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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in flyingpomegranates' LiveJournal:

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Wednesday, July 11th, 2007
9:09 pm
[neil_engl_mun]
Assignment #5 (redo and PT 2)
Few know the story of Time. The story of how our world came to be and how it will end. Fewer believe it. Only one believes it can be rewritten.
~
PT 1

Before Time knew instance and occasion…before light was taught to speak…before THE ONE knew THE MANY…there were THE TWO. Two eternal beings (if eternal can be right at all since they are beyond names and finite words. Let us better call them opposites: in finite terms, comparable to yin and yang, up and down, light and dark.). These, what some might call divinities, have been at war for an age immeasurable by numbers, leaving behind them a wake of ruin and devastation. Consumed by their mutual hate, they destroyed their world in their battle.

Recognizing no way to kill the other, each being’s hatred fueled their war as it pressed on until everything – everything in being, in form, beheld by eyes - was destroyed. Having no plane on which to carry on their battle, the rivals were forced to create one. Only together could they accomplish this atrocity of creation. Opportunity for deception was reason enough to work together, each believing they could outsmart the other. It took all their collective power to make this battlefield since the energy required was unique. It was unique because there needed to be infinite battlefields to facilitate their ceaseless yearning. With pieces of themselves, they created the best they knew how - in opposites.

Darkly chaotic, yet beautifully woven, like an elaborate tapestry of patterns secret to all but the weaver, a subsisting constitution was born. Marvelous it was, yet in vile purpose it was made.

Their plane was created, but the nature of battle became new. They no longer had any physical forms, or strength, or mastery of what some might call elemental magic. This was forfeit to create the vessel for their hatred. They could exist in essence only, guiding the hopelessly fated courses of their minions on the plane.

Their followers - the life-hands that each had spawned to thrash at the other – like the tapestry, were born from the bile of their hate. They were fashioned as conduits, built to carry messages of destruction. What had once been a battle of pure hatred suddenly evolved into a territorial struggle for dominance over all battlefields. Like a narcissistic game of chess, the two halves of destruction clashed the steel of their wits, the sound reverberating through the strings of the cosmos, plucking some and pounding others. The satisfaction of slicing the other’s hands was the closest proxy they had.

That had always been their outward purposes in existence – to kill the other – their sole line of vision blinding them: They did not see the elegance of their creation – the product of power and sacrifice; a vessel not only for odium and impiety, but also for life and purpose. They did not see the balance created in their chaos of opposition. They only saw their enemy in a cross hair.

They waged their wars on field after field, leaving behind the decay of nothingness and rot of emptiness. Pulling out weave after weave, their battlefield tapestry began to mournfully unravel, like everything touched by time. Yet these warriors had no eternities to count. They would not corrode because there was nothing left of them. Nothing but an empty chasm of hate, hollow and hopelessly empty. They would continue to wage their timeless war until one had destroyed the other and everything lost again.

~
PT 2

Master weavers were THE TWO, but there was something they could not predict. On the brink of awe from their own creation, they saw that only half the work was done. Solving one problem created another: They needed new weapons. Although they had nothing of themselves with which to build their weapons, there was an ample supply of life and time to draw from their boundless plane.

An exact brew - with precision measurements of life, essence, time and tangibility – they found that beings were not created so easily. As they climbed the pyramid of obstacles that eventually reached the pinnacle of their creation, suns ignited; masses of stone began vibrating, then moving, pushing and pulling each other, colliding and merging, colliding and fragmenting, until each finds its place in an eternal harmonious dance with a star.

Coupling the boundless light and heat of the star with the cold darkness of barren rock provided the required setting for this catalyst of divinity. The body of life had been formed, now to fill it with essence.

Their creation was beautiful: it had vision in order to see its world, the stars and its enemy; it had smell with which it could follow the air and track its prey; it had speech to give thanks to The Two and to teach The Many who will follow; it had hearing to follow the speech and the air it couldn’t see; it had touch to feel the pain from the blade of the enemy and know fear; and it had understanding to bind them all. Not any ordinary understanding, but an understanding of the pattern: of the beginning, of THE TWO, of their purpose, of their Time. THE ONE was not blinded by hate because it had not learned it. It could see the elegance of the dualism and the necessity of this majestic codependence, that each was realized through the other. It could also see its own doom.

With their template complete, THE TWO made THE MANY in the image of THE ONE. Having served its purpose, THE TWO planned to destroy THE ONE by using its essence and being to bind the planes together, like a labyrinth surrounding a web of days. This would keep their minions from ever knowing the truth of their existence and purpose (that they were born to kill and die). The lesser beings would never achieve a higher level of understanding, because they would never navigate the maze through the stars, they couldn’t. But THE TWO had been blinded yet again.

