Reader Response to “The Man Who Invented the Calendar” by B.J Novack

             I thought this piece was very quirky and fun. I cracked up more than several times. I love how on January 3^rd someone said they would “organize his whole life around” the calendar because that’s obviously what we do. We are constantly looking ahead to future dates and without a calendar that would be impossible. I think we take for granted how much we organize ourselves around time.

            I like that each date reads like a diary entry yet at the same time offers important information for the story if it can be called one. Speaking of, I viewed this as more of a fun writing piece rather than a story, although it can be argued otherwise because of the progression of the making of the calendar. The Alice character makes it more like a story and makes the narrator a little more reliable in my opinion.

            February 14^th was absolutely adorable and genius. But what I adore even more is the “so cold” right after. I imagine lonely lovers and half-priced boxes of chocolate everywhere. What struck me was when the narrator tells Alice he is busy till August and she says “What’s August?” I can’t imagine someone telling me they’re busy and not knowing exactly how long it’ll be until. That’s kind of agonizing to think about. It only solidifies what I said before about the necessity of tracking time.

            I can’t comment on everything that made me laugh, but shout out to using “November 18^th”, my birthday somewhere in there. Back to the genre of this piece, there are a lot of story elements to it. The character has a distinct voice. We get little asides from him and some emotional turmoil with his relationships to Alice and Jane. He is doing something, not nothing. He’s making this calendar. But it also feels ethereal in a sense and I feel distant from the actual characters. It’s more like make believe if anything. That’s not to say I didn’t like it. The ending gives the reader a good message: “So this year wasn’t everything I hoped it would be, and I didn’t get all the months I wanted. But, when the New Year starts, I’m going to wake up every day at dawn and get to work.” It doesn’t exactly wrap up things completely while at the same time offering something news. It left me satisfied and this made it more of a story for me. The ending wasn't expect either. It’s hard to say what genre this would be exactly, but I think what matters most is that I loved reading it.

Reader Response to “Passion” by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

            The first sentence is another good example of a declarative sentence that tells us what we need to know. That whole first paragraph gives just the right amount of background information for us to dive into the story. We know “Christine and Betsey had very little in common”, that “Betsey didn’t have all that many [friends]”, and this arrangement “worked very well” (698).

            I love how the author unfolds the scene between Betsy and Manny. At first, it seems like there is going to be a secret love affair revealed when it says: “the longer he was kept waiting the better Betsy liked it” (698). But then it gradually gets more suspicious when it says “he never made any kind of remark” (699). Then you absolutely pity her when he jumps on her for what is probably a drunken kiss. Betsy’s character overall is so quirky and interesting. All of her feelings are very clear and vivid, both through actions and indirect thoughts. When she is sitting with the man who takes the taxi with her and he is drinking, she pauses mid-sentence and we get “she realized she was saying he was not the sort of person one met” (700). This is a personal aside for the reader and no one else. And I needed it because I didn’t catch it. It shows how important it is to let us into a character’s head.

            I’ll admit I got lost in some of Har’s dialogue and I’ll also admit I didn’t like him. Oddly enough, I’m fairly familiar with Indian culture because of all the family friends I have there, but this guy blatantly goes out with Betsy when he has a wife at home. I did find it interesting that we get a snippet of his past on page 703 because it only characterized Betsy more for me. The things she liked about him seemed typical of what she would like. I kept pitying her. It’s cute that Betsy likes Har “for being so typically Indian,” but he is also abrasive and too dominant for my taste.  The very contrasting personalities of Betsy and Har built up for me in the sense that I knew something bad was going to happen but I didn’t know what. The more naïve Betsy became, such as when Christine warned her and the more tolerant Har became, such as when he forgave Betsy for intruding on his home, the more I could sense a climactic moment. Her naivety got to such a dangerous level that she was going to quit her job and I could feel myself nearly screaming at her in my head. It made me realize how important it is not only for things to take place in a story, but for things to take place in people as well. The characters have to change in some way. 

            Yet what I expected and what I got for a climax was extremely frustrating. I’m glad Manny shook up Har, but what the heck is Betsy thinking? I understand she is lost in her so-called “Passion”, but even after everything she takes his silence to mean that he is okay with it? I didn’t someone could be so ridiculous. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to interpret this ending as Har actually falling in love with her by the way he says “I don’t want you to stay with these people one day more” (710) or if I should hate him even more. It was confusing to say the least. My emotions in this story seemed far more complex than Betsy’s. Although I do commend the author on taking me on a rollercoaster that I did not expect. Who would’ve thought the woman with no friends who talks about Indian paintings with men who aren’t hers would lose her mind and fall madly in love?

