Monthly Archives: February 2013

 But when we do, like this morning, her image is as vivid as it ever was– her dark eyes as bright, her odd smile just as annoying. I’m not crazy.

(Callahan, 369: first and second paragraph proper)

“I’m not crazy” is more than just an harbinger of his subsequent scientific rationalization. It is a statement that disavows him of all the accountability he would have otherwise if we weren’t slaves to our body and its complex mechanism. “I’m not crazy,” can also be a justification for the unspoken emotion that he keeps occult because he thinks that his love towards his wife is logical and sane within the context of science, within the context of how human are really made as. He is, however, very careful not to mix the visceral and scientific justification together. He leaves it up to the reader to decide whether he is crazy or not; Is he crazy because of all those scientific jargon that he spews out, or that he sees his dead wife, or even whether he is crazy because he is trying to blur the boundary between emotions and science to make the sighting of his dead wife “as real as it ever was”. But one thing for sure, he is playing with a dualism and as with dualism, the hierarchy vanishes or it fluctuates all the time. In the last sentence of the previous paragraph, the use of “as” is ubiquitous and at the same time very effective. Are thoughts “as” real as the reality? Are the phantom and immunological memories of her wife as real as wife? I think we see the dualism here again in the form of an oxymoron: “dark eyes as bright”; “odd smile as annoying.” This paragraph break between these two sentences not only marks his attempt to make sense of his imagination, but also a declaration that for some people “as” is as real as the REAL.

Dear Reader,

First of all, I wanted to tell my readers a very simple story; I think that’s a good start for an amateur writer. I had tried writing about things that have had higher consequences and impacts on my life, but it was frustrating when my words and sentences couldn’t quite capture the things with the same passion that I wanted them to. So, I chose to write about a part of my life which has its subtle significance.

I think the story came easy to me. I have always wanted to write about my two year long experience of being a server and thought it apt to do it now. Every day as a server, I encountered tiny epiphanies that frustrated me more and liberated me far less. I remember using my order pads more for making personal notes than jotting down orders from the patrons. I remember eavesdropping at a couple’s table sensing infidelity, and listening with awe a meeting between a writer and an editor.  So I had a lot of things to write about, to share with my readers.

I believe I struggled with the flow. I think my essay lacks a good flow that makes a good essay. I have tried shuffling sentences and paragraphs to little avail. Hopefully with revision, I will do a better job. I also struggled with the parallel I tried to draw between my experience and the concurrent world event. I think it looks rushed. Although I know that it is a forced and an alien component of my writing, I think I would be able to do a better job at connecting these two events and find the common essence.

I really think I am content with the word choices I have made in this story, although I am not too happy about “sporadically” and “perfunctorily,” but I can easily dismiss this glitch by calling them a part of a literary trope I am trying to use. But in general, I think I have averted myself from using words that are unnecessary. In this I tried emulating Zinsser’s advice, “The only way to avoid it [banal expressions] is to care deeply about words………………….Notice the decisions that other writers make in their choice of words and finicky about the ones you select from the vast supply. The race in writing is not to the swift but to the original. (Zinsser, 34)” Although the last sentence couldn’t be practiced to its fullest effect due to our impending deadlines, I have tried spending more time than I usually do to think if a word sit right or do I need another word.

As I already addressed earlier in this letter, I need to work on my flow. Perhaps give some more evidence and details. Now that I have written this cover letter, I think I can even include some of the things I have written here into the actual essay- the part on “tiny epiphanies” and other interesting anecdotes. Like any other first draft, my essay needs a lot of mending before it is remotely eligible for a publication. Thank you.

Tenzin Jamyang

Not the teller anymore

By Tenzin Jamyang

2010 was an eventful year for me in many ways. It was my first and probably the only year when I got to live in the city, New York City that is, for the entire length of its span: Partying into the wee hours of the morning and blowing my money away as if I were the heir apparent of a kingdom. It was the year after I came of age, and felt if I was coming into myself more and more as the months passed by. I also started developing a strong affinity towards literature, and finally found an excuse to pursue institutional learning—an appellation not without a pejorative undertone—once again; in effect I was going to give college another chance. I had played with the idea sporadically and perfunctorily until one day, brimmed with frustration from taking everyone’s non-sense, as a server at a restaurant (Tokubie 86), I decided to sit down and forge a letter filled with such redemptive sentiments that would evoke the sympathy of even the cruelest debt-collector. And forge I did.

