Reflecting on "Pink Institution"

After reading the "Pink Institution", I was eager to discover similar novels. I have never read a piece where the words were largely spaced on the page, and largely spaced on different pages. The involvement of illustrating images was also an interesting way for Saterstrom to display her story. One of the elements I enjoyed the most were her pages that involved lists with random items such as Motherhood Objects: lives of saints, pet rabbit, instructions, pet chicken, japonica bluff, vitamins, southern lifestyles, lines.

After each random item Saterstrom gives a small story relating to each word. In such an amazing way, each word fits with the message and story she wants to tell.

Post-moderism

Post Modernism Write-up
Taken from The Repairman

    My wife threw open the curtains, the sun stung my face, and I instantly retracted my pillow. (page 1).

    Hand clutching, body moves in position. Right left, right left. Moving through texture, on my own. Hearing voices, only one, clouded by emotion, struggling to keep attention. Cold, warm, how can it be both. A hand, a soft hand. Motioning through a cover. Waking up, waking me up. We are in unison, years taunting our lives. Helping me help her, unaware, tempted to reveal. Secrets cross our sheets, should I tell her. Tick, tock, tick, rip, scratch, pull. Green, yellow, on and off colors. Choices are made, hands clutch the green, rip. I am wake.



Examples of Post-modernism literature:
Molloy, Malone Dies, Unnamable by Samuel Beckett

House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski

Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson

Connecting Writing to the Internet

It is becoming much easier locating text on the internet. Amazon has the option to view novels, whether it is the front page, back page, or the body of the text. Blogs are also a great tool for writing on the internet; allowing writers to express themselves without revealing personal information, writings are able to create their own background and title to fit their style and personality. Nowadays, most, in not all, news articles are located on the internet. If an individual does not want to receive a newspaper everyday, they have the option to check the specific article of their desire online.

Revisions I Make

I have made revisions based on suggestions from Professors and from students who have read my work. I generally take all the ideas I am given, and incorporate them into my finished draft. For example, when revising my Ode, there were certain words like "juicy" that I had use; I was given the suggestion that "juicy" wasn't an appropriate word to describe mashed potatoes. I was given word suggestions such as silky, buttery, creamy, and steamy. Although at the time of writing my Ode I did not realize the misplacement of juicy, after careful revision and help from outside readers I was able to find a word that suited perfectly.

Revision Advice

Revision is one of the exquisite pleasures of writing. By- Bernard Malamud

The first draft reveals the art, revision reveals the artist. By- Michael Lee

 http://www.woodford.redbridge.sch.uk/rs/alevel/revisiontips.html… This website I found involves tips on revising from a teacher.

http://mendota.english.wisc.edu/~WAC/page.jsp?id=27&c_type=category&c_id=18 … this is another site on revision as well.

Stories

The stories I found myself telling involved what I did during the day, my weekend activities, and stories as to why I enjoyed a particular subject and/or hobby.

I received flowers the day after Valentine's Day, since I don't think it's necessary to make a fuss over the "holiday", someone made sure I received the flowers the day after the hyped-up day. Due to this lovely surprise, I of course had to call my mom right away and tell her.

I recently went to Hoboken about two weeks ago, and realized I had been telling every one that had went, and those who didn't, all the occurances that took place. I also recently got a tattoo, with everyone interested in what it means, I too found myself telling that story over and over.

My finally story of the weeks revolved around why I love the Green Bay Packers. Naturally, since they won the super bowl, my enthusiasm ran wild.

I think it's important to tell these stories, revelant or not, because it allows others to connect to your life, and well, they are generally just fun to tell/discuss.

Revisions

When I think of revisions, I consider making the original work better and/or changing the words (referencing a poem or story) to another word that may make more sense or allow the document to flow better. However, revisions may not necessarily include making the document "better",it may have been find the way it was, but just needed an uplift and/or to be structured to fit a certain audience.

Revisions can be changes the author wish to make on his/her own free will, or simply because he/she was not satisfied with the original product. Or revisions are simply changes made on something written for correction or improvement (similar to the dictionaries wording). 