 

POV Switch - V Day Story "9, 10 Never Sleep Again"

          This isn’t my first time. The light fixture above my head flickers every thirty seconds. I know because I’ve been counting them on my left thigh. I tap tap tap my fingers up and down the scar I got from last time. I thought it would be the last time. The flickering distracts me from bokeh images of tequila rivers. I interpret the light going out as Morse code from God: tequila Tuesday is not justified by coupling it with 50 cent tacos to create hashtag tequitaco Tuesday. Why is it always Tequila?

            A deep thud echoes from the sole door that’s partially cracked open. I elongate my short neck as if I could catch that fat dude from before off guard. I lean too far, spotting crimson stains on the door handle. It has to be lipstick. MAC lipstick, actually. No one ever died in an interrogation room, right? I shudder. Suddenly, all those movies that kept me under the covers as a kid flood into my mind. I block out the “One, two, Freddy’s coming for you” by placing my hands over my ears. It didn’t work for me as a pre-teen (in the 90^th percentile for height), but maybe it would for a nightmare I created myself. 

            The door opens and a man with grey slacks, a tucked in off-white button down, and a loose tie steps in. His eyes fixate down at an open manila folder. What happened to the at least 210 lb man with rosacea? I feel like a stand-in for the movie Face/Off. Nicholas Cage is now John Travolta and I’m secretly Kelly Preston. My mouth becomes agape although I don’t recall how or when. I shrug off my embarrassment by leaning back in my chair. I want to smell the collar of his shirt and watch his face light up because it tickles him. I bite my lip, rolling my tongue over my teeth trying not to—

            “Miss—Ah, here we go. Lily, is it? And a Miss.”

            “Ex-cuse me?” I flatten my tongue.                                          

            He pulls out the chair across from me, chuckling. I must’ve missed the joke. “Oh, no no. I’m sorry, I can’t pronounce your last name.”

            And here I thought dumb, donut-stuffed cops were a rumor. “Vans-Bur-sick. Didn’t the other guy tell you?”

            “Other guy?” He looks up, pressing his lips together. I can’t tell if it was intentional. “George? The uh—” he puts his hands up around his waist a foot away from his shirt.

            I’m on the edge of my seat, my breasts nearly touching the table. His eyes look flirty, but it’s probably the lights. I straighten my back attempting to look as uncaring as possible, crossing my arms. “Yeah, who are you?”

            He smiles. “These lights need some adjusting.”

            “Last time, they…”

            “Last time?”

            “Who are you, anyway?”

            “Well, I’m—“

            “No, you’re the good cop. And this isn’t necessary,” I say, lifting up my cuffed right hand. I need him to pay attention. I need to make him look at me the way I’m looking at him.

            “I’m Adam Couldry.”

            “Well, thank God you didn’t say Freddy. I’m tired and pissed the fuck off, Adam. Mister, right?”

            His smile does a 180 that looks cute as hell and he sets the manila folder on the table. “Lily—“

            “No. I already got hammered with questions about something I did not, I repeat, I did not do. This is my purse. I got it as a gift. I’m not even Christian,” I say, laying my head on the table. “Jesus Christ.”  

            “We got the video footage back,” he says, handing me a stack of black and white still photos of the Nordstrom’s I wandered drunk in with my girl “friends” last night. My head shoots up. Colored printing isn’t new, is it? I can’t even tell us apart. I tilt my head side to side as if I’m warming up for hot yoga. His eyes burst like dandelion seeds. A slender woman in the photograph has hair two shades darker than me. It could be five shades or no shades, the quality knows no difference. Random images of a knocked over pyramid display coupled with a trail of urine, no wait, tequila (right?) flash in my head, fading instantly. Talk about Déjà vu. Last year it was whiskey, now that I think about it. Some makeup instead of a purse. But always with Marge. The images continue to flash in and out of my head to the echo of my own voice whispering “I’ll never do it again.”

            He begins to organize them back into a pile, “You’re free to go. We know you didn’t take anything.”

