CYOA--Lost and Found Films

            What I noticed the most about the narrative structures contained in the four short videos titled, “Hill”, “Prime”, “Coffer”, and “Byun” from a series called This Must Be the Place, was that the camera is able to show a contrast to what is being said. For example, Hill says he lives in a shop and that he is never really alone, yet, the images the audience is shown are displaying a different perspective—the perspective most of the world sees when they look at run down images of a once immensely prosperous city. Despite the isolation that appears on screen, Hill’s words are consistently positive and hopeful.

            In “Prime”, I was interested by the blurring of the film during certain parts, especially toward the end. Maybe this technique is a call back to earlier simpler times—this seems to be a theme of these video shorts, though I’m concerned that they future only men (side point).

            I’m noticing that this type of narrative makes it easier to be more concise and say more with shots in addition to dialogue than they could do one at a time on the written page. The close ups in “Prime” are powerful and makes me wonder if they are equally effective on the page if not more. Another theme of these shorts is the reliance on striking images with no words.

            In “Coffer”, the contrast between his dialogue and the images shown help lead the audience into the narrative, though I think this can be done just as effectively on paper. This video had the most action—Coffer making his plate photography. I think action could have been used more and I didn’t appreciate the use of the same type of music for every video.

            Video is especially effective for translation without leaving out the words which were actually said. I thought that the story of “Byun” was the most compelling—the least ordinary among a group of ‘different’ people. These pieces definitely have some great discussion material embedded in them—great pick!

Stephanie and Elaine Choose Our Own Assignment

The Most Dangerous Gamer 

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/05/the-most-dangerous-gamer/8928/1/

This piece, written by Taylor Clark, that profiles a game designer/developer named Jonathon Blow caught my interest despite being a non-gamer. While you read think about the various narrative elements the author employs.

-What are these elements? Are these elements employed effectively?

-What were your favorite parts of this narrative and why? What could have been done differently in this narrative?

-Do you think Clark has constructed Blow's character in an honest and fair way?

-Who is Clark's audience? How does Clark navigate or not navigate his narrative around the non-gamer? 

Reading Responses

Adrian Nicole LeBlanc—"Trina and Trina"

I respect Adrian Nicole LeBlanc’s reporting after reading “Trina and Trina”. I don’t think I could do it—take on this topic and with such depth and breadth. The narrative was compelling and it ebbed and flowed at such a consistent pace that I didn’t get bored. I was overwhelmed at times by the intensity of the events in the story. LeBlanc really drew me in but I was concerned about her role as both reporter and friend, and I also struggled with her brief comparison of Trina and herself. I also wanted to know what it had been written for, what’s the upshot; the ending doesn’t really resolve things for me.  

Susan Orlean—"The American Man at Age Ten"

            The Hook is different an interesting, it does a good job of setting up the characterization. The little American man sounds too perfect for me though. And I don’t appreciate Orlean’s interjections like, “They talked for a minute about one of the girls in their class, a tall blonde with cheerleader genetic material”. This is her impression and I don’t believe the boys would use this dialogue at this age—in fact, I don’t believe a lot of the dialogue. Maybe I haven’t spent enough time with ten year old boys, but I have spent some. There a few really good moments in this piece that I thought were foreshadowing but then they weren’t—they were just aspects of this boy’s life, like the brief mention of race.

Dream Catch Me (Revised)

Intended Publication: Modern Love

I am my own worst enemy, especially when it comes to making decisions. Even simple decisions—Paper or Plastic?—the possibilities unfurl before me, lines of thought racing across a sprawling map which extends out into the universe eventually sucking me into a black hole of doubt and indecision. Knowing that I must decide, I choose. My heartbeat quickens. I am playing Russian roulette with my future.

My future is unknown as the springtime sunlight accosts my eyes near the end of March. Squinting, I look down and endeavor to open the small white envelope I retrieved from my college mail box. I am grateful for this letter. It decides for me—whether I shall be granted passage to my first choice study abroad destination, or not. Forcefully, I slide my index finger inside tearing a hole to view my fate.

Rejection is disheartening but diligently I re-apply, this time I attempt to gain acceptance into the study abroad program in Perth, Western Australia—studying abroad, a new vital life step; I am ready. One month later, at the close of April, I enter the mail room again. I smile cautiously as I slide a new letter from my mail box. This time it’s a manila envelope that yields exciting returns. My smile widens.

