Structure, Form and Stuff

The thing about this book that makes it a-typical in a way is its use of outside reference through footnotes. I like this inclusion to the writing, and it's not something you see everyday as the references are fictional as well, therefore standing out stylistically. Admittedly, I know little of the mystery novel form, is this a typical thing found in this genre? I couldn't tell you, but there are those that could--they're out there.

As with Jonathan Safran Foer's novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, the form adds dimension to the story. Visual inclusions such as these being included in novels recently seems rooted in a new trend of writing where visual and fictional aspects are aesthetically represented. Though Foer's work is far more bold in this respect, the parallel can be drawn between the stylistic choice, a contemporary fiction mannerism.

Personally, I find this exciting and engaging for the reader. It might come off as gimmicky to some but it's breaking some fresh ground, something which deserves respect none the less. I guess you could say it's recycling some old habits with fresh perspective. A fingerprint of writing in the literature annals for this generation . I like it, and I'd like to find some other examples; it's always interesting watching history be made.

Mundane life, Extravagent story

It was just another Friday in my Kindergarten class at Eliso Elementary in southern California. Friday was the one day of the week when we were allowed to bring something from home to show other students in class, and then gloat about it. Also known as "Show and Tell." This particular show and tell I had brought in my brand new Ninja Turtle Michelangelo action figure, proud as all hell and ready to rub it in anyone's face. As we went around the circle of smiling children, all clutching this thing or that, I began to marvel at all the interesting things everyone had brought in. There was the ubiquitous Tonka truck from the boy next to me and the sure-to-be-crowd-pleaser homemade cupcakes brought by a girl in class, but there was something else in this gathering too, something which opened my tiny little eyes to a whole other view of the world.
Across from me sat a boy my same age, a little soft around the edges, but always ready to smile and laugh at a funny joke. He didn't have very many friends, and the ones he did have were girls, which was extremely unnerving to the rest of us boys. We didn't really understand him, and I imagine he didn't really understand us, so in this way we kept to ourselves and let each other be without any fuss. But on this day, this special Show and Tell extravaganza, he shocked everyone with his submission to the circle. A bright red rose. He went on to explain how it was the most perfect rose he had ever seen, and that he felt obligated to show it to the rest of us so that we may bask in its glory. The girls in the class giggled, the boys humph-ed and crossed their arms, but I sat there and smiled a wide smile, for the first time realizing that there really were free spirits out there. He didn't conform to the standard male structure and for some reason this didn't even phase him, a completely unheard of dynamic in my five year old brain.
I'll never forget how the teacher rushed to move on to the next submission, telling the boy that his rose was indeed a pretty good one, and that he should go put it back in his cubby before it sustained damage. Show and Tell went on the same as it always had, and always would from that day on, but something in me had turned over, a new cog had begun to spin causing new formulations in my brain to emerge and from then on I was happy knowing that somewhere that young boy turned into a young man and he is probably still admiring roses and hanging out with all girls for friends.

Where in the Time am I?

Time travel, what a beautiful concept. The ability to freely transcend that which was, and that which will be. I tend to be wary of something that seems too good to be true, and Time Travel is most certainly that.
One moment in my life that I would really love to go back and check out again would be my sixth birthday. It was my last to be celebrated in California, a time when my parents were still a loving couple, and my sister was still a doting older sibling. I cannot for the life of me remember what we did that day, I'm sure my mom could recite a well detailed picture of it quite easily, she has a mind for those things. But it's not what we did that would entice me to that time, just the feeling. A feeling of complete and utter bliss, to be young and have your family and friends all paying extra special attention to you for one day. It leaves a truly permanent scar of love on your soul, or mind, or what have you.
Also, this was about a month before I was viciously attacked by a small dog in front of a friends house. The animal snatched its jaws toward my face before my young and gooey mind had a chance to react. I suffered two parallel gashes to the right side of my face, next to my nose.
So there is that.
But with Time Travel comes the opportunity for exploitation, something I have considered often. Who wouldn't be sure to go back and buy all the right stocks at all the right times? It's just common sense, why shouldn't you be allowed to afford yourself some financial comfortability, and whose to say I won't give some to charity? All things considered I thing this one is kind of a given.
I saved this last one for... last because I think it will be something to ponder for any readers that might happen upon this blog--the possibility of which must be staggering. The one moment in time I'd really like to see from an outside view would be my first time.
What did I look like? What did she look like? What were her reactions? What were my reactions to her reactions? The list goes on. I would have to go back to this moment in time so often it would become hazy with static, like a VHS which has been re-wound too many times; it would be my pick-me-up after a hard day.
So as I say, time travel has it's ups and it's downs but for the most part it's much like the advent of "Instant Re-Play", it almost always makes things better.