            I stare at the table long after the pictures are removed. That’s it?

            “Miss, I mean, Lily? It’s getting late. You better get home.” He frees my hand, walking over to the door.

            I stand up, my heart dropping into my stomach. I’m leaving. Last year I left, right after I was shoved against the two way mirror, asked to whisper, to the people on the other side who heard it as yelling.

            “I’m so sorry to put you through this and on a Tuesday no less,” Adam says, holding the door open. My feet struggle to keep up with my legs.

            “It’s fine,” I say, feeling like the littlest girl in a Russian doll set.

            “I would offer to buy you tacos,” he laughs, “but they’ll be serving omelets in a few hours.”

            A man that enjoys breakfast and is up to actually have it: he can’t be that good. We exit the room into the unusually crowded hallway of uniforms. I can count the smiles on one hand. “I could go for one of those,” my voice cracks.

            He walks alongside me, an imaginary heater floating between us. He takes a deep breath, “Oh, I mean. If you want?”

            I look up at him, regretting it as soon as I do. His eyes are a defibrillator to my rigid, scared heart that has sunk to my thighs by now. “Wh-what?”

            “I thought you were asking me to, uh, breakfast?” He scans my face. God forbid I have stress acne. “Wow, that is clearly inappropriate. I’m so sorry.”

            I wipe my sweaty palms against my sides, laughing. “You apologize too much. I love breakfast.”

            “I get off at 7. Too early?”

            “Not early enough.”

            “Eight it is. The Broken Yolk across the way. Look for the cops standing outside with donuts in their hands.”

            A lady with a floor-length skirt pulls Adam aside and he disappears into a filing room. I don’t mind. All I can think about are cheesy omelets and how to get the hell out of this station. I turn towards the woman again, realizing she checked me in last year. Her hair was black. Mine too. Except my face looked like something out of a Picasso painting with all the bruises. Marge “accidentally” knocked me over while running out of the store. Accidents happen often enough to not be accidents around her.

I shake off my chills and find my way to the double doors that lead out. They should have exit signs, but then I remember the people who actually want to leave never do. I clutch my purse as if it’s the one Marge ran out with. Did she even take one? The doors were gray last night but they’re as bright and blue as Adam’s eyes now. I want to order something small at the restaurant. Or maybe big. Or maybe I’ll stuff him with enough breakfast to make him incoherent enough to do anything but kiss me. But I want to hear him talk. I’ll order hash browns and take huge bits as I nod at the sweet melody coming out of his mouth with the occasional head nod (sorry I’m eating and have drunchies from too much tequila and not enough tacos).

            Outside, the sun peaks over the Broken Yolk. I don’t know what time it is nor do I care. I didn’t sleep and I won’t for a while. Freddy didn’t even need to haunt me. I head away from the precinct, counting cops cars lingering in front of the restaurant as lions would to their prey. All they have to do is turn their heads and see that I’m the weakest prey. My stomach grumbles.

I attempt to find my car, less than surprised that it has been towed or borrowed by my “friends”. I don’t bother to take out my phone. I can use it as an excuse after breakfast to get Adam to stick around a little longer. Post-breakfast accidental sex is a thing, isn’t it?

I adjust my coat and head towards downtown instead. How ironic of the local precinct to be in the heart of the social life of LA. I close my eyes for a moment, putting together the puzzle pieces of socialite last night. Margaret (Marge) was there, of course. Janie and Anne too. No, Anne bailed last minute. Marge saw the purse first. I touched the strap first. Anne would have said no.

I should have said no. Marge got to me again. She used her snake charmer voice to get

me to go in the store. And I just made an ass out of Adam because of it. I walked beside him with a white ink tattoo on my forehead that spells “GUILTY” and laughed at his dorkiness. I stare at my boots clacking on the concrete. “3…4…lock the door....” I nearly trips over nothing when a click bounces between my ears. I am Freddy.

            “Excuse me, Miss?”

            “I hate that word,” I say, turning to face a boy no older than seventeen with an apron around his waist. A hand drawn sign hangs loose in his hands.

            I read it aloud: “Fresh scones, half off. Wow, how generous.”

            “They’re reallllly good. I promise.”

            “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” I walk away like I have somewhere to be in Canada, the thunder in my stomach sending a shower of laughter to the barista.

