I remember that when I read this post for the first time I just felt like crying. I wasn’t (and am still not) sure exactly why. But I do know that I felt confused and hopeless, like there was so much uncertainty around that I might as well give up. (I even skipped class the next day. Gasp!)
So, a lot of you wrote about being true to the self in writing. Which is all fine and dandy, but there’s a hitch: who are we? And then, we realize that we are so many things. And that scares me.
The other day I went to jog at Kiesel Park. This was my first time there (I have on multiple occasions driven there and then chickened out at, and so I turn around and drive home.) There are a few different walking trails, which are all loops, and they all overlap each other at some point. For the first few intersections I came to, I’d stop and become distressed at now knowing which direction to go. After a while I stopped thinking about it. I could choose the way shaded with trees or the way that looked like a grassy plain in Kansas. But it didn’t take long to figure out that each path was liable to change in scenery as soon as I entered. Eventually I was pretty lost (my sense of direction is nonexistent). At each turn I felt like I had already been down that way. They all looked so similar. But I also saw vastly different details with every stretch of trail. So even if I did go physically go through the same place twice, it was an entirely new experience. And, until the weather made its usual summer afternoon transformation from sunny to stormy, being lost actually became fun.
Morgan Birdsong’s post reminded me of this - You talk about hovering between all the different sides of ourselves, and the different sides can enter depending on what the situation requires. The idea of writing about the same thing a hundred different ways is wildly exciting in a way. Finding balance is nice, but occasionally blowing from one extreme to another can’t hurt, can it?
Portrait #1 I have bags under my eyes. I have had them since I was 13 or so. They developed over long nights, reading books and listening to records during those long, lonely nights of high-school. These bags made me feel different, superior even, as if I knew the torment of a sleepless night searching for a truth that was stifled from me during the day, during school when I was not free to be myself. My bags represented the defining line between me and the others, w/ their pristine faces, ready for school. My bags were knowledge, longing, real passion that was not allowed expression, especially not in a Bapatist high school. But also, my bags were solely mine, cuse no one else could possibly understand the depth I imbued to them, lying just below the surface. These bags represented my true self, the wariness of time on sucha young face, staring at the others who had yet tried for this process of self discovery. My bags held knowlege, knowledge that none had access to, because I cose it to be that way.
Portrait #2 The truth, though, is that my bags were born of self-doubt and loathing. Trying to find my place in a school that was full of people that were harsh and unaccepting. An attempt to give myself some worth in their eyes, some sort of intellectual stimulus that they hadn't experienced (I realize now that you do not get popular by railing off William S. Burroughs quotes). My bags were truly products of speed binges, stealing my mothers perscription diet pills to grind my teeth all night trying to write/draw/read myself to a better person, some person of worth. The bags under my eyes were truly a plea for help,from someone or something. Searching for some sign that things would get better. Some sign that life was not this constant isolation, that I did hold a true place in the world.
The paradox is that in the end my bags are both of these things, and that will always skew my view of the world. Because I have glimpsed true passion and true lonliness.
I wrote about my one dimple in the class exercise, but didn’t talk about it on my blog. I have realized that the two sides of my dimple really focuses on my own performance in reaction to what people say about it. My positive side reflects flattery and self-confidence in myself whereas my negative side shows irritation and annoyance with adults for treating me like a child or a dog: “Oh look how cute that is! Aren’t you a pretty girl? Who’s a pretty girl?” It’s always easier to thing of the negative. My positive assets do not elude me, but on any given day, the negatives overwhelm the positives. Again, I return to performance. Whether or not I feel like crap, I can perform like I’m maavalous. No one has to know about the darkness screaming inside until I can let it out on I-85. The audience does not have to know your darkest secrets, but letting them peek in the closet doesn’t hurt to connect with them. They’ll understand because they have old bones in theirs too.
When I first wrote this blog I decided to write about three different personality traits that I possessed: the friendly desk person at the Writing Center, the mean stepper, and the wannabe and hopeful actor. lol.
In class, Dr. P read this blog prompt aloud and we are asked to write about our body parts or something along those lines. I believe I wrote about my eyebrows. My Uncle Larry has these same triangle eyebrows. My eyebrows are ugly at times because they appear "devilish" or like "Eddie Munster from the old black and white T.V. show.
But my eyebrows also show that I am suprised. Wouldn't need any botox ,and they are also naturally arched (a trait a lot of girls wished they had).
This blog just showed me that writers can be very creative and think on their feet. This exercise reminded me of two things. First the Props game on Whose Line is It Anyway. The actors had to use a prop for different scenes with a few seconds to come up with new ways to use them. (It's hiliarious! Wayne Brady is the man.)
The second thing this blog made me think about was our second paper. We were asked to write a letter to ourselves. In writing the letter to myself, I got to look back on past moments on my life and give the younger Zeke some insight and advice.
As writers we have the great responsbility of refershing the old cliches . I guess this exercise goes back to the "showing and not telling" notion that that's been drill in our heads. Show how someone is sad instead of just saying.... And he was sad.
This is one we wrote in class isn't it? I wrote on my hands, but I didn't talk about one thing. My hands (particularly the right) piss me off. I inherited a short thumb from my grandmother--that's what my mom tells me--and I hate it. My friends love to joke with me about it, and I wish I could stab them with my short thumb on certain occasions. But then my hands give me the ability to do many things I love. I have a secret hobby of calligraphy. I couldn't do it without my stubby thumb positioning the pen at just the right angle. Give and take. Just like writing, just like everything in life.
They say that “eyes are the windows to the soul.” I say that it’s not just the eyes. Its every part of your body that says something about you. There are so many things you can learn without even having to be told. Does that person have rough hands? They probably work outside. Your body, or rather the marks of your body, tells a story and sometimes it’s a comedy, a tragedy, a what-in-the-hell... But these “flaws” are what make you interesting. I have a dent in my forehead, which is not really attractive, but I’ve got a hell of a story when people ask me what’s up. People like hearing about these things that are different from anybody else. I have quite a bit of hearing loss and have to wear hearing aids, which I despise. What 21 year old wants to admit this? No matter the 18 year old who go them. How embarrassing. Yet, when I tell them I’m also a music major the next question that follows is “How does a person with hearing loss major in music?” Something that is not so beautiful or perfect to me turns out to be a major success story to others. I can’t quite figure out why that is. I guess people just like different…as long as it’s not associated with them.
