Kris's blog

CITY New York City
COUNTRY United States
OBJECT NAME East River Oil Spill
PHOTOGRAPHER Kristopher Kesoglides
TITLE ConEd Oil Spill Pollutes East River
CREDIT Advanced Multimedia
SOURCE Advanced Multimedia
HEADLINE ConEd Oil Spill Pollutes East River
COPYRIGHT Kristopher Kesoglides
DATE TIME CREATED 5-11/2017 4pm-7pm

A mechanical failure led to about 37,000 gallons of dielectric fluid (mineral oil) to leak into the East River on Sunday, May 7th. Con Edison, the US Coast Guard and the Environmental Protection Agency have been working together in a clean up effort since.

Due to the incident, ferry transportation has been delayed, and other recreational activities have been suspended in and around the spill.

The spill contributes to the East River’s polluted reputation, and proves harmful to the environment and marine life inhabitants.

Oil washing up on the shore

Oil Spill delays East River ferry service

Goose swimming in polluted East River

Oil washing up on the shore

Blackened beach

Blackened beach

Con Edison Attempts to clean oil spill

Dear readers,

It has truly been an honor as well as a full-fledged learning experience working with all of you over the past few months. I learned so much about my writing, and myself and I feel like I have honestly utilized my creativity to it’s fullest potential in the midst of the last few projects. I have always been an artsy type, but have also been consistently caged by academia, and its expected structures with writing essays, and just writing in general. This class has really let me spread my creative wings and vibrant voice. I learned that I am able to incorporate a poetic voice, even into nonfiction essays. I learned that it is even easier to do that with the help of structuring your essay the way you want to; utilizing paragraph breaks and manipulating sentence structure are just a couple of examples.

With that being said, my last project was definitely the toughest and most time-consuming of all. I attempted to take the theme I worked with in my second essay, and portray the new scope I have recently acquired. The way I write music is similar to the way I write words; I attempt to create an atmosphere that makes it impossible not to ponder; I attempt to make my reader and/or listener reciprocate certain moods, thoughts and emotions. It’s because I believe the audience is the most important part. I am not necessarily worried about perfection, but more interested in reader’s – or listener’s – reaction.

I hope you guys enjoyed my writing because I can definitely say that I have enjoyed all of yours. I’m so happy to have been able to find a group of creators and innovators among thousands of suit & tie, 9-5, business students. It was definitely a breath of fresh air. Cheers.

-Kris Kesoglides

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GKr07-vEu4

For my draft, I began to take some footage of various locations. My final essay will be a lot longer, but the for the draft I wanted to practice writing music against scenery. As I was writing, I wanted to suggest a certain mood. I think the mood that comes off this footage is nostalgic and soothing. I want the audience to embrace the beauty our world has to offer and I think certain tunes can really help with that. I want to go further, and capture different parts of the world, including the constant NYC rush, maybe some footage of Central Park, possibly some footage from the top of the Empire State Building.

I haven’t quite figured out yet what kind of story I want to tell. I’m thinking maybe tell the story of how our race is so caught up with their own lives, that nobody has time to take a break and enjoy what’ s around them. Music will distinguish the rushed, aggravated and stressed life from the calm, tranquil and peaceful moments that seem to be rare in this world.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMBKcxmK-Jg&feature=youtu.be

Dear readers,

For my essay 2, I really wanted to write about my experience visiting Denmark. While I was there, I was up one night really late and could not sleep. Instead, I wrote a poem about how quiet it was, and how the concept of silence made me realize a couple of things about my own life back home, and just life in general. In NYC, everything is so fast-paced, and I never really had the chance to slow things down and embrace the uniqueness of the world that we live in, and the awesomeness that surrounds us.

Since we have been working on section breaks and dialogue, I thought it would be really cool to incorporate my poem and use them as different sections. I think it’s very artsy, and is definitely what I like most about the essay. I also experimented with dialogue, but used no tags. I think it works because there are only a couple of words being exchanged, and it is pretty clear who the speaker is in each conversation.

One thing that worries me about this essay is that it might be too choppy. Some of the transitions in my essay from paragraph to paragraph are not very fluid, and I think I will have to work on that during my editing process.

1) Do you think the present tense works in the essay? Because I think it works well with the tone and content of the poem.