            He put a fist over his mouth to cover it up. “Being busy is okay too.”

            “I’m not--” I start to say, staring at the barista’s boring brown eyes. A knocking from inside my chest shakes me. Adam’s face fades, the trail of tequila becoming a mustard-colored pool around a pyramid of designer purses. Numbers swim through the river, climbing up the shelves. Marge stands at the top, donuts floating out of her mouth singing “5…6…”

            “I’m not Freddy,” I blurt out. “She is.”

            “Excuse me…?”

            “Uhm, uh do you have…blueberry?”

            He nods. “The size of your face if you could believe it.”

            “I’ll get a coffee too.”

            “So you don’t have anywhere to be?”

            I laugh out loud, startling him. “Let me just make a quick phone call.”

            I step aside, dialing Marge. She answers, sounding groggy. “Hey Marge, I have this gorgeous friend who’s dying to take you out to breakfast. Would you like to meet him?”

 

Reader Response on “We Didn’t” by Stuart Dybek

             The beginning of this piece is absolutely stunning. It reads more like a poem, which of course is always appealing to me. The reiteration of “we didn’t” didn’t drag on because the images kept flowing from one to the next. It was one good sentence after another. And that didn’t stop. It would be hard for me to discuss this poem without primarily pointing out lines I loved.      

            The line “Only the bodies of lovers remained behind, visible in lightning flashes, scattered like the fallen on a battlefield, a few of them moaning, waiting for the gulls to pick them clean.” Normally that many images in one sentence would confuse me, but it flowed well, making it easy to distinct each fragment from the next. The “gulls” picking them in maintains a romantic quality that would normally be gruesome. I like how the narrator goes off onto this worldly tangent about people “doing it” only to come back to “They did it because it was Friday night” (459). It shows the myriad of reasons that people do “it” and that there is none too small, none too important than the next. When the narrator thinks he is doing it but realizes he isn’t (which was too funny) and says “still in the Here groping for an Eternity that was only a fine adjustment away” (460), it makes you forget we are talking about sex. A lot of the things he says can be applied to multiple acts because of how beautiful the language is. The idea of “here” being a place that is only some distance away from eternity is interesting. It is presented in a way that makes it seem equal to eternity. I think it’s interesting that the narrator expresses himself so well even though he is talking about sex. It’s impressive to say the least.

            Of course, the story can’t be a story unless something does happen. Everything is almost too perfectly timed with the body washing up on the shore. I would have thought “oh, what a coincidence” in the most sarcastic way, but the humor the narrator incorporates right before brought me out from the seriousness of it and let me believe in what was happening. The line “I was trying to calm you with reassuring phrases such as ‘Holy shit! I don’t fucking believe this” had me balling. This might be morbid of me but it was also funny to see the narrator’s partner, Jules, try and make some connection to the tragic mother and her child. She even describes it as an “omen”. The dialogue from that point is a good example of what dialogue should be. The sarcastic tone Jules uses in her frustration and the humor the narrator tries to compensate with is exactly what couples do, at least from my own experience. I could see these two having that argument over that woman.

            The attentiveness to the woman and her child was odd to me, but when they “had acquired the habit of arguing about everything else” (463), it made sense to me. The woman and her child were a reason, a catalyst for what the relationship was meant to turn out to be. On the breaking point, the narrator says “I’d been so intent on becoming lovers that I’d overlooked how close we’d been as friends. I wanted you to know that. I wanted you to like me again” (464). I completely relate to this feeling because I’ve been there (not to get all personal on everyone). There is a point in some relationships where you want it to be over but you want that person to look at you the way you did in the beginning and that’s what this conveys so well. The ending confused me because I keep second guessing myself as to what the couple didn’t do. It seems obvious but I’m not sure. Perhaps someone else has an answer to this. Maybe that’s just a silly question to ask. The ending, “we made not doing it a wonder, and yet we didn’t, we didn’t, we never did” (466) stuck with me because the whole time I felt the desperation and longing for a lover. Whether it was a lover or love that he wanted, I feel that he tried so hard and never got either.

