I'm sitting here actually trying to link "Portrait of My Body" and "Why We Crave Horror Movies." Sober. I think I've got it, but it all seems a bit too strange for a blog, or for sharing, or for thinking even. I wonder if several of us were pulled in easily to "Portrait" simply because we wanted to connect to it somehow, have the scars made beautiful or the imperfections justifiable. What a jolt those of us must have had when it all went wrong halfway in and our tender author betrayed us, made it a bit uncomfortable, and stank up the room. I wondered the same thing halfway through King's piece. It was all fine and good until he started saying things like "we" and "madman," and sheesh, so close together like that?
Which brings me to another bit of a loser supposition: what if certain folks are right? What if there is no "true" us, only the performer on paper? What if we cannot escape him/her simply because we (the reader) are the intended audience for us (the writer) and, here's the kicker, we know what we cannot bear to hear? Then, riddle me this Batman, is there any point at all to this academic, masturbatory, narcissistic exercise called writing?
Come on. You didn't think I was that innocent, did you?
Let's try something here. Portrait # One:
Long fingers. Granma loved them, called them piano chasers. (And they were, years ago, chasers along porcelain sound). Here, a sliver of a scar in the shape of the glass that sliced it, either side of my middle right knuckle. Hands just beginning to crepe up a bit after years of washing dishes, cleaning houses, working dirt. They held babies and stroked hair and clasped others and enunciated sentences. Married by joints that ache when it's going to rain and sometimes just because. They were the prettiest thing I had and are now the most belligerent sign of my wisdom. The left one bears a wedding ring so heavy that it has left a permanent, soft dent. I find comfort in them, the bones and the thinning skin that are the closet thing to my writing, my history, my life. My hands.
Sookay. Now. Portrait # Two:
Cuticles long scarred by permanent teeth, ripped and bit and torn until they bled. I curl the tips under to hide the flesh when I pay in cash, cut the nails to cripple their chances of self-mutilation. Veiny and branded by a drop of velvety hot grease -- a moment of self-defense against someone I loved. Fingers so long that they will have no choice but to become claws in the next two decades, bony things that held cigarettes and formed obscene gestures and slapped a friend once in a drunken rage. I am terrified of these appendages for they just might one day turn on the rest of me in jointy glee. Premeditated. Justifiable handocide. My hands.
Saalright. Pick one. Which portrait is true? Why, both, of course. And neither. Somewhere in the middle. Whatever I choose to remember or believe or tell. I think that may be the point, after all: to tell the truth, but to tell it slant (English majors, unite). Tell it ugly, sometimes, otherwise the writer in you will call bullshit on the whole sweet thing.
And for reasons beyond my own understanding this morning, the following verse just came into my head:
Would you believe in a love at first sight? Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time. What do you see when you turn out the light? I can't tell you, but I know it's mine.
KPD
He works at the writing center and speaks with a “work voice.” The voice that sounds all sing-songy and nonthreatening. “Good Morning. Do you need help with a paper?” He gives service with a smile.
ReplyDeleteHe is the crazy, buck Stepper who wears a stank-face as he breaks-it-on-down just like the guys in Stomp the Yard.
He is the wannabe actor who is constantly talking about the theatre master classes he has attended this week.
All you other Zeke’s are just imitating. So won’t the real Zeke please stand up. Please stand up, please stand up. (yeah I know a Slim Shady reference, but I was kinda inspired from today’s class topic of music). But all of these descriptions are me. In the Almond piece Telsa Matters (Dude), Almond talks about how his friend Hank did not recognize the Latin paralegal at a concert because of her scandalous outfit. He was shocked that the paralegal had a life outside of the cubicle. I sometimes feel that way about my professors. I sometimes see them solely as the facilitator of my academic pursuits that I forget that they have bills to pay, children to take care of, and like to have fun just like me. We have different personas we adopt and change the way we speak in different social situations (code switching). We are so use to the roles that we play that we can shift from one to the other easily. It goes back to the Shakespeare allusion of the world being a stage. I feel like someone mentioned this in an earlier blog but can’t remember who said it.
In the same way we adopt different personas in our real life, we also adopt different personas in our writing. Sometimes we are the sarcastic, know- it- all that can create puns and wit to get our point across, or the innocent grandson or grandson sending our grandma a loving card full with kind warm words thanking for the peach cobbler and hoping that doing alright. It is nothing wrong with writing with different personas but we just have to be aware of our situation and our audience because we don’t want offend poor grandma.
We seem to keep asking the same questions over and over again. “Who is the writer?” “What do they outright tell us and what do we have to imply?” “What should we believe and what should we question?” and my favorite question of all “Who are we as writers?”
ReplyDeleteFor those who are in to the whole instant gratification thing, you probably shouldn’t even bother asking these questions.