2) Do you think the placement of the poem sections work? (Beginning and End) Or do you think it can work better somewhere in the middle?

Thanks in advance for the feedback!

Kris Kesoglides

I heard the silence for the first time tonight

And I witnessed the dark, painted black by a row of bitter lights

Down the quiet streets, against the pale piled snow

Among nature, among man, among all real things.

The stillness awaits to be disturbed

But very patiently, allowing man to rest his head,

While enjoying his absence;

******

I cannot sleep. My eyes are wide-awake and my ears are tuned-in to the world’s broadcast. Nothing, not even static, is transmitting. I have never heard this station before. It’s making me uneasy. I miss the comforting car alarms and the soothing sirens ringing in my ears. But I am stuck listening to Denmark’s empty channel for ten days, nine nights.

“Hai Kris, time to wake up?”

“Yep, thank you.”

I stumble out of bed, rub my tired eyes and reach into my suitcase to find a change of clothes. I grab the towel laid out for me and trek along the icy floor to the guest bathroom. A lever in the shower replaces the knobs from home. There is no handle to flush the toilet seat, but two sustainable buttons: each one for a different measure of business.

The dining table is complete with trays of bagels and muffins, and a coffee accompaniment. I don’t like coffee and I don’t eat breakfast. I never have time to. I struggle to sit still.

“Are you full or being shy?”

Neither. My short attention span is not allowing me to eat.

“I am full, thank you. It was delicious.”

The bus ride to school is surprisingly comfortable. The windows on it act as my Danish television. The sky is full and clear, coating the small buildings of the town and the mountains beyond.  Snow lies blank and beautiful atop the streets. Danes roam contently on a Monday morning in February.

As I exit the bus, I thank the driver. Behind me, my Danish exchange student does the same.

“Tak.”

I feel so ignorant. My Danish friend is fluent in my language, and I can’t even recite a simple thank you in his. I thought about this while walking towards the entrance of his high school, wondering whether it was my fault or America’s educational system, for not being at least bilingual; Definitely the latter.

The class fit 22 students, most of them white and tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes. It has been five long months since I saw them, and I was happy to be reunited.

A professor walks in, introduces herself and begins her lesson. Her accent is heavy, but she is clear and concise. She begins by throwing some facts at us.

“Danmark has a population of 6 million people. New York City has a population of 8 million.”

I cannot fathom this.

“Danmark has been rated the happiest country on Earth.”

It makes sense. Everyone I have met up to this point has been so polite. This fact will be in the back of my head for my entire trip. A smile began to shape.

After the school day, about 20 of us hop into different cars to hike the Danish mountains. The wind breezes gently as we climb the vertical lift. The air is pure and healthy, the snow soft and rich.  The trees gently sway, waving hello and welcoming travelers with open arms. I inhale a scent of nature, and exhale a breath of serenity. A burden-less forest resides in this hidden gem of a country. Silence once again consumes me at the peak.

******

Because there are indeed potentials;

As to silence our surroundings

And darken our negligence.

In return, humanity will be achieved

And we can gather ourselves,

Instead of a fail attempt to silence each other.

“Ultimately the product that any writer has to sell is not the subject being written about, but who he or she is. I often find myself reading with interest about a topic I never thought would interest me—some scientific quest, perhaps. What holds me is the enthusiasm of the writer for his field. How was he drawn into it? What emotional baggage did he bring along? How did it change his life?”(Zinsser 5).

This is great advice for a writer. I think it’s especially important for people who have trouble finding their “voice” and for those who think they have lost it. It’s critical to remember that writing is not about sounding like somebody else. It’s not about keeping up to par with the rest of the world. It’s about you and how you want yourself to be perceived. It’s about how you can tell a story. Writing should be an activity that separates you from others, it should highlight your individuality, not cloud your character. But what is also interesting about this advice is that Zinsser is speaking from a reader’s standpoint. Does Zinsser ever find himself WRITING with interest about a topic he never though would interest him?

Because I think this is possible. As long as you touch up a story (like a science quest, perhaps) with your own voice, creativity and style, you can surprisingly enjoy writing it.

Welcome to Blogs@Baruch!

This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start blogging.

