Discussion, Exercises, Freewriting
Note: much of the student work here appears as "comments" added to instructor postings. To read this student work, you'll want to click on "comments" under any given post.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Riotous Randomness
Post all or any small segment of your morning's randomriting.
"Yeah, well, at least i dont smell funny!" she hollered towards the squeaky Packman. "Wakawakawakawaka." mumbled the now-injured Packman, hoping the she could not hear his inward cascade of malevolence.
And in that truth, this wispered truth, our final words are reveled in a beautiful champange nebula of greens and blues. And when your past is more bitter then the prayers you repeat then this is all that i need to sweep you off of your fee. When your hopes and high-scores all get unplugged and put back, remember that poor Packman that you left hidden deep inside that stack.
Before the start of Governor’s school, I was very scared. I didn’t know what to expect, and thus, I wasn’t really looking forward to it. What are we going to do there? Are we going to learn practical stuff or just fool around like it’s a sports camp? When I was packing up my stuff, I wondered, what are the gov school people like? What kind of clothes should I bring my nerdy clothes, my sport jerseys, or my cartoon/Hawaiian shirts? I heard from former governor’s school students that it’s really fun and they forged a lot of really interesting friendships that lasted a life time. I don’t know about that, perhaps I’m just worrying too much. Anyway, on the first day, I woke up one hour before the official beginning of gov school (I could’ve slept longer cause I didn’t fall asleep until 2 in the morning, unfortunately, the radiating sun was in my face, and I don’t have the superpower to shoot down the sun with some sort of a laser gun, although that would’ve been awesome)…….. [I just ramble and ramble and ramble and ramble, you get the idea. This is my pursue of foolishness. ]
Untitled Sitting on the living room couch I feel as if I am looking at the room for the first time The room is familiar of course It is the eyes that have changed, become darkened with broken promises And lost love I remember the living room from the days when we lived The exchange of sweet kisses on the seat that claimed our love Laughter and wine of dinner at the cherry wood table And the quiet of the late afternoon I’m gluing photos to fancy paper, claiming memories He is reading a book of some sort Then he would beckon from the love seat “Come read with me” I see the ghosts of long ago laugh and kiss They do not see what happens next, these joyous lovers who sing the song from the beginning I wish I could sing too I forgot the words They were lost when the scrapbooks were shoved in corners The furniture is coated in plastic For later I think So too is our love I wonder sometimes if it is as well preserved as the furniture I think it is in a refrigerator For it has gone cold I don’t believe we wrapped it very well For I think it has gone bad too Last night I went to a new house A warm one where people lived in the living room Instead of dying in it And I yearned to live too A kind stranger with brownie eyes invited me to live again last night I did for a short while I had forgotten how to live and how awesome and marvelous it is Short lived The worst part was remembering how easy it is to die To look into his candy colored eyes And know it wasn’t meant to be I get up from the couch Think I start unwrapping the furniture and bring hope back to a lifeless place
Walking down the streets of my old town, I feel a certain familiarity. The branches of trees sway in the gentle breeze. The sun shines down, casting dark shadows on the ground. I am dead. It’s hard to grasp, death. There’s no Heaven. There’s no Hell. Walking for eternity on Earth is all that exists. Everything that I had learned was a lie. Those nonexistent theories weren’t the only aspects hard to grasp. Not being able to pick up a rock or a flower still agitates me. I keep trying. I keep failing. My family, my friends, they don’t seem to exist anymore. Not only am I dead, I am alone. Once in a while, I see others just like me. Their pale transparent bodies seek out the comfort of life, even when we all know it is unattainable. It’s an ongoing nightmare I can never wake from. What was going through my head when I got into that car on the night of my death? I can vaguely remember it. Graduation party. Drunk driver. Red light. Jammed brakes. Car crash. Instant death. I pass my old house. My parents most likely watching CNN. I could be inside with them, slacking off because I’m too incompetent and lazy with my education. I was never good at school, except lunch and study hall. Would I have done well in college? Would I have graduated? I will not ever know. Instead, I stand on the street. A stranger. A ghost. I never believed in ghosts. It just seemed illogical and ridiculous, like the concept of aliens. My best friend, however, did believe in the supernatural. I recall one time spending the night at her house. She had an old Ouija Board in her attic. The letters engraved finely in dark stained wood. We thought it would be fun to try and spook ourselves. I placed my fingers on the oracle and asked, “What does my future hold?” D E A T H Ironic, isn’t it? The street turns off to a dark and foggy graveyard. My graveyard. I walk through the aisles of granite and marble gravestones. They seem to taunt me. Ha-ha! Look at you! You’re stuck here forever! I want to scream, but it was true. The truth hurts. The truth also sucks. I approach my grave. The white marble seems to glow. It was beckoning me. May Aarons 1981-1998 Loving Daughter May Aarons. That’s who I was. May. Aarons. May. Aarons. But I am not May Aarons anymore. I’m just a spirit, a ghost. And that is all I’ll ever be.