In July, I drag myself off the plane in Perth expecting paradise, but the airport leads to a parking-lot, which leads to a highway, which leads to a tiny bedroom painted white, cold and uninviting. Disappointment overwhelms me as I flop down onto the sparse mattress Curtin University Student Housing has provided for me.

Weeks of classes keep me busy, no beach days, no warm balmy nights—it’s winter on this side of the world. Eagerly I await spring break for the second time this year. My friends and I make a collective decision to book a tour north to a warmer destination.

In early September, a scruffy Australian drives his tour bus up to the curb at the tourist coach stand. The first thing I notice is his hair. He is rocking the worst case of bed head in the history of heads that ever skipped the hair brushing phase after bed. An unshaven face and wrinkled clothing add to the tousled effect. He looks rugged. He has chest hair. He’s talking in a thick Australian accent as we board the bus. I can’t stop staring. His gentle, sincere eyes catch mine. I stumble across the threshold.

The third night of this Australian adventure, on the shores of Coral Bay, the trouble begins. It starts with the sand—soft, cold, inviting sand between my toes. I sink my feet in further. Our feet touch underneath the sand and a reckless abandon rushes through my veins as I down my bottle of champagne and move on to a warm Australian brew. He sits on my left, close enough to see my goose pimples. We’re getting to know each other faster now but for the life of me I don’t remember what we said. I do remember one thing though, “I’m going to head to bed”, he says. I hold his gaze hoping he can read my mind. Then words begin falling out of my mouth—“Come skinny dipping with me in Coral Bay instead”.

Time stands still and then speeds forward quickly, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, our  naked bodies are in the ocean water and I am swimming somewhere between ‘I can’t believe this is happening’ and ecstasy. We venture to the sand dunes, our muscles shivering violently in unison. We shove ourselves together inside one swag covered sleeping bag, under the stars. Eventually, sleep follows what seems like hours of sex until a blaring alarm clock sounds at 5a.m.—the sun is still asleep. My 26 year old tour guide must leave me now and I forget to ask him if this was a one night stand.

Up the Australian coast we travel. Each night while my friends sleep, he and I stay up late enjoying the pleasures of casual sex. In Broome, we decide to exchange numbers—turns out neither of us wants our fling to end with the spring.

October is nearly upon us as he takes me on our first date to That Little Mexican Place, and he buys me an expensive bottle of Australian wine. A transition period has left him homeless tonight, so he books us a room at the Holiday Inn—the King suite. We stay up laughing, and touching, and holding on tight.

On our next date we struggle against the wind and waves of the Indian Ocean, he’s teaching me how to surf. I’m in over my head. Our next adventure—mountain biking. He has a house now. I’m sleeping over every night he’s home. Tomorrow he leaves on another tour. It seems we’re always saying good-bye. 

When he takes me up the coast to the beach in Lancelin to meet his friends and christen his truck bed, I know that he’s serious. I am beginning to sense that our feelings are mutual—we are both secretly smitten.

October’s orange sun begins to set and I am overwhelmed by this man. He is more than a man really; he’s a grand adventure that I dream will never end. I have a mere six days left to spend with him in Australia when I realize that he could quite possibly, if I’m not reading into anything, if he thinks so too, he could, maybe, be my soul mate.

I am calm and collected on our last morning together, before I embark on a new journey. We wake up before the dawn and I kiss my handsome, scruffy Australian good-bye. I leave him with words full of longing—“I’m going to try my absolute hardest to find a way to stay in Australia with you—if there’s a way, I’ll find it”.

In November I board a flight to China. As my altitude increases, I try to find the truth my words. I rifle through my desires and my doubts. I fill a rifle with the complexities of my decision. Full of this ammunition I yearn for the pressure in the barrel to eventually spark confidence in a decision. I want more time with my Australian—but how?

My participation in the twenty-one day East Asian Tour that begins in China will complete my course work abroad. At the end of November I am expected to fly back to Australia for my homecoming departure to the small mid-western town of my childhood in America. One thought echoes in my mind—I don’t want to go home.

My decision consumes me. I could attempt to extend my visa. A multitude of reasons condone me staying but there are just as many excuses protesting. Go home or stay? Go home or stay? I want to stay but, but, but…what if it all falls apart? I’d need a job, a place to live—I can’t ask him to take me in! He has roommates, they don’t need my estrogen clogging up there space indefinitely. What if I don’t get the visa? What if he doesn’t really want me to stay!?!?