Dear reader,
This is the first time I have actually written about my accident. Sure, I’ve told the story hundreds of times because surviving a car accident often comes off as pretty badass. For me, it was quite difficult to tell it on paper, because I wasn’t able to physically demonstrate what actually happened like I usually do, nor was I able to make people touch my weirdly overgrown bone on my leg afterwards. That usually ices the cake on a pretty intense tale. What I found most difficult was describing what I was actually going through at the time, because I often stick to chronological events instead of dramatizing the story with an emotional twist.
After reading Zinsser I have realized that adding an emotional scope is a critical step in the writing process. He claims, “Ultimately the product that any writer has to sell is not the subject being written about, but who he or she is. I often find myself reading with interest about a topic I never thought would interest me—some scientific quest, perhaps. What holds me is the enthusiasm of the writer for his field. How was he drawn into it? What emotional baggage did he bring along? How did it change his life?”(Zinsser 5). Making your content personable is what keeps it interesting. This is most important when telling your own story, because if it does not carry emotional baggage, it can easily be mistaken for somebody else’s story. Experiencing emotions, whether it entails embracing or suffering, is a key factor in our individuality. Emotion builds and breaks our characters. It can alter perceptions and define episodes. I think connecting my story with hurricane Katrina maximized the emotional content, especially within the last few sentences of my essay. Anger is explicitly present, which can easily be the most dangerous emotion. It made the rest of the prior content laughable, and I’m not sure if I wanted to go that route. I may have to revise that in my editing process.

Sincerely,
Kristopher Kesoglides

As a young kid, I naively believed that a paper cut would hurt more than a broken bone. The horrid stinging sensation bestowed onto the webbing of your fingers from an act of amateurish envelope opening, equates to a traumatic torture session. Now before you are quick to judge, let me reiterate my mere naïve childish mentality, which lasted up until I was twelve years old and had just been released from sixth grade, free to roam wild until September once again grounded me with reality.
Summer is supposed to be a time of fun in the sun, relaxation and reckless mischievous adventures, especially for a young twelve-year-old boy. Well, my summer after sixth grade definitely started that way, but ended shortly after it began. An innocent game of one-on-one sidewalk handball quickly went awry after it was accidentally moved into the street.
The myth that your life flashes before your eyes prior to a near-death experience might be true for some people, but not for me. However, I did witness a flash; it was a huge white flash, much like that of a camera, which temporarily blinds you for close to a second. But the metaphorical photograph taken was not a pretty one. The graphic, high-resolution image of bone, skin and blood, laid out on a New York City street, was agonizing. Maybe even more so than the physical pain. For the moment, my leg was the victim of a million torturous paper cuts. Although instead of paper slicing my skin, it was a tire that cut through my bone.
What a nightmarish experience for a physically active young boy. My summer was down the drain, and I was in and out of the hospital week after week for check-ups, cleansing of my 20-pound exterior leg fixation, X-rays, and of course physical therapy. I have never before in my life been so familiarized with hospitals. They were excruciatingly annoying, and depressingly intimidating. Little did I know, I was spoiled. I was taking healthcare for granted. I was a typical twelve-year old brat.
On Tuesday August 30th, 2005, I was in the waiting room before attending my physical therapy. The television located above and diagonal from the water cooler showed non-stop coverage of victims of Hurricane Katrina, and the damage it had caused throughout New Orleans. 80% of the city was flooded, and initially the authorities did not even attempt to release a death toll. Tens of thousands of citizens were shoved into the Superdome to live for weeks with minimal food, water, supplies and surprisingly enough, lack of healthcare. Authorities were so busy in their attempt to clean up the city that crimes were becoming increasingly consistent within the dome. There were reports of looting, rape and numerous deaths.
For a moment, I was mentally incapable of complaining and physically incapable of being in any sort of pain. I was one person, who for over the course of two months had met probably over 20 doctors, physicians, physical therapists and nurses. In New Orleans, there were 20,000 victims who were in need of immediate medical attention. I was spoiled. I had the luxury of sitting in a comfortable wheelchair. I had the luxury of meeting a new doctor every week. I had the luxury of being able to push myself over to the water cooler and sip from my cup while watching the television above. I had the luxury of getting paper cuts. People in New Orleans probably longed for a paper cut, because that would signify returning to a functional society: slicing the webbing of your fingers from an act of amateurish envelope opening.