Gay and Lesbian study reader

This reading was very informative for the comparisons of language, sex, gender, writing, and sexuality.  In class we briefly discussed this article and I haven't had much time to read it.  Now after the project one is done I have a few quotes which moved me in this piece.
"Drag is not the putting on a gender that belongs properly to some other group, i.e. an act of expriotation or apprioatation that assumes that gender is the rightful property of sex, that "masculine"
and feminine belongs to "female."  There is no "proper" gender, a gender proper to one sex rather than another, which is in some sense sex's cultural property. Where that notion of the "proper" operates, it is always and only improperly installed as the effect of a compulsory system.  Drag constitutes the mundane way in which genders are approtiated, theatrilized, worn and done."  I think this phrase means there is a set way that masculinity should only affect men and femininity in women which ultimately barriers the way we live.  If someone were to live outside of those norms then they are viewed down upon.

Eviction notice

There is a garden which yearns to be seen,

This home pleasantly stands mid country side.

With tides of flowers flowing in the yard’s tub,

Peacocks discover shelter in this garden’s desert.

This vintage village of one stands alone for many acres.

With the grass perfectly trimmed by the barber,

And ecstatic picketed fences following to the harbor.

            The peacocks merge with the road blocking the sidewalk leading up to the front porch.  Their gorgeous feathers share similar shades with the flower bed bathtubs.  Attempting to step around them, my folder drops onto the white pearls filling the driveway without vehicles.  The documentations flow with the wind, taping corners, and gusting against the flagless pole.  When stuffing the paper back into my folder the statement final eviction notice prints in bold.  I cannot believe they want to remove this elderly woman from her beautiful home.  Upon reaching the top of the wooden staircase the red velvet door skulks open…

…Echoing eerie melodies of a screeching violin announces…

…Inside of the home awaits a numb greeting…

…With dreary wallpaper drooping off the bare walls…

…There wooden floor’s polish shift tremors absent…

…Every step reveals an ensuing howl…

….The scent of exotic sewage empowers the foyer…

…Dim lanterns awakens the living room…

…Creepy clown figurines smites the breathing…

…Puppet’s dangling from the ceiling patrol the area…

…An old fashion rocking chair paces in circles…

…The table overflows literature from the landlord…

“WHY                                                             from HELL!

are you                                                       trespassing,

 in my                                                  Getaway,

home?  Leave at once! 

this is my home.

If I EVER

sense your presence again

I’ll send imps and demons to haunt your every dream! 

GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!”

                A blistering hag materializes in image reflecting in a mirror from behind.  Her pale skin slithers with flaccid boasting stories.  Her gaping eyes suppress years of death, utopia of massacre, yearning for disturbing escape.  She approaches sinking into the darkness of plain sight.  The woman obsession yearns for scream.  Her night gown hemorrhages filth.  Her claws throw fury causing a stumble onto the tickled puppets.  Falling onto the shifting planks, the enthusiastic figurines leer.  The folder of documents depart my grasp gusting into stationary breeze.

Fleeing for my

 overbearing life,

 I aim for the door,

with blood sprinting marathons before arousal.

 My driving heart accelerates the imagination beyond ignition.

 Breaching the gates of hade’s… 

1.       First gear, I quit that fucking job.

2.       Second gear, was she a witch?

3.       Third gear, am I cursed?

4.       Four gear, I can’t wait to get home.

5.       Five gear, my fiancé needs to stay the night with me.

My wrists quiver with ideas of that old hag arising my conscience.  Get a grip.  I never have to go there again.  I am safe, it is over.  I just need a shot, hot bubble bath, and a good night’s rest… 

…Tranquility breaches my humble apartment.

Quiet candles in fumes my home with scents of lightning.  

Bubbles drives for a fresh height of relaxation. 

Steam wraps the ice cold glass of wine.

Harmonies from the iPod soothes the skin…

Knock, knock, knock, knock….

“Hold on, babe, I’m coming.”

Wet foot prints smear the fields of carpet.  Quivering thrills wrap the drying towel when nearing the door.  Almost there, you can stop knocking now…

“How does it feel, having strangers in your HOME?”

“Get out of here you crazy bitch!”

“That’s all I wanted.”

Underneath the door slides a final eviction notice signed in blood.  Relieving my towel I turn for cordless phone behind.  There in the shadows stands the filthy gown hag with rusty finger tips reaching for my face.

Reflections

This was a fun writing.  I had a really good time creating a piece that would blend poetry, prose, and narrative.  I used the season of Halloween in the fall time for inspiration with the horror aspect.  When starting I had a general idea of how I wanted it to go but after a while it just started to write itself.  I wanted the words to pop out not only for being poetic but in literal terms as well.  I never wrote anything like this before but honestly I feel like this would become a longer type of short story poetry blend.  It starts with poetry but just into narrative goes back into poetry but after that I’m not really sure what it’s doing.  It kind of blends between both but it never really goes back into neither genre; it was totally unintentional. 