They did not anticipate the foresight of THE ONE. They did not anticipate the bold sacrifice of THE ONE and could not understand it. They were oblivious to the kinship within the essence of THE ONE and oblivious to its existence within THE MANY. THE ONE chose self-sacrifice when THE TWO could have been destroyed. THE ONE could not destroy them because it would mean doom for the children. THE ONE loved the beings that would be made in its image and gave its self to bring light to their shadowed minds.

When THE TWO cast the mold of THE ONE, an imprint was left. This imprint would guide THE MANY through the labyrinth, leading them on the path THE ONE left in its essence. Only when THE MANY realize THE TWO through THE ONE will everything be saved.



PT 3…
Friday, July 6th, 2007
12:30 pm
[kittykow2000]
Apple Star
After searching the internet for information behind the design left in an apple when you cut it crosswise, this is what I came up with:
*One of the Czech Xmas customs is to cut an apple in half -crosswise - and look at the shape that the pips form - if they form a star that is considered a sign that you will be healthy and happy in the coming year.
On the other hand a cross means trouble ahead.
*If an apple is cut in half, crosswise, the seeds resemble a star; a five-point star. In Christian symbolism a five-point star represents the Star of Bethlehem. Five points also represents the Crucifixion.
*Pentacle: The pentacle is a 5 pointed star. The pentacle is the symbol of many things. It is the symbol of woman, the elements, and many other things. The pentacle is found in many places in nature. Many flowers have only 5 petals, an apple cut crosswise shows a pentacle. (Wiccan Religion).
*
In the hand of the Empress we see an apple cut crosswise to reveal the five pointed star inside it. The apple is a very ancient symbol for the Goddess. It was a nurturing fruit whose five-petaled flower also bore her representative star. The apple is an ancient symbol of fertility and love. It was often symbolic of marriage, which presumably led to children. (Tarot Card).
I also found a lot of tempting apple recipes!  
                                                                    
                                        

Sunday, July 1st, 2007
4:33 pm
[gibbog]
More Writing Practice (edited)

I goosed to accelerator to pass the gigantic motor home. I had to be in Burnside by eight or I’d miss the ferry to St. Brendan’s. It was six-thirty, and the traffic was uncoiling like a lazy rattlesnake. I was  a passing machine. A red Camry towing an ugly seventies camper. A blue Cavalier with a canoe lazily tied to the roof. A fat guy on a Harley that almost went off the road when I careened past him. A family of four in a green mini van. I pictured the kids squirming in the sweltering sun, their whiny voices asking “Are we there yet”? I jumped on the gas pedal again and tore past. I had to make better time or I was stuck in Eastport for the night.

Why was I racing like a maniac across the province? Why had I agreed to meet with a total stranger, in a place I hadn’t been since I was fifteen?

It was because I had found my grandfather’s name in a sales book in the Maritime History Archive. The summer semester was over, and I had time on my hands. I had graduated from Memorial.  No prospects, (not yet at least) for a job. It was the middle of August, and I really had nothing else to do.
Friday, June 29th, 2007
4:22 pm
[neil_engl_mun]
Assignment #5 (redo)
After some doubt about where the first piece might go I decided to abandon it for now and try chasing my tail in the other direction. Once the thought of starting fresh was planted in class I couldn’t resist the “What if I just…?” feeling that kept coming back. So here is swing #2. Please criticize.

~

Before time knew instance and occasion…before light was taught to speak…before one knew the many…there were two. Two eternal beings (if eternal can be right at all since they are beyond names and finite words. Let us better call them opposites: in finite terms, comparable to yin and yang, up and down, light and dark.). These, what some might call divinities, have been at war for an age immeasurable by numbers, leaving behind them a wake of ruin and devastation. Consumed by their mutual hate, they destroyed their world in their battle.

Recognizing no way to kill the other, each beings hatred fueled their war as it pressed on until everything – everything in being, in form, beheld by eyes - was destroyed. Having no plane on which to continue their battle, the rivals were forced to create one. Only together could they accomplish this atrocity of creation. Opportunity for deception was reason enough to work together, each believing they could outsmart the other. It took all their collective power to make this battlefield since the energy required was unique. It was unique because there needed to be infinite battlefields to facilitate their ceaseless yearning. With pieces of themselves, they created the best they knew how - in opposites.