I was reading what Morgan Birdsong had to say and I really agree with her first paragraph. How many times have you done something and thought “that wasn’t like me,” “why did I say that?” “why did I do that?” Sometimes we do and say things that shock ourselves. Does that mean that what we just said or did isn’t a part of ourselves? Absolutely not! Even though it sounds a little schizophrenic… we have a lot of different parts of us. I know that I tend to be a different person around different groups of people. For example: 1. when I am just with my boyfriend, I feel like I can be my true self. I don’t have to put on any masks. I can just be me. I can say what I want and do what I want and not feel like I have to hide anything about myself. 2. Now, it is a totally different thing when I am with my boyfriend’s family. They are very conservative people and because of this, I feel like I have to be guarded. I cannot say all of the things that I want to say. I don’t even listen to the type of music I would normally listen to. 3. How about when I meet a new group of people? I am usually really quiet and reserved. I don’t want to say anything that could offend someone. I don’t want to say something that might make those people not like me. I think all of these parts of me could come across in my writing. And I think that they are all me. However, I think that the last one, example number three is usually the part of me that I allow to write. I don’t want people to see the true me. They might not like me. They might not like what I have to say. So, in order to prevent my reader from not liking me, I put a nice little bow on what I have to say. And that’s kinda sad isn’t it. I wish I could write more like Almond. But, I am going to have to grow up a lot more first and get comfortable with who I am. Almond is obviously very comfortable with himself and his ideals. Hopefully one day I will grow up to be a mini- Almond, or at least have some of his confidence.
My first response... all still very much true. But this time, I have decided to get off my lazy ass and do something about my most hated feature on my body.
The same can be said about writing, instead of sitting on our butts feeling sorry for ourselves and blaming this that or the other, swallow the criticism and strive for a better tomorrow.
Somedays you are going to be so on fire when you write that not even Steve Almond, himself, could criticize you, and other days, kinder-gardeners have formed better sentences than you. It's all a part of this bigger picture, called life. Sometimes we're up and sometimes we're down.
But this attitude also has be thinking about something a wise man once told me, 'Life is not about being up or down, but more life 2 railroad tracks. One is always going one way, and the other is going in the opposite direction. There are always things that are going good and there are always things that are going bad.' Life is never fair and it is never perfect.
Perfection is something that is always going to be just out of our reach. Yes, that does include perfection in our writing too. You have to accept that you do some things well and other things not so well. Sometimes you're on and sometimes you're off. It's about working your ass off to be the best writer that you are capable of being. Just be the best you. That in itself is perfection.
I love how Morgan Birdsong used the angel and the devil in this post. When I look back on my post, I talked about different personalities that I have for writing. The angel and devil can be applied to writing as well. I think the devil is sitting on our shoulders when we are being forced to write about something…boring. You just want to avoid this paper altogether, but that angel with the golden halo is saying, “You’ve got to play by the rules.” For me, the devil and the angel are battling against each other—they are trying to get the most out of you. It’s almost like they are PUSHing you to do better by battling back and forth on your shoulders.
But, I agree that our personalities are like that too. My family expects me to act one way when I’m around everyone. In fact…that’s not so true. When I’m around my friends, I’m not completely different. There is just a lighter feeling about me because I know they know that I can be both people and still be Noel. I would never act the way I would in a bar as I would in church. They are standards for how I need to act anywhere I go…people who expect me to act all churchy even on a Saturday night. There is nothing wrong with that. But I have diverse personalities for different occasions.
I wrote about my hands and what they mean to me. I love my hands, without them I would be lost... no way to play music and no way tofeel..to touch the world that surrounds me. I love to build and fix things
(without hands this would be estremely difficult if not impossible)
I look at my hands and see the scars, the deformed ring finger that holds a dent from wearing a ring that likely a tad too small. My hands make me who I am and they tell me who I was.
Writing about my body was a difficult task for me at first, but once I got started I almost couldnt stop. It was like a floodgate was opened. I wish writing about every subject were that easy... I'd be set then.
My post on here and our exercise in class were totally different. My post here was fine, but my excercise in class was true. I wrote about being small. I wrote about the positive and negative aspects of being short. I loved that exercise because it forced you to take a negative and turn it into a positive or take a positive and truly see it for what it is. I think I took the easy way out, though, because I talked about my height. After reading other peoples responses, I think I cheated. I didn't really force myself to really take falut with a piece of me. This class is all about growth so I am going to do it again. #1 Raised and bumpy, or maybe flat and flush to my skin. Freeform and dangerous, or safe and cicular. Tan, dark brown, light brown. No bigger than the dot ot an i, or as big as the tip of an eraser. Yet, these marks cannot be erased. They cover my body with no ryhme or reason. They hold no purpose except to insight fear and infect my cells. Cancerous, Precancerous. The ammount of scars i have from their removal borders on insanity. Every six months a doctor rips them off to prevent skin cancer. Moles. Freckles. Covering my skin like paint splatter and breaking up a tan canvass. They multiply in numbers like an invading army after I have been in the sun. They keep me from wanting to be outside. Little dots of potential disease stare back at me and I am helpless.
#2 "Oh look, its the big dipper!" he said. "Here is Orion's belt," i heard as the pen tingled across my shoulder blades. It was Astronomy 101 and on this cloudy night we would fail our assignment. Splattered across my body like the stars in the sky, the discolored skin became our guide.Darker and lighter. Bigger and smaller. Some more obvious than others. His hands soon stopped tracing the lines he had drawn, and my goosebumps raised as high as the moles. Days later the lines still connected the stars on my arm, a constant reminder of heavenly love.
Hmm what did I write about in class for this topic? I think it was my knees, but I can’t remember. But, I don’t really want to remember because I remember how I approached the assignment (reluctantly) and I remember what I thought of my finished product (not so great) so I don’t think it is worth an earnest attempt at remembering. BUT, were I to be assigned this one-body-part-two-perceptions thing tomorrow, I would approach it much differently.
Because I have realized something. And the something is this:
It is so exciting and empowering to be able to write about the same subject in tons of different ways!
I did not just pull this conclusion out of the sky, either. I’ve found that rewriting from a completely different perspective allows for so much more depth in writing. Like Dr. P’s hands – both descriptions are awesome but when we get to read them together there is this deeper understanding and stronger connection that is built.