Reader Response on “Why Do You Write?” by Margaret Atwood

            I loved this snippet by Atwood. One of her first lines, that writing is “acquired through the apprentice system” and that your teacher is “alive” or “dead” was so intriguing because I don’t usually consider writing a collective entity or one that is part of a community. I always look at writing as me and what I put on a page. Other people and books I’ve read are just external factors. But it’s true that the people you read and the books you digest are a part of your writing. I know I’ve read something that has affected my writing to the point of my story being completely different than it would have been if I hadn’t. When she talks about a “community of storytellers that stretches back through time to the beginning of human society”, I imagined a timeline of people sitting at their desk with pens, pencils, computers writing away. To think of writing as a “craft” and a “profession” is something worth noting because it doesn’t get the credit it deserves. Most people are into technology, science, business, but writing isn’t easy and even I forget that.

            I was impressed how Atwood puts the reader in a macrocosm of writers and then zooms in on the individual place that they belong. Her advice to speak for the group that is “feeling the booty” is on point because we tend to conform to what is acceptable and are discouraged to speak about something if it goes against the rest of society, even if we are becoming more liberal. My favorite line is “the billboard awaits you, but if you succumb to its temptations you’ll end up two-dimensional.” What a profound way to inspire someone to be unique and out of the box. This is the kind of piece that should be read aloud because each sentence carries weight.

Reader Response on “Death by Landscape” by Margaret Atwood

             First, I want to admire Atwood’s opening declarative sentence. We’ve been talking about sentences that tell lately and I thought this was a heck of a way to start: “Now that the boys are grown up and Rob is dead, Lois has moving to a condominium apartment in one of the new waterfront developments” (44). I immediately found out so much about the story I’m getting into and it intrigued me to read more. That one sentence tells me Lois is very alone.

            I love how the story goes into so much detail about her art at the beginning, name-dropping here and there and then pulls the carpet from underneath you: “She bought them because she wanted them…it’s as if there is something, or someone, looking back out” (45). As soon as I thought I was getting to know Lois as a woman who likes art and takes pride in how fancy it is, she becomes vulnerable, exposed. I felt empathy for Lois that I don’t quite understand. Something about someone looking at you from a painting is both creepy and incredibly lonely. These feelings didn’t subside as I kept reading, especially in reading about the camp. I admire all the details included such as the songs, the way the woman even shook hands, the semi-well off crowd that attended. The line “Lois had other friends in winter…but Lucy was her summer friend” (47) is both sad but incredibly true. I myself attended summer camp and those friends were exactly that—summer camp friends.

            The story transitions well from the camp to Lois and Lucy. The first exchange between them on 47 cracked me up. Including that Lois “cast a look of minor scorn around the cabin” really brought me there. When Lois says her father plays golf and Lucy replies that even her mother does, I actually laughed out loud at “Lois’s mother did not.” I don’t why, but the dialogue was set up perfectly for that moment. It’s a trivial conversation but an important one. At this point in the story I felt as if I was looking through a camera. The lens zooms away from Lois and onto Lucy and her character, then outward completely to make a social commentary on Indians. Then we get to this point where the narrator asks “Was there anything important, anything that would provide some sort of reason of clue to what happened next?” (50). I became excited at this, almost a little cautious. What was the point of this story? The focus shifts so much like snapshots or like the paintings in Lois’ room.

            The definitive point came when Lois and Lucy decide to hike the boulders. This story had been quite normal, and then a ball is dropped just like that. It didn’t surprise me as much as I would have assumed. I think there was enough set up and hints (depression, unhappiness) to prepare the reader that something like Lucy’s disappearance. Somehow the story came full circle for me even though I still have plenty of questions. There is resolution, but it’s not tied up with a pretty bow. The image she presents at the end, “[Lucy] is in Lois’ apartment, in the holes that open inwards on the wall, not like windows but like doors. She is here. She is entirely alive” (56) captures the essence of the story in one sentence. Everything in the scenery is alive, has color, has movement. The whole time she is trying to convince herself that Lucy, too, is alive. That being said, I appreciated all the focus on scenery, which only attributes more to Lois’ character. She describes certain scenes with specific, such as when Lucy and her are outside and she says “out on the lake there were two loons, calling to each other in their insane, mournful voices” (51). This beautiful language provides a nice contrast for the quirky details Atwood includes.

Character Dialogue - Lily and Adam from V-Day Story

“Do you know what time it is?” he said, hands in pockets.
 

“I…didn’t expect to see you here."

He looked at her purse as she set it down on a random table. “You think?”