The truth is, finding the answers can take a lifetime. Have you ever read the same piece more than once and gotten something completely different out of it each time? As we continue through this crazy little thing called life, each new experience shapes and reshapes our views on things. Over time, our opinions of others and of ourselves will ultimately change. Those who say otherwise are liars. The cool thing about writing is we get to play with these different views and use them to make our points.
Like with the portraits of Dr. P’s hands. Both describe the same body part, but both present very different ideas. I don’t know if I feel comfortable saying that one is pretty and one is ugly, because if there is anything that I have learned in this class it’s that admitting your ugliness is just about the most beautifully human thing you can do. But maybe…admitting what’s good about you is just as beautiful.
It would be so easy for me to list off all the things I didn’t like about myself (I’ll spare you the UGLY details. Haha get it?) What’s harder is to actually sit down and say what’s good about me. What does the audience appreciate more?
Maybe a little of both. If we’re being honest and everything…
In writing, I find it difficult for the real me to come out. I’m more concerned with getting the details correct and making sure they answer what the professor wants. So, I kind of stick to the rules of writing. By sticking to these rules, only one side of me really comes out…that is my serious, studious personality. This serious, studious personality is one in which most people who have been around me for an ample amount of time think that’s how I ought to act every day of the week. Well…that is true to an extent. I do like to make sure I do well in school. But honestly…I can’t be serious all of the time. Yeah, school had been my life. But I also have another personality. And it’s more of an adventurous one. A personality which allows me to have fun and not be as serious. I feel that my writing has to be more serious just like my personality at times. Boring term papers are the ones that have to be so…blah. A writer can’t truly express herself in those types of papers. It’s almost as if the writer is caged in a writing style that isn’t very comfortable. But it’s an expression of that person—just an expression that might not be as fun to write with. I find that when I write papers that are not so strict are the ones that show true expressions of me. I’m able to speak more freely. And I don’t have to worry about following the rules and trying to nail down a specific answer to my thesis statement. Writers can write in different ways just like people can have different personalities at certain times. We aren’t glued to a specific way to write or a specific way to act. We choose certain ways to write and act based on our situation.
ReplyDeleteI like that Zeke describes himself in a few ways at the beginning of his post. He represents that many sides that a person can have, yet still be the same person. You don’t have to be only one image in a person’s mind…you can be many. It’s kind of diversifying a person just as we diversify ourselves as writers by showing the many ways in which we can write. Who we are is not wrong; the ways in which we write isn’t wrong either…it’s just different.
Wow. What a loaded question. I've thought about it before, of course. Always in retrospect. I should have done this, should have done that. Why did I act that way? I don't even FEEL that way. I see myself when I'm with my friends, when I'm with my family, and then in those silent moments (that always seem to come right around sleep) where I have to come to terms with all my "selves". Sounds schizophrenic right? How can we possibly begin to determine what our "true" self is? We have so many different personalities for so many different situations that it's mindboggling.
ReplyDeleteThere's the person that I think am, and the person I want to be, and the real thing hovers in the middle like an indecisive ghost. I'm thinking of those proverbial "shoulder angels"... or devils. Why can't I just pick a side and stick with it? Because life is entirely too much in the grey area. The situational and the exceptional- meaning I'll always be adrift between the two sides. You can't just choose one or the other- Angel or Devil. Because you can't just abandon parts of the puzzle of your personality and it still make the greater picture. Even though some parts are dark and deceiving, they exist for you to fall back on when life is a dark place. Your angelic side? Well that's there too when you need it. It's pushing that ghost of consciousness one way or the other that responds to the uncertainties of life. You have to have both ends of the spectrum covered, because you never know what you're going to get.
But how can we possibly make our "selves" come to terms with one another? They are, after all, at the opposite ends of the spectrum. Often in hindsight we autocorrect- "well next time I'll do things differently". We use this as an acceptable excuse to the opposing team. Does overcompensation for one behavior change the other? Probably not, but does it change you in the long run? If consistent enough, probably so. So it's not about aimlessly hovering between the two. It's about making a conscious effort to balance yourself amid the pushes and pulls of of the everyday unexpected happenings of life in such a way that you look back on both the good and bad events and know that you strived to be true to yourself.
Browned by the years of sun in which I skinny dipped in my grandmother's pool while she was at work.(My cousin Brittany and I always found some stunt to pull in our younger days.)Ran down the beach chasing my father, seagulls, and dreams. Time spent in a tanning bed preparing for a prom that was definitely not tan worthy. Summers spent by the pool in college enjoying a margarita and the slowest kind of life. An important joint connecting my long legs - piece to piece. Soft with lotion my grandmother homemade.
ReplyDeleteMy knees.
Round and unshapely. Aren't they supposed to be bony? Bowed on the sides by a few extra pounds I could stand to lose. Scarred in many ways. Once by an end table that was always in my early-morning path. Once by the hot cigarette of a friend who had a few too many at a field kegger in high school. Once by my best friend - my dog who seriously needed her nails cut. Any many times by a worn out carpet on a spot that still rubs burns where I begged God for just a piece of happiness.
