso again successfully utilizes technique and subject matter, as well as creative expression to convey emotion to his audience.
All art is created with a purpose and meaning: to gain perspective. Picasso’s union of different artistic styles, techniques, and creative expression in the painting Guernica, conceives an image of powerful appeal and perspective. When filtered through a rhetorical lens it has the appeal of logos and pathos and the strategies of example and illustration, description, and narration. To this day, Guernica, a portrayal of suffering, conflict, and sentiment, is one of the most influential and compelling paintings of modern art.

Works Cited:

"Cubism." Wikipedia. 2008. 7 Apr 2008 .

"Futurism." Wikipedia. 2008. 7 Apr 2008 .

Moffat, Charles. "Cubism." Art History Archive-Art Movements 07 Apr 2008 .

"The Meaning of Cubsim." Cubism FAQ 04 Apr 2008 .

"Guernica: Testimonies of War." Treasures of the World: Guernica 05 Apr 2008 .

Hart, David. "PABLO PICASSO (1881-1973): FROM THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR TO VIETNAM ." Picasso's War Art 29 Jan 2004 04 Apr 2008 .

Barack, Paper, Scissors

2008-03-30T14:47:00.003-05:00

“The time to fix our broken immigration system is now… We need stronger enforcement on the border and at the workplace… But for reform to work, we also must respond to what pulls people to America… Where we can reunite families, we should. Where we can bring in more foreign-born workers with the skills our economy needs, we should”
— Barack Obama, Statement on U.S. Senate Floor, May 23, 2007

On Obama’s political campaign website he lists several significant issues that are a major concern for the near future. The issue I chose was immigration. In Obama’s quote above he addresses that there is an issue: a broken immigration system. This in a way establishes the rhetorical appeal ethos. By stating that there is in fact an issue that needs to be dealt with, Obama is generates authority and credibility. The website in itself is another source of credibility and authenticity—it looks professional and has a smiling, but serious picture of Obama, as well as several quotes and links to learn more about other issues.

Also in the above quote he makes a point to state what can be done to resolve the issue and how to respond to the immediate problem. This is the rhetorical appeal of logos or the arguments of logic. Obviously, in order to begin to resolve this issue, something needs to be done—action needs to take place. Obama approaches this issue logically by stating that a main source of immigration conflicts lies right on the border where reinforcements need to be stronger. The website also lists statistics and facts about the present immigration issues, which advances the appeal to logical argument and persuasion. The rhetorical strategies that are also used is process, how the issues could be resolved, example and illustration, he gives examples of how he can solve the issue, and comparison-contrast with past situation with the past.

Then, as any smart candidate would, Obama directs his argument and stance towards ethos. He does this when he states “where we can reunite families, we should”. Using the words ‘family’ and ‘reunite’, Obama successfully utilizes the emotional appeal. This could cause a connection between the voter and Obama. The voter now sees Obama as a candidate that is sensitive towards the current issues as well as sensitive towards families. I consider this appeal to be the most powerful as everyone almost best relates on an emotional level. Cause and effect and narration are the rhetorical strategies used for this appeal. Cause and effect frequently used in any political campaign—especially to emotional appeal. If the candidate promises to address an issue or a cause, he or she must have an effect or a result. Also with the narration, or story telling, a candidate best relates with his or her audience of voter if they share a personal story which helps demonstrate and connect their position and resolution to different issues.

In relation to other candidates, Obama listens as well as supports, but maintains his view and political positions and delivers them in a classy and well educated manner.

sell, sell, sell!

2008-03-11T21:17:00.002-05:00

There are several rhetoric strategies used in the hamburger helper advertisement.

One strategy is narration. The mom is stuck fixing dinner for her famished family. She has no clue as to what she should prepare for dinner. Almost giving up, the hamburger helper hand appears in her kitchen! The mom makes the hamburger helper dinner and her family happily chomps away at the cheesy noodles and cooked hamburger.

An illustration is also applied to this commercial. The product's mascot the white hand or glove, is showed throughout the entire commercial. This reiterates the product's witty slogan: 'hamburger helper helped her hamburger helped her', which is also accompanied by a catchy jingle. The screen zooms in on the hamburger helper box and the hand at the end of the thirty second commercial.