Connections. That’s what I talked about in my first post on this topic. Something to the effect of: it’s all about the connections that we make, and we’re shaped in the minds of others by the connections that we prompt them to make.
So…how do I like me now? Well, I see where I’m coming from (duh) but I’m starting to think that writing shouldn’t be so much about the connections – maybe that’s the reader’s job. How can I write with the intent of having someone latch on to my idea and drink it in? That’s too much pressure. Maybe it’s enough to just be real, throw out the bait, and see who bites.
Maybe it’s more like what Elissa said, “Just be you- whoever that is today.”
When I first replied to this post I felt like I could relate to Dr. P. Her hands matched the scars I held from my broken arm. I described the incident in detail. Putting aside my inhibitions and writing til it hurt. Noel and Aly both pointed out that we as writers can't possibly show a reader something without truly putting every ounce of our own emotion into a particular piece.
I remember reading Breaking Dawn over and over again until my eyes were so heavy, it looked like I had been smoking pot every hour on the hour, but I had to go back through it. Why? Because I had not truly grasped the emotion of Bella Swan giving birth to her new baby girl. I had not truly seen the grusome details. I would continue, but I don't want to give anything away for those of you who wish to see it. The whole book was different after reading it a second time. That's how i feel about the way I paint my own portrait.
I want readers to look back through my writing over and over until they grasp the true emotion hidden within the story. Yeah, I realize it's time consuming, but it will be so worth it in the end.
I hold on to my own portraits and from time to time I read back through each memory, just for fun.
The problem I have with relating this blog to body parts is that I find that I only feel one way about each of them. So, to try to talk about the good and the bad doesn't work. Although I can't do this with my physical attributes, I do like the concept of writing about one thing in different ways. I think it helps us see new sides of things. Like Zeke said, when I was writing the letter to myself, I noticed that I was looking at it differently. Things started coming back to me, but in a sort of new light. They way it came out on paper was different than what I expected. It was good though, to be able to see the events that I have once experienced in a new and more mature light. New things and feelings developed. I guess that is what is supposed to come of writing about things in different ways. You get something new out of it each time. It's like watching a movie over and over, or with different people each time. You notice something new that you overlooked before, or something is funny that you thought was dumb before. It's kind of awesome actually.
Laura M- I loved how you described your running experience as a gateway to different opportunities. I had something similar happen to me... only it was in Haley Center. There I am.. the meek, silent little freshman completely lost in the mouse maze that is Haley center. Ironically, I was trying to find my advisor who was going to (hopefully) turn the mess of my short college career around. Every hallway, turn, and staircase looked the same. Just when I managed to identify that I was in some area of languages I turned the corner and was in the realm of philosophy. Me being me, I was too afraid to ask for help and wander around so long I missed my appointment. I can't even explain the disheartened sense of failure that consumed me.
How am I ever going to listen to my advisor if I can't FIND my advisor? I felt like the epitome of a stupid freshman. But just as Laura realized the potential of the different paths in the woods, so did I. Here I was in the midst of academia and all I was thinking of was finding the elevator.
We often have such a set idea of who we should be and how we should act (especially in certain circumstances or with certain people) that we miss the multitude of opportunities that surround us. We're so busy looking at our hands or our eyes or feet that we don't see the elbows, the eyebrows, or the ears. Just as I was wandering in Haley like a lost puppy, I am also wandering through life missing out on the person that I have the potential to be- mostly because I'm too busy trying to micromanage who I am rather than see that potential. I think it was Tolkien who said "not all who wander are lost" and maybe we should apply the same idea to our portraits of ourselves.
Lol @ Luke. I wrote about my ass (or lack thereof) last year.
I really didn’t like the Portrait of my Body piece. It kind of creeped me out a little bit. Too much penis talk for me.
Anyways, my sister and I just watched that movie about the surfer girl who got her arm bit off by a shark. I was sitting here thinking, I wonder what her “portrait of her body” would be. I tried to imagine having to relearn how to do everything all over again. Literally everything. The movie showed a montage of her trying to cut fruit and put her clothes on and do her hair. Every day things that we do in the blink of an eye without thinking. To no longer be able to do them with relative ease seems outlandish.
What’s my point? I am not really sure. I guess I was thinking how are bodies really are only temporary. So why do we spend so much time obsessing over them? I mean, I am totally not trying to sound all high and mighty. Hell, I count calories like a crazy person and check myself every time I pass a mirror. That’s right, I am not ashamed of my vanity. But really…why? Why do we focus so much on something that we are going to leave eventually? Either to move on to the life or to move on to the next body (if you believe in that sort of thing) or to just become worm food.
I guess that’s what makes us human. The inability to look past our imperfections. As writers we embrace this and use our imperfections to our advantage. Making fun of ourselves makes us likeable. Hey, at least we aren’t making fun of other people.
But then there are those like the one-armed surfer girl (Bethany Hamilton is her name) who understand that this is just a temporary thing and learn to look past the imperfections.
To me, this topic makes me think of the previous blog (flashbacks) in some ways. The idea of being beautifully human still seems to be present. Dr. PD talks about her hands in two different ways. One description definitely sheds a better light on her hands, but is that description necessarily more beautiful? No, I think not. Isn’t admitting our faults just as beautiful (if not more beautiful) as trying to make ourselves sound better than what we really are? We all have parts of our body that we aren’t exactly comfortable with, but embracing the things that we are insecure about is a way of showing our overall confidence in ourselves. The same should be true in our writing. There are some of us (ME, ME, ME) that are insecure about our writing. We know it isn’t perfect, so therefore we think that we should keep it to ourselves… or at least I do.
I can personally relate to Noel’s post that talks about how it is difficult to convey the “real” her in her writing. This is most definitely a problem that I have with my own writing. Almost every teacher I have had in the past has been so focused on perfection. When a rubric was given, the purpose of that rubric was for me to follow it completely. There was no encouragement to let the real me shine through in my writing, because quite frankly, my teachers didn’t care. Their only concern was for me to write them a flawless essay with substantial research and correct grammar usage. Yes, we should know how to do these things, but expecting perfection is not realistic due to the fact that we are humans, and we are in fact… flawed.
Yes, there are things about my body that I would like to change. But in reality, these things that I consider flaws are part of what makes me who I am. It is the same scenario when referring to myself as a writer. There are certainly things that I would like to change or that I would like to do better, but it is these characteristics that make me who I am as a writer.