Random Addition

I found this clip on CollegeHumor.com and thought it would be SO funny if one of the guys that came to our class had been more like this. I would have chose him.

http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1804409

My 9/11 2001

That morning I had planned on dressing up in a 70's style tight collared shirt, bandanna, and huge sunglasses (Ridiculous Freshman year, yet surprisingly popular now... I was so ahead of my time, as I have ALWAYS been) So anyway, I went up to my mother's room where she was up and getting ready for work. For some reason, even though I never normally would, I turned on the TV at the foot of her bed and saw the first images of the World Trade Center with smoke pouring from a hole in the side of each building.
My initial reaction was that it was some sort of building fire, I was quite astute for my age. I watched the news for about five minutes before heading downstairs to walk to the bust stop, still dressed like an Elton John fan-boy. I remember telling the other kids at the stop what I'd seen, they'd say what they'd seen and for the first hour since it happened I treated it somewhat lightly. It was hard to understand then what implications this day would have for our country.
At school the teachers let us watch the news in every class for about ten minutes before continuing with the regularly scheduled lessons. This gave the day an almost fun quality, the teachers were allowing us to watch TV for Christ sake, how cool is that? I'm not sure if the other kids were feeling the same, but from what I could tell no one understood yet that this was a time for serious reflection.
Perhaps the worst thing about that day for me came in my last class of the day--Math. The images were looping yet again on the news, as if it had just happened moments ago, everyone was watching while discussing what they'd seen. Throughout the day I had never actually seen the footage of the planes directly hitting the buildings, only the burning fires and then inevitable crumbling of both towers. That being said I was more than a little anxious to actually see what I had never seen before which was a passenger airplane smashing full force into the side of a Skyscraper. Looking back, as I have many many times, I feel so deeply ashamed as to what happened next, but at the time it didn't seem shameful at all. As I said we were in our last class of the day and everyone else had already seen the said clip except me, so as we sat there staring at the screen and the clip of a Jet flying into the side of the second tower finally surfaced for me, I literally stood up and yelled "YES!" while pumping my fist in the air. My classmates just stared at me, some laughed, but I'll never forget the look on my teacher's face. I didn't understand what his look meant then, I couldn't have, but thinking about it now puts me in "heavy boots."
I've never actually recounted this story to anyone before but what better place to reveal the most shameful moment in your life than on the World Wide Web.

Persepolis

Having never read a graphic novel before I was completely enthralled by this work, leading me to consider being more adventurous with my future reading. To be honest, I haven't ever really taken the time to determine whether or not the "Graphic Novel" was truly a part of the literary world that I felt needed exploring; this was wrong of me.
I loved the way this book is presented to the reader. Taking such a powerful time in a country's history and displaying it in cartoon frames with a young girl, no less, as the main character really struck me. I never found the pictures to be distracting, and often found them to be excellently concise in their portrayal of broad concepts like dream conversations with God, and protesting various regime changes in the city. Each picture told a little bit of the story that the dialog leaves unmentioned, such as scenery or physical descriptions of many characters, as well as adding to what is said in the word bubble.
To me a memoir discussing a childhood in a turbulent country during one of it's most turbulent times needs a lighthearted edge which is brought forth brilliantly through the child-like drawings. While the subject matter is morbid and frightening at times, you are still reminded that this is the life and times of a little girl. I loved the juxtaposition of total political chaos, and a child rebelling through any means possible, be it with music, clothing or otherwise. It really humanizes a part of history which could be glossed over in today's media as simply "Political upheaval in The Middle East."
All in all I found this novel to be an eye-opener for me in terms of how I will find new work to read in the future. No longer will I limit myself to the run-of-the-mill paperback, "Be adventurous" I"ll say to myself in the book store, buy a comic book!

Poetic Post

My poetry from Friday's class was not actually the same poem in three different "moods" but rather three different poems all together.

The steps below the building fall in gentle succession of four to five at a time, slowed down to pools of gray rectangular stones between like a slow moving creek. wider it grows as it nears the base of the slope, opening up to the black asphalt of the stony estuary.