I would say that the cause and effect is the primary rhetorical strategy in this advertisement. The cause is the mom fixing hamburger helper meal. The effect is the happy normal family at the dinner table. This can suggest that by using the product hamburger helper, it can create a normal family moment of happiness, union, and smiles at the dinner table.

Analogy is also used in the selling scheme. It is rather difficult to make food smell and taste good on TV, so the commercial shows the noodles extra cheesy and the final product steaming in the pan. The people eating it also look like they enjoy the food.

The process, or the demonstration of the product is in the commercial as well. The hamburger helper hand whirls around as the food is being made. First the meat is cooked in the pan and then, quite simply, the noodles are added and the cheesy noodles and hamburger are ready to eat!

Overall, even in just one commercial there are multiple strategies to get the viewer to want and buy the product including the ever delicious and delightful hamburger helper.

just say cheese

2008-03-11T20:35:00.004-05:00

The first thought that came to my mind was: where is the rest of the arm? Why does the hamburger helper just have a hand--what about the rest of the arm? Besides the obvious malformation of the hamburger helper mascot, the 1983 commercial is rather catchy. The little jingle is a foot taper and the smiling family at the dinner table is encouraging to all those who find themselves lonely at meal times.

First of all I love the fact that the commercial is from the 1980's. The mom's hair has a slight poof and her face is splashed with pastel makeup. It is also interesting to compare commercials from today to this commercial. Most commercials today are raunchy humor, primarily involving beer, sex, and dumb humor. In the 80's the commercials were catchy and witty. Who else could deliver such a clever tune about preparing dinner using a box of hamburger helper?

Anther observation was the overall 'happy' feel of the commercial. In the beginning the mom was stressing about fixing her family dinner and was suddenly relieved and delighted that the smiling white hamburger helper hand mascot came to her rescue. Not only was she smiling and happy but so was this woman's family. Everyone was sitting at the dinner table smiling and laughing as they shoveled sharp cheddar cheesy hamburger helper into their mouths.

I am sure all commercials try to make their product look as tasty and efficient as possible. When one needs help with cooking this commercial should remind them of hamburger helper. The hamburger and the noodles actually looked tasty. The hamburger was added to the pan followed by a perfect rain of uncooked noodles into the pan. Next, the steaming cheesy noodles and hamburger were stirred with a wooden spoon. The viewer can only imagine the delicious aroma coming from that pan as he or she watched the commercial.

The meal obviously tasted good, and the mom is a hero (as well as the hamburger helper hand) and the family sits to enjoy time together and the scrumptious food.

food for thought or thought for food?

2008-03-07T14:20:00.003-06:00

Zaireeka! Isolated sounds from four different sources are combined and meshed together forming a song, a tune, a CD track. The Flaming Lips experiment triggered this thought process: what is music? Is music different for every individual? Is it based on what can be heard in the music, or what the listener wants to hear?

I remember the first time I went to see a symphony perform. It was one of those occasions where my mother and I got dressed up—dresses, perfume, and polished shoes. Before the concert I was nervous, excited, and a little restless. The musicians came on stage and started warming up. The brass instruments flashed in the stage lights and cello players looked strained as they were attempting to maneuver their instruments to their designated spots on the stage. A single note sounded and all the other musicians played the same note. It got quiet and the guy that waves a wand around got in front of the orchestra. The music started. I was captivated by the violin players. The violin was beautiful—it had sound, technique, and class. For me, as a third grader, the music played by the orchestra was the beginning of a dream. It sounded like opportunity, dreams, imagination, and wonder. The music planted a seed.

Now ten years later, and after hundreds of violin lessons, music is one of my passions. I can play it, perform it, read it, hear it, and feel it. That night at the symphony embedded in my little third grader brain a new concept of music. Music is not just sounds and notes. It is a wooing process. The music flirts with the soul, the mind, and the heart. The chords, the instruments, and the rhythm altogether generate feelings, emotions; a state of being. No matter what kind of music—instrumental, rock, rap, alternative, or folk it conjures the spirit. It awakens within us a desire—a zaireeka.

it goes a little something like this....