This was hard for me. I was at a total loss when this came around the first time. When we wrote about it in class, I wrote about the scar on my knee the night my then-boyfriend tried forcing me to meet his mom. I got shit housed instead. It was raining and I was running across my side porch and absolutely busted my ass. In hindsight-- all of these things are symbols of how dramatic the relationship was, and the terrible turn it took. I wrote that all I wanted was some mederma to get rid of the little bastard... also a symbol... my dermatologist told me I'd be better off flushing my money down the toilet, that that stuff doesn't work. In a way, I was glad he said that... I'm not ready for that scar to go away, yet. I personally re-cut it open (sidenote: I am not a cutter) this weekend when he came to town to move away for good and I fell back into the comfort and the bull shit and the lies and the problems...
We so often let what we believe to be shortcomings, which in reality is our individuality define us, but we need to look past all of that in order to move forth. When we embrace this we are able to realize what beautiful souls all of us really are and these defining factors are important to become "us"
Looking back on my old blog, I see that I really have a love/hate relationship with my knees. I think this stems from the love/hate relationship with myself as so many other thinsg do. So this go round, I'm going to go a step further and write about my self. My real self. Not my knees. Isn't it so fun?
I am ill today. PMS I suppose.But who doesn't abuse that excuse? I don't like my body. My belly is bloated. My shirt is stained from the dirty hands of a 2 year old. My teeth bare the stains of an iced cookie I hsouldn't have eaten.My room is dirty. And shark week reminds me of my looming family beach trip. How comforting. My anxiety is bugging me. A glass of wine is calling me. And inspiration dances on my fingertips, but only to tease me.
I am at peace today. I ate too many sweets, but they smile in my belly. I built a fort with my cousins to pass the babysitting time, and they thought I was awesome. (I kind of did too.) We baked cookies with icing and sprinkles, and the green-stained teeth they flashed at me were reward enough for the mess. I fed a hungry family with gumbo I made, and they were more than satisfied. My cup runeth over. And for all the things I am and for the all things I am not, (no Victoria's Secret goddess but a domestic one)I love myself.
In class I wrote about my ass. For kicks I guess and becaue I enjoy humor. The ass is intrinsically funny like a fart. The fart comes from the ass. Is there a connection there? I will have to say no, or at least not based on that logic because ass-bumps aren't funny and neither is ass-sweat. But someone mooning someone is funny because it goes against the normal. It's like a tiny blip on a straight-laced radar. My god.
But yeah, they all have their stories like my ass for instance. I went streaking on a beach one time really late at night. I can still feel the wind against my flesh. I felt so nimble so natural, so NAKED! I was thinking that night that I wanted a change up something fresh and new both mentally and socially. So I stripped down to my skivies, hoped against hope no one would find me (unless it was a girl who was hoping for a naked guy at that exact moment) and began my ASSault on the cool sand in the night.
I equate my body parts to stories. I'll probably name this one, later, maybe something like Freedom and Nakedness; maybe something a little less forward.
I apparently wasn’t in class for this activity so I figure I might as well try it now….
#1 Feet. They carry you everywhere. Once graceful in ballet slippers, toes pointed to create the perfect arch. Centering my body for “demi plie, demi plie, and ggggrrrraaaanndddd plie” (as my dance teacher used to call out). They hurt after that day at the beech when I abused them by walking close to 5 miles barefooted in the sand and rubbed the majority of the tough skin off the bottom, leaving them blistered and raw. They center me in the saddle, the stirrup angled across the ball of the foot. They’ve been stepped on by boys and horses alike, recovering each time with a warning throb. They liked to be propped up on the coffee at the end of the day as I cozy into the couch with my dog for some cuddling time. They support my obsession with shoes, mostly above 3-inch heels, as long as I give them a flipflop or tennis shoe day every once in a while. They carry me through the motions of my life. My feet.
#2 My feet. Large, wide, with thick toes (thanks dad). One big toenail thickened and slightly discolored from having a horse step quite firmly on it and snapping the toe nail off. All that blood gushing through the mesh of your tennis shoes. At least it grew back. Polish always conceals the slightly yellow tone of the nail that grew back (a miracle that it grew back at all, the doctors said). The other foot plays host to a deformed toenail also, although this time it is the little toe. The nail is almost nonexistent. I sometimes try to conceal the relative absence of that nail but painting the skin to look like there is a nail there. Pains from wearing heels shooting through my balls and arches and heels. And yet I keep walking… my feet.
For the in class assignment I think I wrote about my nose and two different view points of how it's gotten me where I am today. In one point of view I talked about how everyone always made fun of how big it was and how it had a large bump where I had broken it in basketball...but in the other viewpoint I talked about how it allowed me to experience smells of all types and opened up the world in a new light.
In my blog post I talked about fingers and hands telling a story. It's still true today. No one can look at your fingers and hands and understand the experiences and situations they've been through. So it's our job as writers to tell that story to everyone else. We can't hold back behind bottled up emotions. Our voice deserves to be heard.
I think the best part about this blog and that assignment was being able to see something in two totally different ways. Before I just viewed my nose as a hindrance and never really thought of how much joy and experience, and good in life it has brought me.
So I guess the overall message is to maybe think of our writing from different perspectives and angles. To cover every aspects or our warrants and voices so that we don't miss out our something important because we think it's too emotion or insignificant.
In class I wrote about my lower back. Then, being the genius I am, I decided to write about my lower back again when I posted on the blog for the first time. An then, wouldnt you know it,after writing two truly horrible pieces about the ole lumbar region I was complimented on my lower back about a week and a half ago. I was walking around without my shirt on, showing off (or as most women will tell you "embarrassing myself" or "looking like an idiot") , when a lovely young lady told me that she thought my lower back looked better than the rest of my body. I'll take a compliment no matter how backhanded it may be. When she said that, I immediately thought about what a great idea it was to write about my lower back instead of another, less glamorous part of my anatomy. Thank you Dr. P. Without this class I would have never realized the true beauty of backs.
I remember that when I read this post for the first time I just felt like crying. I wasn’t (and am still not) sure exactly why. But I do know that I felt confused and hopeless, like there was so much uncertainty around that I might as well give up. (I even skipped class the next day. Gasp!)
