Fragments:
So many options. Mulling them over in my mind.
Do I want that one? Yes...No...Maybe. What if I’m wrong?
Feeling perplexed and anxious. Rushing. I have to make a decision soon.
Blank stare at the screen, options blurring together. Focus.
I come to a final decision...I think.
Suddenly the question comes. Ice cream flavor?
Default. "I'll take chocolate," I say.
Santa Baby/World,
Things I want for Christmas/Birthday/Thanksgiving/Election Day/Halloween/Columbus Day/Every Day because they are all coming up, and lets be honest, I just am in a wanting mood (sorry) and the reasoning behind my wantings:
-Black leggings. How nice for warmth under jeans (I don’t care if this is nerdy) or for cuteness under my new dress.
-Dress. Wouldn’t this be nice in a nice shade of every color? I still share clothes with my mom. I believe it is time for my own considering she lives in
-Peacock headband or hairclip. I saw Sara O.’s (she’s in at least two of my classes so I get to see her and covet her things often) and I think it’s is exactly what I need.
-A 16”x24” frame. These are hard to find! They are expensive to have made, but it is for our wedding picture…
-Seven Jeans. Yes, this is over the top, I know. But you see, Ryan told me to guess the school that matched a mascot symbol and if I got it I could have anything I wanted, so I dramatically announced the jeans. I guessed U Penn instead of
-A haircut. You should see these split-ends and limp locks. It is time for a style!
-Some teacher-y clothes. Ry and I went through my closet a few days ago and got rid of a bunch of stuff—things my mother has been begging me to trash since high-school. I guess it takes a man. We made rules about nice words and non-insults, etc. The outcome was good, except that we wanted to get rid of more of my dressy things, but couldn’t because I need things to teach in. I just can’t stand in front of 30 high-schoolers five times a day wearing the same thing every Tuesday. Call me vain. The specific list:
-Brown or tan slacks.
-Classy flats in every color. Necessary to spice up a drab winter AND so I won’t die on my feet all day. Clearly a necessity.
-Nice sweaters. I have to look older than these kids!
-Some more button-ups. Confession: I have a purple one from 7th grade. It just now fits. I should probably get rid of it.
-Other varied nice shirts. (Wo)man cannot live on sweaters and button-ups alone.
-Anything else a teacher needs to wear to be swank.
-Teacher-y bag. As I am the height of a high-schooler and the only difference in our appearances is the ring on my finger, I simple cannot wear a backpack, no matter how convenient it is.
-Black eyeliner. Mine is a stub and an actual pencil. Unheard of because the roll-up kind is just better.
-Sweater boots. I have honestly wanted these since 6th grade, but I thought they were too trendy. They’re still around, so I think it’s about time.
-A million bazillion dollars. This would clearly solve all of the above problems.
Thanks and don’t worry too much about any of this except the money, because really, I don’t want to be presumptuous and ask too much.
Love,
Alarie
I take my pen in hand, poising above a crisp white sheet, and wait...waiting for the muse that will guide my fingers, my thoughts into a labyrinth of words that will astound, amaze and delight readers for years to come.
Who are you trying to kid! You can't force genius...you can't force what? You have limited skill and any great sentence that comes is just sheer luck. There is not much to do here, but start writing. Keep writing. Keep trudging. Keep on keepin' on. You will make it – it won't be Shakespeare – but it will be a piece of paper with writing on it.
Thoughts surround me, seeming to float just out of reach, laughing airily as they rush by. I breathe slowly. In, out. In, out. Relax. In, out. I begin to feel the fluttering thoughts hover closer to me. They are curious. Will I ignore them? Will they have to leave and inspire another writer? They sneak closer and closer as I respirate, pondering the effects if they disturb my reverie with their brilliance. Then, silently, a stunning thought touches down on my shoulder, pleasantly whispering sheer inspiration into my waiting brain.
You are crazylocoinsaneridiculous! There is not a person on this planet who will be willing to listen to your drivel. Honestly, a sentence about writing a sentence. It doesn't even make sense. You had better stop...
Almost total silence reigns - You're right ALMOST, you better stop before... - as I quickly scribble the words that will convey the inspired thought I have just had the privilege of entertaining. Words come with ease. I write. I create. I fly. There is a masterpiece in the making. I will rise and conquer the world of Grammar with my brilliance. Voilà. It is done. I am master of words, Master of Grammar. I have created perfection.
In light of our discussion in class about the concept of orthographic variation, I thought I'd share this little bit from Charlie Brooker, writing in The Guardian, where he headlines his article "There's too much stuff. We live in a stuff-a-lanche. It's time for a cultural diet." How about that word "stuff-a-lanche"? Pretty nice, I think. And the article is worth a read, too.
I picked up on this piece from a blog at the New York Times website that I really like, called Schott's Vocab, focused on interesting uses of words and phrases in modern language. Check it out, I think you'll like it!
looked in the fridge. groan.
dry cereal, again. where does it go?
can't imagine.
the wide open mouth. no swallowing.
black hole where it goes. no hope of a bottom.
see, on the counter? evidence sits.
hollowingly empty, devoid of liquid!
on the grocery list again: milk.
Repetition
The place was perfect: no dirt on the floor, no scuff marks near the door, no dirty dish, no rotten food, no nothing. The house did not looked lived in. It seemed to be a place of sterilization, a place of sleeping, a place of being careful. Gazing up at the perfectly centered and leveled family picture on the wall, Emily titled it to the side, left dirt on the floor, the milk sitting out, and drew a marker across the walls. If Mark wanted to spend his nights with someone else, she wasn't going to care about his house any longer.
Fragments
This is a poem of fragments I wrote and I thought was perfect for this assignment.
Missing
Sightings
By word of mouth
And
Off of medication
It’s scary
Last seen
Night
Heard
Student
Hangs out
At park
Been sightings
Whereabouts
Enticed to
Come with him
Based on statements
Lured
Enticed
To take off
Attempts to contact
Went unanswered
Not asked for assistance.
A nightmare!
Any information
Contact.
We are sitting around wondering what to cook for dinner when the wife suggests we eat out, which is always her suggestion since she does most of the cooking, but I really didn’t have any suggestions—other than for her to get up and fix something, which I wisely didn’t voice—so we load up our four kids into the family car and head to Fuddruckers, a fancy burger joint, arriving just in time for the dinner rush, adding to the chaos that ensued as our family took our tables after ordering food and picking up a gallon of fry sauce, which my son began drinking with a straw, as my youngest daughter blew out her diaper—this always happens when we leave the diaper bag in the car—so I escape to the freedom of outside car for a few minutes, arriving back inside just as my three-year-old son begins to feel ill from drinking half a gallon of fry sauce, forcing me to escort him to the bathroom, where he sticks his hand into the urinal (requiring multiple scrubbings and skin removal prior to being declared clean), retuning just in time to see my oldest daughter attempting to toss her jacket across the table (falling far short of the mark) knocking over five glasses full of soda, showering everyone at our table with stickiness, catching my son drinking more fry sauce out of the corner of my eye while cleaning up soda, buzzer buzzing beating us over the head with the fact our food is sitting on the counter waiting for pickup, dashing to the counter, turning around just in time to hear my wife exclaiming “there he blows” as my son vomits across the soda saturated table, creating a chain reaction of dry heaves from the other kids. And this is why we don’t eat out.