|
Server : Apache/2.4.62 System : FreeBSD fbsdweb2.web.rcn.net 14.1-RELEASE FreeBSD 14.1-RELEASE releng/14.1-n267679-10e31f0946d8 GENERIC amd64 User : www ( 80) PHP Version : 8.3.8 Disable Function : NONE Directory : /domains/fatshado/ |
Upload File : |
<html>
<head>
<META NAME='Keywords' CONTENT='blogchalk, English, United States, San Francisco, North Beach, Tish, Female, 46-50'>
<title>Fatshadow</title>
<!-- Begin YACCS Code (part 1) -->
<script type="text/javascript" src="http://rateyourmusic.com/bclw?b=90000008560"></script>
<script type="text/javascript">
function yaccs_c(){document.write(ycso[0]);}
function ycs(e){for(i=0;i<ycso[2];i++){
if(ycsx[i*2]==e){return ycsx[(i*2)+1];}}
if(e<ycso[3])if(ycso[2]>=ycso[1])
{return -1}else{return 0}else return 0}
quot="'";quotcq="','"
function get_comment_link(e){
cc=ycs(e);if(cc==0){yfs=ycso[9]}
if(cc==1){yfs=ycso[10]}if(cc>1){yfs=ycso[11];
if(ycso[13]){yfs+=cc}yfs+=ycso[12]}if(cc==-1){yfs=ycso[14]}
if(ycso[5]){document.write('<a target="'+ycso[4]+
'" class="yaccslink" href="javascript:void(0)"'+
' onclick="window.open('+quot+'http://'+ycso[8]+
'commentsn/blog_id='+ycso[15]+'_and_blog_entry_id='+e+quotcq+
'yaccs'+quotcq+'scrollbars=yes,resizable=yes,height='+
ycso[6]+',width='+ycso[7]+',left=80,top=80'+quot+');">'+
yfs+'<\/a>')}else{
document.write('<a class="yaccslink" href="http://'+ycso[8]+
'commentsn?blog_id='+ycso[15]+ ycso[16] +
'blog_entry_id='+e+ ycso[16] +'returnurl='+document.URL+'">'+yfs+'<\/a>')}}
function get_custom_comment_link(e,f,g,h,m,n,o,p,q,r){get_comment_link(e)}
function yaccs(e,f,g,h,m,n,o,p,q,r,ar){get_comment_link(e)}
</script>
<!-- End YACCS Code (part 1) -->
<script language="JavaScript">
<!--
// thanks to randomwalks.com for this code
function targetLinks(boNew)
{
if (boNew)
{
where = "_blank"
}
else
{
where = "_self"
}
for (var i = 0; i <= (document.links.length-1); i++ )
{
strURL = document.links[i].href
voidURL = "javascript:void(0)"
if ( strURL != voidURL )
{
document.links[i].target = where
}
}
}
//-->
</script>
<STYLE TYPE="text/css">
BODY
{
scrollbar-base-color:##9999CC;
scrollbar-arrow-color: #336699;
scrollbar-DarkShadow-Color:#9966FF;
}
</STYLE>
<style>
div.blogrollmain{
width: 170;
background:#A0CCA0;
FONT-FAMILY: Verdana, Tahoma, Arial,Lucida Sans;
FONT-SIZE: 10px;
}
.blogrollmain a {
color: #006600;
FONT-WEIGHT: normal;
text-decoration: none;
}
.blogrollmain a:hover {
color: #006600;
FONT-WEIGHT: bold;
text-decoration: underline;
}
</style>
</head>
<body bgcolor="#9999CC" text="black" link="blue" vlink="purple" alink="red">
<p> </p>
<table align="center" border="0">
<tr>
<td width="743" bgcolor="white"><p align="justify" style="line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> </span></font></p>
<table align="center" style="line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;" border="0" width="726">
<tr>
<td width="720"><p class=DefaultText style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;" align="justify"><b><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">What Color Is The Dress? </span></font></b><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span></p>
<p align="justify" class="DefaultText" style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;"><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span></p>
<p class=MsoBodyText align="justify" style="line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;"><span style="font-size:11pt;"><font face="Arial" color="blue">The origin of the gesture
of writing is linked to the experience of a disappearance, to the feeling of
having lost the key to the world, to have been thrown outside. To have acquired
all of a sudden the feeling of something precious, rare, mortal. To have to
find again, urgently, an entrance, breath, to keep the trace. We have to make
the apprenticeship of Mortality.</font><span style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font><span style="font-size:11pt;"><font face="Arial" color="blue">--
H�l�ne Cixous<o:p></o:p></span></span></font></span></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;" align="justify"><i><span style="font-size:11pt;
mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><![if !supportEmptyParas]> <![endif]><o:p></o:p></font></span></i></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> It
was December 25</span></font><sup><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">th</span></font></sup><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> 1960. The cousins and aunts and uncles had come
and gone. The adults were slumped in the living room chairs watching Perry Como
on the black and white television through drooping eyes. Their bellies were
rumbling with digestion. The last of the turkey and mashed potatoes and green
