Advanced Essay Writing, Spring 2013

Dear Everybody,

So, I have come up with two different ideas for what to do with my final project that I would not only love to share but also could use some input.  I’m leaing towards developing a previous essay rather than starting fresh.

The first idea is built off of my essay on what my father collects (II.II). Feel free to take a look at it on my blog and please comment on that draft. I want to develop it further, to get a full picture of how crazy what he collects truly is and how how almost anybody can relate to it (surprisingly). I love this topic because it is something that has always interested me. I think it will be successful because it is relate-able to on several levels and  it is special to me ad I feel that will fuel the fire to make it a compelling essay. The structure will be similar to my II.II essay, unless somebody has a better suggestion as to how to format it. It already has an introduction paragraph to set the scene which I am open to changing. I was thinking of adding some dialogue, cutting the cross-section of the box  altogether a focusing on the closet. The message I want to communicate is really about how different yet similar all humans are.  We feel an unconscious need to hold onto things because they hold greater significance (yet a the same object means nothing to somebody else) and I want to showcase how my father has done this, in a very specific way,  throughout his life so far. The list of  items is really a poem, thus making it a hybrid essay. I’m thinking of adding the epigraph of the cross-section as the closing for the essay as well. I’m not sure how long it will be, although it will adhere to the requirements. I’m going to have to play with the list itself to show the breadth, depth and insanity of the collection, while making it cohesive and make sure the flow is correct so it reads not like a shopping list but like a poem. The working title is “My Father: A Controlled Hoarder” or the previous title of Essay II.II

The second idea I have is either brilliant or really stupid. I’m not sure. There is a fine line between the two. Regardless, it centers around a question: Have you ever noticed how men and women take their T-shirts shirts off very differently? First, men tend to grab it from the back, while women cross their arms in front of them and remove it (I think it is due to the hair business). I was thinking of incorporating some silent videos of people removing their shirts (I may give every person a similar one in the correct size to streamline it) and conducting interviews (which I would transcribe into text) about how one takes his or her T-Shirt off to each participant. What are your thoughts? Is it doable? Is it to risque? What would you take away from it, if anything? The working title is “How Do You Take your T-Shirt Off?”

Best,

Alee

I witnessed a smile recently, a kind of smile that is still breathing in me. I also witnessed a cry few years ago, a kind of cry that is still bleeding in me. However, these two events have nothing to do with each other. One originated in Bangladesh and is the story of one of my best friends,and  the other one originated here is in New York and is the story of time. So these two somehow flow in my mind like two rivers flowing parallel side by side but have no common points whatsoever. For my lyric essay I am going to try to connect the two streams and see what color water is going to be after the merge. It could be yellow or orange or indigo or purple or green or gray or blue.

I don’t know what trajectory my essay will take on its way to the end. It’s a journey. Like every other journey my essay will certainly have an end, a destination, but I can’t tell how long it’ll travel through the wings of butterflies. I set my imagination on the wings.

I will call it ” Seven Colors of Butterflies.”

As empty as a ill-fitting tattered suit

As weak as two week old tea with the teabags still inside of the pitcher

Gathered together like a gaggle of geese headed Southwest

As rough as an uncut blood diamond, found in a gutter on the street, from a broken marriage

Trembling like a newly planted sapling in a drafty spring downpour

Praying like a terminal blood cancer patient

Bouncing like a king in his inflatable castle

Smiling like a cougar devouring its prey

Heart of a Tootsie pop

Mountains of freezer burned ice cream

War is eggshells

The ocean is simply the horizon line

The moon is a wheel of the bicycle of the daily cycle

My love is an ocean

Writing is everything and everywhere

Poem:

Smiling like a cougar devouring her prey

She turns praying like a terminal blood cancer patient

Hoping no one saw her in her house of hell

Eating her love is like an ocean.

As empty as a park in the dead of the night
As weak as a newborn
Gathered together like a pair of magents
As rough as sandpaper
Trembling like an ostrich who has spotted a lion
Praying like a mantis
Bouncing like the pavement below him was a trampoline
Smiling like a young girl opening her gifts Christmas morning

Heart of hardened steel
Mountains of granite arrowheads piercing the sky
War is the clash between two hopes that cannot coexist
The ocean is a turquoise explosion of life
The moon is a pockmarked prizefighter at the end of his ropes
This house of elaborate lies
My love is a dream that never slips away
Writing is blood and sweat transformed into ink

The most compelling acts from , “20 Acts in 60 Minutes” are 2,7 and 10.  In Act Two, “No, Of Course I know You,” I really can see how the intricacies of the depths of human connection occur. The way he felt about this woman drove him to both insanity and anguish. He felt that he may have been in love with her at one point and that whatever she had within her he needed for some unknowable reason that even he could not pinpoint. It wasn’t as if it was a love at first sight thing, it was as if he had known her in a previous life and immediately felt more than a connection. He became obsessed with her and can’t even tell her he loves her because he does not even know her in real life. It does not even occur to him to approach her and ask her if they have met before, he immediately jumps to wanting to profess his deep rooted emotions for her. Act Two is a beautiful piece of work. “Up Where the Air is Clear,” Act Seven, is very funny. It speaks to the power of the social circle and acquaintances because everybody else had felt that these two characters, Mary Poppins and Penguin, should meet and when they finally did they barely had anything to say to each other and it was quite uncomfortable. In fact when they met, “Penguin became very shy and quiet. As he stood there staring at her, his top hat felt needlessly clumsy, his monocle too small for his face, and the squinting needed to keep it in place was giving him a slight headache. For the first time in his life, the Penguin felt ludicrous.” Even though he knew he was going to meet her, his reaction was unprecedented in his life. I absolutely loved Act Ten, “Etiquette Lesson.” I think it is fantastic they way they use words to show how theater can work. They use adjectives and adverbs and such but it is once removed. Rather than placing a statement, they just say the word allowing one to insert whatever they think is appropriate based on the tone of the actors’ voices and the emotions. My two favorite phrases from Act 10 are, “aggressive childish insult,” and “pathetic self-evaluation.” The flow of the recording is great. They way they use English and voice and everything is superb. Overall this was an enjoyable experience, however I did not find all of the acts to be compelling. Some of them I found to be a little dumb and pointless.