2008-03-05T21:22:00.003-06:00

4 CDs, 4 ghetto blasters, 4 corners of a room, and a pair of ears is all that is needed to experience the Zaireeka sensation. Drums, base, voices, alien sounds, flowing echoes, pauses, waves radiate from each ghetto blaster speaker—each CD. Voices come from one source, base from another, soon cymbal rolls, eerie screams, and music circle the room from all directions. Next, a chorus of voices and the simple and steady piano keys pull the circling sounds together. The sounds are collected into a song. All the different parts are interconnected. They may not necessarily sound good together or be uniform throughout, but each part is vital for the overall desired effect. It is like scattered beads on the floor, each with their own destination as they roll, are gathered and strung on a piece of yarn, making a necklace.

Track number two sounds like the music is being played underwater. The sound waves ripple, the music crescendos in waves, and the notes drip. The sounds are traveling together—darting and swimming like a nervous school of fish or like a scarf of birds. The music ends with a suspended fade and drains out.

The familiar, crisp guitar chords begin track number four. Soon flute notes beat and pulsate. Other sounds emerge. They create chaos and static—a collage of broken instruments. The flute is still beating. It beats off key, eerie like. Voices come in oblivious to the chaos and static beneath its sound. The sound becomes spherical—it builds and the ears get dizzy. It continues to crescendo and almost becomes unbearable. Then it breaks off. The crisp guitar returns and crickets chirp similar to the sensation of ice tea after a hard day’s work.

Track number seven: cheerful beeps and a piano that plays along like a dog catching a Frisbee. The song is propelling, steady, and factory like or machine driven. The methodical sounds build and congregate, forming a wall cloud. The sounds turn to a scattered thunderstorm. The piano notes are lightning, the cymbals are wind, the mesh of guitar is the thunder. There is a downpour of mixed sounds. Wind and hissing air becomes angry snakes. The hiss slowly softens and weakens.

Each sound is a bead on a necklace. Each contributes to the whole. Each sound, each noise, and each instrument weave in and out together to compose a song—Zaireeka! as the Flaming Lips would say.

Tangles of Forgotten Treasures

2008-03-02T18:37:00.024-06:00

Fifteen years have passed since I have thought of my pink and turquoise jewelry box with the heart clasps and mirror on the inside. I can still remember the assortment of treasures I had in the box—including tangles of sparkly jewelry and multicolor barrettes. This childhood recollection was triggered when I saw my pink and turquoise jewelry box sitting on a shelf in the jumble of toys at Goodwill. When I recognized the jewelry box on the shelf, my heart skipped as waves of pleasant memories swam to the forefront of my mind. I remembered the feeling of giddiness when I was little right before I would open the box to reveal all of my valuables. This jewelry box housed my treasured stick-on-earrings, one set for each day of the week, my frilly and lacy hair bows, my assortment of Barbie figurines from McDonald's Happy Meals, and rocks collected from the playground.

As a four year old, every time I opened the jewelry box I would carefully sift through all the items, taking satisfaction in each prized possession. Sometimes I would examine the playground pebbles like I was performing my own important science experiment, hoping to find evidence for the existence of dinosaurs or a fossil of an undiscovered species. Other times I would trace my finger along the waves of the ribbons on my hair bows and put them all in my hair at once. I would pretend I was a fussy princess and try on different combinations of bracelets, necklaces, and plastic jewel rings and strut around my room giving orders to my dazed stuffed animals. Then, when it was time to play something else, I would take off my jewelry, collect the pebbles, unclasp the bows from my hair and put everything back into the jewelry box. The heart clasps would snap shut and my treasures inside would be secured safely.

Now years later, after my Barbies, preteen boy band posters, and high school uniform have been put away, suddenly my jewelry box is sitting on a shelf at Goodwill. Cautiously, I approached the jewelry box in the Goodwill store, almost apprehensive, and opened it. I did not know what I was expecting when I opened the box, but I was suddenly cheerless and disappointed. I saw the mirror on the inside of the box. It had smudges and finger prints of its previous owner and the rest of it was empty. It was sterile. It was desolate. There was no magic or playfulness it once had. It was like the jewelry box of my childhood was emptied of its treasures and placed irrelevantly on the messy and dusty shelf. I cleared a space for it, pushing aside the tacky plastic noise making toys, and rightfully made the jewelry box a place of its own. I wanted to convey its spirit and magic to the next potential owner. I wanted the jewelry box to know it was loved. The jewelry box looked cared for and significant now that it was dusted off and had its own space. At the very least, I was satisfied with the cleaning and open space around the jewelry box and took a last look at a fond memory of my childhood and continued my adventure through the gently used toys and appliances.

