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.
I will be making a Haiku out of lines from my own Micro Fiction which is in the last blog. I will also be composing a Found Poem from 10 of my Tweets from Twitter.
Wrong Way
The window is open,
12:57 stares at me.
This is my stop, empty.
these are the tweets I used:
jar2389 jorie rao
got a paper cut today. not fun.
jar2389 jorie rao
my living room is a mess, not a fan #twitterive #wrt2
jar2389 jorie rao
the edu lab it quiet except for the clicking of my own keyboard as i write this #twitterive #wrt2
jar2389 jorie rao
The jeep has bumper stickers, but not on the bumper. I have put a few on there. #twitterive
jar2389 jorie rao
A story is something that constantly unfolds.--Tarentino #twitterive
jar2389 jorie rao
this was in someones bathroom. it made me laugh #twitterive http://twitpic.com/3vl12y
jar2389 jorie rao
sunsets, red bulls and your hand in mine. I'd travel anywhere as long as you smile #twitterive
jar2389 jorie rao
the dirty floor mats in your car, the broken cupholder, the loose change in my hand. its taking its toll. #twitterive
jar2389 jorie rao
faded tans and leftover shells from where the ocean meets the land #twitterive Im california dreamin on such a winters day
1989 Jeep Cherokee Laredo
Sunsets,
Red Bull’s
and your hand in mine.
I'd travel anywhere as long as you smile.
Familiar place:
the jeep has bumper stickers, but
not on the bumper. It made me laugh.
The dirty floor mats in your car,
the broken cup holder
and the loose change in my hand.
It’s taking its toll.
It’s old, a mess.
We drive a lot.
Quiet, except for
faded tans and leftover shells
from where the ocean meets the land.
A story is something that
constantly unfolds.
Wrong Way
The window is open,
12:57 stares at me.
This is my stop, empty.
these are the tweets I used:
jar2389 jorie rao
got a paper cut today. not fun.
jar2389 jorie rao
my living room is a mess, not a fan #twitterive #wrt2
jar2389 jorie rao
the edu lab it quiet except for the clicking of my own keyboard as i write this #twitterive #wrt2
jar2389 jorie rao
The jeep has bumper stickers, but not on the bumper. I have put a few on there. #twitterive
jar2389 jorie rao
A story is something that constantly unfolds.--Tarentino #twitterive
jar2389 jorie rao
this was in someones bathroom. it made me laugh #twitterive http://twitpic.com/3vl12y
jar2389 jorie rao
sunsets, red bulls and your hand in mine. I'd travel anywhere as long as you smile #twitterive
jar2389 jorie rao
the dirty floor mats in your car, the broken cupholder, the loose change in my hand. its taking its toll. #twitterive
jar2389 jorie rao
faded tans and leftover shells from where the ocean meets the land #twitterive Im california dreamin on such a winters day
1989 Jeep Cherokee Laredo
Sunsets,
Red Bull’s
and your hand in mine.
I'd travel anywhere as long as you smile.
Familiar place:
the jeep has bumper stickers, but
not on the bumper. It made me laugh.
The dirty floor mats in your car,
the broken cup holder
and the loose change in my hand.
It’s taking its toll.
It’s old, a mess.
We drive a lot.
Quiet, except for
faded tans and leftover shells
from where the ocean meets the land.
A story is something that
constantly unfolds.
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.
I decided to really focus on "place" for both of these readings. In the collection of micro fiction by Stern I noticed that the "place" seemed to be Hispanic countries such as Cuba or Mexico. For instance in "Wrong Channel", Barbarita is obviously from another country becasue there is talk about getting a green card and a medical examination. It was ironic that the doctor was asking about TB but becasue of accents the two ladies thought he meant TV. From there the reader can tell that Barbarita is on the so called "wrong channel" and will most likely not be allowed into the country because of a minor misunderstanding. Ths place in this piece is more distant yet it still plays a role in her life. She is not in her country of origin but the place is controlling her ability to understand and communicate correctly with the doctor. Also in "Land's End" it is ironic that her foot is bleeding because of a Cerveza bottle, which is in spanish in a way representing her country, and the only thing she claims to own in her blood. Everythign else in this place makes her feel or remember that she doesnt belong. Her sense of place is skewed becasue she is in a new place with nothing of her own to define her.
As for the Billy the Kid reading, I wasnt to fond of it. The writing was slow for me and I had trouble getting into the story and remembering what I had just read. All I really comprehended was that Sallie liked to shut out the world from 11-3. There we a lot of colors throughout the text.
Over all, I found that "place" was missing from the micro fiction in a way becasue the characters were all alienated in a way and felt like there place wasnt where they were. They longed for their place in a way because it is thier history. Like with "Land's End" I felt it connected to Native HIll because he had a strong sense of place and felt out of place in New York, which is why he moved back to Kentucky.
As for the Billy the Kid reading, I wasnt to fond of it. The writing was slow for me and I had trouble getting into the story and remembering what I had just read. All I really comprehended was that Sallie liked to shut out the world from 11-3. There we a lot of colors throughout the text.
Over all, I found that "place" was missing from the micro fiction in a way becasue the characters were all alienated in a way and felt like there place wasnt where they were. They longed for their place in a way because it is thier history. Like with "Land's End" I felt it connected to Native HIll because he had a strong sense of place and felt out of place in New York, which is why he moved back to Kentucky.