Simile

As empty as the open road

As weak as a newborn baby

Gathered together like a group of gossiping schoolgirls

As rough as chafed skin

Trembling like a naked mole rat

Praying like an Olympic gold medalist

Bouncing like light off the wall

Smiling like a child on the last day of school

Metaphor

Heart of a soldier

Mountains of flesh

War is a deadly chess match

The ocean is a boundless pool

The moon is nature’s nightlight

This house of judgment

My love is a chameleon

Writing is a never ending marathon

******

I am still.

I take short deep breaths as I observe them, gathered around like gossiping schoolgirls. The sun has set unusually early today, but that’s ok, the moon is nature’s nightlight and I use it to my advantage.

Crack!

The sound of the bullet escaping the rifle is deafening in the silence.

I hit my mark. Bambi goes down, trembling like a naked mole rat. Panic sets in, the other schoolgirls scramble and scatter, their shadows playing in the moonlight bouncing back and forth off the trees.

I rise, smiling like a child on the last day of school, I collect my victory.  

“Not bad for an old man, huh!” I mock, as I toss the nights dinner in front of the camouflage clad men.

SIMILES

As empty as an egg shell

As weak as the dying

Gathered together like hibernating birds

As rough as love

Trembling like the strings on my guitar

Praying like a new widow

Bouncing like club music

Smiling like the crescent moon

METAPHORS

Heart of glass

Mountains of laughs

War is time

The ocean is a wishing well

The moon is the smile of the sky

This house of lies

My love is the box you should handle with care

Writing is dancing with our hands

POEM

And I can’t seem to find the right way to dream

Under the smile of the sky; the moon shines bright

I sense the vibrant essence of the crescent,

And it keeps me alive.

But my bones shiver.

My body trembles like strings on a guitar.

It plays a sad, sweet melody

And cracks my glass heart.

My love is the box that should be handled with care.

Package my dreams and vacantly stare.

Simile

As empty as long winter nights.

As weak as hopeless minds.

Gathered together like children to grandma’s tales.

As rough as unknown roads

Trembling like a lost wanderer,

Praying like my father.

Smiling like a champion

Bouncing like a frog embracing the rain.

Metaphors

Heart of hopes

Mountains of hurdles

War is a change.

The ocean is a mystery

The moon is a pathfinder

The house of  dreamers.

My love is a moonlit night

Writing is a rainbow.

To your city

So many nights I walked barefooted in the heart of your city like a lost wanderer, like a ship in a mystery ocean. That was my nights with your moon. My dark nights with your moonlit nights. Your moon sometimes begged me to clear the gray curtains of fog; I did as I always wanted to, keeping the mountains of hurdles away from the Moon. Because I promised you. I promised you to safeguard the Moon from the black clouds, from the white clouds, from the blue clouds. I also kept the kites away from your moon. I fought with the Sun to keep you happy as you once told me your moon would face a capital punishment on the arrival of the Sun. It never happened; the Moon never died because I was there, your dreamer.

But last night was different. I fed your moon to a beggar at ”Hopes Avenue.” He was starving to death and told me it, the Moon, looked like a toasted naan. I dragged the moon to his mouth because he needed food to live on. I killed your moon; I killed my nights, for a smile on the beggar’s face.

Simile

As empty as words.

As weak as a tongue.

Gathered together like strands of hair.

As rough as an emery board.

Trembling like a needle.

Praying like a mantis.

Bouncing like pebble.

Smiling like an actress.

Metaphor

Heart of steel.

Mountains of ice which melt below your feet.

War is an abortion, taking the life of a son from the mother who bore him.

The ocean is a chisel which sculpted the seven continents.

The moon is the sun of the night, allowing for dim lighting in the night sky.

This house of  disconnect.

My love is a nest.

Writing is history.

Poem

My love is a nest

Protecting those it holds dear.

As empty as words

Like broken promises that will never be fulfilled.

As weak as a tongue

Which in anger utter words that rain down like a waterfall.

This house of  disconnect

In which empty words are exchanged.

As empty as a beggar’s hands.

As weak as a new-born kitten.

Gathered together like the pieces of a puzzle.

As rough as the stubble on my face.

Trembling like a puppy in the snow.

Praying like a devout noun.

Bouncing like a scam artist’s check.

Smiling like an innocent child.

Heart of rusted iron.

Mountains of plastic-wrapped butter rolls.

War is the pastime of the rich and bored.

The ocean is a jealous lover.

The moon is the child birthed from the earth.

This house of unfulfilled dreams.

My love is a phoenix rising from its ashes.

Writing is the key that opens all doors of creativity.

After years of praying like a devout noun my resolve finally becomes as weak as a new-born kitten. That was my last resort, my final attempt to attain fulfilling happiness. As I walk back home from being stood-up once again, I look up at the solitary moon. The moon is the child birthed from the earth, yet it has no life upon it as its mother does. I, too, have no life around me, as much as I am the son of a woman who has touched the lives of so many. My only comfort is my writing, the key that opens all doors of creativity, the one refuge in which I may express my miserable feelings in security. Returning my eyes to the ground, I trudge back to my house of unfulfilled dreams.