I looked around at the misplaced and random collection of items through the store. I wondered if they once had value like my pink and turquoise jewelry box had. I wondered if the other toys on the metal shelves felt deserted and unloved. I felt obligated to find an importance or value to each item, hopefully making it feel loved and wanted again. As I processed this thought, a little girl wandered through the toy section. She had dark hair—messy like she just woke up from a satisfying nap. Her Velcro shoes with a Disney princess on the side shuffled and skipped through the toy aisle. She stopped only to examine the toys of interest while pushing aside the others. Eventually, she selected a doll. She picked it up and held it at eye level, only inches from her face. Her face softened. The little girl traced the eyebrow and nose of the doll’s face with her small finger and smoothed the wrinkled dress it was wearing. “Cathleen!” Her father was calling her. She darted out of the aisle and proudly showed the doll to her father. She explained all the reasons as to why she should have the doll in a hurried and rapid Spanish speaking gasp. The father looked intently at the doll. He slowly nodded his head in approval as he handed the doll to his daughter. The father walked through the store and whistled while he kept an eye on his little girl wandering through the store.

I kept browsing through the used goods. A collection of shiny ceramic cows, dull plastic watering cans, a respected grandfather clock, and a framed Norman Rockwell print inhabited the walls and shelves. The dusty electronic section was composed of tangled phone cords, abused vacuums, forgotten toasters, naked lamps, and prehistoric computers and stereos. I weaved through the shelves and racks to the back of the store and found the furniture section. The lazy recliners, matching ‘His and Her’ chairs, and the stoic Captain’s chairs were all lined up like first graders waiting in the lunch line. I found a funny looking chair and sat. It was a rusty velvety orange sofa and smelled of dust and smoke. The velvet was worn and no longer soft on the arms of the chair. Parts of the fabric underneath showed around the corners. The cushion was so worn it surprised me as I continued to sink farther into the seat. Once I was comfortable I imagined the previous owner of the chair sitting and relaxing, perhaps smoking a cigarette and watching television with the remote balanced on the arm of the chair. I looked at the chair next to me. It was a beige lazy boy recliner with dark stains on the arms and near the recliner lever on the side. It smelled like hard work and washed out air freshener. The cyclical announcement startled my inspection: “Thank you Goodwill customers for shopping with us today. This Friday and Saturday are the manager’s 99 cent sale on select items! The store hours are…”

I figured that was my cue to leave the furniture section and continue browsing. The clothing section reminded me of mazes on the back of cereal boxes and my oil paints lined up in rainbow order. All the clothes were arranged in rows according to relative color and size. The color coded racks were pleasing to look at. The red racks of clothes were faded, checkered, cotton, and bold. While the green racks of clothes were velvet, Hawaiian patterned, worn in the knees, and serene. I could hear the sound of frantic browsing. It was the hangers scraping the metal racks. In order to get the item off the rack the rest of the clothes had to be shoved using the momentum of the entire upper half of the body and pushed aside. While the musty sweaters, elastic waist mommy jeans, and floppy t-shirts were on the congested racks, the fancy evening dresses were proudly hung on the walls of the store as if to declare they were better than everything else.

A man passed me while I was walking from the apparel section to the household goods. He walked with a slight gimp from hard work and had comb streaked hair. The expression on his face was serious and his eyes darted anxiously from shelf to shelf. He was carrying two items, one in each hand. He had a framed piece of pale landscape art and an engraved wooden plaque. This man walked stiffly through the shelves and stopped. He slowly bent over to rest the art and wooden plaque against the shelf and wiped his hands along the sides of his pants. His eyes relaxed. He reached for a map quietly resting on the shelf. He held the map in his hands for a few seconds and suddenly softened. He slowly and diligently unfolded the map and skimmed its contents. His face conjured a half smile as if he was reminiscing about a favorite pastime of his boyhood. With careful precision, the man folded the map to its original form, traced the corners with his finger, and made a space for it on the shelf. He aligned the map on the shelf so it no longer looked forgotten, but instead looked noble and dignified. The man stiffened again and reached for his items. As he shuffled away I could not help but wonder if he found his version of a pink and turquoise jewelry box—a vault of priceless memories. When he was out of sight, I went over to the area of the shelf where he found the map. There it was. The misplaced treasure now purposefully took up space like it was remembered and loved again.