Darkly chaotic, yet beautifully woven, like an elaborate tapestry of patterns secret to all but the weaver, a subsisting constitution was born. Their plane was created, but the nature of battle became new. They no longer had any physical forms, or strength, or mastery of what some might call elemental magic. This was forfeit to create the vessel for their hatred. They could exist in essence only, guiding the hopelessly fated courses of their minions on the plane.

Their followers are the life-hands that each has spawned to thrash at the other. What had once been a battle of pure hatred suddenly evolved into a territorial struggle for dominance over the plane and all its battlefields. Like a narcissistic game of chess, the two halves of destruction clashed the steel of their wits, the sound reverberating through the strings of the cosmos, plucking on some and pounding on others. The satisfaction slicing the others hands was the closest proxy they had.

That had always been their outward purposes in existence – to kill the other – their sole line of vision blinding them: They did not see the elegance of their creation – the product of power and sacrifice; a vessel not only for odium and impiety, but also for life and purpose. They did not see the balance created in their chaos of opposition. They only saw their enemy in a cross hair.

They waged their wars on field after field, leaving behind the decay of nothingness. Pulling out weave after weave, their battlefield tapestry began to mournfully unravel, like everything touched by time. Yet these warriors had no eternities to count. They would not corrode because there was nothing left of them. Nothing but an empty chasm of hate, hollow and hopelessly empty. They would continue to wage their timeless war until one had destroyed the other and everything lost again.

~

I intend to incorporate this attempted creation myth into a piece of fiction, or science fiction, or fantasy (I don’t know yet). And this is only half the myth. I want the other half to be discovered later in the story by the protagonist because it contains the information required (prophecy maybe?) to save what is left of the tapestry, which is the universe.
I’m thinking about a dull protagonist stumbling upon the hidden research of his father, a Religious Studies/Mythology Prof. The Protagonists’ father told what he called the story of time to his son at a young age, but could never answer the repeated questioning “What happens in the end?” because he didn’t know. But he was trying to find out.
In following the tracks left by his father, the protagonist happens across a native tribe whose shaman tells him the reason they are preparing for the end of time, which is the remaining half of the myth – the end of the story of time.
Suggestions/Comments/Critiques/Ideas would be Great!

NBS
Tuesday, June 26th, 2007
4:02 pm
[rels_major]
Assignment: #5?

Katelyn sits anxiously awaiting a pre-boarding call. She does this fairly often: waiting to

board a flight. Today is different then the other days. Today she is working her first international

flight. Destination: Rome. She knows Italian classes pay-off in the long run. Overhead, muffling

through the rusty, dilapidated boxy-speakers, a sound emerges like that of a chicken being

plucked feather-by-feather; loud then faint. It’s John Denver. The song cuts in and out, echoing

the departure lounge. Katelyn manages to decipher the words: Rocky Mountain High. Then, a

CNN news headline from childhood burts into her mind: "John Dever Dead: Plane Crash."

Katelyn, still deciphering the rustic sound, like that from an ancient record player, hears a faint

voice cracklein over the disintegrating intercom; A short, fat, ragged, grey-haired women

mumbles out the long-anticipated pre-boarding call. No need for announcements in a

second language here: Pikatoe County Regional Airport. Her eyes, black as the beads suspending

her out-dated glasses to the tip of her oily noise, glance Katelyn. As she boards, Katelyn catches

the lady’s voice: "Have a good flight, ya hear’?" Katelyn begins to crave for a

cigarette, wondering if her own voice will someday sound as smoke ridden as the ugly ticket-

lady’s.

The twenty-four seat, Continental Express, commuter plane sails down runway one,

lifting into the orange-red evening sky. She remembers the old phrase "red sky at night sailors

delight" and assures herself of the safe trip. Looking out the scratched oval window, Katelyn

sees her aunt Bessie’s farm; instantly she is stricken with fond memories. Memories of the cows

and baby cows. Memories of Pilot, her Irish Setter. Memories of the grass. Memories of Allan.

 

The propeller engines, muffling worst than the old John Denver record back in the lounge,

manages to cradle

Katelyn into a semi-conscious sleep.

(This is a piece of fiction, centering on character Katelyn and her life and struggles of dealing with emotions, family, friends, and a high-risk job. This is a mature piece of fiction, intended for readers 18+. Suspense / Drama).

 

Thursday, June 21st, 2007
12:09 pm
[daveweir]
Wednesday, June 13th, 2007
10:32 am
[neil_engl_mun]
Assignment 5
What do you do when someone tells you they want to kill themselves?
That nothing makes them happy anymore.
What do you do when they say it and cry?
Then ask if there’s something they can break.
Where do you find the words to save those eyes from drowning?
Where do you find the thoughts to save yourself from drowning?