We build our walls with the bodies of our own virulent young. "Keep out terrorists!" we say, only to pile more death and putrid suffering to the top of our fear. Blood oozes slowly down the glistening face, one more hero-- an invader from the land of milk and hypocrisy.

To know happiness is to know love. A brick in a quarry, a drop in an ocean, you and me-- in a world so full.



I am no poet.

Interesting Preponderances, this day, the Super Bowl

My question for the children of Hailsham is this:
If you know that you're going to be an organ donor who will live a stunted life of hospital visits and recovery, why not escape to another country?
This may sound much like the questions posed by classmates except that I'm wondering whether this thought crossed the minds of the students after leaving Hailsham, once they are on their own and can fend for themselves in some sense. Another question which bothered me was where the money was coming from to support the students while they were in the Cottages, as they did not seem to have any real responsibility other than keeping themselves alive and well read.
I understand the question of why they would not escape to another country would probably seem a ridiculous idea to most Hailsham students because they've always been resigned to their own fate, but it seemed to me once they were allowed a little more freedom and the opportunity to travel around England, they would also want to travel abroad, and perhaps stay there.
The question of where the money came from is dealt with somewhat near the end of the story while Kathy and Tommy discuss "Deferrals" with Miss Emily but I began to wonder whether or not they would receive enough funding to basically raise however many children were at the school to adulthood. This brought up another question for me, is it truly pheasable to raise a human being all the way to adulthood just to harvest the few organs you can while they're donating? It would almost seem easier to just develop a way to grow individual organs, rather than entire human beings.
I have to say that upon finishing this book I was quite satisfied with the ending, and the loose ties that came together to form a solid story with plenty of interesting commentaries on life as we know it, and the possibility of life in the future.

Poetry Shmoetry

For me, Poetry is to the rest of writing as Curling is to Hockey. I admire the ambition and intense training that goes into a great group of Curlers, however I find their sport to be a bore to play and even more boring to watch. Now Hockey, there's a sport with some action, some thrill, a little suspense and every now again a drunken brawl- there's something I can pay attention to. So what's so different about the two? They both have ice, circular objects, sticks with different stuff attached to the end, and it takes at least a couple people to play both of them. But as with poetry vs. the wrest of the literary world, it comes down to ability to reach out to a broader audience.

Poetry takes more talent with words than I will ever know, and I can truly say that humbles me. Some of the best fiction and non-fiction writers could also pen out some pretty amazing shit that rhymes; and that takes skill. For me though, Poetry is a little beyond my radar as I do not fully understand all the complexities and subtle inflections that every poet worth their salt knows how to wield. It is with this limited understanding that I come to see poets and their readership as somewhat of an elitist secret club with 50 lines of Shakespeare's Iambic pentameter known by heart as the password. I've come to characterize people who enjoy poetry as the same type of person who has a favorite band that no one's ever heard of and only watch movies which never made it to the US. This type of person sees the world with a different pair of eyes, modern day treasure hunters who seek out that which sparkles in places unknown just to be able to say they were there to see it first. I can understand this, but I lack the will power for that kind of adventure, a shortcoming of mine i suppose.

Admittedly if it were not for my education I would never pick up a book of poetry on my own accord- just to enlighten myself a little bit. That being said, I am thankful for every teacher who has shoved a couplet in front of my face, because without their diligent efforts they would have lost another sheep to television and video games (Though I enjoy both very much).

This is the first post

Post: The First

When looking for a new book I can usually rely on Oprah Winfrey to guide my literary interests. Her infallible knowledge of the written word and her credit as an award winning talk show host with a historically epic philanthropic spin make her my guiding light in this dark, dreary, ugly world of novels. Fortunately for those of us incapable of rational thought or decision making skills, Ms. Winfrey is kind enough to let us know what is good, and what is trash, a heavy burden which she carries solidly atop her stout frame. God's praise be with Oprah Winfrey, and her power to singlehandedly turn an unknown chump into a millionaire with the production of her Television show.

alright seriously though, when I'm looking for a new book I tend to first exhaust the catalog of whatever writer I have been reading lately.Then when I'm good and desperate and there's absolutely nothing on TV after 3 cycles through all 150 channels and I've already checked all the websites I check daily and all of my homework is done... I take the first 12 novels I find on the homepage of Amazon, and write them down on index cards. from here I usually stab these cards to my wall and then throw spaghetti at it, the one with the most sauce wins. I've found this to be about as fair and balanced as it gets when trying to find a new inspiring work as there are so many fine candidates I can hardly wrap my mind around the task.