Rough Draft: Thrifty Finds

2008-02-28T14:57:00.003-06:00

When I was a little girl I had a pink and turquoise plastic jewelry box. It had little heart clasps that opened the box to reveal a small mirror and a tangle of sparkly jewelry. This jewelry box housed my treasured stick-on-earrings, one set for each day of the week, my frilly and lacy hair bows, my assortment of Barbie figurines from McDonald's Happy Meals, and rocks collected from the playground. Every time I opened the jewelry box I would carefully sift through all the items, taking satisfaction in each prized possession. Sometimes I would examine the playground pebbles like I was performing my own important science experiment, hoping to find evidence for the existence of dinosaurs or a fossil of an undiscovered species. Other times I would trace my finger along the waves of the ribbons on my hair bows and put them all in my hair at once. I would pretend I was a fussy princess and try on different combinations of bracelets, necklaces, and plastic jewel rings and strut around my room giving orders to my dazed stuffed animals. Then, when it was time to play something else, I would take off my jewelry, collect the pebbles, unclasp the bows from my hair and put everything back into the jewelry box. The heart clasps would snap shut and my treasures inside would be secured safely.

Fifteen years have passed since I have thought of my pink and turquoise jewelry box. I am amazed at the vivid recollection of the assortment of treasures I had in the box. I never really thought much about it until I saw my pink and turquoise jewelry box sitting on a shelf in the jumble of toys at Goodwill. When I recognized the jewelry box on the shelf, my heart skipped and leaped. I remembered the feeling of giddiness when I was little right before I would open the box to reveal all of my valuables. I approached the jewelry box, almost nervous, and opened it. I did not know what I was expecting when I opened the box, but I was suddenly cheerless and disappointed. I saw the mirror on the inside of the box. It had smudges and finger prints of its previous owner and the rest of it was empty. It was sterile. It was desolate. There was no magic or playfulness it once had. It was like the jewelry box of my childhood was emptied of its treasures and placed irrelevantly on the messy and dusty shelf. I cleared a space for it, pushing aside the tacky plastic noise making toys, and rightfully making the jewelry box a place of its own. I wanted it to convey its spirit and magic to the next potential owner. I wanted the jewelry box to know it was loved. The jewelry box looked cared for and significant now that it had it was dusted off and had its own space. At the very least, I was satisfied with the cleaning and open space around the jewelry box and took a last look at a fond memory of my child hood and continued my adventure through the gently used toys and appliances.

I looked around at the random collection of items through the store. I wondered if they once had value like my pink and turquoise jewelry box had. I wondered if the other toys on the metal shelves felt deserted and unloved. I felt obligated to find an importance or value to each item, hopefully making it feel loved and wanted again. As I processed this thought a little girl wandered through the toy section. She shuffled through the toys, examining those of interest and pushing aside the others. Eventually, she selected a doll. She picked it up and held it at eye level, only inches from her face. The little girl traced the eyebrow and nose of the doll’s face and smoothed the dress it was wearing. “Cathleen!” Her father was calling her. She darted out of the aisle and proudly showed the doll to her father. She explained all the reasons as to why she should have the doll in a hurried and rapid Spanish speaking gasp. The father looked intently at the doll and nodded his head in approval as he handed the doll to his daughter. He continued to walk through the store and whistled while he kept an eye on his little girl skipping through the store.

I kept browsing through the used goods. A collection of shiny ceramic cows, dull plastic watering cans, a respected grandfather clock, and a framed Norman Rockwell print inhabited the walls and shelves. The dusty electronic section was composed of tangled phone cords, abused vacuums, forgotten toasters, naked lamps, and prehistoric computers. I weaved through the shelves and racks to the back of the store and found the furniture section. The lazy recliners, matching ‘His and Her’ chairs, and the stoic Captain’s chairs were all lined up like first graders waiting in the lunch line. I found a funny looking chair and sat. It was a rusty velvety orange sofa and smelled of dust and smoke. The velvet was worn and no longer soft on the arms of the chair. Parts of the fabric underneath showed around the corners. The cushion was so worn it surprised me as I continued to sit farther into the seat. Once I was comfortable I imagined the pervious owner of the chair sitting and relaxing, perhaps smoking a cigarette and watching television with the remote balanced on the arm of the chair. I looked at the chair next to me. It was a beige lazy boy recliner with dark stains on the arms and near the recliner lever on the side. It smelled like hard work and moths. The cyclical announcement startled my relaxed state: “Thank you Goodwill customers for shopping with us today. Friday and Saturday is the manager’s 99 cent sale on select items! The store hours are…”