My knees.
Alan Moore’s Writing for Comics- written by, you guessed it, Alan Moore- came to mind almost immediately while reading Portrait of My Body by Lopate. Moore doesn’t give a direct view of his flesh, instead he gives a portrait of his mind--The author behind Watchmen and V for Vendetta--The mind that conjured the transformation of The Swamp Thing opens up to the reader! He gives a clear look at his reality, explains that he has to have some thorough thoughts about things like an alien colony on the planet Neptune in order to create anything original (this was very comforting to me—I spend a whole bunch of time with my character ideas and settings and was starting to worry that what I was doing might be wrong until I came across his book. I write to be alone. I read to not be alone. I am many people who want many things and so are you.) As a writer, that’s about as wide open as you can get. He says every single detail about how he gets his thinking done and that was spot on with the honesty of Lopate.
ReplyDeleteI don’t want to talk about physical disappointments. I don’t want to face the truth Lopate! I want to think I’m young and as strong as I can be. I don’t want to know that around the corner I’m going to likely follow suit, put on some additional chunk. I don’t want to know how easy it is to put on ten pounds of pooch.
At the same time, I do. I really want to know what fate could hold. What the future might be. So thank you as well Lopate. There’s a part of me which wants to face reality and there’s a part of me that wants to step into my own mind screaming fuck physical existence and future fat deposits. I am weary of the day when somebody catches on, says what I’m wearing is already too tight. I don’t want the girlfriend who will point that out, but maybe I need her. I’ll probably go out of this world with finely marbled flank steaks on my sides. If zombies ever come, they’ll tear into the meat of my midsection long before they’ll think to take a bite of my brains (I like the carnivorous cadavers as opposed to brain seeking bloated bodies).
-- Whatever narcissism, fetishism, and proud sense of masculinity I possess about my body must begin and end with my fingers.--
ReplyDeleteMy fingers are the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The thumb is Donatello, letting me go above and beyond. He separates me from the animals. My pointer finger is Leonardo, of course, pointing the way for the gang. Raphael is my middle finger, talking dirty and wielding that three pronged sai. Splinter resides in my ring finger, giving guidance when combined with the Michaelangelo, my pinky, on full handed tasks such as amending soil or picking up my backpack. TMNT wouldn’t be interesting without their arch nemesis so don’t be surprised when I say that I am Shredder. I pull the skin on accident (on purpose). I clip the nails to imperfection. I ruin my turtles when timidity takes power and habit returns, I destroy them without thought then spend days observing the wreckage. My left hand looks like Hiroshima. My right- Nagasaki.
My hands are the Doozers from Fraggle rock. They work their machinery reminiscent of Caterpillar equipment. They build great structures of sugar (which I obligingly consume like the gluttonous and destructive Fraggle I am).
My hands are productive. I love my garden at my mother and father’s house. The green currently outshines anything that sprouted last summer. I’ve got some Okra from my breeding experiments (blending thin red Okra with fat green Star of David ones has thus far been moderately unsuccessful). I’ve got some squash for my momma. I’ve got some peppers for me and my father (I messed up this year—my Anaheim Chilis keep infecting the others with their fiery pollen. The rape of my sweet peppers will henceforth be disallowed. The zing added to my otherwise sweet baby bells and Jimmy Nordello’s has been a painful one. My father likes peppers in his scrambled eggs. I have so many peppers-a constant flow-but, they are tainted with spice and unfit for his breakfast selection. They have been damned to the hell hole of my mouth for their unplanned conception.) I’ve got oodles and oodles of tomatoes going. I’m growing some black Hokkaido watermelons and hope to grow more next year from their seeds. I am so proud of my hands when they bring life and sustenance but for work I do the exact opposite. I am often a paid executor of plants. Pre-emerge, post-emerge, fire. These are my weapons to bring about the ends of life. My hands are good and evil; they cherish seeds and slaughter weeds.
Morgan Birdsong- your autocorrect idea reminds me of the new years resolution we make such as to loose weight or to quit smoking. We start off strong with our resloutions in Jan but by march we are back to doing our bad habits.
ReplyDeleteI do feel like it is really hard to completely let go in your writing. Even if I am just writing for myself there is always the subconscious fear that someone will find my work and read it… But just because I cannot be totally open and honest in my writing does not mean that I think writing is insignificant.
ReplyDeleteI do think when writing we are constantly tuning into the performer… the person who wants to sound good… the person who is afraid of being judged. I do not know that I have ever truly let go in my writing. I have a little notebook that I keep in my purse where I write things that are intended for my eyes only. The things I write in this book are little snippets and ideas that I get for writing. Things I think might make an interesting piece. However, what I write in the book, I would probably be embarrassed for someone to read because I have not perfected them. They are incomplete and imperfect, lacking structure and (gasp!) they are not grammatically correct. If I feel like I want to share what I have written in the book, I rework it. I make it look pretty and then I might maybe possibly share it with someone.