~

I’m on my way to pick her up. She’s out walking so I’m meeting her at King’s service station. My cigarette lights up may face brighter than usual tonight.
I’m speeding because I could tell from the false energy in her telephone voice that something was really wrong this time. I want to slow down but my mind keeps racing.
My long ash falls and breaks apart on the steering wheel. Two large pieces fall by my foot, while the smaller flakes stay suspended a second longer before falling in my lap. I’ve decided they can stay there for now.
The radio is off. It’s one of the many useless things in my life right now. What a time to be pragmatic.
I pull in to the empty service station parking lot and see her in my headlights, smoking a Benson & Hedges Menthol. She gets in and smiles a real smile for me. I love her.
We pull out on the empty street and I start telling her about dinner with my family, but she’s just inhaling and exhaling. Her cigarette ash is getting long. Maybe I shouldn’t be talking right now. I continue smoking. The radio is still off.
We get to my house and go to my room in the basement. The bed isn’t made, the desk isn’t clean, my books aren’t on my shelves, but she doesn’t mention it. She takes off her red sweater and hangs it on my door. We sit on my bed facing each other. I’m still waiting for her to say something. Her face is the only thing speaking to me. Everything it says scares me.
She bunches up the top blanket under her head and fixes her eyes on my ceiling. I rest my head down on my two hands and fix my eyes on hers. We lay and stare. I want to see her more than anything but I can’t. I want to make it all go away but I can’t. She just keeps staring and so do I.
She sits up and looks at me with eyes still red from crying. I sit up too with anticipation. I move to take her hand, but she pulls away and says, “Do something.” I just stare at her knee. After a breath, the words that have been on repeat in my head start tumbling out of me. “I’ll tell you what I want to do. I want to be strong for you. I want to make you feel better. I want to be there for you. I want to love you. But you won’t let me.” She starts crying and buries her face back in the blanket. I rest my head back down on my two hands because I don’t know what else to do.
She’s relentlessly wiping her tears so I get up to get her some tissue. When I hand it to her she opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out. She tries again and says,

“What’s the point?”

“What do you mean?” I know what she means.

She’s still crying.

“Nothing makes me happy anymore.” But I thought I made you happy. “I want to kill myself but I can’t decide the easiest way to do it.” I’m terrified.

“Well killing yourself any way is the easy way out isn’t it?” What am I saying? I don’t even know. “I don’t think you’re that selfish. You couldn’t do that to the people you love.” She looks at me like that was a challenge.

“Is there something I can break?”

I don’t reply.

“I’m sick of this shit!” She throws the tissue with all her anger, but the frail material doesn’t make its way off the bed.

“Well then change it.” Why do I even speak at all?

“I just want to be happy with who I am like everyone else.”

The stains on her shirt are starting to join at the neck. My replies can never come fast enough.

“No one’s entirely happy with who they are. People are always striving to be better. You’re no different than anyone else.” Why does it come out like this? I want to comfort you and hold you and tell you everything will be alright.

She’s crying harder that I’ve ever seen hey cry. It’s not a wail of mourning or loss, but a desperate reaching for air and resolve. She lets me hold her as her body gasps in waves. I tell her everything will be alright, but she insists I can’t know what will come. As much faith as I want to have, I can’t argue with flawless logic. I try anyway. “I just know.”

“But you don’t even know me.”

“I know I don’t, but that’s your choice.” I want to.

She gets up. “I should go.” She puts on her red sweater and pulls a cigarette from her purse. I know she doesn’t want a ride but I offer anyway. I wish I said something to keep her from leaving. I’ve never felt helplessness like this. I want to fix everything. But it’s too late now. There’s so much more I want to say. I hope I get the chance.
Tuesday, June 5th, 2007
11:19 pm
[kathleenwinter]
Assignment due June 12

Write one page of a story that you consider interesting enough to live with, deepen, and edit for at least three weeks. Do not write it from the beginning. Write a scene from somewhere in the middle. This page-long scene should be an intense fragment.  It should not be complete in itself, but should be part of something larger.  It should have an unfinished quality.  It should have a magic that might lead anywhere. Maybe you will want to turn it inside out later, or have it lead somewhere unexpected.  This is an open-ended beginning.

To decide what your story might be, do the following:
Go over your notes from our class of June 5, particularly notes on where story is.
Go through your notebook if you like. (last week's assignment)
Go through your experience, memory, or imagination.
Before you write, jot notes, list ideas, think about your story while you are doing other things.  Ask what if it went in this direction.  Ask what if it went in that direction. Be open-ended. 