“Adam, I just—”

“I come here every afternoon,” he said. “For the precinct.”

“So you weren’t—?”

“No, nothing for me. I showed up.”

“It’s still early.”

“I had eggs benedict, if you wanted to know.”

“Oh, you stayed?”

“Why waste a good breakfast?”

“Well, if it was good then—”

“Do I need to ask why?”       

“It depends on what you think it is.”

“You know I’m a cop, Lily.”

“Oh…”

“But I wasn’t thinking like one.”

“Oh?”

“I thought, maybe I smell funny or talk too much or…” he stared at her. “And then I remembered

it was your idea.”

“I know.”

“So, why? Wait, nevermind.”

“Can I go?” she picked up her purse.

“You’re guilty.”

She stopped. “Adam, you can’t.”

“You’re guilty and you’re trying to leave. Tell me the truth.”

“The truth is what I told you already, I—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said going to the barista. “I’ve got an order to fulfill.”

“Adam, I’m not guilty. I swear.”

“You could’ve called.”

“Wait, what?”

“What what? You shouldn’t have let me wait like that.”

“What am I guilty of, exactly?”

“Of not coming? Of being a real asshole if I may say.”

She laughed. “An asshole? Wow, yeah. Yeah!”

“Excuse me?” he said, getting out his wallet.

“Why would you use the word guilty?”

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

“Okay…”

“I’m a complete asshole.”
“Uh, yeah.”

“Can I make it up to you?”

“Why would you?”

“I want to, I really do.”

“I don’t know.”

“At least answer when I call you.”

 “Maybe.”

“You don’t have to play hard to get.”  She nudged him.

“You’re so weird,” he said, trying not to smile.

“I don’t want you to think I’m an asshole anymore.”

“If anything, you probably think I’m the jerk for surprising you earlier.”

“It was a good surprise.”

He blushed.

“I’ll call you, okay?” she said, walking towards the door.

“I guess…Oh, wait!”

“What?”

“I was going to use this as an excuse to find and lecture you but, my boss needs to see you. Detective Romero.”

“Detective?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe he thinks you’re an asshole too.”

She tried to laugh, a cough coming out instead. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Stop by his office after you make it up to me.”

He walked away smiling, leaving her in the middle of the shop.

She picked up her purse, whispering “Fuck.”

The Israeli Poets

I had the pleasure of listening to Shimon Adaf, Tal Nitzan, Haviva Pedaya, and Anat Zecarya twice today. The first experience in AF 209 during class was highly enriching. The poets were seated together and a woman came up to the podium to introduce each one before they spoke. I remember being in awe of how accomplished they were as writers.

Poetry is actually my main form of writing because I have always loved the conciseness of it. I love that I can spill all my emotions onto a page and only end up with five lines. For me, it is a form of expression that carries a certain musical tone. Each poem has a tone, a song even. When Adaf came up to the podium and started talking about how he loved telling stories, I couldn’t have agreed more. It brought me back to times where I’d sit with my brother and create spin-offs of fairy tales or TV shows or whatever I had in mind. It also helped me appreciate fiction more when he said that it allows you adequate room to develop characters and plot. As much as I love poetry, nothing really compares to being able to create a world of your own to share with others. Another thing he said that struck me was that writers, or artists in general, should avoid patterns. I recently reflected on some of my poetry and notice a lot of similarities in structure. I think this advice is useful because experimentation is how you find out what you are capable of. You’ve got to risk some of your sanity to create something that could potentially be brilliant.

The second speaker, Nitzhan, was a lovely woman who I think I related to the most. I say that because of her words of advice: “Write the poems that beg and scream to be written.” Like her, I am a busy person with other obligations. I know a busy schedule is not an excuse to not write every day, but I don’t think you need to write 24/7 like that man she was talking about. Sometimes there’s that idea that has been in your mind for a second or a day or months and that’s the one you need to get out there if you can’t manage anything else. This is especially true for fiction and short stories. I can write every day and hate every single sentence, but if I stick to that idea that jumped out to me, I know I’m heading in the right direction. I want to capture the ideas that mean the most to me because I know they’ll reflect that way on the page. If I am passionate about something, it will be easier to write everything about it. I think my problem lately is there is a lack of passion for a certain idea that leads to ambiguity and a sense of distance in my stories. I need to work on grasping and not letting go of the poems or stories that are begging me to write them. On a side note, her tangent about poems being like a cat was too funny and too true. As a proud cat owner, I can’t tell whether I want to pet my work or kick it out the door.