I wish that I could be a totally open writer. That I could lay all of the ugliness on the table. But this will probably never happen… I am too much of a coward to lay myself bare to strangers or, even scarier, to people I know.
I feel comfortable being very open in my writing. I feel safe. I can comment about this poem or that poem, I can respond to a blog here and there, I can even write about an event in my life – I can do all of this without revealing my identity. I’m not talking about my name. I’m talking about me – the person behind the performer. My emotions, my life – that is for me to know. Openness, to me, does not require an unmasking of self.
ReplyDeleteBut, am I safe? Or am I the one watching the show, being deceived? Is it possible that my audience, despite my efforts, knows me even better than I know myself?
Well, there’s an interesting thought.
As writers, we may never know ourselves fully. See, when we transfer ourselves to pen and paper, we leave our identity in the eye of the beholder – the one that be holdin’ the paper, that is. Our readers can know us as well as they want to because they form our identity from their own perceptions of and reactions to our writing. We, in fact, have little control over who we are because we are perceived through eyes that are under the influence of preconceived notions.
It’s like this:
In my American Lit class, we recently read some Emily Dickinson poetry (and yes Dr. P, I picked up on your English major insider.) I have trouble really ‘getting’ her. I mean, one can only take so much depressing truth no matter how much you ‘slant’ it. So, to me, Dickinson was a gloomy person who thought a lot about death and didn’t have many friends. That is Dickinson, in fact, to a lot of people.
BUT, suppose I am a person of Dickinson’s disposition who sits in my room all day contemplating death and basking in solitude. Well, then I imagine Dickinson would feel like a close friend to me. I imagine that I would read her poems eagerly and be propelled to further thought and maybe even be inspired. To this person, Dickinson was a role model, a scholar to be imitated and praised. Dickinson was independent and didn’t need friends, she was perfectly happy lost in her thoughts.
Get it? It’s all about connections. We are shaped in the minds of others by the connections that we prompt them to make.
We will never know all that we are because we don’t know all that people think we are. Unless, of course, we simply are who we are, and who people see us to be has no bearing on who we really are.
Whoa.
bnp0001, I love that you pointed out that fear that everyone shares. "What if someone finds this?" How open can we really be on a piece of paper, right? I mean there's still a lot of risk there. Mom comes in sweeping the floor and it falls off the shelf. Nosy brother comes in looking for some money and stumbles upon it. Where can we express ourselves with zero risk of being found out?
ReplyDeleteOr, do we need to be found out? Is our fear really a desire for someone to understand, to read? I don't know.
I'm not necessarily sure that the aesthetics of language effects the honesty of a writers work, but it certainly does effect the tone. The tone of the author's work can reflects how the author feels about the subject matter he/she is addressing and doesn't necessarily effect the truth of the work as a whole. So in short I think both are true; to me, it seems to be a matter of what the truth means to the writer, and the resulting effects the truth has on their lives; as a result I think the account, whether it be "pretty" or "ugly" will follow accordingly.
ReplyDeleteThat being said here's an example of what I mean:
Two men have just been let go from the same company, due to budget cuts. Both men are asked to share their thoughts about the firing and their prospects for the future.
The first guy is pissed off. He tells of the five years of his life dedicated to his work and how the, ruthlessly benevolent, corporate assholes so willingly ruined his life; then continues to describe the huge scene he made in the office in gritty detail. When asked about the future the man's reply was just as grim and hopeless.
The second man isn't so angry, though still sullen. He gives a similar, but less, abrasive account of the proceedings leading up to his termination. He also mentions the severance package that was given to him and mentions the reference he now has for his resume. When the second man was asked what he planned to do next, he said he was unsure. He said that he may apply for another job in the same field or he may peruse carpeting, an interest he had in college, but put on hold for his career.
The fact that these men gave polar opposite accounts of their termination doesn't change the reality- or truth- that they were still fired. One man's attitude- or tone- was just more optimistic than the other's and these contrasting perspectives are what shape the way they express their ideas. Respectively, by acknowledging the tone of the author's work gives us insight to who the writer is and where their coming from.
I think writers are performers – it’s in the job description! Our job as writers is to entertain the audience in every sense of the word – to capture their mind, to make them laugh, cry, and (I think most importantly) think. “Portrait of My Body” is a performance in light of the writer being true to himself and what he sees as his flaws. It’s entertaining to read people’s view of themselves, especially when someone isn’t so positive about it. And this makes you think about yourself, and your own flaws. I’ve always admired people who can make fun of themselves or acknowledge the different – it shows that they can handle anything and can view things from all different angles. It takes guts to write negatively about your own body. And for an audience it’s also entertaining to see someone man up and do it.