Revised Poems

Ode to Mashed Potatoes: Revised

The fork
is your deceiver.
Do not call him your prince,
but a marvelous princess
you are.
Wanted by
the village
folk
carrots, peas, and broccoli,
who await your
courtship.
First on the
white, flat, platform
that arranges
each of you together.
The one you
choose will
accompany
your buttery
skin
down the
matrimonial
black isle.
Your creamy
arms are
wrapped
with a loose,
tense embrace
claiming your
choice,
exclaiming your
juicy, chewing
emotions
you allow
to show about
your
delicious
companion.
What beauty
blends from
your tasteful
union,
feeling warm
with the knowledge
of a cloudy
crimson, fulfilled
reception arena.

The Delicious Village Prince: Revised 

My tongue sticks to the top of my mouth
glazing liquid extracts through my teeth,
I must resist the temptation
by the steam you release, with the
sweet aroma you possess
how can I put you back?
Structure aligned,
voices whisper
each neighbor
familiar with
your royal past,
the history of your design.
Although known as a prince,
your desire not to reign
but to be among the rest.
Feet barely trudging 
eye glances absent of power.
You are aware of your scent,
and strive to be acknowledged in each cottage.
Every child adores you, every mother scowls
at your appearance.  
I am trying to control my urge,
my sudden twitch
struggling to open my mouth,
it is then, you catch me staring.
No longer can I hold back,
I reach for your body.

This poem was written using three words from my Ode. I wanted to find three words that I felt fit well together in a silly context, and well, the end result was a "Delicious Village Prince"!

The writer of my choice.

When I was in high school I was introduced to Jodi Picoult. The first novel I read by her was "The Pact". I have also read: "The Tenth Circle", "Nineteen Minutes", "Plain Truth", "My Sister's Keeper", and "Salem Falls". All of her work, at least the novels I've read, involve the law, a court room, and someone wrongfully accused. Jodi also uses the same character in a few of her novels, which offers up a nice twist to the story, and keeps the reader paying attention.

http://www.jodipicoult.com/

The synopsis of "Nineteen Minutes":

In Sterling, New Hampshire, 17-year-old high school student Peter Houghton has endured years of verbal and physical abuse at the hands of classmates. His best friend, Josie Cormier, succumbed to peer pressure and now hangs out with the popular crowd that often instigates the harassment. One final incident of bullying sends Peter over the edge and leads him to commit an act of violence that forever changes the lives of Sterling’s residents.

Even those who were not inside the school that morning find their lives in an upheaval, including Alex Cormier. The superior court judge assigned to the Houghton case, Alex—whose daughter, Josie, witnessed the events that unfolded—must decide whether or not to step down. She’s torn between presiding over the biggest case of her career and knowing that doing so will cause an even wider chasm in her relationship with her emotionally fragile daughter. Josie, meanwhile, claims she can’t remember what happened in the last fatal minutes of Peter’s rampage. Or can she? And Peter’s parents, Lacy and Lewis Houghton, ceaselessly examine the past to see what they might have said or done to compel their son to such extremes.

snow : (

The snow has made it difficult for me to get to class today, so I'm going to post my first draft of my ode.

Ode to Mashed Potatoes

The fork
Is your deceiver
Do not call him your prince,
But a marvelous princess
You are.
Wanted by
The village
Folk
Carrots, peas, and broccoli,
Whom await your
Courtship.
First on the
White, flat, platform
That aligns
All together.
The one you
Choose will
Accompany
Your buttery
Skin
Down the
Matrimonial
Black hallway
Your creamy
Arms wrap
So tightly
Around your
Delicious
Companion.
What beauty
Blends from
Your tasteful
Union,
Feeling warm
With the knowledge
 Of a happily ever after.

Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe Poetry:

The Bells

(published 1849)
 
                                   I.

               HEAR the sledges with the bells --
                     Silver bells !
What a world of merriment their melody foretells !
          How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
                In the icy air of night !
          While the stars that oversprinkle
          All the heavens, seem to twinkle
                With a crystalline delight ;
             Keeping time, time, time,
             In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
      From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                     Bells, bells, bells --
   From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

                                 II.

               Hear the mellow wedding bells
                     Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !
          Through the balmy air of night
          How they ring out their delight !
                From the molten-golden notes,
                     And all in tune,
                What a liquid ditty floats
      To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
                     On the moon !
             Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells !
                     How it swells !
                     How it dwells
                On the Future ! how it tells
                Of the rapture that impels
             To the swinging and the ringing
                Of the bells, bells, bells,
      Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                     Bells, bells, bells --
   To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells !

                                 III.

               Hear the loud alarum bells --
                         Brazen bells !
What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells !
          In the startled ear of night
          How they scream out their affright !
               Too much horrified to speak,
               They can only shriek, shriek,
                         Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
                  Leaping higher, higher, higher,
                  With a desperate desire,
               And a resolute endeavor
               Now -- now to sit or never,
          By the side of the pale-faced moon.
                  Oh, the bells, bells, bells !
                  What a tale their terror tells
                         Of Despair !
       How they clang, and clash, and roar !
       What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air !
          Yet the ear, it fully knows,
                By the twanging,
                And the clanging,
            How the danger ebbs and flows ;
       Yet, the ear distinctly tells,
             In the jangling,
             And the wrangling,
       How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells --
                  Of the bells --
      Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
             Bells, bells, bells --
   In the clamour and the clangour of the bells !

                                 IV.

               Hear the tolling of the bells --
                     Iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels !
       In the silence of the night,
       How we shiver with affright
    At the melancholy meaning of their tone !
            For every sound that floats
            From the rust within their throats
                   Is a groan.
            And the people -- ah, the people --
            They that dwell up in the steeple,
                   All alone,
            And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
                In that muffled monotone,
            Feel a glory in so rolling
                On the human heart a stone --
       They are neither man nor woman --
       They are neither brute nor human --
                   They are Ghouls: --
            And their king it is who tolls ;
            And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
                     Rolls
                A pæan from the bells !
            And his merry bosom swells
                With the pæan of the bells !
            And he dances, and he yells ;
       Keeping time, time, time,
       In a sort of Runic rhyme,
                To the pæan of the bells --
                     Of the bells :
       Keeping time, time, time,
       In a sort of Runic rhyme,
                To the throbbing of the bells --
            Of the bells, bells, bells --
                To the sobbing of the bells ;
       Keeping time, time, time,
            As he knells, knells, knells,
       In a happy Runic rhyme,
                To the rolling of the bells --
            Of the bells, bells, bells --
                To the tolling of the bells,
      Of the bells, bells, bells, bells --
                     Bells, bells, bells --
   To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

A Dream Within A Dream 

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow --
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand --
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep -- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Odes

I realized on my last blog I didn't write why I was taking the class; so, in regards to that reasoning, I am taking Advanced Creative writing because 1.) I enjoy writing, 2.) I took Introduction to Creative Writing, and 3.) this was the last of major requirements and I was interested in the class from the start of my English writing days.

Odes:

I found this one Ode as I was browsing the internet. Although it does not follow the same structure as our food odes in class, I still thought it was a humor and interesting read!

Ode to the Nice Guys
This rant was written for the Wharton Undergraduate Journal

    This is a tribute to the nice guys. The nice guys that finish last, that never become more than friends, that endure hours of whining and bitching about what assholes guys are, while disproving the very point. This is dedicated to those guys who always provide a shoulder to lean on but restrain themselves to tentative hugs, those guys who hold open doors and give reassuring pats on the back and sit patiently outside the changing room at department stores. This is in honor of the guys that obligingly reiterate how cute/beautiful/smart/funny/sexy their female friends are at the appropriate moment, because they know most girls need that litany of support. This is in honor of the guys with open minds, with laid-back attitudes, with honest concern. This is in honor of the guys who respect a girl’s every facet, from her privacy to her theology to her clothing style.

    This is for the guys who escort their drunk, bewildered female friends back from parties and never take advantage once they’re at her door, for the guys who accompany girls to bars as buffers against the rest of the creepy male population, for the guys who know a girl is fishing for compliments but give them out anyway, for the guys who always play by the rules in a game where the rules favor cheaters, for the guys who are accredited as boyfriend material but somehow don’t end up being boyfriends, for all the nice guys who are overlooked, underestimated, and unappreciated, for all the nice guys who are manipulated, misled, and unjustly abandoned, this is for you.