I figured that was my cue to leave the furniture section and continue browsing. The clothing section reminded me of mazes on the back of cereal boxes. All the clothes were arranged in rows according to color and relative size. I could hear the sound of frantic browsing. It was the hangers scraping the metal racks. In order to get the item off the rack the rest of the clothes had to be shoved using the momentum of the entire upper half of the body and pushed aside. While the musty sweaters, elastic waist mommy jeans, and floppy t-shirts were on the congested racks, the fancy evening dresses were proudly hung on the walls of the store as if to declare they were better than everything else.

A man passed me while I was walking from the apparel section to the household goods. He walked with a slight gimp from hard work and had comb streaked hair. The expression on his face was serious and his eyes darted nervously from shelf to shelf. He was carrying two items, one in each hand. He had a framed piece of pale landscape art and an engraved wooden plaque. This man walked stiffly through the shelves and stopped. He slowly bent over to rest the art and wooden plaque against the shelf and wiped his hands along the sides of his pants. His eyes relaxed and he reached for map quietly resting on the shelf. He held the map in his hands for a few seconds and suddenly relaxed. He slowly and diligently unfolded the map and skimmed its contents. His face conjured a half smile as if he was reminiscing about a favorite pastime of his boyhood. With careful precision, the man folded the map to its original form, traced the corners with his finger, and made a space for it on the shelf. He aligned the map on the shelf so it no longer looked forgotten, but instead looked noble and dignified. The man stiffened again and reached for his items. As he shuffled away I could not help but wonder if he found his version of a pink and turquoise jewelry box. When he was out of sight, I went over to the area of the shelf where he found the map. There it was. The no longer forsaken item now purposefully took up space like it was loved again.

die-a-grams....

2008-02-21T22:05:00.003-06:00

A pizza diagram. A map of pizza toppings. A guide to better understand a triangle shape piece of bread, cheese, and tomato sauce. This is one of my favorite diagrams. It is simple, easy to understand and color coded. I would have never thought of a piece of pizza as a diagram. Usually I just it and never stop to think that there part of a pizza that can be diagrammed and defined. Most of the other diagrams I see are in science textbooks and involve intense memorization. One I am currently working on is the plant cell. It has all sorts of parts and complex functions. Luckily a diagram just names the parts and not all the functions and purposes of each individual part. Whew. When I was a child I loved to assemble different lego figures and put things together like a barbie picnic set or a barbie Jacuzzi. My brother and I would split our allowance money and go to target to buy a lego kit. We would rush home and carefully empty the box of all the legos and open the instructions manual. My favorite part was matching the pieces and formations to those in the instruction booklet. Then as the different pieces and parts were put to together the entire lego spaceship would start looking like the flashy picture on the box. The end product would be carefully placed on the floor and admired for the next couple of days. Eventually the lego spaceship would crash in a lego star wars galactic war or pieces would be taken for another creation. Sometimes the diagram and instruction booklet would be found and the legos would be put back together again. Those were the good times--when diagrams made sense and they were not for memorizing and science oriented. (Unless, of course, the lego spaceship was modified into a spaceship/boat/car super hero vehicle.)

stranded old school style....

2008-02-20T15:11:00.007-06:00

I would prefer to be stuck at the bottom of a dried up well as to avoid sand and intense sunlight. I would prefer to have with me more than five cassette tapes, but if that's all I get I will take it over nothing. The five albums I would choose would be: Under the Blacklight, Challengers, Begin to Hope, Wet From Birth, and The Information. (This was a very difficult choice. As I wheeled through my ipod I was torn between a few other albums, but those that were not selected are for the next time I get stranded in a dried up well.) Under the Blacklight is one of my absolute favorite albums by Rilo Kiley. I love the sound of Jenny Lewis's voice. (You can tell she is a redhead when she sings.) I also like the variety of sound from song to song in the album. It goes from hard rock to somewhat folky to soft/chill music. The New Pornographers who wrote Challengers, is a band I just discovered this year. I like how voices fit together and the music is easy listening. I can be in any kind of mood and enjoy listening to The New Pornographers. Regina Spektor is one of my all time favorite female artists. Her album, Begin to Hope was gift from my best friend. I fell in love with the first song, Fidelity, and as the songs kept playing they got better and better. Not only is Regina a talented artist, but her music is fun to sing to. Ah, The Faint. It was hard to pick my favorite Faint album, but I ended up choosing Wet from Birth. Their other albums have a theme of death, sex, and birth. I choose the birth album because if I was stranded in a dried up well, I would choose the more upbeat album. As for The Information by Beck, I had to go with one of the best artists in my ipod.

thrifting...