ReplyDeleteSo, a lot of you wrote about being true to the self in writing. Which is all fine and dandy, but there’s a hitch: who are we? And then, we realize that we are so many things. And that scares me.
The other day I went to jog at Kiesel Park. This was my first time there (I have on multiple occasions driven there and then chickened out at, and so I turn around and drive home.) There are a few different walking trails, which are all loops, and they all overlap each other at some point. For the first few intersections I came to, I’d stop and become distressed at now knowing which direction to go. After a while I stopped thinking about it. I could choose the way shaded with trees or the way that looked like a grassy plain in Kansas. But it didn’t take long to figure out that each path was liable to change in scenery as soon as I entered. Eventually I was pretty lost (my sense of direction is nonexistent). At each turn I felt like I had already been down that way. They all looked so similar. But I also saw vastly different details with every stretch of trail. So even if I did go physically go through the same place twice, it was an entirely new experience. And, until the weather made its usual summer afternoon transformation from sunny to stormy, being lost actually became fun.
Morgan Birdsong’s post reminded me of this - You talk about hovering between all the different sides of ourselves, and the different sides can enter depending on what the situation requires. The idea of writing about the same thing a hundred different ways is wildly exciting in a way. Finding balance is nice, but occasionally blowing from one extreme to another can’t hurt, can it?
Portrait #1
ReplyDeleteI have bags under my eyes. I have had them since I was 13 or so. They developed over long nights, reading books and listening to records during those long, lonely nights of high-school. These bags made me feel different, superior even, as if I knew the torment of a sleepless night searching for a truth that was stifled from me during the day, during school when I was not free to be myself. My bags represented the defining line between me and the others, w/ their pristine faces, ready for school. My bags were knowledge, longing, real passion that was not allowed expression, especially not in a Bapatist high school. But also, my bags were solely mine, cuse no one else could possibly understand the depth I imbued to them, lying just below the surface. These bags represented my true self, the wariness of time on sucha young face, staring at the others who had yet tried for this process of self discovery. My bags held knowlege, knowledge that none had access to, because I cose it to be that way.
Portrait #2
The truth, though, is that my bags were born of self-doubt and loathing. Trying to find my place in a school that was full of people that were harsh and unaccepting. An attempt to give myself some worth in their eyes, some sort of intellectual stimulus that they hadn't experienced (I realize now that you do not get popular by railing off William S. Burroughs quotes). My bags were truly products of speed binges, stealing my mothers perscription diet pills to grind my teeth all night trying to write/draw/read myself to a better person, some person of worth. The bags under my eyes were truly a plea for help,from someone or something. Searching for some sign that things would get better. Some sign that life was not this constant isolation, that I did hold a true place in the world.
The paradox is that in the end my bags are both of these things, and that will always skew my view of the world. Because I have glimpsed true passion and true lonliness.
I wrote about my one dimple in the class exercise, but didn’t talk about it on my blog. I have realized that the two sides of my dimple really focuses on my own performance in reaction to what people say about it. My positive side reflects flattery and self-confidence in myself whereas my negative side shows irritation and annoyance with adults for treating me like a child or a dog: “Oh look how cute that is! Aren’t you a pretty girl? Who’s a pretty girl?”
ReplyDeleteIt’s always easier to thing of the negative. My positive assets do not elude me, but on any given day, the negatives overwhelm the positives. Again, I return to performance. Whether or not I feel like crap, I can perform like I’m maavalous. No one has to know about the darkness screaming inside until I can let it out on I-85. The audience does not have to know your darkest secrets, but letting them peek in the closet doesn’t hurt to connect with them. They’ll understand because they have old bones in theirs too.
When I first wrote this blog I decided to write about three different personality traits that I possessed: the friendly desk person at the Writing Center, the mean stepper, and the wannabe and hopeful actor. lol.
ReplyDeleteIn class, Dr. P read this blog prompt aloud and we are asked to write about our body parts or something along those lines. I believe I wrote about my eyebrows. My Uncle Larry has these same triangle eyebrows. My eyebrows are ugly at times because they appear "devilish" or like "Eddie Munster from the old black and white T.V. show.
But my eyebrows also show that I am suprised. Wouldn't need any botox ,and they are also naturally arched (a trait a lot of girls wished they had).
This blog just showed me that writers can be very creative and think on their feet. This exercise reminded me of two things. First the Props game on Whose Line is It Anyway. The actors had to use a prop for different scenes with a few seconds to come up with new ways to use them. (It's hiliarious! Wayne Brady is the man.)
The second thing this blog made me think about was our second paper. We were asked to write a letter to ourselves. In writing the letter to myself, I got to look back on past moments on my life and give the younger Zeke some insight and advice.
As writers we have the great responsbility of refershing the old cliches . I guess this exercise goes back to the "showing and not telling" notion that that's been drill in our heads. Show how someone is sad instead of just saying.... And he was sad.
This is one we wrote in class isn't it? I wrote on my hands, but I didn't talk about one thing.
ReplyDeleteMy hands (particularly the right) piss me off. I inherited a short thumb from my grandmother--that's what my mom tells me--and I hate it. My friends love to joke with me about it, and I wish I could stab them with my short thumb on certain occasions.
But then my hands give me the ability to do many things I love. I have a secret hobby of calligraphy. I couldn't do it without my stubby thumb positioning the pen at just the right angle.
Give and take. Just like writing, just like everything in life.
They say that “eyes are the windows to the soul.” I say that it’s not just the eyes. Its every part of your body that says something about you. There are so many things you can learn without even having to be told. Does that person have rough hands? They probably work outside. Your body, or rather the marks of your body, tells a story and sometimes it’s a comedy, a tragedy, a what-in-the-hell... But these “flaws” are what make you interesting. I have a dent in my forehead, which is not really attractive, but I’ve got a hell of a story when people ask me what’s up. People like hearing about these things that are different from anybody else. I have quite a bit of hearing loss and have to wear hearing aids, which I despise. What 21 year old wants to admit this? No matter the 18 year old who go them. How embarrassing. Yet, when I tell them I’m also a music major the next question that follows is “How does a person with hearing loss major in music?” Something that is not so beautiful or perfect to me turns out to be a major success story to others. I can’t quite figure out why that is. I guess people just like different…as long as it’s not associated with them.
