After reading Anzaldua and choosing the line from her work I created a story from it. I think my story is diffent in tone at least, but similar in content. I used a line that was in spanish that translated to "And you know what he did?". The tone of her work was more serious and my story was more pensive and curious. Her main character was strong and intense, but the main theme was the boundary language can set between people. Also when I made my micro fiction from my tweets, the tone completely changed from idle information into a story about distraction and white noise. After completeling these two micro fictions, I began work on the found poem and the haiku. The haiku from my microfictions, is so different from the stories becasue it is shorter and more intense. I found using less words made me think more about the meaning I was trying to convey. I wanted the reader to get a sense of open, emptiness and the narrator was okay with this. Also in the found poem I feel like from my tweets I created a jouney from the place of a jeep. Its like a road trip but more focused on the raod trip of the realtionship. I found it was hard to arrange my thoughts into a poem.
In this blog I am going to write two micro Fictions. In the first I will use a line from Anzaldua's work and then the second will be from one of my own tweets.
I decided to use this line form Anzaldua: "Y sabes lo que hizo?"
I decided to use this tweet: writing a short story in my dorm while trying to tune out the piano player upstairs.
The Pianist
The incessant noise of a piano lingers in the empty space of my bedroom. The window is open slightly, letting the usually calming melody of Mozart, Bach, or some classical composer sneak in and weave through my brain enough to distract me from the blinking cursor on my laptop. I rock back and forth in my chair, twirling my hair between my pointer finger and my thumb. I need to go grocery shopping because I am out of milk and my apples are bruised. The window lets the noise of Edgewood parking lot creep in with the pianist’s melodies.
12:57 stares at me from the clock on my laptop. My fingers curl into a fist and then extend over the keyboard again, unable to type a single word. I should shut the window, but I don’t want to stand up. My legs are warm beneath my snuggie and the room is too cold to walk the 10 steps to my window. I hear the hum of the T.V in the living room and decide that the piano is less annoying. I listen for a second and notice the piano has stopped. Looking at my screen makes me laugh. I let an hour pass with the sounds around me filling the void in my mind, while my laptop sits empty.
And you know what he did?
The train is empty except for two older Hispanic ladies and me. The sky outside is gray and the air is cold. The train rattles on its tracks, something that worries me, yet the older ladies take no notice. They speak fast and in Spanish.
“<Y sabes 1o que hizo?” The older lady with the purple jacket says to the other.
“No, no yo sabo,” the other lady holding her purse says.
I only catch every few words, but I think they are talking about someone’s son joining a gang. They also talk about how much they hate Camden because every time they have to say the name of the city where the son lives they make a face like they just drank sour milk and then tried to make the taste disappear by drinking orange juice that expired.
“Si, es no bueno. Mi hijo es amigos contigo,” the lady holding her purse says.
“Ay, Mi Dios,” says the lady with the purple jacket. “Pobrecetio.”
I laugh at this exchange because, not only do the ladies look boisterous with their bright colors and large jovial bodies, they speak with their hands and their eyes. Looking only at each other while they speak, they don’t notice I have been watching the entire ride.
“Next stop, Haddon Heights,” the train speaker says.
This is my stop, I grab my backpack and stand. Taking one last look at the older ladies who are still engrossed in their conversation.
I decided to use this line form Anzaldua: "Y sabes lo que hizo?"
I decided to use this tweet: writing a short story in my dorm while trying to tune out the piano player upstairs.
The Pianist
The incessant noise of a piano lingers in the empty space of my bedroom. The window is open slightly, letting the usually calming melody of Mozart, Bach, or some classical composer sneak in and weave through my brain enough to distract me from the blinking cursor on my laptop. I rock back and forth in my chair, twirling my hair between my pointer finger and my thumb. I need to go grocery shopping because I am out of milk and my apples are bruised. The window lets the noise of Edgewood parking lot creep in with the pianist’s melodies.
12:57 stares at me from the clock on my laptop. My fingers curl into a fist and then extend over the keyboard again, unable to type a single word. I should shut the window, but I don’t want to stand up. My legs are warm beneath my snuggie and the room is too cold to walk the 10 steps to my window. I hear the hum of the T.V in the living room and decide that the piano is less annoying. I listen for a second and notice the piano has stopped. Looking at my screen makes me laugh. I let an hour pass with the sounds around me filling the void in my mind, while my laptop sits empty.
And you know what he did?
The train is empty except for two older Hispanic ladies and me. The sky outside is gray and the air is cold. The train rattles on its tracks, something that worries me, yet the older ladies take no notice. They speak fast and in Spanish.
“<Y sabes 1o que hizo?” The older lady with the purple jacket says to the other.
“No, no yo sabo,” the other lady holding her purse says.
I only catch every few words, but I think they are talking about someone’s son joining a gang. They also talk about how much they hate Camden because every time they have to say the name of the city where the son lives they make a face like they just drank sour milk and then tried to make the taste disappear by drinking orange juice that expired.
“Si, es no bueno. Mi hijo es amigos contigo,” the lady holding her purse says.
“Ay, Mi Dios,” says the lady with the purple jacket. “Pobrecetio.”
I laugh at this exchange because, not only do the ladies look boisterous with their bright colors and large jovial bodies, they speak with their hands and their eyes. Looking only at each other while they speak, they don’t notice I have been watching the entire ride.
“Next stop, Haddon Heights,” the train speaker says.
This is my stop, I grab my backpack and stand. Taking one last look at the older ladies who are still engrossed in their conversation.