I also had a little fun with the second page, first narration when the lady first appears, you can read what she says two different ways which is fun, and the multiple get outs were fun to place around giving like a sense of the furious woman constantly shouting.  Using the language I attempted to risk phrases that wouldn’t necessarily fit in its context so some of the descriptions are a little out there which I think works for the horror in it all.  And I left it off abruptly because what’s a horror story without a cliff hanger?

Borderlands by Gloria Anzaldua

At first this book confused me as far as if it was like a longer essay, narrative, or a book a poetry.  The second confusion came from the language barriers.  It made me wonder how I was going to translate all of the Spanish to make sense of the English.  It gave me a sense of my confusion of language was very similar to her struggle with it as well.  This woman has struggled with identity, gender, sexuality, and becoming a person of her own.  Throughout the piece you learn what she does to identify herself.

"Cradled in one culture, sandwiched between two cultures, straddling all three cultures and their value systems, la mestiza.  under goes struggle of flesh, struggle of borders, an inner war.  Like all people, we perceive the version of reality that our culture communicates."  This was a quote I found very powerful for more reasons than one.  Its like being raised one way but developing likes of a new culture.  But in her case three totally different cultures would become very difficult to manage especially after crossing borders.  How do yo adjust into your own person if everyone around wants to mood you to their personal or cultural perspective?

We, in class, also spoke of acting verses reacting.  Acting is being proactive and reacting is falling behind and having sort of a negative catching up for events that have happened.  This quote I thought could be useful for acting, and being proactive in life.  "She is willing to share, to make herself vulnerable to foreign ways of seeing and thinking.  She surrenders all notions of safety, of the familiar.  Deconstruct, construct.  She becomes a Nahual, able to transform herself into a tree, a coyote, into a person.  She learns to transforms small "I" into the total self."  I think this is powerful in saying get up, explore yourself, break down life into the difficult and easy parts and completely understand yourself and when you get there, do tell, and share with others.

 

The Last Painting or the Portrait of God by Helene Cixous

The essay we recently read was very intriguing to me by the way of comparing art and literature.  Comparing thoughts of writing for the instant and capturing the moment and being able to perform those same processes with writing.  Although, painters have a total advantage in giving you a visual there are ways in which a writer could possible give you strong concrete images.  The problem is no matter how concrete a writer gives you images in their writings words translate differently in each reader's mindset.  An apple to me, might be green, radiate, and healthy, but an apple to you maybe the complete opposite, it might be red, tasteless, and unattractive.  Every readers has their own experiences and there is no solid way of changing that although a painter can enable to see what it is they want you to.

There a few quotes that stuck out to me doing the reading which are "I had made a distinction between what I had called "works of art" and "Works of being".  For me, works of art are works of seduction, works that can be magnificent, works that are really destined to make themselves seen."  I remember discussing this among my group in class with a question.  My question was how do we know if our work is considered a work of art of a work of being?  My knowledge was thinking that everyone would like to consider their work to be a work of art.  How do we know if we are on that level of knowing that our work is destined to  be seen, especially if we are afraid to publish them.  After discussing this with my group I learned that the writer meant works like like Rembrandt which was totally off subject.  My group member informed me that its not about having work that wants to be seen yet if it is personally and good and helpful to you then it would be good, helpful, and grand for others as well.

"This is how I live, this is how I try to write.  The best company for me is she or he who is in touch with the instant, in writing."  That to me is also very powerful.  Sometimes as writers we are caught up in the plotting, planning, and over thinking of things.  We lose sight of the initial thought which was powerful and becomes lifeless by revising before we vised.  I believe free writing is helpful in painting that image.  Letting lose, flying away with the page, and daring to leave those structures backbone.  Like a painter can capture an instant a writer can capture as much as they allow if they attempt to write in the moment. 

I really found this comparison between the jealously of a painter's art work and a writers' very informative.  I mean, I've been to art show displays where the people are wowed by the instant of the captured works of art verses an opening for a book show and all a writer can really do is explain, talk, and read certain parts.  The captured image burns when stuck in the same slot for too long in movie reels, is painting a pretty picture doing the same?  When a great writing can last a lifetime.