ReplyDeleteThis is what makes a writer unique; this ability to create whichever angle we want to take. Do I want my hands to be glorified? Or do I want them brutalized? So many choices and they’re exciting. I love that nothing has to be described the same way every time, because we as people and as writers are always changing. There are so many different sides to a person that depending on our mood that day maybe I want my hands to be strangling someone or delicately picking a flower. I don’t think it really has to do with telling the truth or not, because in this kind of writing it’s all true. I feel like your writing doesn’t have to be “ugly” in order to feel liberating – it’s not even a question about beauty. It’s more of a question about reality. If it’s real, it’s engaging and this is the way it’s always been with everything. People like hearing the truth, although they might not necessarily enjoy telling it.
I believe, like others have said, that it is definitely all about connection and as long as you’re connecting to someone in the world, then the “truth” doesn’t matter. If you’re providing the jumpstart to someone’s new way of thinking, or life as they know it, then you’re doing your job. Because that’s what it should always be about.
I am set to graduate in August, but I feel like there is so much left to learn about myself, about this craft called writing, and about what I can do with it. Call it anxiety, call it youth, call it whatever you want, but the truth is I am terrified to leave the safe bubble of being a student. It is all we have known for, basically, the past 18 years of our lives. I completely agree with Aly when she writes "Over time, our opinions of others and of ourselves will ultimately change." Like the images of Dr. P's hands, at times I feel powerful, loving, important. Other times I know I have done the wrong thing or am unhappy with the person I am projecting in life. My views of the self have changed from when I was younger to when I was in high school to now. It is easy to define yourself by what your activities are or who people say you are. In high school, I was Elissa: the happy- go -lucky soccer player. But was I this because I wanted to be or because people told me this is who I was? Traveling through life, I have learned (as I think we all have) that it is ok to not totally know who we will become. Of course we all have dreams and ambitions and goals, but when I was 11 I wanted to be a vet... blood makes me pass out. When I was 13 I wanted to be the president... I do not like the behind the scenes of politics. Now, as a 22 year old college senior... I don't want to miss out on life. My point is simply this: we should not stress about the future, the unknown, or who we will become as people. We are all students of English literature, we are built to adapt, to change, and to be able to project the images to the world that we want. Life is not a stagnant entity, and we are not rooted to the ground. Be inappropriate, be vulgar, be independent. Be courageous, be powerful, be an individual. That is the beauty of this life- we can be whatever we want, and we aren't limited to one thing and one thing only. Just be you- whoever that is today.
ReplyDeleteThis writing says so much about not only the author’s body but the mind behind the keyboard. I think it’s especially important for us as writers to take notice of the style used in this text. I have so much trouble trying to describe things, especially things about myself.
ReplyDeleteReading this writing evokes many feelings for me. The one body part that was focused on is the one part that we never seem to pay particular attention to but it’s the part that guides us through our lives and helps us do everything. After reading this I took a close look at my own hands and they told me so much about myself. They told me things that words could only begin to describe.
Every callus, every scar has a story of its own and in a way we’re reminded of our pasts by these imperfections that we try to conceal.
After reading the Portrait of My Body I wasn't really sure what to think. After awhile I thought it was pretty cool. Only you can look at your hands and truly understand the stories behind them. Only you know the pain or feelings they have been through and who/what they have touched. We are our biggest critics like Dr. P said today in class. After the activity she had us do in class today I found myself remembering events that got me where I am today and how my 5 senses have gotten me there. I also think it's really hard to be honest with yourself sometimes, especially in your writing. The trick is to try and be open with yourself and let the words flow. I struggle sometimes with this concept and I associate it with writer's block. But is it? Sometimes I feel like I have to hide my true emotions or opinions in my papers/essays in order not to upset my audience and more specifically my professors...but who cares? We have to be open and true with our words. However, we always try to be "safe" in our writing to avoid conflict. We have to tell our stories through our fingers and hands and just let it flow.
ReplyDeleteThe first time I read the blog I didn't really understand what was expected, though I guess there really isn't any sort of expectation except to be yourself and write whatever comes to mind.
ReplyDeleteThe exercise in class today was challenging to me. It brought out memories and some bad ones at that. Not necessarily bad now, but in hindsight everything about it was bad and its amazing to me how writing something down and reflecting makes you realize so much about yourself and situations--
I feel safe in my writing. I feel like its the only place that I can truly express my deep, sometimes broken emotions that are rather unexpected on the surface. I don't have to worry about anyone judging me and if they do, then F it. I don't really care. Its for me. Its therapeutic and I can say whatever I want and not have to worry about it. Words are words and its fun to just let them rip and see where they take you.
