Monday, October 8, 2012

Incarnations of Burned Children: Critique 5


Incarnations of Burned Children
     -David Foster Wallace

This short tale by David Foster Wallace instantly throws the reader into a state of panicked chaos, not knowing why this child is screaming but we instantly feel the need to help this child, much like “The Daddy.” Wallace writes this story with very little punctuation, no paragraph structure, nothing that would make an English teacher happy. Despite it all, it is a wonderful work of writing that creates panic in the reader, we feel what the parents of the child feel because Wallace never really let's us catch our breath while reading. At times we are lost in the confusion, not certain what is going on, but at all times we are desperate, this child is in pain and we want more than anything else to help quell this child's tears.
Wallace creates the scene as if intended for a blind man, and the script is being read to him as the events unfold. Details are missed, there is too much going on to bother with literary flare, we are given just enough to visualize the scene. Its straight and to the point.The point however, is somewhat ambiguous in the end. It sounds as though the baby lives, “his body extends” and he grows up to become another person living out his life, waking, going to work, then sleeping only to repeat his day. The events of the story far from his mind. The readers however, as well as the Daddy and Mother, can recall that while young, he faced something terrible. His parent's will never forget, but that day is far from his mind.

What I Learned: Critique 4


What I Learned
     -David Sedaris


The great thing about David Sedaris as a writer is that while reading anything he writes, I always feel what he has written is very real, and honest from his heart. This feeling of connection coupled with not knowing what he is talking about make for quite the enjoyable read. “What I Learned”, is just another example of this, and a great one at that. What I mean by not knowing what Sedaris is talking about is he spends a lot of time using gross exaggerations to describe his life while attending Princeton. At times, it seems as though he is completely nuts. Then again, he writes in such a way that leaves me laughing to myself thinking “I know exactly what you are talking about.” This short story, although told through complex measures, is ultimately Sedaris reminding his readers that life simply happens. A plan is a plan is a plan, and at the end of the day that really means nothing at all. There is something in the way that Sedaris writes that has always made me feel like he is a person first, a writer second. Sedaris doesn't spend time trying to wow the reader with what he can do as a writer, he has something to say and he says it, with his personality showing right through the whole time.

The Book of Sand: Critique 3

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The Book of Sand 
     -Jorge Luis Borges 

This from the first few lines of this story, I am reminded of Randolph from Clive Barker's “The Great and Secret Show.” Randolph is brought into an entire world of mystery and awe from simply opening a letter that wasn't destined for him to see, as the protagonist in “The Book of Sand” his life takes on a weight that he was not ready to comprehend. Although within “The Book of Sand”, we are not shown the extent of the world as we are in Randolph's tale, our imaginations go wild with the possibilities of what this book actually is.
The opening statement at the beginning of the tale is the protagonist, who's name is never given, speaking in what seems to be the ramblings of a madman, who one who has just taken in some illicit substances and is now trying to understand a map of the Americas. However it is not until the end of the story that the audience can understand his ramblings; in a sense, he has become mad, the mystery and purpose of the book have consumed his thoughts. The very reason for him getting rid of the book in the first place were to avoid such things, but due to how he opens his tale, we can assume he was never able to let those secrets go.

Mockingbird: Critique 2


Mockingbird
-Laurie Berry

Right from the start of this story I realize a problem, we learn that Rachel is madly in love with Peter, but nothing is said of Peter's feelings toward Rachel. Sure, this could just be that this story is written in limited third-person, but as the story progresses, we see that it is much more than that. This story is full of missteps by Peter, who seems far too wrapped up in his own selfish ways to acknowledge how Rachel really feels about not just him, but the world. Every cause and effect in this short story ends in Rachel having a moment where we almost think she realizes Peter is not right for her. However, the night drags on, she lets the flaws go, they make love. The way the end of the story goes however, we learn that unfortunately for our two love birds, their fling is coming to an end. “luck abundant as Johnson grass” and “the fierce end of summer” imply that although all is going well now, Rachel's “swooning stage of love” will come to an end. Rachel is far too in touch with the world to last with Peter. Peter is a man of material happiness, simple even. In time, she will see the truth (I don't expect Peter to notice a whole lot) and she will eventually move on with the summer.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Nude Interrogation (Critique 1)

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Nude Interrogation – Yusef Komunyakaa

A young man and woman about to engage in sex, a great opening to catch a reader's attention, yet this story isn't as simple as Angelica taking off her skirt and making love while Hendrix plays in the background. This short story is about the emotions to be felt (or not felt) returning home after the atrocities of war, the emptiness of knowing you have experienced something “they” can't understand. As Angelica slowly takes off her clothes in front of our unnamed male in the story, it is anything but erotic.