When you begin to write, write at least one draft in complete freedom. Then clean it up, using everything we have discussed so far about what makes a good piece of writing. Hand in the clean draft.

At the end, in brackets, write a few sentences about where you think this piece might lead.

The text, not including the end brackets, should be one full page, double spaced, size 12 font.

Fiction and creative non fiction are acceptable.







4:34 pm
[kathleenwinter]

English 2010: Excerpts for study and manipulation, June 5, 2007:

 

 

 

She watches another car pass. The lights of cars are always brighter on a wet road. The lit-up words of the World Of Carpets neon sign in the showroom’s window throw colours on to the rainy pavement; orange, red, yellow; sleety rain mashes the colours. She wonders what it would sound like to stand behind the showroom glass, whether the rain can be heard there, whether the cars going past will be louder. She imagines sleeping in the showroom for the night. That would be something. It would be cool in there. You could choose a different pattern of carpet to sleep on every night. You could choose it by the light that the neon sign gives out. You could roll out carpets that nobody has ever set foot on, be the first person in history ever to set your foot on them. (from Hotel World by Ali Smith)

 

 

They rode on. There were some spits of rain in the wind. Blevins’ hat lay in the road and Rawlins tried to ride his horse over it but the horse stepped around it. John Grady slid one boot out of the stirrup and leaned down and picked up the hat without dismounting. They could hear the rain coming down the road behind them like some phantom migration. (from All the Pretty Horses, by Cormack McCarthy)

 

 

"Have a Coke," he said after a while, and scanned the counter for the opener. He took his time getting the Coke from the cooler, then opened one for himself and one for me.

"Ask me something, Irene," he said, handing me the cold wet bottle. The Coke sparked and fizzed. "Ask me do I want a short-wave radio."

"What?" I said. "What do you mean?"

"Ask me do I care about provincial exams. Ask me do I feel cut out for school. Ask me do I want to be a druggist. Ask me what I want out of life. Go ahead," he said as if challenging me to hit him. "Go ahead. Ask."

"I don’t know," I said. "OK, what do you want?"

"You’re like a whole lot of other people, Irene," he said, looking out the rolled-up garage door with a wounded look. "You know all about me, but you don’t take the time to ask."

The air hose lay in the doorway, hissing lightly. (from Influence of the Moon, by Mary Borsky)

 

 

 

 

1:17 pm
[kathleenwinter]
Live excerpts from May 29 assignment

My lips and face dry out from the pressure of the wind forced on me by the cars whizzing...

His arms are covered with tattoos of large-breasted women, snakes and religious symbols.

I wonder why her hands and face do not match in age.

They came to the hospital uninjured, but now they are wounded.

...the massive excavator at my side obnoxiously taking over and throwing mud and rocks...

...old lazy cows slumping in the cool grass...

...doors freshly stained a cherry colour. The gold doorknob glints in the sunlight.

He drags out a wrinkled but pristine Kleenex and begins to wipe those glasses without even removing them from his face.

...salt stains that run in and out of the black (sneakers) like aurora borealis.

...orange Kool-Aid stains around his lips...

They stuff their own food in their mouths...

I just got here but do I ever want to turn around and leave again.

Wednesday, May 30th, 2007
4:26 pm
[rels_major]
Assignment #3 Revisited: "Where am I?"

Where am I?

The road is long, dark, twisted and narrow. Only the elite live here. There are families of four eating food at their dinner tables– which could probably sit twenty– I can see them from the roadway. What are they are talking about? What are they eating? Could it be caviar? They seem happy, that’s for sure. A Mercedes Benz E-Class, Land Rover Discovery, Toyota Sequoia, Cadillac Escalade, and countless other luxury machines dot the driveways like sprinkles on a kids birthday-cake. Do they think about the pollution these vehicles emit? An expensive vehicle is a way of showing your rank in society, having a Land Rover, Range Rover edition, places you in the same vehicle category as Jennifer Anniston and Paris Hilton you know. Meh! I’ll just peddle faster!! Ah, depression. Have you ever want what you can’t have? Wait, an outdoor-pool. Yes! A huge turquoise water-slide. I can see it through the newly sanded picket fence. Wait! What will it be like in the summer? Maybe the kids here have giant pool parties with their friends, you know, parties with those tacky yellow, pink, and orange curvy floating devices. I once got a bad burn from lying on one of those for too long in the summer of 97'. I can’t tan anyway. I just freckle and burn. I would love to lounge on one of their cozy-looking wicker chairs though. What do they think about, sitting there in the sun for countless hours, do they dream about world peace, or the environmental crisis? Maybe they are like me, maybe they lounge there thinking about fame and fortune. Do they wear sunshades while tanning? I wish I had a pair of Jackie-O’s, and a waterbed. Random dreaming. Maybe they think about white-sand beaches, like in Italy or the West Indies; Maybe they think about beaches lined with Mediterranean-style villas. Villas with huge floor-to-ceiling windows. Maybe they dream of white-washed villas overlooking the Greek Isles. White-washed homes intricately structured into the cliffs of Greece. What a view! Look! It’s a Smart Car, you know, the kind in a James Bond flick. The Environment Minster is driving it. Sad. I waved at least. It’s starting to get cold, I’m going to peddle home.