The third speaker, Haviva Pedaya read a poem first which I thought was a great context for what she had to say. She said that “writing is an act of generosity.” At first, I almost laughed at this statement. Who would think writing was generous? If I gave someone a story they’d probably thank me out of pity. But then I pondered it more, thinking about all the stories, novels, and poems I’ve ever read. In a sense, they were a privilege to read. Some were more like gifts because of the stories from them that resonated with me. Even if I don’t recall others, I still understand it was generous because someone put their time and effort into a piece of work to talk to me. That write wanted to talk to me, to rant to me, or whisper to me something they felt important. I never realized how intimate the bond is between author and reader, even if indirectly. I love this idea of writing being something generous, kind.

 Anat Zecarya was the last to speak and ironically she presented this gem: “Poetry is writing about something that is unspeakable.” That one took a while to sink in. It reminds me of children’s books that you adore as a child and later find out are about the Holocaust or World War (). Writing is a wonderful medium to not only experiment with language but with ideas. You might be saying one thing, but you are also always saying something else. Whether or not the reader picks up on does not affect their enjoyment of the piece. But being able to speak freely and openly is what writing is. I want to be able to write something that is new, invigorating and hasn’t been done a thousand times. A lot of my poetry is considered experimental because I like pushing the boundaries.

My second session with these poems was at the chapel in the Interfaith Center. This came with introductions similar to the first, but the poets all read some of their poems. It was one of the powerful things I’ve witnessed. There’s nothing that compares to hearing a poet read a poem you’ve wanted a tune to. I can’t say exactly what each poem was about, but I will briefly reflect on my feelings towards each speaker.

Pedaya was the first to read and she has a little black sheep in her to say the least. She had a specific way of speaking that relied heavily on sounds and rhythm. One poem that stuck out to me was one addressed to the prime minister that involved a lot of ice cream. It had enough playful qualities to make the poem not strictly political Zecarya was the first poet to introduce both English and Hebrew versions of her poetry. Her poems were dense, lengthier, but in the best kind of way. She read a two page poem in Hebrew that flowed so eloquently that I got caught up in it. It also felt familiar and comfortable to me because it sounds slightly like my mother’s language, Farsi. They have similar tones and inflections so it was interesting to hear what poetry sounded like with that filter. You could tell she wrote that poem in Hebrew even if the English version was just as beautiful.

Nitzhan also read some poems in Hebrew, but her two poems about children resonated with me. She read one poem about her daughter that was a commentary on balancing being a mother and a writer. She talked about this growing sadness her daughter feels for her and that same sadness reciprocated in herself as well. The last lines: “you keep me from writing this poem about you” were heartbreaking. The next poem was well-placed because it was about a third child of hers that only lives in her nightmares. This child creeps into the backs of her eyelids and does not want to let her go. I loved the haunting imagery in that. Adaf had the least amount of poems to share, but his were more universal and involved nature imagery. He didn’t read any in Hebrew, which worked fine for his style. His too had a distinct rhythm and carefully thought-out pacing.

The poets were asked about their translations experiences from Hebrew to English and Nitzhan made the comment that we are constantly translating things so it doesn’t make a difference to her. We translate thoughts into words, emotions into actions, etc. This idea is completely new to me but it’s true. We translate ever day whether we are aware of it or not.

Reading Response to “The Fix” by Percival Everett

            One of my favorite things about this piece is how well the setting works with the plot and characters. The sandwich shop with the ordinary couple is necessary because some of the events are so dramatic and shocking that I needed something to keep from slipping into a dream mentality or discrediting the events altogether. The dialogue in this piece is really what brings the characters to life more than anything, and the best part about this story for me was the character development. I got a distinct idea of who each one was, even with Sherman being vague and mysterious. But being mysterious is a character trait in itself, isn’t it?