ReplyDeleteI was reading what Morgan Birdsong had to say and I really agree with her first paragraph. How many times have you done something and thought “that wasn’t like me,” “why did I say that?” “why did I do that?” Sometimes we do and say things that shock ourselves. Does that mean that what we just said or did isn’t a part of ourselves? Absolutely not! Even though it sounds a little schizophrenic… we have a lot of different parts of us.
ReplyDeleteI know that I tend to be a different person around different groups of people.
For example:
1. when I am just with my boyfriend, I feel like I can be my true self. I don’t have to put on any masks. I can just be me. I can say what I want and do what I want and not feel like I have to hide anything about myself.
2. Now, it is a totally different thing when I am with my boyfriend’s family. They are very conservative people and because of this, I feel like I have to be guarded. I cannot say all of the things that I want to say. I don’t even listen to the type of music I would normally listen to.
3. How about when I meet a new group of people? I am usually really quiet and reserved. I don’t want to say anything that could offend someone. I don’t want to say something that might make those people not like me.
I think all of these parts of me could come across in my writing. And I think that they are all me. However, I think that the last one, example number three is usually the part of me that I allow to write. I don’t want people to see the true me. They might not like me. They might not like what I have to say. So, in order to prevent my reader from not liking me, I put a nice little bow on what I have to say. And that’s kinda sad isn’t it. I wish I could write more like Almond. But, I am going to have to grow up a lot more first and get comfortable with who I am. Almond is obviously very comfortable with himself and his ideals. Hopefully one day I will grow up to be a mini- Almond, or at least have some of his confidence.
My first response... all still very much true. But this time, I have decided to get off my lazy ass and do something about my most hated feature on my body.
ReplyDeleteThe same can be said about writing, instead of sitting on our butts feeling sorry for ourselves and blaming this that or the other, swallow the criticism and strive for a better tomorrow.
Somedays you are going to be so on fire when you write that not even Steve Almond, himself, could criticize you, and other days, kinder-gardeners have formed better sentences than you. It's all a part of this bigger picture, called life. Sometimes we're up and sometimes we're down.
But this attitude also has be thinking about something a wise man once told me, 'Life is not about being up or down, but more life 2 railroad tracks. One is always going one way, and the other is going in the opposite direction. There are always things that are going good and there are always things that are going bad.' Life is never fair and it is never perfect.
Perfection is something that is always going to be just out of our reach. Yes, that does include perfection in our writing too. You have to accept that you do some things well and other things not so well. Sometimes you're on and sometimes you're off. It's about working your ass off to be the best writer that you are capable of being. Just be the best you. That in itself is perfection.
I love how Morgan Birdsong used the angel and the devil in this post. When I look back on my post, I talked about different personalities that I have for writing. The angel and devil can be applied to writing as well. I think the devil is sitting on our shoulders when we are being forced to write about something…boring. You just want to avoid this paper altogether, but that angel with the golden halo is saying, “You’ve got to play by the rules.” For me, the devil and the angel are battling against each other—they are trying to get the most out of you. It’s almost like they are PUSHing you to do better by battling back and forth on your shoulders.
ReplyDeleteBut, I agree that our personalities are like that too. My family expects me to act one way when I’m around everyone. In fact…that’s not so true. When I’m around my friends, I’m not completely different. There is just a lighter feeling about me because I know they know that I can be both people and still be Noel. I would never act the way I would in a bar as I would in church. They are standards for how I need to act anywhere I go…people who expect me to act all churchy even on a Saturday night. There is nothing wrong with that. But I have diverse personalities for different occasions.
I wrote about my hands and what they mean to me. I love my hands, without them I would be lost... no way to play music and no way tofeel..to touch the world that surrounds me. I love to build and fix things
ReplyDelete(without hands this would be estremely difficult if not impossible)
I look at my hands and see the scars, the deformed ring finger that holds a dent from wearing a ring that likely a tad too small. My hands make me who I am and they tell me who I was.
Writing about my body was a difficult task for me at first, but once I got started I almost couldnt stop. It was like a floodgate was opened. I wish writing about every subject were that easy... I'd be set then.
My post on here and our exercise in class were totally different. My post here was fine, but my excercise in class was true. I wrote about being small. I wrote about the positive and negative aspects of being short. I loved that exercise because it forced you to take a negative and turn it into a positive or take a positive and truly see it for what it is. I think I took the easy way out, though, because I talked about my height. After reading other peoples responses, I think I cheated. I didn't really force myself to really take falut with a piece of me. This class is all about growth so I am going to do it again.
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Raised and bumpy, or maybe flat and flush to my skin. Freeform and dangerous, or safe and cicular. Tan, dark brown, light brown. No bigger than the dot ot an i, or as big as the tip of an eraser. Yet, these marks cannot be erased. They cover my body with no ryhme or reason. They hold no purpose except to insight fear and infect my cells. Cancerous, Precancerous. The ammount of scars i have from their removal borders on insanity. Every six months a doctor rips them off to prevent skin cancer. Moles. Freckles. Covering my skin like paint splatter and breaking up a tan canvass. They multiply in numbers like an invading army after I have been in the sun. They keep me from wanting to be outside. Little dots of potential disease stare back at me and I am helpless.
#2
"Oh look, its the big dipper!" he said. "Here is Orion's belt," i heard as the pen tingled across my shoulder blades. It was Astronomy 101 and on this cloudy night we would fail our assignment. Splattered across my body like the stars in the sky, the discolored skin became our guide.Darker and lighter. Bigger and smaller. Some more obvious than others. His hands soon stopped tracing the lines he had drawn, and my goosebumps raised as high as the moles. Days later the lines still connected the stars on my arm, a constant reminder of heavenly love.
Hmm what did I write about in class for this topic? I think it was my knees, but I can’t remember. But, I don’t really want to remember because I remember how I approached the assignment (reluctantly) and I remember what I thought of my finished product (not so great) so I don’t think it is worth an earnest attempt at remembering. BUT, were I to be assigned this one-body-part-two-perceptions thing tomorrow, I would approach it much differently.
ReplyDeleteBecause I have realized something. And the something is this:
It is so exciting and empowering to be able to write about the same subject in tons of different ways!
I did not just pull this conclusion out of the sky, either. I’ve found that rewriting from a completely different perspective allows for so much more depth in writing. Like Dr. P’s hands – both descriptions are awesome but when we get to read them together there is this deeper understanding and stronger connection that is built.