I think what’s most difficult for me to grasp is the idea of “ugliness” and laying it all on the table. Because I know that writers tweak and shape their writing even with all the “ugliness” in there. So what did it look like before? And does that make it ugly? If it's a polished piece of writing, doesn’t that make it an artistic choice and the truth of that author’s voice? (Didn’t mean to rhyme there…) So stay with me- if the ugliness is really truth and the writing is still beautiful, then writing should be beautiful as long as it’s honest, right? Perhaps? I’m not sure, but it could just be me trying to tie a bow when there’s not in a stupid ribbon there to begin with.
ReplyDeleteBeing a performer is an interesting idea to me because I think we as humans constantly perform whether or not we know it. Our identities are based off of what others see and what we choose to show them and sometimes what we don’t mean to show. I like how Morgan talked about the two sides – angelic and demonic. That’s how people like to characterize it, but I think that humanity rests in the middle because we have the capacity for both. “Good” people can do bad things and “bad” people can do good things. I guess it really depends on daily performance versus personal perspective of that performance. Like in “Portrait of My Body,” a person can perform an unimaginable amount of self-love to hide self-loathing. I know that there are days that I just absolutely hate the way I look or feel or act, and people may see that in my actions or expressions, or they may not. People are misunderstood and misinterpreted daily. So why bother? Human connection. Because someone does understand how you feel and writing about it shows others that you understand too. I guess that’s my biggest fear- putting myself out there and no one understanding it, i.e. rejection. But like someone once said: Nothing happens without risk. ;)
Dr. P described her hands as a form of beauty, as well as a form of ugliness. If I had to choose a part of my body that could be seen both as beautiful and flawed would be the skin on my face. My freshman year of college brought on stress that I was not prepared for. The blemishes that found my face during that time left many permanent scars. With make up on, my young, unwrinkled skin appears flawless. However, when the makeup is removed, it is not hard to see my many imperfections. When I am covered with the security blanket of my makeup, I am confident in myself and in my appearance.
ReplyDeleteI find that this is the same situation in my writing. When I am given prompts and specific guidelines for writing that is my security blanket. I feel like I am covered and those guidelines are my mask, or my makeup. Being given free range is like taking the makeup off, and I become extremely nervous when it comes to fully exposing myself as a writer.
I am in complete agreement with some of Noel’s comments. Being an English education major, I often find myself wanting to know exactly what my professors expect from me. I become concerned with the tiny details of what my professors want instead of really focusing on the creativity of my writing. I have noticed, however, that after going through many of my writing classes, I am much more excited about removing my makeup when I write and allowing my readers to really see me through my writing.
This reading was deep. It hits home for me, just as it seems to for everyone else. I also find it hard to let go when I write. It's so much easier to hide behind perfect grammar and witty sentences. To write about yourself is a whole new challenge in itself. The activity we did in class today was difficult for me. I sat there thinking about what in the world to say, then I realized I was thinking too much, as I often do. So, I picked something and just started writing. I got more personal than I thought I would, but probably not as personal as I could have. It's like Kristin H said, the guidelines and prompts are like a security blanket. Within those boundaries you can do no wrong, and can't get hurt. Get outside the box, and who knows what could happen. I feel like I'm doing something "right" when I stay in the lines. I've always known it's something I should work on, but it's a constant battle.
ReplyDelete“Which brings me to another bit of a loser supposition: what if certain folks are right? What if there is no "true" us, only the performer on paper? What if we cannot escape him/her simply because we (the reader) are the intended audience for us (the writer) and, here's the kicker, we know what we cannot bear to hear? Then, riddle me this Batman, is there any point at all to this academic, masturbatory, narcissistic exercise called writing?”
ReplyDeleteWow. These are some heavy questions, and especially scary as people hoping to place writing in centerfolds of our lives. And to a point, writing, especially personal writing, does seem to be a rather pointless endeavor—who cares what we have to say? Why would, or should, anyone want to take the time to read the shit I write, especially when there is no guarantee that the writing is the true or complete “me.” But the thought of this is too damn depressing, so I believe it’s important to create our own (however vain) reasons to keep on writing. If anything, there is at least the possibility of creating a relationship with the audience—a sense of community, so to speak. True, we mostly cannot escape the role of writing as “performers,” but why should we? All of our different voices may not be able to be present in a single piece of writing, but each piece of writing can let out certain parts of ourselves. So then we, as writers and readers, can look at the sum of all the writing and maybe get some sort of clue as to who we actually are. I believe that with enough writing, the frills and insincerities that pop up into our writing become apparent, and it is possible to see through into the writer’s true voice. And in the real honest writing, writer and reader can create meaning. Maybe it’s the therapeutic discovery that we can share our lives with each other through little blips of writing. The other day in class, we talked about how it is mostly the seemingly insignificant incidences of our lives that are the most important—the ones that in hindsight are actually responsible for much of the shaping of our lives. The same can be said for writing. A little honesty along with little windows into different parts of our voices can reveal the real voice once we look at it all together. And Aly Fronk, I agree with you: If you are looking for instant gratification, turn back now.