    This is for that time she left 40 urgent messages on your cell phone, and when you called her back, she spent three hours painstakingly dissecting two sentences her boyfriend said to her over dinner. And even though you thought her boyfriend was a chump and a jerk, you assured her that it was all ok and she shouldn’t worry about it. This is for that time she interrupted the best killing spree you’d ever orchestrated in GTA3 to rant about a rumor that romantically linked her and the guy she thinks is the most repulsive person in the world. And even though you thought it was immature and you had nothing against the guy, you paused the game for two hours and helped her concoct a counter-rumor to spread around the floor. This is also for that time she didn’t have a date, so after numerous vows that there was nothing “serious” between the two of you, she dragged you to a party where you knew nobody, the beer was awful, and she flirted shamelessly with you, justifying each fit of reckless teasing by announcing to everyone: “oh, but we’re just friends!” And even though you were invited purely as a symbolic warm body for her ego, you went anyways. Because you’re nice like that.

    The nice guys don’t often get credit where credit is due. And perhaps more disturbing, the nice guys don’t seem to get laid as often as they should. And I wish I could logically explain this trend, but I can’t. From what I have observed on campus and what I have learned from talking to friends at other schools and in the workplace, the only conclusion I can form is that many girls are just illogical, manipulative bitches. Many of them claim they just want to date a nice guy, but when presented with such a specimen, they say irrational, confusing things such as “oh, he’s too nice to date” or “he would be a good boyfriend but he’s not for me” or “he already puts up with so much from me, I couldn’t possibly ask him out!” or the most frustrating of all: “no, it would ruin our friendship.” Yet, they continue to lament the lack of datable men in the world, and they expect their too-nice-to-date male friends to sympathize and apologize for the men that are jerks. Sorry, guys, girls like that are beyond my ability to fathom. I can’t figure out why the connection breaks down between what they say (I want a nice guy!) and what they do (I’m going to sleep with this complete ass now!). But one thing I can do, is say that the nice-guy-finishes-last phenomenon doesn’t last forever. There are definitely many girls who grow out of that train of thought and realize they should be dating the nice guys, not taking them for granted. The tricky part is finding those girls, and even trickier, finding the ones that are single.

    So, until those girls are found, I propose a toast to all the nice guys. You know who you are, and I know you’re sick of hearing yourself described as ubiquitously nice. But the truth of the matter is, the world needs your patience in the department store, your holding open of doors, your party escorting services, your propensity to be a sucker for a pretty smile. For all the crazy, inane, absurd things you tolerate, for all the situations where you are the faceless, nameless hero, my accolades, my acknowledgement, and my gratitude go out to you. You do have credibility in this society, and your well deserved vindication is coming.

    Fu-zu Jen, SEAS/WH, 2003

One of my favorite holidays is Christmas, so I choose this ode:

An Ode to Christmas

When you see lovely lights
Of greens, reds, and whites
You know it is Christmas Time

When snow falls down from the skies
Soft and thick it lies
You know it is Christmas Time

When you hear Christmas jingles
And your skin begins to tingle
You know it is Christmas Time

An Ode for the scent of pine
An Ode to the dainty decorations that are so divine
An Ode to Christmas Time

When you get rosy cheeks
And children dash with squeals and shrieks
You know it is Christmas Time

When the young and old sit in front of the fire and come together
To get away from the cold weather
You know it is Christmas Time

When you warm up with your sweet heart
Unable to keep apart
You know it is Christmas Time

An Ode to Hot Chocolate with marshmallows
An Ode to the Jolly fellows

An Ode to Santa Claus
An Ode to decking the halls
An Ode to Christmas Time

Bronti Phillips

Hello!

Hello everyone,

This is the first time I am creating a blog, and I am actually creating on for a class that I am taking in my senior year of college.

My name is Ashley, I choose "ash tree" as part of my web address because that is the meaning of my name. Richlin is a combination of my parents. I made up the name so I wouldn't give away my full name!

Some of my favorite authors consist of J.K. Rowling, Sarah Dessen, Charles Dickens, Jodi Picoult, and Mary Higgins Clark. I do enjoy many of the classics; however, I am going to share sites that involve the authors above.

http://www.jkrowling.com/en/index.cfm

http://writergrl.livejournal.com/

http://www.readprint.com/author-28/Charles-Dickens-books

http://www.jodipicoult.com/

http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/c/mary-higgins-clark/

"Life can be long or short, it all depends on how you choose to live it. it's like forever, always changing. for any of us our forever could end in an hour, or a hundred years from now. you can never know for sure, so you'd better make every second count. what you have to decide is how you want your life to be. if your forever was ending tomorrow, is this how you'd want to have spent it?"
-Sarah Dessen, "The Truth About Forever".