In Shanghai, I once again board a tour bus, this time to Nanjing. I feel small riding through the bigness of China. Sky-scraper apartment buildings line the highway. Lines of denim and cotton hang from even the highest windows. I keep myself busy by breaking out a bus seat ab workout. I used to workout on his bus, on our way to Broome—I had so much positive energy then, I had no worries, no doubts. Falling in love was effortless. Fighting for it…required…everything.

While I tightened, grunted and released, only to breathe in and repeat, the memories of my past four months spent in Australia had me agonizing over this one decision. Nanjing was where I had to decide my future.

I needed a visa. I needed to be abroad to submit my request to immigration. The process could take up to a month and I was meant to leave in less. A visa is only step one, but if it could work—the rest of the pieces could fall into place. “It’s not the visa that I’m worried about”, I explained to my friend. What I couldn’t tell her was how small I felt, how scared, how insignificant. Paralyzed in a limbo of my own design I knew that step one was the most important. If I could send my visa application, I could embrace it, I could let myself fall, and my dream would catch me. I just need to tell me, ‘it’s ok, it’s not a crazy idea, really, it’s ok.’

“You only live once,” was a common phrase for me abroad, the anthem grew louder and louder as I journeyed farther from the Aussie land. It sung of a man with a scruffy head of hair, a scruffy face, and a smile that makes my heart race.

I sink back into my bus seat, stomach burning, body worn down, mind frayed and tattered. It is early November, and the chill of winter in the Northern Hemisphere seeps in slowly as I sweat.

I’m in the hotel in Nanjing, on the twelfth floor. I sit in the bathtub. Warm water runs cold as my time runs out. Tonight is the night to decide. Water droplets fill the creases in my worried forehead. I look out across the landscape, at the small piece of Nanjing before me. The bathroom fog quickly fades and the answer slowly becomes clear. ‘Love is a legitimate reason to do this’, I think. I believe myself this time. I would do what I’d been dreaming, what I’ve wanted this whole time. My hair is wet and chilling as I cross the room to sit in front of my computer.

I couldn’t be bothered to dry off. Wiping my hands on the towel wrapped tightly around me--holding me together--I stare at my computer screen. A completed visa application stares back. Taking a slow, deep breath, I press the send button. I exhale the worries from my chest—application sent.

Franklin Outline for "Dream Catch Me"

Complicating Focus:

Elaine doubts herself    

Development:

Elaine faces rejection

Relationship surprises Elaine

Elaine chooses Australia

Resolving Focus:

Elaine trusts herself

Story Pitch

I think "Kahani" deserves a great spread in the Index and possibly the Kalamazoo Gazette. A short piece has already been written but I feel that it needs a full profile for the community to really understand what's going on 'behind the scenes'. I will explore what it means to create a devised performance and be a part of such a collaboration. I think it's a relatively complex subject once I can dig deeper. The show touches on a lot of relevant issues in our world and to the social justice movement that has lived on our campus for sometime now. This subject has great profile potential and I am excited to get down into it's details and 'life' story.

CYOA Response--"Wonder Town"

In this piece it really helped to have YouTube at a mouse click away. Once I heard the first note of “Into the Groove” I understood what Frere-Jones meant by saying the’ bright, square notes’ and comparing that to ‘a world of easy round numbers’. One song speaks of simpler times while Sonic Youth’s is invariably different—Frere-Jones conveys this fact well in her writing but, like I said, I would not have the full effect without experiencing it. I think that’s no reason not to write it though—I definitely appreciate pieces about music, they can make you realize those connections that you might not have without the writing to accompany the song.

While reading, I felt that in a small way I got to be on the insider side of the band and I think that means that Frere-Jones has a good narrative here because I didn’t know anything about Sonic Youth before reading this. The piece shows the bands development and significance while also showing how they’ve stayed true to their vision. I think the narrative is very cohesive and informative.

CYOA Response--"Shooting an Elephant"

I believe that he shot the elephant. His essay was published almost a decade after his experiences in Burma took place and it is clear that he has had some time and space to arrange his thoughts since then—like he says, “[he] was young and ill-educated” and had no one to share his thoughts with. I would surmise that many of Orwell’s allusions connecting threads did not necessarily ‘happen’ when the event was happening. I think his story is well done with it far enough in the past that he could see it more clearly than he probably saw it then.

It’s so interesting how he negotiates being a part of the things he hates, namely, imperialism. When he is describing the scene of the elephant ‘must’ he says the people near it had no definite information. “That is invariably the case in the East”. In these words it is clear that at times, Orwell succumbs to the imperial idea that the West holds the key to the right way of doing things.