2008-02-17T16:46:00.002-06:00

I like to be thrifty. My mother says I am frugal. I like to be practical. So, when it comes to buying clothes, I like them cheap. Not the dirty or less quality kind of cheap, but the worn in and well used kind of cheap. That’s why I sometimes, well most times, shop at goodwill, the Salvation Army, or the thrift stores in downtown Omaha. This kind of shopping is tricky. It requires going through racks and racks of acid wash mommy jeans, musty sweaters, and floppy t-shirts. I love it. In the mean time there is a frantic search for that one unique item, for less than five dollars of course. It gets tiring pushing the clothes aside and looking at the tag for size and price. However, when I am with friends it makes that search all the more enjoyable. The really ugly and revolting 1980’s blazers or formal dresses are pulled off the rack and commented on, tried on, and brought back to life. I or one of my friends will come out of the dressing room enacting the clothing. A neon-colored swish suit would require a silly workout routine and an impression of Richard Simons. A gaudy eighties formal dress, with an excess of poof sleeves, would be considered the next gown for prom or just to accompany plastic jewelry or tidal wave bangs. Most of the ugly or extremely unfashionable items found are eventually put back on the rack. Then there comes the time that all the hard work pays off when I find the thrifty deal between the compressed racks of clothing. It usually ends up being a pair of designer jeans that fit perfectly for five dollars or a sweater for ninety-nine cents. Whatever the item, the hunt and pursuit of these thrifty items are always an unpredictable adventure. You never know what you can find between the racks.

a blog on smoking...

2008-02-13T21:28:00.004-06:00

So, a blog on smoking.

Grant states: "It is when you and your family, sometimes young kids go to a restaurant to enjoy a nice meal with your loved ones and open up the door and are blasted in the face by a wall of smoke; that terrible smelling, poisonous smoke takes your breath away and makes the rest of the evening a flop."

Some think it is a disgusting habit. For others it is an addiction. And others it is a mere way of unwinding. I thought this would be an interesting subject to write. Sure smoking is bad for you, and it is rather touchy subject when smoking goes public, in actuality I think it is not as offensive or disgusting. Since I want to be a doctor I am going to say that "Smoking is bad for you!!! If you smoke, quit now!!!". This is just because I am concerned for your health and not your habit. There are a lot of memories that involve the smell of cigarette smoke. When I was little there was this mom and pop diner a few blocks away from my house. I called this place the hi-ho grill. It was fantastic. The food was deliciously greasy and they had the best biscuits and gravy, as well as a creepy garden gnome saluting you as you walked in. (This always scared me as a child. He was about the same size of me as a five year old. Freaky.) I remember the hi-ho grill would be hazy with smoke, only clearing when the waitress with fresh coffee walked by. The smoke never bothered me as a child when I would eat there. It entertained me more or less. My little brother would always be bothered by the smoke in the restaurant. It was funny watching his eyes get puffy and red as he tried to eat his hash browns and drink chocolate milk through a straw. My mother would also freak out about the smokers. She would make us sit as far away as possible in hope to find a clearing in the haze. As for me, smoking is just what one does. For some it's a habit, a health hazard, something to do when stressed, or an accompaniment to a greasy breakfast.

paul potts: the average prodigy

2008-02-07T14:09:00.000-06:00

I've never seen Simon so surprised. You would think that he's seen just about everything--especially as a judge for American Idol. Well, I guess that Simon would have never considered Paul Potts, an average, odd looking cell phone salesman, to be the next American Idol of the UK.