First Post,

My reading response to Precious, Disappearing Things,

     The piece was very inspiration and left me wondering about certain passages.  As an inspiring writer, I feel every creative writing student should have grasped a passage or two to learn from.  First I would like to say there are parts that moved me, such as "AVA is a work in progress and will always be a work in progress.  It is a book in a perpetual state of becoming.  It  cannot be stabilized or fixed.  It can never be finished.  It's a book that could be written forever."  As writers we often want to rush the ending instead of taking the time to actually write.  It tells me to write without conclusion just continue, go with the flow, experience where the piece will take you and don't be afraid to look back and radically revise.
     Another section that stuck out me to me referred to fragments.  "The fragments piled up.  Keeping the notebooks goings, I began to travel the world in my own way."  I like this because to me it is saying keep going don't stop, don't think about it, left the hand doing the speaking beside the mind.  Also when writing we tend to fix the errors while processing and it ultimately changes the meaning.  Its hard to avoid the green lines which tell us that the errors are there but some statements are made for different interpretations.
     "In AVA I have tried to write lines the reader (and the writer) might mediate on, recombine, rewrite as he or she pleases."  That's fun, give the readers multiple ideas to work with, don't allow us readers to only see one path in your writings.  Allow your readers to fill in the blanks helps it all become mysterious and telling, and fun.
     "Women, blacks, Latinos, Asians, etc.  are all made to sound essentially the same- that is, say, like John Cheever, on a bad day.  Oh, a few bones thrown now and then, a few concessions are made to exotic or alternative or "trangressive" content, but that is all.  And more free slips away."  So from this passage it makes me wonder if it is a bad thing to sound exotic or different.  Should everyone conform to the ways of the past writers which were all white males who've given up the basic restricted structures in which writers today suffer.

Sketching

I really thought the Sketching was a helpful read since I consider myself an inspiring writer for future novels and other works of art.  First, the sketching the tree was a cool way of explaining the process of brain storming.  It tells us to go with the flow, and just let the tree remain bare instead of forcing the starting image to becoming a finished planned work of art.

I also liked the parts about how most people are "None writers" and how they feel like everything must be planned in advance.  She believes when authors say everything was pre-planned that some of them, very few are hyping themselves up.  It's best to just write, have some ideas ready but go with the flow and see where the story takes you.
The part where she explained about Ed, who actually travels to his desired location of the story and takes like a miny vacation.  I think it's really cool how he'll go to the area and stand back and analyze life in the enironvment and after everything is done he uses his experiences to help with probably descriptions, people, and areas of what he can picture to place on the page.  I really liked the sketching it influences us to find what works for us individually as writers.

Farewell

Farewell

The perfect symmetrical steel rods with design to keep the rift raft out are still open, with only a few minutes until close.  I exhale with anxiety before entering the fences into the grounds then park soon hoping out of it with a present.  I realize this may be slightly rude but if I don’t do it now, then when will I have the courage?  After entering the foyer of the office, well dressed and groomed people smile while cutting their eyes at the ancient clock on the wall matching the aged decor of the room.

The friendly elderly lady behind the counter asks, “Hello, how may I help you?”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s a little late, I wasn’t aware that you are almost closed…I was just wondering if I could drop this gift off.”

“Aw, what a precious gift?  Yes, of course, but please make it quick.” 

I bowed my head not knowing how to respond but with an intense smile I replied, “Thank you, ma’am.  I’m looking for Winston Barns.”

“Your father?”

“Nah, a really good friend.”

“He’s not ready, yet.”

“It’s okay, I’ll find him.”

The lady types the name into the computer and within moments she prints out a list and after grabbing it from the printers she hands me a map and the list.  She gives a kind feeling just before saying, “Our offices will be closed soon so if you need to come back another day here is my card.”

“Thank you.  I really appreciate this I won’t be long I promise.”

I hurry out of the office; ignite my car knowing this will be the moment of truth.  It’s been a while since that day and my heart is hazy and my mind is nostalgic.  My car departs of the office lot off of the pavement onto the tire-made pathway.  Left.  While staring at the road I focus half my attention on my map starting to feel confused, antsy, and sick to my gut. Left.  I know I must continue because I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to do this again anytime soon.  Left.  I really hope this helps me overcome my regret.  Right.  Around the final fountain I realize I’m approaching where I need to be.  Right there.

My trembling wrist turns off the car, leaving me blankly staring at the clock; the time is 4:55 PM.  So I leap out of the car with fright in my fingertips holding my gift seeing that time has grown scarce.  It is too late to make excuses so I should hurry before the shift will end.  I walk with my gift in my arms staring with my attention on the bare patches of soil.  I see many of fancy entities, but this one isn’t ready.  I continue to search but my mind is grows flustered and racing faster than I can search.  The time is up since it has reached 5:00 PM.  Hysterically tears shed from my eyes when the guilt because if I failed, yet again.  It took me so long to get here and now I have to disappear. 

It’s time to leave before I’m considered trespassing.  I’ll come back to give you my gift buddy…farewell… for now.