This post was an easy one to identify with. Being able to describe something as beautiful then as ugly is kind of like describing a situation as "glass half full" or "glass half emtpy". There are always two sides to every story and it's important to consider each when writing. If we can tap into that spot where words freely fall onto the page and fears are left in the dust we are able to fall deeper into the piece.
ReplyDeleteThe exercise we did in class, describing a body part in two separate ways was an awesome exercise for me because it helped me to discover a new way to write, and I liked it, it came easily to me.
I chose to desribe my eyes because whether it is actually true or not I have always been told that they are my defining characteristic. They are big and brown, they have seen the most beautiful things on this earth, some of the ugliest, and some completely horrifying. There are so many different ways to describe them and it all depends on what portait I am trying to paint of them, good vs evil.
The question of whether there is no true us really stuck out to me. Whenever making a decision, I always try to consider the "real" me. But maybe that's the reality..there is no real us. We are in a constant stage of metamorphosis. From the day we are born to the day we die, we are never the same as we were the day before. It is all about circumstance and choice and outlook that changes who we are.
ReplyDeleteAt this point in my life, I catch myself changing on an hourly basis, practically. One minute I think I will be a great teacher and the next I am scared to death. One day I like fast food and the next day I think it was created by the devil. One minute I'm happy with myself and the next minute I'm not.
This brings me to the exercise Dr. P made us to in regards to writing about our body in two separate lights. One good and one bad. I chose my thighs. I'll spare you the details because it was nothing more than my self pity that I was cursed with my father's physique and have thighs that are much too big for the rest of me. I believe I used the comparison of having a Moby Dick style whale protruding out of each of my hip sockets.
On the other hand, when I used to cheer, I couldn't have been happier to have such gargantuan thighs because they gave me a leg up ( no pun intended) over everyone else. It was much easier for me to do master a tumbling skill than it was for my twiggy 5'10 best friend.
So some days I am content and some days I resent. I think that is just the way life is, and maybe our inconsistency is what makes the 'real' us.
Crack! There it went. I heard the sound of my upper arm breaking in two pieces. The arm that held many girls in stunts. The arm that I wrote with everyday in school. The one tool I had that made me unique. My left arm was snapped in half from a small wreck on a land polaris. A LAND POLARIS! Who actually rides these? I guess I thought I was brave enough to get in the front seat with my best friend who might I add has never been a great driver. Coming around that sharp turn I could feel my heart diving through my stomach. Terrified is the word. I knew something would soon happen in slow motion. Yep, here it goes. BAM! The polaris tips over and falls directly on my bony, fragile left arm.
ReplyDeleteThe ER smelled like blood and old people. I could barely stand to sit in there without welling up with tears. My dad couldn't bear seeing me in so much pain.
For those of you who have never broken your arm, reminisce back to Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Harry's playing an intense quiditch match and gets his arm broken by running into the wooden building. The jello-like arm we see in this film is identical to mine. Lifeless and useless.
For three months my arm was wrapped in the heaviest cast created by man! Yes, I was treated with kindness. Cute boys would carry my books or bookbag. Yet, I was never me when my arm was this way. I couldn't do the things I loved to do. The reality of the brokeness was settling in my comfort zone. Not only was my arm broken, I was as well. Bathing? Well, let's just say i felt like an infant again with my mother along side everyday.
My brokeness reflected and affected my daily life. It became real. Raw. Torturous. It defined me for three months and wrapped me in it's misery. I value that brokeness now and embrace the ugly it bestowed upon me.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this post since it was read aloud and class, and we were asked to write about a part of our bodies. I’ve had some strange anxiety about responding to this, and I’m blaming insecurity…not only my physical insecurities but the writing insecurities too.
ReplyDeleteI sat for minutes in class considering body options and tried to decide what on my body I thought I could write about from two perspectives—one being positive. I don’t want you to think that I can’t find anything about my body that I like. That’s not the necessarily the case, but you know they say, “you’re always your own worst critic,” and I did grow up in a dance studio with mirror-lined walls. It wasn’t a studio where our dancers were graceful skeletons or where any of us were so hard on ourselves that problems developed. I would consider it more of a type of constructive self-criticism that could only lead to a healthier mind and body. Embarrassingly enough, my feet were the first and only part that that I could think to write about. A deep-seeded insecurity that I’ve had since I owned my first pair of point shoes in fifth grade, and my toes started permanently forming to the trapezoidal, wooden box. So I started with the ugliness of them…
I think there are always two sides to the coin, whether we choose to flip it over and look at it or not, and I think the question about what we see in the dark is a valid one. Our personal views are never going to completely coincide with the way the world views us, but I think the dark is a comfortable place to be. All that we can “see” is what is in our mind, and regardless of what that looks like, it’s beautiful because it’s raw, and it’s real, and it’s us. Our vision might not always be clear, it surely isn’t always ideal. Sometimes I wish mirrors didn’t exist. I think we would be happier and a less critical society that might in fact depend less on image and more so on how life looks from the inside out. Now wouldn’t that be pretty?
