Revision: After
January 17, 2008
Revision: Before
January 17, 2008
The essay that I chose to revise was my “American Romanticism” essay. It was actually rather good, considering the time constraints present when I was writing it. Looking back, I feel that the main points that I need to concentrate on are word choice (including repetition) and expression: oftentimes, my ideas and statements are muddled due to deadwood. Apparently, even when pressed for time, I tend to be rather verbose.
The pictures of the “before” essay are rather blurry, but I’m afraid that I don’t have a scanner available. Fortunately, the final copy does not really differ too much from the original, at least in content.
Freewrite!
January 17, 2008
I absolutely love freewrites…when they turn out decently. This one, well, let’s just say that I’m really not sure what on earth I was thinking when I wrote it. By the way, Nutley is a small little town in New Jersey, where I was born and was fortunate enough to spend the first 7 years or so of my life. Oh well, it makes sense and it’s coherent:
Nutley evokes strange memories. Allegedly, it is the scene of a stereotypical high school, complete with a racist football team. Stereotypical high school– that reminds me of a conversation we– never mind, I’m getting off topic and need to resume my sleepy narrative of Nutley: Nutley, with a tired main street, complete with a hole-in-the-wall pizza place. A hole-in-the-wall pizza place with a smoky back room, hushed conversations, and last names that seem to always terminate with a vowel.
Which reminds me of that conversation about the Godfa– wait! back on topic! Down main street (that wasn’t really its name) was a park. It was a huge park, bundled with geese, multiple swing sets, and a hill perfect for sledding. All this can be yours for only 3 easy payments of 19.99!
I hate childhood memories. They’re far too nostalgic.
Stream of Consciousness
January 17, 2008
This was, overall, my favorite assigned journal entry. I love writing in stream of consciousness… and I feel as though this entry turned out exceptionally well.
Who does she think she is?
Getting up and gliding across the room, I pause– ever so briefly– before striding to the commotion overtaking my rather intimidating oak door. Really, it’s odd having such an elaborate door to protect such a despicable abode, but first impressions are everything.
I look through the keyhole as I unlatch the dead bolts and unfasten the chains that guard my nearly inhabitable sanctuary: of course, of course it’s her. Who else would dare be bold enough to knock– loudly– on my front door at two in the morning?
Flinging the door open, I block the entrance. It’ll be better to make this quick and painless than to invite her in to talk. Indeed, letting her in would simply exacerbate the issue…it’s better to chat on the front porch.
Funny, it wasn’t snowing when I went to be less than an hour ago. A think blanket of freshly fallen powder envelops the drowsy street which my town house looks down upon. I paid a small fortune for the peace of mind and prestige that comes from living in the nicest place on the block. Not that money matters anyway– it’s cheap, almost as cheap as the woman now stammering apologies on my stoop.
“I…I…it was cold and I was in the neighborhood and I…”
Silencing her with a noncommittal wave, I look around again. The city is disturbingly peaceful at this hour, though in only a few more, it’ll be bustling again. The daily parade of yuppies, hookers, gang-bangers, and coffee-shop revolutionaries will head out for another day of alleged work, while the newspaper boy who stands a few houses down will attempt to drown out their conversations with his prepubescent cries.
“I just wanted to… apologize for the way that I…”
Resisting the urge to just slam the door, I turn to the slender (Did she loose weight?) figure still trying to formulate an excuse on my doorstep. She’s drunk– again. Isn’t that why this happened in the first place? It’s not that I mind drunks: I actually find them sort of funny; but when your significant other “accidently” takes a cab to a house on the other side of town where her co-worker just happens to live in a drunken stupor, things tend to simply blow up.
“Well, I just want to admit that what I did was completely and utterly wrong.”
Finally, maybe the cold is helping her nerves or something. She’s stopped stammering, and something she’s said actually makes sense– sort of. Well, actually, it’s a complete lie and we both know it. I mean, yeah, one accidental cab ride can be forgiven… but every other night for a month or so stings a little.
Research Paper
January 14, 2008
Rarely am I satisfied with a paper — and this was one of the few exceptions. As the final paper of the year, I feel as though it was one in which my abilities truly shone through my writing.
This was one of the random entries in my journal, written after the actual assigned work was finished. It’s also one of the few “extra” entires that are actually readable.
Perhaps,
just maybe,
and perhaps,
certain things are said best
when iterated from the lips
of an illiterate infant
Symbolic statements take
second-row seats to
contemporary cliches quoted courageously
Schoolchildren scold and salute
statues, senselessly
See, faith’s first folly is not so much
facilitated as forced
into ever developing follicles of
unforeseen utilitarian urgency.
Excelsior! Exponential epilogues entertain
nihilistic nothingness, nagged northward
by blundering bourgeois bastards