beans were packed into Pyrex containers and put into the fridge. The dishes
with the holly wreath design were washed, dried and put back into the dining
room hutch. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;" align="justify"><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-tab-count:1"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">I was sitting beside the tree
admiring the pile of presents that were mine, wearing my new red flannel robe.
I held a gold leather journal with its own little metal key. Aunt Wanda had
given me a wooden box with two oval decoupage pictures of Swiss mountain scenes
on the lid. It also had a key. I carefully locked the journal and put it in the
box. Then I locked the box. The keys fit nicely into the little pocket on my
pajama top. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">I
held the box reverently with both hands and stood up. Moving from adult to
adult, grandmother, grandfather and mother, I bade them all a Merry Christmas
with kisses on cheeks and announced that I was off to bed. Half way up the
stairs I heard them laugh. And I heard my mother say, �Sarah Bernhardt.�</span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> It
was not the first time I had heard the comparison. My family often commented on
my flair for the dramatic. And this was a moment of high drama. I took the box
to my desk, retrieved the keys from my pocket and took the journal out of the
box. Sitting at the desk for a few moments to savor this moment of reverie I
took in the image of snow falling on the slant roof just outside of the window,
retrieved the foil wrapped chocolate Santa from the pocket of my flannel robe,
carefully unwrapped it so that the image of Santa on the foil remained intact,
popped it into my mouth and reached for a # 2 Ticonderoga. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> I
wrote in my best second grade cursive. </span></font><span style="font-family:'Lucida Handwriting'; font-size:11pt;
mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;"><font face="Arial" color="blue">I got a journal for
Christmas. Now I can write down all my secrets. </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">I slipped the flat foil
Santa into the journal, closed and locked it, put it back in the box, closed
and locked the box. Slipped it under my bed and went to sleep. </span></font><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font><span
style="font-family:'Lucida Handwriting'; font-size:11pt; mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><o:p></o:p></span></font></span></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> I
didn�t actually have many secrets. But every night before bed I wrote a few
lines about my day. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> For
a while. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> And
then I stopped. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> In
high school I began again. I carried around thin gray dime store notebooks and
a purple felt tip pen. In the cafeteria, in class, in the bleachers by the
football field, on a rock beside the creek behind the houses in our Levitt town
development, in the back seat of the Dodge Dart that my mom and stepfather
drove from grocery store to grocery store always looking for the best deal, at
any give moment I opened the gray notebook and pulled out the purple felt tip
pen to write. Cursive gave way to a neat, exacting print. I never capitalized
i.</span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> When
Lee Hellman, with the full afro and electric blue eyes, was sitting at the
pottery wheel in the art studio I sat at the closest table, arranged my copy of
</span></font><i><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">Magister Ludi:The Glass Bead Game</span></font></i><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> so that it could be seen by Lee, who
would know the deep spiritual content of the book and realize the beautiful
character of anyone who would read it, opened my gray notebook, took out my
purple felt tip pen, pushed my too-long bangs behind my ears and I wrote. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> </span></font></p>
<p align="justify" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;"><b><span
style="font-family:'Dad\0027s Recipe'; font-size:11pt; color:rgb(204,153,255); mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;"><font face="Arial" color="blue">He is so close<o:p></o:p></font></span></b></p>
<h1 align="justify" style="line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;"><b><span style="font-size:11pt; color:rgb(204,153,255);"><font face="Arial" color="blue">And so focused on his wheel<o:p></o:p></font></span></b></h1>