I am a firm believer in the idea that people are never really what they seem. That there is no “true” us on paper, and I’m even doubtful there is a “true self” in real life. And a small part of me wonders why this lack of “true self” is such a bad thing. Adaptability is survival. The idea of a “true self” to me represents only one way of being, something stagnate, unchanging, so by trying to pin down this one “true self” you are trying to make something as 3-D as humanity into something 2-D and very flat.
ReplyDeleteCall me cynical, but when writing for an audience there writer cannot help but write for the audience. They are always actors (or actresses). But is this going against their “true self” or is it just another facet of their being, you could call it their “writer’s self.” You may ask, “But what about diaries? Or writing that isn’t meant to be read by anyone else?” What about it? It too has an intended audience. Yourself. Who is going to read your diary (besides your sneaky younger sibling that is)? You. Yourself. The Writer-turned-Reader. The Actor-turned-Audience. So what’s the point? To be able to call bullshit on yourself? I’ll admit it, I’ve done that. I’ve looked back on something I wrote and said, “Well that was a load of bull. What was I thinking?”
So there is the challenge. How to take a piece of writing, whether it is your own or somebody else’s, and decipher not just what they are choosing to show you, but the secret stuff too. The stuff that they dance around, leave out, refuse to acknowledge… the juicy tidbits. Because all writers are acting there is no doubt about that. What is important to ask is not is what they are writing true, but is what they are righting warranted.
I wasn’t in class for the writing assignment where we wrote about a body part in two different ways but reading over Dr. P’s two portraits something that stood out to me. In the first one she describes how the “wedding ring so heavy” left a permanent dent. That sentence alone gave me cause to look down at my own right hand. There on the ring finger of my right hand is a ring. It’s called a Claddagh ring. A heart topped with a crown clasped between two hands. It’s an old Irish tradition where it is worn a certain way depending on the state of your heart. If worn on the right hand, the heart is pointing toward the finger tip, the wearer is free of any attachment and their heart is free. If the ring, still on the right hand, is flipped with the heart pointing in, the wearer is romantically involved and the heart is “closed” to outside influence.
For two years I could not wear my Claddagh ring. A relationship, where I was constantly guessing as to which way I could wear my ring, made me make the choice to take off the Claddagh symbol that had not left my finger since 8th grade. I missed that band. I would glance down and see that my thumb was rubbing where my ring used to be, searching. I had a tan line and an indention, but uncertainty made me unable to make a choice (that should have been a hint right there as to the state of that relationship).
It was two weeks ago, while cleaning out my jewelry box, that I came across the velvet box that contained my ring. It was like discovering an old friend again. Trembling fingers slide the cool metal back on my finger and I am relieved to see that it still fits. My heart is once again “open.”
During the in-class writing I wrote about eyes. I think a lot of us did, because it makes sense to us as humans. What we see, nay how we perseve gives us our voice. It is true to us, because we saw it. And on top of that we have seen things in the past that have, more or less, shaped our opinions. I laugh when I see someone fall down because of opinions I have gained about humor.
ReplyDeleteThe same can be said for writing styles. Hemingway was a reporter for a local newspaper, where he learned to write concisely and accurately. Douglas Adams wanted to be an astro-physicts but he couldn't handle the arithmatic so he just went on to write The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy. Things that have transpired or have inspired us in our lives have shaped what we write about and how we write about it. That isn't saying the old cliche "write what you know" so much as it is saying "you will write what is important to you." The real crux of it is to write effectively and truthfully. If we can write with truth, we are victorious.
(Also, my second body part I wrote about in class was my ass). ; )
Wow, I really thought that I had already posted on this blog. Either I'm half man, half idiot or I clicked the wrong button a few days ago. Its a shame you cant see my mind because I would have written about that piece of trash during class. Instead of getting really deep and writing about my brain and my subconscious ideals, I decided it would be best to write about my lower back and the tattoos that I only wish I had. I did so mainly because I couldnt bring myself to write anything too serious about a part of my body. I would have felt egotistical while writing the first part and overly dramatic while writing the second part. Its really hard to acurately describe yourself in the way that other people would. So by choosing something that seems relatively stupid on the surface, I found myself writing what I truly felt about my lower back. It may be ugly. Who knows? I wear shirts for that reason and that reason only. I like to keep people guessing. If you see someone with an ugly lower back youre probably going to want to punch them in the mouth, or the lower back. But if their lower back is shrouded, wrapped up like a christmas present, you are gracefully left to your imagination. Are lower backs a major point of contention when dicussing someone's physical apperance? Not unless you're Danny Devito and the lower back is at eye level for you. So why did I write about it? I guess I did just because I was hiding behind my pen a little bit. Its easier to be a moron when youre writing than it is when youre looking someone dead in the eye.
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