2:43 pm
[kathleenwinter]
Assignment due June 5
Part One:
Read quote by David Lynch, posted earlier.
Carry a notebook with you this week to collect scraps of detail, observations, found dialogue, questions, and pieces of character portrait.  Hand in at least 24 ideas from your notebook.

Part Two:
Bring a thing. 
2:38 pm
[kathleenwinter]
Technical Tune-Up

Cut stage directions:

-The maybe 10-fifteen feet slope seemed enormously scary to me...

-Under the window was an old red bus seat like couch.

-Just a few minutes into my stroll I hear footsteps approaching from behind, so I glance back...

-The first thing we noticed when we walked through the doors were the security guards. They were everywhere.

Clarify:

-the ocean and sky mirror images of each other make every thing seem grey and still giving and overall slow and sleepy atmosphere to the tiny sea side village.

-his tall and lean stature perfectly comfortable of where he planted his feet coming downhill...

-He doesn’t shoot everything, just the moments that speak longer than they are. Not that this wasn’t a lasting moment. Oh no. This would be carried with every notion of that day.

Cut or change general, vague, and formal words or phrases:

-the magical night

-the astonishing temple

-the extraordinary detail

-so captivating

-however, at a second glance...

-observing each piece of furniture

-actually

-etc.

-atop this hill

-one is compelled to wish for...

-every imaginable surface...

-The mountainous hillside serves as a backdrop to the village itself.

-the older gentleman...

-nevertheless...

-for a brief moment

Cut tired phrases:

-the vast expanse of ocean

-like a ton of bricks

-the rugged scenery

-it is quite a sight to see

-there are not enough words to describe the beauty of it

-timeless shores

-the air is electric

-whispers spread like wildfire

-untouched by the ravages of time

 

Plunge into the narrative:

A first draft will ease into the narrative. It will have dead wood. Writing that spends too long introducing or winding up to an idea. Cut this dead wood out, and rewrite from the live centre.

Create simplest past tense, or move to present tense. Not:

-were heading back

-would often arrive alone

-were bringing pot luck items

-were saying stupid things and talking loud

-were frequently afraid of passing dogs

-would sit in the front of the boat

-would give me the biggest hug

was always waiting for us on the porch

Make subject and verb agree. Not:

-As a quiet child, my voice got lost sometimes in the chaos that is a big family.

-After squishing down the ham sandwich, the wind around my toes forced me to retreat into the living room.

-When driving into the village, the city can be seen in the rear view mirror.

Make tenses agree. Not:

-When a friend you have known for so long, and had been through so much with, makes sarcastic remarks, it is rather surprising.

-Suddenly a fox crosses my path, so slow I could have touched it.

 

Keep a subject consistently singular or plural. Not:

-steps making its way down the slope...

-touching up memories so we remember it better

-a group of men are sitting in a rowing shell

Use active sentence structure. Not:

-His attention was quickly stolen by the muffin placed on his high chair table.

-The centre of the carpet had been worn away by many feet over the years.

-She was reminded by the music of all the good times they had had.

Cut halfhearted or uncertain words:

-seem

-seemed

-almost

-about

-around

-somewhat

 

 

Tuesday, May 29th, 2007
9:05 pm
[cynthiasnow]
Assignment # 3

Out of the corner of my eye I notice him. Rugged. Heavyset. About fifty years old. His hair and beard distinctly peppered with grey, yet I can see traces of black peeking through.  His burly arms are covered with tattoos of large breasted women, snakes and some religious symbols. He is wearing a Harley Davidson leather jacket, blue jeans and a red, patterned bandana around his neck.