<h3 align="justify" style="line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">Why can�t he hear the</span></font></h3>
<h2 align="justify" style="line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;"><span style="font-size:11pt; color:rgb(204,153,255);"><font face="Arial" color="blue">Sound of my heart<o:p></o:p></font></span></h2>
<h1 align="justify" style="line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;"><b><span style="font-size:11pt; color:rgb(204,153,255);"><font face="Arial" color="blue">Beating <o:p></o:p></font></span></b></h1>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in" align="justify"><b><span
style="font-family:'Dad\0027s Recipe'; font-size:11pt; color:rgb(204,153,255); mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;"><font face="Arial" color="blue">Beating</font></span></b><span style="font-size:11pt; color:rgb(204,153,255);"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"><![if !supportEmptyParas]> <![endif]><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> I
spent hours, painstakingly copying Joni Mitchell lyrics into my gray note books.
I drew little pictures and wrote down every random thought. I wrote more poetry
about Lee. I wrote phone numbers and dates to remember and notes about
activities. I bought a new notebook every other week. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> One
day in Brentano�s I noticed a yellow blank book with a pre-Raphaelite woman on
the cover looking very full and self-referential. She wore layers of purple and
gold and beads around her neck and scarves wound through her hair. She was the
perfect icon of my writing self. I put back the copy of </span></font><i><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">Steppenwolf </span></font></i><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">that
I had intended to buy and purchased the blank book. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> The
pages of the book were smaller than the ones in the gray books and there were
no lines. I felt held tight and set free in equal measures. My printing became
economical and my writing became effusive. I filled page after page with
contemplation about the nature of love and the limits of my environment and the
beauty of Lee. A week later I was back at Brentano�s looking for a new blank
book. This one had a Klimt on the cover. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> As
a young adult I tried to maintain the ritual of writing. But there was always
something I wanted to be doing, a conversation I needed to have, a place I
needed to be, a job I needed to show up for. The shift from inner writing
seeking self to outer running around seeking self was unconscious. Writing just
drifted away. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Sometimes,
on quiet evenings, I�d pick up the blank book, pour a glass of wine, find a
corner of a table, light a candle and a cigarette and write about the reasons I
wasn�t writing. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> I
have a pile of journals filled with writing about why I wasn�t writing.</span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">When
I was forty-four I left a high paying job managing a tourist restaurant in
North Beach. I didn�t want to work in the restaurant industry anymore but I
wasn�t trained for anything else. One year later I enrolled in college. I
thought I might study psychology and become a therapist. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> And
I�d take some writing classes. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Just
for fun.</span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;" align="justify"><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-tab-count:1"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">My college was a small private
alternative school. In the first semester I took creative writing. The teacher
was a local poet. She seemed pathologically unable to finish a sentence. She
pushed the notion of first thought best thought. She recoiled from anything
that seemed remotely critical of anyone�s writing, stuttering and stammering
about writing being �just writing. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> At
the end of the class she gave me an A and a note that said I was an
accomplished writer. This from thirteen two-page pieces of writing. It was
difficult to accept her praise.</span></font><span style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;" align="justify"><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-tab-count:1"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">I took a journalism class. The
teacher was a young man who was writing a book on the criminal justice system.