I know many of you go to restaurants and think about servers, or waiters as they are called in some parts of the world, as someone who fakes a smile, scribbles something on his pad, and then shows up only when it’s time to flex your wallet. But from my experience, I can attest to the physical and mental toughness that this profession demands. For some people it is a fun profession because they enjoy being of some service, but for those who are just not right for this, it is an everyday torture. I was a member of the latter group: a group which consisted of people who thought it was just a transitional gig before his big break; those who saw this profession as something beneath them; those who always changed the subject when obliged to respond to “what do you do for living?” in front of a bunch of successful former high-school acquaintances. If you love being a server, then any form of hard-work becomes fun. For me, however, it was a drag even when faking a smile; I felt as if I was selling myself when shouting “Arasi masei,” as required by the management to make patrons feel themselves at Japan. I remember thinking once, “if not for those generous scholarships, my parents would have probably made their worst investment to date.” Those months of serving tables were nothing— besides a poor excuse for making ends meet— but hours of stress, finding new bottoms for my self-esteem, and finding out everyone else doing things more interesting.

On December 22^nd of that year, as usual, I was crawling my way to work and literally two blocks short of getting there was when I received an email from my college. It was a confirmation with details about my accommodation at Union College—the recipient of the aforementioned letter. I still remember being at the door of a Starbucks café and telling myself, “The hell with Tokubei, I am going to finish “Brave New World” today.” My euphoria only got amplified with each cup of coffee, and after justifying and putting an objective spin to this emotion, the happiness still felt like an absolute reality—an emotion strong enough to duel with the desolation of death. After several attempts from my colleagues to contact me and understand my absence, ask they did, but I did not tell. I was not the one obliged to tell any longer. Obama, on the other hand, was completely revoking “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy that day.

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His chapter on words was especially interesting because he advises us to be more aware of our writing, our choices and to stay true to your emotions by choosing words that convey our most immediate intention. This is something I can relate to, or rather be ashamed of admitting that I have been a victim of verbose compositions. I always thought as long as your vocabulary is rich, no one will ever “impugn” your writing prowess. But as I “mature” as a writer, I started realizing how important honesty is for your craft. Now, what is honesty? Honesty here is embracing something in your writing that is indispensable: something that is not contrived to give your story a plot drive or something that is not excessive or forced, just because you want to show your readers this other set of skills you might possess. I have many times betrayed my feelings by choosing expressions, or words in this particular scenario, that demanded more awe than the real “signified.”

This gradation and spectrum of meanings that synonyms possess is an asset that a lot of us overlook. It is amazing sometimes what these variations can teach our sensory cognition. Sometimes, only after we are told the difference between two seemingly similar words, do we start to differentiate two seemingly similar sensations– I know my revelations are as scientific as Freud’s, perhaps even less so. I think it’s not merely an exercise to hone your writing skills, but also an opportunity for our senses to discern the details of our existence.

Not the teller anymore

Not the teller anymore

2010 was an eventful year in many ways. It was my first and probably the only year when I got to live in the city, New York City that is, for the entire length of its span: Partying into the wee hours of the morning and blowing my money as if I were the heir apparent of a kingdom. It was the year after I came of age, and felt if I was coming into myself more and more as the months passed by. I also started developing a strong affinity towards literature and finally found an excuse to pursue institutional learning—an appellation not without a pejorative undertone—once again; in effect I was going to give college another chance. I had played with the idea sporadically and perfunctorily until one day, brimmed with frustration from taking everyone’s non-sense, as a server at a restaurant (Tokubie 86), I decided to sit down and forge a letter filled with such redemptive sentiments that would evoke the sympathy of even the cruelest debt-collector. And forge I did.

On December 22^nd of that year, as usual, I was crawling my way to work and literally two blocks short of getting there was when I received an email from my college. It was a confirmation with details about my accommodation at Union College—the recipient of the aforementioned letter. I still remember being at the door of a Starbucks café and telling myself, “The hell with Tokubei, I am going to finish “Brave New World” today.” My euphoria got amplified with each cup of coffee, and after justifying and putting an objective spin to this emotion, the happiness still felt like an absolute reality—an emotion strong enough to duel with the desolation of death. After several attempts from my colleagues to contact me and understand my absence, ask they did, but I did not tell. I was not the one obliged to tell any longer. Obama, on the other hand, was completely revoking “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy that day.