It becomes obvious she is of the “they” who cannot understand. She pours him with questions of his experiences in the war (I believe that the first set of dialogue in italics are her words), Did you kill anyone? Did you dig a hole, crawl inside, and wait for your target? Then she drops her skirt, mini of course. Angelica is completely unaware of the male's feeling of disconnect from the whole situation. Judging from the description of the room they are in, incense, Hendrix, blacklight, and cinder block bookcase, I would call it a safe bet to say they are young, most likely in a dorm room. Oh, excuse me, “Residence Hall.” 

This young man has returned from a war (Vietnam would be my guess) and is attempting to go back to a normal life, make love to a beautiful girl, forget the war. Clearly from the man's lack of responses, his mind only races back to what he has seen. Though we, the readers, get nothing concrete from the story as to what exactly he had done. He eventually answers her (I believe the last set of italics to be his words), he tells her yes, but from his first word, his thoughts merge to loss, emptiness. 

The man feels nothing for this girl, they make love and he lies there, not speaking. He was silent, the night was quiet, and he couldn't stop looking at the sky (his thoughts now in italics), his mind was somewhere between laying next to a woman he just made love to and being in the war, maybe dealing with the thought that he has killed a man, but he is neither with her, nor physically in the war, but his thoughts, at least for the night described in the story, are in the war.

We Bid Farewell (Exercise 6)


 We Bid Farewell

I wasn't ready for you to leave
You never could have been
Is that the way the world works?
What do you want to get out of this?
An understanding
Sometimes we can't
I miss you
I should go
Wait
No

I wanted to apologize for the other day
you were cold and unfair
What am I supposed to do now?
Where do you want to be in life?
Happy and bold
Go find it
I'll miss you
Yes
Yes

Reservation (Exercise 5)

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 Reservation

There should be lots of us, dressed to our finest for the day. A tree would be best, but sometimes the Earth itself will suffice, after all, it ends up on us just as we sit upon it. The dry heat gives us the excuse, to forget our shirts, to lay on the ground, to fall into puddles. A plan is never needed, rarely wanted. Rather its the ding of a bell that signifies the start time, the setting sun let's us know its almost time, and the calls of our mother's means its over time. While laying in bed, after washing off the Earth, the fantasies still linger, prepping us for the next day, ready to ruin our finest dress.

Simple Key (Exercise 3)


Simple Key

I get home after a long bike ride, the sweat so heavy it drips a pool onto the cement as I lock my bike up against the burning metal fence. The humidity is out for murder today. I stumble up the steps to my front door, the heat so hot my pants are glued to my leg, making the simple human act of walking upright on two legs looks as if it was a a fantasy I once had as a infant child. 

I get to my front door and reach for my keys in my side-pants pocket, where they always are. Of course I have to struggle to fist my pocket because my pants seem to be glued to my very existence. Why the fuck did I even wear jeans today? Upon invaginating my fat mushy hand into the slit of my pocket, I discover a gum wrapper, a receipt from today, a receipt from two days ago, a pen lid to the pen I lost earlier, a lighter, yet to my surprise, no keys. The other pocket is completely empty.

Luckily I'm quite the Macgyver of quick thinking and remembered that I put the keys in my backpack for no apparent reason other than I seem to like to fuck with myself. I unzip the front pocket of my backpack and those sweet keys are staring at me right on top of all my other old receipts. I take my keys out and throw my bag on the ground, right into my cesspool of sweat. No worries, I will forget I even did it within the next two minutes.

 I shove the key into the lock upside down, because why do it the right way first? I twist the little bastard around. Then I twist the little bastard around again. Nothing. Finally I shake the little piece of shit like I'm going to be the Don of a goddamn polka dance contest. The lock gives, I throw myself inside my house to realize, all is not as it should be. I'm still sweating, the air conditioning is broken.

Take Me (Exercise 2)

 Take Me

Sadness moved North
In soft silk sheets
Taking away all that is broken

Rhythm seeps under the floor
Wrapped in heavy sleeves
Quietly breaking the walls with sound

Feeling has settled home
Dressed of red cotton
Taking away the walls with sound

Exercise 1

Exercise 1

Although the bright song of the birds would suggest sun, I feel as though it is overcast. The clouds are moving quickly over the beach. 

The beach is empty, outside of me.

I am walking along the beach. There are pieces left behind from a child's day at the beach; a shovel, a broken sandcastle, buckets still half full of water.

The waves are growing, crashing, getting louder.

I step out onto the water, it doesn't make sense how cool the water feels, it should be cold enough to end shivers over my body, but it is perfect. 

Perfect.

I take a seat in the water, it starts to rain. I am in water up to my neck now as the waves settle. 

I look around, and the beach is full of families, but they are late. They have missed the moment. 

They weren't here for me anyways. 

The sun is peeking out now, its far too hot of a day for me to be on the beach, I pick up the child's shovel and bucket, and walk down the beach. 

Written while listening to "Halving the Compass" by Helios