Have you ever thought of flying? Not really flying in the sky like an airplane does but having the sense of flying. Like having the sense of being alone when you aren’t actually alone, and free to say what you want when you want without any authority to regulate. If there is a contraption that could do all of this, it would be music.
The feeling of music when you plug your earphones inside your ears and let music fill the background noises is an enriching feeling. It feels as if you were with your friends and alone at the same time; you can’t hear what anyone is saying but you know that they are talking. And slowly, the music takes you away from your ambiguous feelings and in a way, the music is your friend, except it doesn’t lie or think differently about you, it is disinterested and frank.
so I usually don't just jump into this subject like this, and that's the case with this excerpt. It's comes about three-fourths of the way through the piece, after a story about a boy I knew.
I know this is said of pretty much all dead people: They didn't deserve it. But in fact they did. Death doesn't care who is more worthy of it. It's the most fair concept in existence: it can happen to anyone and will happen to everyone regardless of race, religion or class. Death is non-judgemental more so than any human can potentially be. We should instead be praising Death for it's the perfect example or how we should treat one another.
The living room is painted in muddy oranges and yellows, precisely the colors my parents chose for their wedding in 1981. Heavy suede curtains prevent the strong afternoon light’s entire admittance, their over-sized tassels motionless in this room that is only interrupted by me. When I reach across the hard-backed sofa’s armrest and touch one, the vertical knots of satin sway for a couple of seconds; then cease.
It doesn’t smell like anything particular in here, except perhaps a hint of that nauseous odor one can instantly detect in a hospital; sensory adaptation soon eliminates my consciousness of it. I cross a scratched and warped wooden floor, that is missing several tiles, to the television and see that the cord leading to the stained power socket has been nibbled by some rodents…nothing happens when I flip the switch to “ON.”
I’m doing random writing. Random, as in, the first thing that comes to mind, no matter how illogical. Just writing it. Writing it down. But really, I’m not writing it down. Or, am I? Am I writing down? Maybe I’m writing up. Or sideways, or backwards, or maybe, just maybe, I’m writing in an ambiguous direction. Who knows? Obviously I don’t. If I did know, I wouldn’t be questioning where I’m writing. Because my writing is random. It’s illogical. It’s just coming. Coming like immigrants from Mexico on a night when our fine young men in green are being our reckless young men, who’s liquid comfort turns them green. Maybe that’s not fair of me to say. Maybe it’s completely out of line for me to compare my random writing to the protectors of our county when they need to take a load off by downing liquid destruction. Sometimes I need to talk a load off. I don’t do it like our fine service men though. Maybe I do it by insulting the US Military. Coming to think of it, maybe I have this huge army complex because I’m spiteful that I’ll never be able to join any service branch. It’s possible I’m faking this whole obsession with the military just for kicks. That’s a dance team. Just for Kix is the actual name though. I saw them perform once. I was really excited, because I mean, who doesn’t like to watch people dance? Anyways, I saw them. I saw their cutesy little costumes, their glittered hair, and their overdone eye shadow, that not only is more ridiculous then mine, but also makes them look like future prostitutes. Was that too harsh? Am I judging these girls too quickly? Am I taking my views of their provocatively tacky dance moves and using them to label the dancers as a people? I guess that isn’t fair, but I just did it. I’ve done that twice now. Ranted about a group of people who are really only trying to do well in our country. The army protects us, and the dancers entertain us.