 

I’ll call him Bubba. He leans against a narrow table with a Labatt’s Blue in his hand. Bubba chats loudly with another man who is dressed the same way. They are playing pool on a well worn table where the green felt is frayed in many areas.  The lights are dim and the balls scatter as Bubba breaks.  Suddenly, our eyes meet. He lays his pool stick against the table, grabs his beer and walks toward me.  Is he coming to talk to me?  I swivel on my chair, face the bar and take a sip of my drink.  “You lost, little lady?” I freeze. I smell beer and stale cigarette smoke from him.  He slams his beer on the table next to me. I jump.  Bubba’s pool friend chuckles. I begin to perspire. The neon signs begin to blur around me.  “Hey”. He leans closer. “You lost?”  “No”, I whisper hoarsely.  Once again he laughs. “I’m the manager here at The Dark Zone lounge. I think the friends you are looking for are in the private party room”.  As I turn in the direction of the room he grabs my arm…

12:55 pm
[kathleenwinter]
An Idea
An idea is a thought.  It's a thought that holds more than you think it does when you receive it.  But in that first moment there is a spark.  In a comic strip, if someone gets an idea, a lightbulb goes on.  It happens in an instant, just as in life.

It would be great if the entire film came all at once.  But it comes, for me, in fragments.  That first fragment is like the Rosetta stone.  It's a hopeful puzzle piece.

In Blue Velvet, it was red lips, green lawns, and the song - Bobby Vinton's version of "Blue Velvet".  The next thing was an ear lying in a field.  And that was it.

You fall in love with the first idea, that tiny little piece.  And once you've got it, the rest will come in time.
    
                                        
Filmmaker David Lynch, director of Twin Peaks  and Blue Velvet., quoted in Utne Reader, June 2007 



(Rosetta Stone: a key to previously unattainable understanding.  A stone found near Rosetta in Egypt, with a trilingual inscription from the second century BC in hieroglyphic and demotic Egyptian, and Greek, important in the deciphering of hieroglyphs.)
                                                                                                                           

12:49 pm
[kathleenwinter]
selected live excerpts from assignment 3

-The woman read a wrinkled magazine.
-The child focused on nudging the metal leg of the chair next to him with the very tip of his sneaker.
-There was an old, scorched teapot... and two tables: one piled with dishes and lanterns.
-She's wearing a Nike dry-fit shirt, white with orange and silver piping...
-We were living in downtown Montreal.  One of the girls needed to go to the hospital.  It was just across the road from our building.  It looked like any other hospital.
-...rubbery alder trees...

Monday, May 28th, 2007
2:23 pm
[kathleenwinter]
ArtsWorks opportunity

I have been asked to pass this along to students:

From:
Faculty of Arts Announcements [mailto:ARTS-LIST@CLIFFY.UCS.MUN.CA] On Behalf Of Vryenhoek, Leslie
Sent: Friday, May 25, 2007 4:18 PM
To: ARTS-LIST@CLIFFY.UCS.MUN.CA
Subject: Opportunity for students

 

Greetings:

The Faculty of Arts is seeking 10 students who have completed at least one year of study toward their BA who can participate through the summer in a pilot career preparation program called ArtsWorks

The pilot will require about a 21 hour commitment, spread over an 8-10 week period.

Students will learn to use campus academic and student services to their advantage, build their job search and interview skills, and gain a better understanding of how the knowledge and skills they acquire studying social sciences/humanities can be applied to "real world" occupations. They will also benefit from a service learning component involving 10 hours of voluntary service in a community organization.

Completion of the pilot program entitles a student to the bronze VIP (Volunteer Incentive Program) medal.

If you know of students who would be interested in taking this program, please let Denise Hooper know by Thurs., May 31st: deniseh@mun.ca; 737-7074.

Thank you!

 

 

Denise Hooper
Senior Career Development Coordinator
Faculty of Arts
Career Development and Experiential Learning
St. John's, NL Canada A1C 5S7

Tel: 709 -737-7074/2033
Fax: 709 -737-2437

Saturday, May 26th, 2007
9:40 pm
[kathleenwinter]
Assignment due may 29

Rewrite last week's assignment (written from the point of view of an outsider) in the present tense.
Cut off any beginning and final sections that slowly wind the piece up or down.
Start  in the middle with a concrete detail.
Write it long and cut it short.
Turn it inside out and trim it.
Be specific, not general.
Plunge in.


Tuesday, May 22nd, 2007
6:07 pm
[rels_major]
Where am I?

Where am I?