This fantasy, of being normal and discovering a legendary talent, is one fantasy that many people dream of before they fall asleep. We all want to be remembered, be famous, or do something great with our lives. Every time I watch this video I get chills. These are the kind of chills that are the calling of greatness in every individual. These are chills that feed the yearn to greatness and inspire us to achieve. It is inspiring to know that everyone, especially an average person such as Paul, has a chance. To even imagine that normal people are all around us and have the potential to change the world, promote peace, feed the hungry, or share the passion of opera, is beyond comprehension.

Paul stated in the beginning of the video that his dream was doing what he was called to do. In his case it was singing opera. This brings me to the question: What is my calling? What is your calling? Is it to achieve greatness? Is it to be recored and documented in textbooks? Is it to be remembered forever? I agree with Paul. Our dreams are interwoven into our callings, our desires, our greatness. The key to achieving our dreams and greatness is to fulfill our calling. Paul liked singing opera. That was his greatness--his ability to share music with others. He does it in such a way not only is Simon taken aback, but leads us all to indulge in our fantasies of greatness and become what we are called to be.

essay on gary's essay...

2008-02-06T09:58:00.000-06:00

"As Cynthia stated that there it is a free mind at play, and I believe for a genuine essay to be produced or one that has strong voice it does not need any forms of constraints." --Gary Masters

I agree with Gary's as well as Cynthia's statement about the essay. The essay should have no boundaries. It should have no rules, no specific format, and most importantly the essay should not be defined. The essay is an opportunity for the writer to release words on paper, words out loud--without consideration of rules and regulations. This allows the writer to embrace his or her own thoughts and ideas better than someone buried in rules. As Gary and Cynthia stated, it allows the writer to produce a more genuine essay instead of some insignificant redundant copy of previous thoughts. I also think that without a specific format a writer is more willing to be creative with the essay. The essay could include quotes from sources that enhance the writer's ideas and thoughts, as well as poetry or a short biography combined in one writing to capture a person's life story on paper. The lack of specific format also makes it easier for the reader to stay engaged as well as intrigued. It is much more interesting if the reader is unable to predict what the writer is going to say next. It is also easier for the reader to stay awake and engaged in the reading if the writer avoids redundant thesis statements and contentions. However, what I think is most important about the essay is its definition. I think it should be left undefined. It should maintain its flexibility, its freeness, and its mystery to all writers. If the essay were to ever be defined the writer would see himself or herself suddenly denied of free writing--losing a passionate and strong voice as well as limitless boundaries of creativity. The free mind would no longer be at play. It would be a sever detriment to all writers and readers of their work if the essay would obtain boundaries and limitations to its format, style, and purpose.

quotation from atwan02

2008-01-31T14:15:00.000-06:00

"And to resound means to be filled to the depth with a sound that is sent back to its source. An essay that works is similar; it gives back to the reader a thought, a memory, an emotion made richer by the experience of another. Such an essay may confirm the reader's sense of things, or it may contradict it. But always, and in glorious, mysterious ways that the author cannot control, it begins to belong to the other reader." -Kathleen Norris

I would have never associated essays with the idea of resonance. Whenever I hear the word resonance I automatically think of music. I imagine an enchanting concert hall filled with the rolling waves of music—not an essay. Before I read Norris’s thoughts on the essay, I always considered the essay as just words on paper or an assignment for English class. However, as I made my way through the Antwon reading I came to a realization that an essay is more than words. The essay is a writer conveying messages, facts, opinions, or stories to the reader hoping to stimulate a response. The writer wants the reader to be engaged, aroused, and become involved in the essay. In essence, the writer wants to give back to the reader, to be filled to the depth, as Norris explained. This is one of the reasons I found this particular quote fascinating. There are certain memories of life that an individual remembers best. These can be memories that were a pivotal point in its life or memories that are random but somehow made their way into the memory bank. This would be like remembering what your best friend in first grade brought for show and tell. I believe this is how some essays works. There is no explanation as to how the reader is moved or able to remember how it becomes a permanent part of their life. As Norris explains, it is a glorious mystery. The essay begins to creep slowly, like a musician beginning to play in a concert hall. Then eventually turns into a composition—a concerto. The reader is captivated by the statements, the stories, the sound, and the confirmation that what the essay is attempting to convey is achieved. The reader now possesses part of the essay, and as Norris stated, filled to the depth with sound.

More on Kathleen Norris:
Biography and Works
A Woman of Certain Importance

test...

2008-01-24T14:27:00.000-06:00

link to the course's main page