            After the mugging incident, Douglas and Sherman don’t even properly introduce themselves until well into their conversation. This made the first scene even more traumatic because they must’ve been so shaken up by the whole thing that they didn’t even think to say “My name is…” After they do exchange names, we automatically learn that Douglas is very curious and easily excited just by the amount of questions he asks Sherman. I was surprised that after Sherman fixes the fridge, he asks “Can you fix other things?” and then offer another sandwich. He quickly goes from savior to playing somewhat of a victim. Compared to Sherman, he has a lot of emotions and they move from point A to point C randomly. Sherman, on the other hand, is more consistent. It’s strange that Sherman’s lack of emotions causes Douglas to think he’s “an honest man who could fix things” (491). Sherman’s character is likeable for reasons I don’t understand myself. The other major character, Sheila, is hilarious. She sounds like what the wife of a shop owner should sound like. I actually laughed out loud when she went on about “He’s in the shop all alone” and “I’m having you committed” to “It’s certainly alright if Sherman sleeps here.” All of these characters feel real. I could imagine meeting them at some point in my life.

            From the point of the resurrection on, things escalated much quicker than I could have anticipated. I already thought things were getting strange when people came to Sherman for life problems or teeth, but bringing someone to life? I had no idea how to perceive him. I didn’t think him to be superhuman or alien by any means, but I wondered who the author had in mind when he created such a character. Douglas’s reaction to the resurrection is plausible and convincing and the question he poses: “Who are you?” was effective because I pictured him standing in front of Sherman’s blank face repeating that question like an owl. The story went from real to surreal in the last two pages when Sherman and Douglas run off. I was confused by the “But you” on page 498 and still can’t figure out what Douglas was referring to. But the image of a mob of people screaming “fix us” resonated in my mind and I knew before then that Sherman couldn’t live. People cannot be fixed in my opinion because we aren’t broken. We are imperfect by nature and if all of our problems went away that easy then of course we would be greedy about it. The end scene was haunting with “They sang their dirge into the dark sky, their flames winking” (499). I won’t get that out of my head for a while.

Reading Response to “The Disappeared” by Charles Baxter

           I cannot really tell if I liked this story or not, but I appreciated the language in the piece. Some sentences/phrases struck me as profound and inspired a whole range of thinking, even giving me ideas for a poem I’m working on. I like that we start out with this foreigner who fixates on the smell of America. This was unusual in the best way for me because I do not associate America with a particular smell. I would assume a foreigner to first notice the people. It’s interesting that Anders associates the smell to something “burning” which is brought up again at the end with the images in the church. That instance of circularity made me a little more accepting of the ambiguous ending.

            I’m sorry to say that I did not enjoy Anders’ character because he seemed rather desperate and shallow, but perhaps I wasn’t meant to like him. After all, we are told that his “ambition” is to “sleep with an American woman in an American bed” (110). This is more of a cliché than a problem in my opinion. Even if I didn’t want to be his friend, I loved hearing some of his internal thoughts and revelations. On page 111, Anders talks about the way Americans walk, saying they have “a sort of busyness in their step, as if, having no particular, goal, they still had an unconscious urgency to get somewhere, to seem purposeful.” Ironically, I have been discussing this idea in my Social Psychology. It is true that we are constantly moving on to the next thing without paying attention to the present moment. We have to be going in a direction regardless if it leads to nothing at all. Another line similar to this is when Lauren takes off running and Anders thinks “he was expected to run with he; it was what people did now, instead of holding hands, to get acquainted” (112-113). I found that so powerful because I could imagine the emotional distance as they ran.

            I won’t talk too much about the ending because it left off at a weird place for me and I honestly didn’t know what to think of it. If anyone can interpret the mugging (?) in a reasonable way, I’d love to discuss it. The heart of this story for me came in the night Anders and Lauren spent together and how it affects Anders afterword. Baxter sets up for the scene well with the line “he had no words for it in either his own language or in English” (117). I knew right then and there that I was going to be in that bed with them, near them, being overwhelmed by the same emotions as Anders. What struck me was “he felt it was a wave of color traveling through his body, surging from his forehead down to his stomach.” That beautiful image is exemplified by the fact that Lauren says it is his “soul”. The word “transcendentalism” came to mind because of both the spiritual and natural vibes I got from this portion. It was romantic, to say the least. Even more than that, I love how quickly the colors fade the next morning when Anders is stuck with the grandma who’s telling him everything he doesn’t want to hear. He gets hit with reality and chooses not to accept it because who would? He’s a foreigner and so he’s allowed to dream big. He came to the “wonderful” America for work and a one night stand but ends up falling for someone who becomes a disappeared. Now that’s a good story.