I wonder how they would judge me. Would those preppy dancers and dependable service men take one look at me and my power pop attitude and simply stare with their mouths agape at such a monstrosity of awkward style and vocabulary sufficient to Ellen Page’s character in Juno? Those are funny things, those labels. I like being labeled. It’s fun to know who you are, but to see how others view you. Snob, jerk, prep, emo, hick, scene, prude, skank, nerd, and all those other what-have-you’s. Fun fact; the average snow crab lives to be 120 years old. I’m not too sure what a snow crab is, but I know it would royally rock to be one. To be on this Earth of our for that long, to witness the ending of a movement and the beginning of a legend. I guess I’m doing that now. Our current president will be a legend. He’s African-American, and plays The Veronica’s in the White House. The end of a movement isn’t quite happening yet, but hopefully I live to see the end of the To Write Love on Her Arms movement. It’s a movement that has just recently started that’s out to help those with depression, suicide, and all that other stuff that makes people uncomfortable. I think when it ends, people will be whole. Although, I know this won’t ever happen. Now, getting back to those people who don’t like touchy subjects…their eyes are downcast and the side of their mouth twitches with the urge to tell you to shut up. Those are the fun people to watch. They’re the ones who live in their perfect houses, with their perfect families, the sporty SUV and the 1.5 kids. They get so edgy with these topics because of their imperfections. Like the debt that’s slowly kicking in, the son with the drug addiction, and the exact 1.5 children because there was that abortion no one mentions. Mia just told that I should make this into a monologue of an ADD. Could she be anymore right? I don’t think so. Ready for the best part of this extreme stream of conscience? Here it comes (just like the illegal aliens) I’m going to show a connection between all of the things I threw “down”; Me/labels/To Write Love on Her Arms/President-I label people all the time. I do it because that’s how society has brought me up. To Write Love on Her Arms, is there to help the people who have “bad” labels. The President is the head honcho of the government. The government controls society. Society labels. Seeing the connection yet? P.S for Rui. Foshizzle,poshizzle.
"Yeah, well, at least i dont smell funny!" she hollered towards the squeaky Packman. "Wakawakawakawaka." mumbled the now-injured Packman, hoping the she could not hear his inward cascade of malevolence.
ReplyDeleteAnd in that truth, this wispered truth, our final words are reveled in a beautiful champange nebula of greens and blues. And when your past is more bitter then the prayers you repeat then this is all that i need to sweep you off of your fee.
When your hopes and high-scores all get unplugged and put back, remember that poor Packman that you left hidden deep inside that stack.
Before the start of Governor’s school, I was very scared. I didn’t know what to expect, and thus, I wasn’t really looking forward to it. What are we going to do there? Are we going to learn practical stuff or just fool around like it’s a sports camp? When I was packing up my stuff, I wondered, what are the gov school people like? What kind of clothes should I bring my nerdy clothes, my sport jerseys, or my cartoon/Hawaiian shirts? I heard from former governor’s school students that it’s really fun and they forged a lot of really interesting friendships that lasted a life time. I don’t know about that, perhaps I’m just worrying too much. Anyway, on the first day, I woke up one hour before the official beginning of gov school (I could’ve slept longer cause I didn’t fall asleep until 2 in the morning, unfortunately, the radiating sun was in my face, and I don’t have the superpower to shoot down the sun with some sort of a laser gun, although that would’ve been awesome)…….. [I just ramble and ramble and ramble and ramble, you get the idea. This is my pursue of foolishness. ]
ReplyDeleteUntitled
ReplyDeleteSitting on the living room couch
I feel as if I am looking at the room for the first time
The room is familiar of course
It is the eyes that have changed, become darkened with broken promises
And lost love
I remember the living room from the days when we lived
The exchange of sweet kisses on the seat that claimed our love
Laughter and wine of dinner at the cherry wood table
And the quiet of the late afternoon
I’m gluing photos to fancy paper, claiming memories
He is reading a book of some sort
Then he would beckon from the love seat
“Come read with me”
I see the ghosts of long ago laugh and kiss
They do not see what happens next, these joyous lovers who sing the song from the beginning
I wish I could sing too
I forgot the words
They were lost when the scrapbooks were shoved in corners
The furniture is coated in plastic
For later I think
So too is our love
I wonder sometimes if it is as well preserved as the furniture
I think it is in a refrigerator
For it has gone cold
I don’t believe we wrapped it very well
For I think it has gone bad too
Last night I went to a new house
A warm one where people lived in the living room
Instead of dying in it
And I yearned to live too
A kind stranger with brownie eyes invited me to live again last night
I did for a short while
I had forgotten how to live and how awesome and marvelous it is
Short lived
The worst part was remembering how easy it is to die
To look into his candy colored eyes
And know it wasn’t meant to be
I get up from the couch
Think
I start unwrapping the furniture and bring hope back to a lifeless place
A View On Life
ReplyDeleteLife isn’t always right
Life isn’t always fair
Nobody ever seems to bother
Nobody ever seems to care
No matter what you do
No matter what you say
People just ignore you
People turn you away
What happens if you’re lost?
