Creative Nonfiction Work

I read the story Dinner of my Dreams by Jeannie Marshall.  This story is about how she has dreams about meeting her father and having serval encounters with him on the streets of Rome.  This story spoke to me because I have always wanted to meet my grandpa as well.  He passed away due to a heart attack when I was a year old.  Now I hear stories about him and what he was like but I can only imagine what it would be like to have a converstaion with him.  This story also goes into detail about Itallian food.  Although my grandpa was Mexican, he loved his food especiallly spicy meats and cheeses, which also reminded me of him!

Short Story

People say all things happen for a reason.  This story just happens to be the perfecct example of that crazy thing called fate.

It was late afternoon.  The ship was on its way to Paris from New York.  It only took Captain John twenty minutes.  To realize that they were stuck in the doldrums.
"Carl!"  Captain John shouted.  "Come up here quick, wqe have a situation."  Carl walked to Captain John, and he said "Okay, we're sutck in the doldrums."  "No! We're never going to make it to Paris on time." Said Carl.  "Stay calm Carl." Replied Captain John.  "Lets not alarm the passangers yet."

Meanwhile a father and his son were sitting, looking out into the sea.  The little boy's name is Dalton and he is traveling with his father to Paris to meet his mother for the first time.  All of a sudden Dalton's father collapses to the ground.  Luckily a doctor was aboard the ship.  "Move! Move! I'm a doctor!" Shouted the man.  He inspects the man and about thirty seconds later he announces that the man has died from a heart attack.  Dalton began to cry.  An older man comes over and pulls Dalotn off of his fathers dead body.  He takes him to the otherside of the ship where a woman is standing alone.  The old man asked the woman politely, "could you please watch this little boy for a couple of minutes?"  She says yes.  Dalton continues to cry.  The woman then says "do you want to see a magic trick?" Dalton nods his head.  She then pulls out a deck of cards.  He stops crying and is in awe of the magic trick.  "That was really neat!" says Dalton.  The woman replied "Thanks! I learned that trick back home."  The woman then said "My name is Kate by the way."  He says "I'm Dalton."  Kate replies "I love that name! That's my sons name."  Dalton says "oh well I've never met my mom."  Kate replies "Dalton where are you heading?"  He says "Paris, France! I'm meeting my mom  for the frist time ever at the Effiel Tower."  "Dalton, so am I!  You are my son!"  Dalton has a very confused look on his face.  She begins to explain that she had been exchaging letters with his father for the last three months and they finally decided that they are going to arrange a meeting.  Dalton runs up to her and gives her a big hug!  They both begin to cry because they are so happy to finally meet eachother.  They have been reunited at last. 

On the other side of the ship Captain John and Carl are still trying to get out of the doldrums.  All of a sudden Carl sees a large, dark shadow off in the distance. He says "What is that!?"  Captain John replies "I'm not sure, but whatever it is, it's heading this way!"

Raymond Carver Short Story

I read the short story called Little Things by Raymond Carver.  This story was painful to read at the end because it is ambiguious about what actually happens to the baby.  You can only imagine what damage would be caused to the infant if he or she is being pulled in two different directions.  Carver uses a lot of visual imagry to allow the reader to get a sense of what the situation looks like. 

Gabriel Garcia Marquez Photo

I picked the short story Tuesday Siesta from the Collected Stories by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.  A siesta is a Spanish term for rest. In Spain, they have siestas in the middle of the day.  They even close the stores and shops so that everyone goes home to sleep. This photo does not necessarily describes the story, but it does describe the title.  And this picture is really funny! : )

Lyrical Poetry

The song "Staple it Together" by Jack Johnson is a poetry song because it is full of symolism.  The song talks about trying to "staple" back together the life you have messed up.  He says he "he became a prisoner of his own past, he stabbed the moment in the back with a round thumbtack."  This is saying that the guy messed up his own life by making bad decisions in his past and now hes trying to fix it but its too late. 