He was cryptic and tyrannical. It was difficult to understand what he wanted. I
spent hours crafting each submission. In class he and my fellow students tore
into each sentence questioning both the veracity and the craft. It was like
being battered. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> At
the end of class he gave me and A and a note that said I was a good writer but
had trouble taking criticism. It was difficult to resist the urge to punch him
in the eye. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;" align="justify"><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-tab-count:1"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">In three and a half years and a
variety of classes my writing got stronger. I graduated with a degree in
humanities. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Thousands
of dollars in debt. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Not
particularly employable. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> In
the months after graduation I tried to figure out what to do with my life.
Should I go to grad school and study psychology? </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> My
friend Jeanne�s friend Mickie�s friend Willa kept a journal on-line. I started
reading her journal while I was in college. Willa was my gateway into the
personal web.</span></font><span style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">She wrote about her cats
and her job and her knitting and trips to Walgreen�s. No matter how perfunctory
a list of what to buy at the drug store might seem it became compelling to me
when it was in hypertext. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Willa
had a journal page and a web-log page. On her journal page she wrote in a
narrative style. On her web-log page she posted links to pages of fonts and
pictures of cats and other people�s journals. I began to gather those links and
spend hours reading around. People were calling their on-line journals blog, a
contraction of web-log. And blogs were popping up everywhere. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> I
read a lot of meta-blogging. People wrote about what blogging was. Everyone
seemed to have a different idea. For some people blogging was amateur
journalism. People linked to events and expounded on their meaning. Some people
wrote about their angst, life memories and, of course, their cats. Blogs formed
clusters. On an individual blog was a list of links to other people�s blogs
referred to as a blog roll. A blog roll constituted community. Some people
wrote blog posts about what other bloggers were saying. It was like a worldwide
bulletin board on which people left notes for friends. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> I
began an on-line journal/blog of my own. It was not casual daily writing. It
was a frantic attempt to connect. I wrote to impress, to court and woo, to cast
my bid for linkage. I put a blog roll on my own page and did vanity searches on
Google.</span></font><span style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">I delighted in finding my name
on each new person�s page.</span></font><span style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;" align="justify"><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-tab-count:1"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">This awareness of the unknown reader
changed the way I wrote. I felt the need to be compelling. Instead of writing
from a need to record some internal process I wrote to respond, relate, garner.
I thought about what I was going to post all day. If I was cooking dinner I was
writing about it my head. If I was doing laundry I was writing about it in my
head. If I was reading a book I was writing about it in my head. I told myself
I was beginning to think like a writer. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> And
I was. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> In
a way.</span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Six
months after got my BA in Humanities I entered an MFA in writing program. I
chose the nonfiction track. In some ways it was a decision wrought from the
need to do something. Anything. I did love writing and I did want the space to
do more of it. But I didn�t really understand what I was getting into. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> My
program was pitched on the intimate atmosphere and personalized learning
experience. Read small. Students work in community. But community does not
necessarily coalesce by enrollment. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> In
my first semester I found that most of my fellow students were wonderful writers
who were generally interested in the use of the techniques of fiction in their
non-fiction writing. I had never written dialogue, scene or character. I was
interested in something slightly different. I wanted to write ideas and
concepts. My fellow students were writing about their families and their
travels and their memories. My first piece was a consideration of the different
ways in which women cover their bodies. The piece was full of thoughts about
modesty and vanity.</span></font><span style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Thinking.