Connections. That’s what I talked about in my first post on this topic. Something to the effect of: it’s all about the connections that we make, and we’re shaped in the minds of others by the connections that we prompt them to make.
So…how do I like me now? Well, I see where I’m coming from (duh) but I’m starting to think that writing shouldn’t be so much about the connections – maybe that’s the reader’s job. How can I write with the intent of having someone latch on to my idea and drink it in? That’s too much pressure. Maybe it’s enough to just be real, throw out the bait, and see who bites.
Maybe it’s more like what Elissa said, “Just be you- whoever that is today.”
When I first replied to this post I felt like I could relate to Dr. P. Her hands matched the scars I held from my broken arm. I described the incident in detail. Putting aside my inhibitions and writing til it hurt. Noel and Aly both pointed out that we as writers can't possibly show a reader something without truly putting every ounce of our own emotion into a particular piece.
ReplyDeleteI remember reading Breaking Dawn over and over again until my eyes were so heavy, it looked like I had been smoking pot every hour on the hour, but I had to go back through it. Why? Because I had not truly grasped the emotion of Bella Swan giving birth to her new baby girl. I had not truly seen the grusome details. I would continue, but I don't want to give anything away for those of you who wish to see it. The whole book was different after reading it a second time. That's how i feel about the way I paint my own portrait.
I want readers to look back through my writing over and over until they grasp the true emotion hidden within the story. Yeah, I realize it's time consuming, but it will be so worth it in the end.
I hold on to my own portraits and from time to time I read back through each memory, just for fun.
The problem I have with relating this blog to body parts is that I find that I only feel one way about each of them. So, to try to talk about the good and the bad doesn't work. Although I can't do this with my physical attributes, I do like the concept of writing about one thing in different ways. I think it helps us see new sides of things. Like Zeke said, when I was writing the letter to myself, I noticed that I was looking at it differently. Things started coming back to me, but in a sort of new light. They way it came out on paper was different than what I expected. It was good though, to be able to see the events that I have once experienced in a new and more mature light. New things and feelings developed. I guess that is what is supposed to come of writing about things in different ways. You get something new out of it each time. It's like watching a movie over and over, or with different people each time. You notice something new that you overlooked before, or something is funny that you thought was dumb before. It's kind of awesome actually.
ReplyDeleteLaura M- I loved how you described your running experience as a gateway to different opportunities. I had something similar happen to me... only it was in Haley Center. There I am.. the meek, silent little freshman completely lost in the mouse maze that is Haley center. Ironically, I was trying to find my advisor who was going to (hopefully) turn the mess of my short college career around. Every hallway, turn, and staircase looked the same. Just when I managed to identify that I was in some area of languages I turned the corner and was in the realm of philosophy. Me being me, I was too afraid to ask for help and wander around so long I missed my appointment. I can't even explain the disheartened sense of failure that consumed me.
ReplyDeleteHow am I ever going to listen to my advisor if I can't FIND my advisor? I felt like the epitome of a stupid freshman. But just as Laura realized the potential of the different paths in the woods, so did I. Here I was in the midst of academia and all I was thinking of was finding the elevator.
We often have such a set idea of who we should be and how we should act (especially in certain circumstances or with certain people) that we miss the multitude of opportunities that surround us. We're so busy looking at our hands or our eyes or feet that we don't see the elbows, the eyebrows, or the ears. Just as I was wandering in Haley like a lost puppy, I am also wandering through life missing out on the person that I have the potential to be- mostly because I'm too busy trying to micromanage who I am rather than see that potential. I think it was Tolkien who said "not all who wander are lost" and maybe we should apply the same idea to our portraits of ourselves.
Lol @ Luke. I wrote about my ass (or lack thereof) last year.
ReplyDeleteI really didn’t like the Portrait of my Body piece. It kind of creeped me out a little bit. Too much penis talk for me.
Anyways, my sister and I just watched that movie about the surfer girl who got her arm bit off by a shark. I was sitting here thinking, I wonder what her “portrait of her body” would be. I tried to imagine having to relearn how to do everything all over again. Literally everything. The movie showed a montage of her trying to cut fruit and put her clothes on and do her hair. Every day things that we do in the blink of an eye without thinking. To no longer be able to do them with relative ease seems outlandish.
What’s my point? I am not really sure. I guess I was thinking how are bodies really are only temporary. So why do we spend so much time obsessing over them? I mean, I am totally not trying to sound all high and mighty. Hell, I count calories like a crazy person and check myself every time I pass a mirror. That’s right, I am not ashamed of my vanity. But really…why? Why do we focus so much on something that we are going to leave eventually? Either to move on to the life or to move on to the next body (if you believe in that sort of thing) or to just become worm food.
I guess that’s what makes us human. The inability to look past our imperfections. As writers we embrace this and use our imperfections to our advantage. Making fun of ourselves makes us likeable. Hey, at least we aren’t making fun of other people.
But then there are those like the one-armed surfer girl (Bethany Hamilton is her name) who understand that this is just a temporary thing and learn to look past the imperfections.
To me, this topic makes me think of the previous blog (flashbacks) in some ways. The idea of being beautifully human still seems to be present. Dr. PD talks about her hands in two different ways. One description definitely sheds a better light on her hands, but is that description necessarily more beautiful? No, I think not. Isn’t admitting our faults just as beautiful (if not more beautiful) as trying to make ourselves sound better than what we really are? We all have parts of our body that we aren’t exactly comfortable with, but embracing the things that we are insecure about is a way of showing our overall confidence in ourselves. The same should be true in our writing. There are some of us (ME, ME, ME) that are insecure about our writing. We know it isn’t perfect, so therefore we think that we should keep it to ourselves… or at least I do.
ReplyDeleteI can personally relate to Noel’s post that talks about how it is difficult to convey the “real” her in her writing. This is most definitely a problem that I have with my own writing. Almost every teacher I have had in the past has been so focused on perfection. When a rubric was given, the purpose of that rubric was for me to follow it completely. There was no encouragement to let the real me shine through in my writing, because quite frankly, my teachers didn’t care. Their only concern was for me to write them a flawless essay with substantial research and correct grammar usage. Yes, we should know how to do these things, but expecting perfection is not realistic due to the fact that we are humans, and we are in fact… flawed.