Staple it Together
Its really
Too bad
He became a prisoner of his own past
He stabbed the moment in the back
With the round thumbtack
That held up the list of things he gotta do
Its really,
No good
He's moving on before he understood
He shot the future in the foot with every step he took
From the places that he's been cause he forgot to look

Better staple it together and call it bad weather
Staple it together and call it bad weather X3
Mm hmm

Well I guess you could say
That he dont even know where to begin
Cause he looked both ways but he was so afraid
Digging deep into the ditch
With every chance he missed
And the mess he made
Cause hate is such a strong word
And every brick he laid
A mistake they say
That his walls are getting taller
His world is getting smaller

Better staple it together and call it bad weather
Staple it together and call it bad weather X3
Mm hmm
Whoo

Its really
Too bad
He became a prisoner of his own past
He stabbed a moment in the back
With the round thumbtack
That held up the list of things he gotta do
Its really,
No good
Hes moving on before he understood
He shot the future in the foot with every step he took
From the places that he's been cause he forgot to look

Better staple it together and call it bad weather
Staple it together and call it bad weather X3

If the weather is better
We should get together
Spend a little time and we can do whatever
And if we get together we'll be twice as clever

So, staple it together and call it bad weather, mm hmmm

Spring Poem

The poem I picked is called A Country Path in Late Spring by Mark R Slaughter.  This poem caught my eye because of the vivid imagery that is given about the country path.  I like how the speaker describes the trees with great detail. 

A Country Path in Late Spring

The path of mossy ground nestled
In between maternal hedgerows,
That overgrew atop, dimming down
The brilliance of the day.
Embosomed, a calm-cool vision –
Abstract takes of nature, in
Leaf-spattered green shades;
Stem-speckled brown hues;
Shards of sunlight percolating
Through the random flaws to
Up glittering sprites upon the leaves.

And avian chatter bounced along the burrow,
Smattered by the crosstalk
Of busybody insects;
But outside the green comfort zone,
Other worlds of other sounds of other life
Otherwise gave a hint of
Other dozy goings on.

Hawthorn filled the air,
Filled the nose,
Filled the head –
Pungency had overpowered all –
Gave the late-spring-early-summer haze.

Here and there a break of colour:
Odd bluebells – escapees from nearby woods –
Blue-blushing bell faces glancing down,
Aware of their erectness in the stem;
The flaming wing of red admirals
Broke through a hedge hole to
Break up the calm backdrop,
While flitting blue tits gave
To greater-bodied animation.

Nature’s warm narration –
The undertones of life.

Pablo Neruda Poem

Ode to Things

I have a crazy,
crazy love of things.
I like pliers,
and scissors.
I love
cups,
rings,
and bowls –
not to speak, of course,
of hats.
I love all things,
not just the grandest,
also the infinite-
ly
small –
thimbles,
spurs,
plates,
and flower vases.

Oh yes,
the planet
is sublime!
It’s full of
pipes
weaving
hand-held
through tobacco smoke,
and keys
and salt shakers –
everything,
I mean,
that is made
by the hand of man, every little thing:
shapely shoes,
and fabric,
and each new
bloodless birth
of gold,
eyeglasses,
carpenter’s nails,
brushes,
clocks, compasses,
coins, and the so-soft
softness of chairs.

Mankind has
built
oh so many
perfect
things!
Built them of wool
and of wood,
of glass and
of rope:
remarkable
tables,
ships, and stairways.

I love
all
things,
not because they are
passionate
or sweet-smelling
but because,
I don’t know,
because
this ocean is yours,
and mine:
these buttons
and wheels
and little
forgotten
treasures,
fans upon
whose feathers
love has scattered
its blossoms,
glasses, knives and
scissors –
all bear
the trace
of someone’s fingers
on their handle or surface,
the trace of a distant hand
lost
in the depths of forgetfulness.

I pause in houses,
streets and
elevators,
touching things,
identifying objects
that I secretly covet:
this one because it rings,
that one because
it’s as soft
as the softness of a woman’s hip,
that one there for its deep-sea color,
and that one for its velvet feel.

O irrevocable
river
of things:
no one can say
that I loved
only
fish,
or the plants of the jungle and the field,
that I loved
only
those things that leap and climb, desire, and survive.
It’s not true:
many things conspired
to tell me the whole story.
Not only did they touch me,
or my hand touched them:
they were
so close
that they were a part
of my being,
they were so alive with me
that they lived half my life
and will die half my death.

My favorite poem by Pablo Neruda is Ode to Things.  I enjoy this poem because I also love to collect things like shells, stickers, and rocks.