What happens when you’re gone?
Maybe they were oblivious
Maybe you were wrong
Life isn’t always right
Life isn’t always fair
Nobody ever seems to bother
But we seem to care
Who I Am
ReplyDeleteWalking down the streets of my old town, I feel a certain familiarity. The branches of trees sway in the gentle breeze. The sun shines down, casting dark shadows on the ground.
I am dead.
It’s hard to grasp, death. There’s no Heaven. There’s no Hell. Walking for eternity on Earth is all that exists. Everything that I had learned was a lie.
Those nonexistent theories weren’t the only aspects hard to grasp. Not being able to pick up a rock or a flower still agitates me. I keep trying. I keep failing. My family, my friends, they don’t seem to exist anymore.
Not only am I dead, I am alone.
Once in a while, I see others just like me. Their pale transparent bodies seek out the comfort of life, even when we all know it is unattainable. It’s an ongoing nightmare I can never wake from.
What was going through my head when I got into that car on the night of my death? I can vaguely remember it.
Graduation party.
Drunk driver.
Red light.
Jammed brakes.
Car crash.
Instant death.
I pass my old house. My parents most likely watching CNN. I could be inside with them, slacking off because I’m too incompetent and lazy with my education. I was never good at school, except lunch and study hall. Would I have done well in college? Would I have graduated?
I will not ever know.
Instead, I stand on the street. A stranger. A ghost.
I never believed in ghosts. It just seemed illogical and ridiculous, like the concept of aliens. My best friend, however, did believe in the supernatural.
I recall one time spending the night at her house. She had an old Ouija Board in her attic. The letters engraved finely in dark stained wood. We thought it would be fun to try and spook ourselves.
I placed my fingers on the oracle and asked, “What does my future hold?”
D
E
A
T
H
Ironic, isn’t it?
The street turns off to a dark and foggy graveyard. My graveyard.
I walk through the aisles of granite and marble gravestones. They seem to taunt me.
Ha-ha!
Look at you!
You’re stuck here forever!
I want to scream, but it was true. The truth hurts. The truth also sucks.
I approach my grave. The white marble seems to glow. It was beckoning me.
May Aarons
1981-1998
Loving Daughter
May Aarons. That’s who I was. May. Aarons. May. Aarons.
But I am not May Aarons anymore. I’m just a spirit, a ghost.
And that is all I’ll ever be.
Disquiet among the members rises
ReplyDeleteThere is much to be addressed
But one cannot do this
When all are deprived of rest
And though the earthquakes resume
And tear this world apart
We are sitting idly by
With no end, without a start
We the people are clearly
The results of nightly trades
Of ancient lies and filthy greed
Of balls and dances and masquerades
And though we glide about
In fabrics of different forms
We're all the same in some way
Trapped in endless scorns
The perfection is lacking
And the flaws are set free
The wine is no longer red
And the people cannot see
No longer is the crown
An adornment of our quests
Its stones and pearls have withered
And fallen with the best
And once those hit the floor
The real chaos begins
The dance will halt, the music stops
We unleash our sins
This is only a segment of the whole piece.
Have you ever thought of flying? Not really flying in the sky like an airplane does but having the sense of flying. Like having the sense of being alone when you aren’t actually alone, and free to say what you want when you want without any authority to regulate. If there is a contraption that could do all of this, it would be music.
ReplyDeleteThe feeling of music when you plug your earphones inside your ears and let music fill the background noises is an enriching feeling. It feels as if you were with your friends and alone at the same time; you can’t hear what anyone is saying but you know that they are talking. And slowly, the music takes you away from your ambiguous feelings and in a way, the music is your friend, except it doesn’t lie or think differently about you, it is disinterested and frank.
so I usually don't just jump into this subject like this, and that's the case with this excerpt. It's comes about three-fourths of the way through the piece, after a story about a boy I knew.
ReplyDeleteI know this is said
of pretty much all dead people:
They didn't deserve it.
But in fact they did.
Death doesn't care who is more worthy of it.
It's the most fair concept in existence:
it can happen to anyone
and will happen to everyone
regardless of race, religion or class.
Death is non-judgemental
more so than any human can potentially be.
We should instead be praising Death
for it's the perfect example
or how we should treat one another.