The quote that really got to me was, “When the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys.” I’m wondering if he really thought that then, in that moment, or if it came to him afterwards.

CYOA Response--"Emergence"

The major question in Radiolab's "Emergence" is spelled out at then end of the podcast--What is consciousness? I've wondering this myself a time or two, but I never knew that it was an actual field that has recently 'emerged' :) It's a riveting subject and I was also intrigued by the nature of the podcast. 

I'm not familiar with podcasts, I've really only ever listened to a handful of NPR audio clips so for me Radiolab was a little disorienting at first. All the different sounds and effects brought the narrative to life but it was also an odd experience to be moved around so much, so vividly, in a piece that is not visual. 

I felt that the piece addressed smaller questions that led up to the big question and that were all interrelated. Emergence compares fireflies, to cities, to ants, to bees, and to neurons in the brain. When the pod-casters were talking about randomness coming together it made me think of my acting rehearsals when we work in a big group. One person will start something and it's infectious and everyone catches on eventually--there's group energy--that invisible that guides us to the same work.

Some of their transitions were more subtle than others. I appreciated the 'different' way the pod-cast went about narrating--it was refreshing and I think I'll definitely listen to more in the future. Thanks Elaine and Emily!

Choose Your Own Assignment Response--"Jacob's Ladder"

The article, ‘Jacob’s Ladder’, from the Atlantic opened up a window for me to see a small piece of South African politics that I have until today been utterly unaware of. In this respect, it engages and informs me, however, I find it hard to respond to because it is so in depth and detailed about things I am not familiar with. In addition I found the description of Zuma on page one to be quite powerful as well as the transition to his home.

It’s interesting that Douglas Foster writes about Zuma’s life narrative as he is in fact writing a portion of it—does that make sense? It’s on page three, he points out that “periodic recklessness, reined in by the collective leadership of the ANC, has traced the narrative of Zuma’s life”. I wondered while I read how much of the author’s information comes from Zuma himself and what other sources were used. I felt that I was bogged down in details that took me away from where the story would end up—maybe I just wasn’t focused enough or maybe I would have to be more attached to politics to really feel a connection to the piece but I really had trouble connecting. The ending, though, was very powerful.

Foster seems to have a connection anyway. Most of his writing sounded like he knew Zuma very well. What other people’s thoughts? Did anyone else feel this way?

Questions--"Writing for Story"

What does Franklin mean when he says “stories are nothing”? (xviii) How can he say that?

Are Franklin's ideas just as relevant today as they were when he wrote them nearly ten years ago or have there been developments since then?

Will every good story fit into the structural outline that Franklin gives or do some good stories require something else?

Reading Response--"Writing for Story"

Thus far in writing for story I have been inspired. After reading Jon Franklin’s Preface, I felt more knowledgeable about the craft of narrative. His advice is strikingly simple and straightforward. However he surprised me and held my interest by writing, “If your first story doesn’t turn out well, don’t fix it. Throw it away. […] Stories are nothing. The process is everything (xviii).” I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by this—are stories nothing because they are all really just the same story about the human condition? Are stories replaceable, interchangeable? I would really like to know more about this particular statement.

My favorite aspect of the book is that it is so personal to both the reader and the writer. It’s not a dry how to book but a high stakes challenge to be the best writer you can be—if that’s what you’re into. A part that stood out to me, for what I struggle with when I write, is when Franklin talks about making sure your conflict matches your resolution. I really thought his outlining chapter was incredibly helpful too. I mean, I haven’t put his tools into practice yet but I think they really help me with my re-write!

Dream Catch Me: Writing Process

I had meant to find a different topic to write about for this piece. I'm always wanting to write about love and journeys and drama and yet, not wanting to. All those stories are so personal and delicate; and in my head everything is swirling and I can't pin it down.

This particular story, though it took place this past November is still so close to me--temporally, emotionally, even physically. It hurts sometimes to be home from abroad. It hurts because I fell in love. I fell in love with the country and the man I've written about.

Despite my attempts to push this narrative from my mind, the urge to write it overcame my efforts to push these thoughts back down. Me and my thoughts made a deal though, I would write about my dilemma (to apply for another Australian visa or to go home) instead of writing my love story for Modern Love. So here it is. I know there are pieces that are lacking and it probably ends too soon but I think it's a start to something decent. After completing my first draft I realized that I did not fully explained why the dilemma was so hard and what the factors were--I will tackle this in round two!