The road is long, dark, twisted and narrow. Only the elite live here. There are families of four eating at their dinner tables– which could probably sit twenty– I can see them from the roadway. I wonder what they are talking about. What are they eating? Could it be caviar? Is that fish-eggs, anyway? Sick. They seemed happy, that’s for sure. A Mercedes Benz E-Class, Land Rover Discovery, Toyota Sequoia, Mercedes Benz M-Class, Cadillac Escalade, and countless other luxury machines dotted the driveways like sprinkles on a kids birthday-cake. Do they think about the pollution these vehicles emit? Ah, I guess it’s just a way of showing your rank in society, having a Land Rover, Range Rover edition, places you in the same vehicle category as Jennifer Anniston and Paris Hilton you know. Meh, I think I’ll just peddle faster, I’m starting to get a little depressed. Wait, I think I see an outdoor-pool. Ah, yes, there is a mini water-slide to, I can see it through the fence. I wonder what it will be like in the summer? Maybe the kids that live here have giant pool parties with their friends. I bet they have those tacky yellow, pink, and orange curvy floating devices; I once got a bad burn from laying on one of those for too long in the summer of 97'. I can’t tan anyway. I just freckle and burn. I sure would love to lay on those cozy wicker lounge chairs though. What do they think about, sitting there in the sun for countless hours, do you think they dream about world peace, or the environmental crisis, which most of their vehicles help foster? Maybe not. Maybe they are like me, maybe they lounge there, thinking about becoming famous. Maybe they think about white-sandy beaches. Heck, I’m sure some of these people don’t need to dream about that: they probably have water-front condos in the West-Indies. Look! I see a Smart Car, you know, the kind in a James Bond flick. I think that is the Environment Minster though. Sad. I waved at least. Maybe he can set an example for the rest of his neighbors. Anyway, I think I’m gonna peddle home, it’s staring to get cold.

2:23 pm
[kathleenwinter]
live excerpts from assignment 1

Though there are new roads, many of the old horse and cart paths are still visible through the hills.

Was it the colour orange that made her depressed? There was a lot of orange, or maybe faded red, on the rig.

Charlotte and I came close to being separated when my dad, full of good intentions and bent on doing something nice for my mother, attempted to chip her into pieces to frame mother’s flower garden.

...she, her brothers, sister and cousins, would run along the edge of the cliff chasing the boats as they came into the bay. They would run until the boats outran them.

I petted the animals and asked their names, and jumped back quickly if they made too loud a noise. Then Dad led me out of the barn by the hand...

...they walked the kilometer of rocky, kelp-filled beach between their house and the wharf. They skipped rocks, poked jellyfish...

We walked downtown on High Street most Friday evenings to go to a movie. Our movie theatre has been around forever. It only ever has one movie playing at a time, and the seats are uncomfortable, but I have always loved the place.

I tapped the bottom of the paper tube on the kitchen table, making sure the tobacco was in nice and tight, then carefully placed it inside the Tupperware container where Aunt Diane kept her home-rolled cigarettes.

Just off the shore is a little white punt with red letters on it. From this distance she cannot make out the letters, but she knows what they will say. Lily. It is her mother’s name.

...I spot a certain spruce tree I recognize - thanks to the boy scouts - to be my very own.

My grandmother with her white, tightly curled, netted hair; the black cats’ eye glasses; with her weekly "frock", and my grandfather’s magenta, tartan patterned cardigan pulled tightly across her shoulders.

...dark clouds of caplin in the water turn the ocean black... Their small black bodies with their silver underbellies flop around on the rocks and there are tiny fish eggs everywhere.

...she had the form of a woman with a face and two arms folded across her front, and her hands were clasped together as if she was saying a prayer.

He neared the only convenience store and waved to the owner. The store was untitled and referred to only by the owner’s name. It was either William’s or Manning’s, but never William Manning’s. ...Martin could hear someone in the forest chopping wood, and the far-off barks of a loose dog.

Even when discussing his children’s accomplishments at soccer games and in art class, John was able to express his pride only with a hug and a gruff, "Good work".

I remember my parents bringing home so many fish products; nuggets, strips, cod’s heads, tongues. I was so sick of eating, smelling and seeing fish.

...my grandmother plunked a ceramic plate down in place of the red plastic cup, which I had already raised...

I loved the fact that there was at least one window in each room, allowing you to look outside towards a yard or a street, which seemed to me just like a part of the big community park.

I remember my sister finding a shoe among the debris - a boring old white sneaker. A girl’s sneaker, perhaps. A bit of faded colour that might have been pink. Straggly laces. Scuffed out.

The moment when the red-nosed uncle of the groom threw his glass to the floor, and made his way running to the nearest exit, vomiting over himself before plowing through the steel door.

And all his comments are delivered with that smirk. It is always there. No matter what the situation. No matter who is around. He is smiling, smirking at nothing.

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