The living room is painted in muddy oranges and yellows, precisely the colors my parents chose for their wedding in 1981. Heavy suede curtains prevent the strong afternoon light’s entire admittance, their over-sized tassels motionless in this room that is only interrupted by me. When I reach across the hard-backed sofa’s armrest and touch one, the vertical knots of satin sway for a couple of seconds; then cease.
ReplyDeleteCoincidence presents itself in the form of a spider plant hanging in a macramé basket from the ceiling, which happens to be covered in spider-webs, as if by and outrageous freak of nature, something really weird had happened...
That’s as far as I get with an analogy.
It doesn’t smell like anything particular in here, except perhaps a hint of that nauseous odor one can instantly detect in a hospital; sensory adaptation soon eliminates my consciousness of it. I cross a scratched and warped wooden floor, that is missing several tiles, to the television and see that the cord leading to the stained power socket has been nibbled by some rodents…nothing happens when I flip the switch to “ON.”
I’m doing random writing. Random, as in, the first thing that comes to mind, no matter how illogical. Just writing it. Writing it down. But really, I’m not writing it down. Or, am I? Am I writing down? Maybe I’m writing up. Or sideways, or backwards, or maybe, just maybe, I’m writing in an ambiguous direction. Who knows? Obviously I don’t. If I did know, I wouldn’t be questioning where I’m writing. Because my writing is random. It’s illogical. It’s just coming. Coming like immigrants from Mexico on a night when our fine young men in green are being our reckless young men, who’s liquid comfort turns them green. Maybe that’s not fair of me to say. Maybe it’s completely out of line for me to compare my random writing to the protectors of our county when they need to take a load off by downing liquid destruction. Sometimes I need to talk a load off. I don’t do it like our fine service men though. Maybe I do it by insulting the US Military. Coming to think of it, maybe I have this huge army complex because I’m spiteful that I’ll never be able to join any service branch. It’s possible I’m faking this whole obsession with the military just for kicks. That’s a dance team. Just for Kix is the actual name though. I saw them perform once. I was really excited, because I mean, who doesn’t like to watch people dance? Anyways, I saw them. I saw their cutesy little costumes, their glittered hair, and their overdone eye shadow, that not only is more ridiculous then mine, but also makes them look like future prostitutes. Was that too harsh? Am I judging these girls too quickly? Am I taking my views of their provocatively tacky dance moves and using them to label the dancers as a people? I guess that isn’t fair, but I just did it. I’ve done that twice now. Ranted about a group of people who are really only trying to do well in our country. The army protects us, and the dancers entertain us.
ReplyDeleteI wonder how they would judge me. Would those preppy dancers and dependable service men take one look at me and my power pop attitude and simply stare with their mouths agape at such a monstrosity of awkward style and vocabulary sufficient to Ellen Page’s character in Juno? Those are funny things, those labels. I like being labeled. It’s fun to know who you are, but to see how others view you. Snob, jerk, prep, emo, hick, scene, prude, skank, nerd, and all those other what-have-you’s. Fun fact; the average snow crab lives to be 120 years old. I’m not too sure what a snow crab is, but I know it would royally rock to be one. To be on this Earth of our for that long, to witness the ending of a movement and the beginning of a legend. I guess I’m doing that now. Our current president will be a legend. He’s African-American, and plays The Veronica’s in the White House. The end of a movement isn’t quite happening yet, but hopefully I live to see the end of the To Write Love on Her Arms movement. It’s a movement that has just recently started that’s out to help those with depression, suicide, and all that other stuff that makes people uncomfortable. I think when it ends, people will be whole. Although, I know this won’t ever happen. Now, getting back to those people who don’t like touchy subjects…their eyes are downcast and the side of their mouth twitches with the urge to tell you to shut up. Those are the fun people to watch. They’re the ones who live in their perfect houses, with their perfect families, the sporty SUV and the 1.5 kids. They get so edgy with these topics because of their imperfections. Like the debt that’s slowly kicking in, the son with the drug addiction, and the exact 1.5 children because there was that abortion no one mentions. Mia just told that I should make this into a monologue of an ADD. Could she be anymore right? I don’t think so. Ready for the best part of this extreme stream of conscience? Here it comes (just like the illegal aliens) I’m going to show a connection between all of the things I threw “down”; Me/labels/To Write Love on Her Arms/President-I label people all the time. I do it because that’s how society has brought me up. To Write Love on Her Arms, is there to help the people who have “bad” labels. The President is the head honcho of the government. The government controls society. Society labels. Seeing the connection yet? P.S for Rui. Foshizzle,poshizzle.
ReplyDelete