Yes, there are things about my body that I would like to change. But in reality, these things that I consider flaws are part of what makes me who I am. It is the same scenario when referring to myself as a writer. There are certainly things that I would like to change or that I would like to do better, but it is these characteristics that make me who I am as a writer.
This was hard for me. I was at a total loss when this came around the first time. When we wrote about it in class, I wrote about the scar on my knee the night my then-boyfriend tried forcing me to meet his mom. I got shit housed instead. It was raining and I was running across my side porch and absolutely busted my ass. In hindsight-- all of these things are symbols of how dramatic the relationship was, and the terrible turn it took. I wrote that all I wanted was some mederma to get rid of the little bastard... also a symbol... my dermatologist told me I'd be better off flushing my money down the toilet, that that stuff doesn't work. In a way, I was glad he said that... I'm not ready for that scar to go away, yet. I personally re-cut it open (sidenote: I am not a cutter) this weekend when he came to town to move away for good and I fell back into the comfort and the bull shit and the lies and the problems...
ReplyDeleteWe so often let what we believe to be shortcomings, which in reality is our individuality define us, but we need to look past all of that in order to move forth. When we embrace this we are able to realize what beautiful souls all of us really are and these defining factors are important to become "us"
Looking back on my old blog, I see that I really have a love/hate relationship with my knees. I think this stems from the love/hate relationship with myself as so many other thinsg do. So this go round, I'm going to go a step further and write about my self. My real self. Not my knees. Isn't it so fun?
ReplyDeleteI am ill today. PMS I suppose.But who doesn't abuse that excuse? I don't like my body. My belly is bloated. My shirt is stained from the dirty hands of a 2 year old. My teeth bare the stains of an iced cookie I hsouldn't have eaten.My room is dirty. And shark week reminds me of my looming family beach trip. How comforting. My anxiety is bugging me. A glass of wine is calling me. And inspiration dances on my fingertips, but only to tease me.
I am at peace today. I ate too many sweets, but they smile in my belly. I built a fort with my cousins to pass the babysitting time, and they thought I was awesome. (I kind of did too.) We baked cookies with icing and sprinkles, and the green-stained teeth they flashed at me were reward enough for the mess. I fed a hungry family with gumbo I made, and they were more than satisfied. My cup runeth over. And for all the things I am and for the all things I am not, (no Victoria's Secret goddess but a domestic one)I love myself.
In class I wrote about my ass. For kicks I guess and becaue I enjoy humor. The ass is intrinsically funny like a fart. The fart comes from the ass. Is there a connection there? I will have to say no, or at least not based on that logic because ass-bumps aren't funny and neither is ass-sweat. But someone mooning someone is funny because it goes against the normal. It's like a tiny blip on a straight-laced radar. My god.
ReplyDeleteBut yeah, they all have their stories like my ass for instance. I went streaking on a beach one time really late at night. I can still feel the wind against my flesh. I felt so nimble so natural, so NAKED! I was thinking that night that I wanted a change up something fresh and new both mentally and socially. So I stripped down to my skivies, hoped against hope no one would find me (unless it was a girl who was hoping for a naked guy at that exact moment) and began my ASSault on the cool sand in the night.
I equate my body parts to stories. I'll probably name this one, later, maybe something like Freedom and Nakedness; maybe something a little less forward.
I apparently wasn’t in class for this activity so I figure I might as well try it now….
ReplyDelete#1
Feet. They carry you everywhere. Once graceful in ballet slippers, toes pointed to create the perfect arch. Centering my body for “demi plie, demi plie, and ggggrrrraaaanndddd plie” (as my dance teacher used to call out). They hurt after that day at the beech when I abused them by walking close to 5 miles barefooted in the sand and rubbed the majority of the tough skin off the bottom, leaving them blistered and raw. They center me in the saddle, the stirrup angled across the ball of the foot. They’ve been stepped on by boys and horses alike, recovering each time with a warning throb. They liked to be propped up on the coffee at the end of the day as I cozy into the couch with my dog for some cuddling time. They support my obsession with shoes, mostly above 3-inch heels, as long as I give them a flipflop or tennis shoe day every once in a while. They carry me through the motions of my life. My feet.
#2
My feet. Large, wide, with thick toes (thanks dad). One big toenail thickened and slightly discolored from having a horse step quite firmly on it and snapping the toe nail off. All that blood gushing through the mesh of your tennis shoes. At least it grew back. Polish always conceals the slightly yellow tone of the nail that grew back (a miracle that it grew back at all, the doctors said). The other foot plays host to a deformed toenail also, although this time it is the little toe. The nail is almost nonexistent. I sometimes try to conceal the relative absence of that nail but painting the skin to look like there is a nail there. Pains from wearing heels shooting through my balls and arches and heels. And yet I keep walking… my feet.
For the in class assignment I think I wrote about my nose and two different view points of how it's gotten me where I am today. In one point of view I talked about how everyone always made fun of how big it was and how it had a large bump where I had broken it in basketball...but in the other viewpoint I talked about how it allowed me to experience smells of all types and opened up the world in a new light.
ReplyDeleteIn my blog post I talked about fingers and hands telling a story. It's still true today. No one can look at your fingers and hands and understand the experiences and situations they've been through. So it's our job as writers to tell that story to everyone else. We can't hold back behind bottled up emotions. Our voice deserves to be heard.
I think the best part about this blog and that assignment was being able to see something in two totally different ways. Before I just viewed my nose as a hindrance and never really thought of how much joy and experience, and good in life it has brought me.
So I guess the overall message is to maybe think of our writing from different perspectives and angles. To cover every aspects or our warrants and voices so that we don't miss out our something important because we think it's too emotion or insignificant.
In class I wrote about my lower back. Then, being the genius I am, I decided to write about my lower back again when I posted on the blog for the first time. An then, wouldnt you know it,after writing two truly horrible pieces about the ole lumbar region I was complimented on my lower back about a week and a half ago. I was walking around without my shirt on, showing off (or as most women will tell you "embarrassing myself" or "looking like an idiot") , when a lovely young lady told me that she thought my lower back looked better than the rest of my body. I'll take a compliment no matter how backhanded it may be. When she said that, I immediately thought about what a great idea it was to write about my lower back instead of another, less glamorous part of my anatomy. Thank you Dr. P. Without this class I would have never realized the true beauty of backs.
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