Thanks for reading ~ : )

Dream Catch Me

*This narrative is meant for the Lives submission*

Nanjing, China holds a special place in my heart. In a room on the twelfth floor, I sat in the bathtub. Warm water ran cold; my attempt at relaxation didn’t sooth my thoughts. My dilemma consumed me. My body was worn down and my mind frayed and tattered. My inner conflict was visibly taking over. It was early November, and the chill of winter in the Northern Hemisphere was seeping in slowly. 

The first night of that particular journey ended in an elaborate hotel at the airport in Kuala Lumpur, the smell of cigarette smoke still clung to the surfaces of the room. In the morning my I would make my way to the big country just North of Malaysia with my study group. Not the biggest landmass in the world, but the fourth, inhabited by the greatest population, exceeding 1.3 Billion people. It was in this vast country that I was struggling more than ever with my choice.

It was an amazing opportunity to be a part of the Curtin University East Asian Study Tour. Before joining the group I had been exploring Australian culture while studying abroad in Perth—the most isolated capital city in the world. I felt a heart string vibrate when the letter in my Kalamazoo College mail box gave me the news—accepted. Destination Australia, a small inkling of what was to come crept up on me and the anticipation began to build. A hopeless romantic, following her bliss, I got off the plane in Perth expecting paradise but the airport led to a parking-lot, which led to a highway, which led to a tiny bedroom cold and painted white. My overwhelming feeling upon my arrival to Curtin University Student Housing was surprised disappointment.

This feeling wasn’t unlike our first pit stop in China. Groggy and unsettled, I shuffled off of the bus and into the bathroom; I was shocked to find that my first squatting experience had suddenly arrived. I rose to the challenge and that night I successfully entered my fluids into the traditional Chinese toilet—somewhat disgruntled and dismayed. It wasn’t unlike the bush pees that had often been so necessary in the outback but the unsavory toilet was not my real concern. My heart throbbed for the land I had left behind.

Returning to the bus, I felt small riding through the bigness of China. Sky-scraper apartment buildings lined the highway and denim and cotton hung from even the highest windows. Despite the throbbing my head due to the arrival of an untimely chest cold that had settled in just before our departure, I kept myself busy by breaking out a bus seat ab workout. The last time I had done this, I was en route to Broome, more than two thousand Kilometers north of Perth. 

Coral Reef Studies, Indigenous Culture classes, and Environmental Studies had not quite satisfied my desire for a true Australian experience. Living on campus, surrounded by concrete buildings and confining classrooms I booked my trip to Broome in September. The nine day tour that took me to that sandy shore where we said goodbye is the first of the best Australian memories I collected during my time there. 

While I tightened, grunted and released, only to breathe in and repeat, the memories of my past four months spent in Australia had me agonizing over this one decision. Nanjing was where I had to decide my future.

“You only live once,” was the anthem my friends and I proclaimed during our time abroad. For me, that anthem grew louder and louder as I journeyed farther from the Aussie land. It sung of a man with scruffy hair, a scruffy face, and a smile that makes my heart race. The first time we met I knew I was in for an adventure of a lifetime. We were headed north, to Broome, through the Australian bush. I remember noticing his hair. He had the most serious case of bed-head I had seen in a long time. I came to discover that his hair always looked that wild. Even wilder was how close I was that night in Nanjing—close to returning. Returning, but to which country I couldn’t be sure.

Water droplets filled the creases in my worried forehead. I looked out across the landscape, at the small piece of Nanjing before me. 

The bathroom fog quickly faded and the answer slowly became clear. I would do what I’d been dreaming. My hair was wet and chilling but my excitement kept me burning—never have I felt so much fire inside. I pressed the send button. The whole process took a mere 20 minutes. Keen to discover my fate but too scared to speak of it I began my day much like any other. I ate the French toast that morning, it was doughy and delicious, a warm comfort after a night of still, stiff, darkness. 

After a long day of wondering I took my time checking my inbox for the email I awaited. I was patient while the pages fully loaded before rushing to discover the answer to the seemingly endless question I had been asking myself for months. I typed my password slowly, with purpose. Despite my methodical efforts to delay the process, to have some control over the outcome, the page loaded quickly and there it was. My visa grant notification had arrived only one day after I had submitted the application. Too shocked for words, I grinned uncontrollably.

            I had not known that in that room on the twelfth floor of a hotel in Nanjing, China that my heart would melt and my soul would sing. My anticipation reached a crescendo, a hopeless romantic, following her bliss; I would return to Australia to be with the one I missed.