</span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> On
the page. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Feedback
included phrases like:</span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">�It took me out of the story.�</span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">�I wanted a scene here.�</span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> �Bring
me into this more.� </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> �I
want to hear more about you.�</span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> �What
color was the dress?�</span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> It
startled me. I began to write toward all those requests. I began to tell
detail-laden stories with lots of color. And I resented it. I thought about
leaving the program. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> But
each new class and workshop had a slightly different tone. The teacher and the
group of students made the tone. I knew that the more narrative writing I was
doing was building a kind of muscle tone. It became clear that to think of the
program as a monolithic structure was wrong headed. The program was a group of
individuals with individual predilections. And I was going to have to find a
way to resist the desire to respond to what I perceived as their need. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> I
began to think about MY writing. I began to locate myself in the identity of
writer. I did like people�s stories. I did like the use of personal narrative
to comment on culture, or politics, or anything. I was, after all, compelled by
Willa�s list of what to buy at Walgreens. And I knew that detail rich writing
was delicious. </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> But
the truth was I really didn�t give a fuck about the color of the dress. I
wasn�t concerned with writing toward the readers need. There was a difference
in the writing that I did with the intention of having it read by others. But
how would I define and manage that difference? I was tenuous and recalcitrant
at the same time. It almost silenced me. I found I had to answer the question:
why write? </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> And
then.</span></font></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> It was September 11, 2001.</span></font><span style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue">
</font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">I moved through rote motions. </span></font></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Cheerio�s in the bowl, bagel in the toaster, coffee in the
grinder, in the coffee maker, milk on the Cheerio�s. </span></font></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> I went to the living room, turned on the computer and then
the radio. Amy Goodman was on the air. It was too early. Had I slept that late?
She was saying something about the building peeling away. Something was weird. </span></font></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> I spent the rest of the day drop jawed, staring at the
television, the radio on, turning to the computer to search for information,
again and again. As the year moved on it became a moment in history, a
demarcation point on which public policy pivoted. </span></font></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> </span></font><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-tab-count:1"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">Why write indeed. Sentences formed
and reformed and none seemed good enough. In a time of horror, what is worthy
of a thinking feeling person? What isn�t rhetoric when everything is bifurcated
and positioned?</span></font></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">I love good writing. Sometimes I love bad writing. I love the
human attempt to put life on a page. I love to hear about the color of the
dress. More than ever I want every voice in the mix. </span></font></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Now I wake up in the morning. My first act of the day is to
read other people�s blogs and write on my own. It is personal writing, filled
with the mundane details of my laundry and my bus rides and my meal plans and
my phone calls. And it is political writing, filled with my rage and
frustration. It is a bulletin board filled with messages left for other
bloggers. This amalgam wreaks havoc with the narrative line. It is a writing of
self by any means necessary.</span></font><span style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;">Despite
the difficult nature of writing in a time when language is shape shifted and
used to obfuscate I push to find a way to write.</span></font></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> When I�m done I begin to work on the writing I must do for
school. This has been a halcyon time in terms of having writing as the main
activity of my day. A time to become a writer. It remains to be seen if I find
a way to actually be a writer when I graduate.</span></font><span style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue">
</font></span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Sometimes, when I am really trying to push myself, I pull out
the black blank book. The one I�ve been writing in for the last six years. I
write in spasmodic confessional chucks. Months go by between each entry. My
handwriting has become illegible with age. I prefer the keyboard and the
ability to edit as I go. I find it amusing that I was only able to return to
daily journal writing when it was published on the World Wide Web.</span></font><span
style="font-size:11pt; mso-spacerun: yes"><font face="Arial" color="blue"> </font></span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> Every day. </span></font></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> In any way that I can.</span></font></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> I try to engage the page. </span></font></p>
<p style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent:.5in;" align="justify"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> I must not allow myself to disappear.</span></font></p>
<p align="justify" style="text-align:justify; line-height:100%; margin-top:0; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:0in;"><font face="Arial" color="blue"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> </span></font></p><p><font face="Lucida Sans" color="#006600"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><SCRIPT type="text/javascript">get_comment_link(492)</script> <noscript> </span></font><a href="http://rateyourmusic.com/yaccs/commentsn/b=90000008560_and_e_is_492"><font face="Lucida Sans" color="#006600"><span style="font-size:10pt;">comment</span></font></a><font face="Lucida Sans" color="#006600"><span style="font-size:10pt;"></noscript></span></font></p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p> </p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p> </p>
</body>
</html>