20050417
attempting speech in distance
i had nothing to do with these shopping carts, i found them this way.
fine. don't believe me.
i just read the following to a friend in dallas:
One cannot begin to write properly in a café.
One interesting conversation after another folds itself over you so that the din succeeds in actually making your head throb.
The instrumentless bandmember shuffles to music stuck in his ears, and that's all you become attuned to - his careless conducting of invisible vibes, turning in time to a tune only he can hear. He suddenly stops and puffs his flavored cigarette, cinnamon, the smoke still white in the 8 p.m. Sunday night.
Strangely sometimes when you start tuning things out, the café's soulful sax jazz jam becomes intrusive when just a moment ago you and your friend were chatting, you could barely hear over your running typing. All you were attuned to were her words, “Please don't tell.
“He's proving to me that Conner is such a jerk. He can't stand the other guy,” she said, to which I replied, “Well, of course he can't stand a rival, even you. If someone else were after Jake, you'd be jealous too.”
She laughed. She agreed, “I might be jealous, depending on how they were behaving.”
Which reminds me of another girl who vented about her jealousy in an online journal, of all places.
“Damn girls! Stop flirting! It makes you look cheap!!!!!”
To which I wondered, when is it flirting and when is it just friendship? Where's the boundary that would show people whether you had already crossed the line of physically expressing one's most ancient, natural feelings?
Someone's smelly cheeseburger is also wafting its way toward me. EWWW. Didn't I just bound and cast all fried things away from me?! It is almost 9 p.m. This café never closes, but it's definitely time to catch a train back to the house.
and i realized just how much i miss reading work aloud in class. the first tangible reading i did in class last semester was from richard wright's "native son." the images of a family fighting didn't stick to my head as much as the experience of reading something out loud. i noticed the "stop" signal in pencil at the bottom of the page several short paragraphs prior, and didn't realize it again until i met it at the end of the paragraph, the end of the first scene of significance. i stopped and could have exploded laughing - i read a whole page without stopping. the whole class was quiet. we moved on to another story.
wright's writing cadence is different from everyone else's, and of course you'd delight more in reading your own sentences aloud. but before that class, you'd succeed in throwing me off the rooftops first before making me read anything out loud in class. i read that whole passage out to a friend whose example i used, to ask for her permission, to which she readily gave. the words from my mouth flew easily and fell just precisely, like the grooves of a vertical bridge locking snugly in place, opened to let boats and hobbyists pass through.
for one interview with harrison ford for george lucas, ford argued with lucas, saying some lines looked good on paper, but you can't say them out loud. which is true, for network news and at certain instances in the movies - like how the millenniunm falcon can't yet just jump into hyperspace because, essentially, if rushed the engine will go kaput (star wars 4, "a new hope"). difficult sentences can be said, and often the listener will get it anyway. ¶ 4/17/2005 08:44:00 PM
i had nothing to do with these shopping carts, i found them this way.
fine. don't believe me.
i just read the following to a friend in dallas:
One cannot begin to write properly in a café.
One interesting conversation after another folds itself over you so that the din succeeds in actually making your head throb.
The instrumentless bandmember shuffles to music stuck in his ears, and that's all you become attuned to - his careless conducting of invisible vibes, turning in time to a tune only he can hear. He suddenly stops and puffs his flavored cigarette, cinnamon, the smoke still white in the 8 p.m. Sunday night.
Strangely sometimes when you start tuning things out, the café's soulful sax jazz jam becomes intrusive when just a moment ago you and your friend were chatting, you could barely hear over your running typing. All you were attuned to were her words, “Please don't tell.
“He's proving to me that Conner is such a jerk. He can't stand the other guy,” she said, to which I replied, “Well, of course he can't stand a rival, even you. If someone else were after Jake, you'd be jealous too.”
She laughed. She agreed, “I might be jealous, depending on how they were behaving.”
Which reminds me of another girl who vented about her jealousy in an online journal, of all places.
“Damn girls! Stop flirting! It makes you look cheap!!!!!”
To which I wondered, when is it flirting and when is it just friendship? Where's the boundary that would show people whether you had already crossed the line of physically expressing one's most ancient, natural feelings?
Someone's smelly cheeseburger is also wafting its way toward me. EWWW. Didn't I just bound and cast all fried things away from me?! It is almost 9 p.m. This café never closes, but it's definitely time to catch a train back to the house.
and i realized just how much i miss reading work aloud in class. the first tangible reading i did in class last semester was from richard wright's "native son." the images of a family fighting didn't stick to my head as much as the experience of reading something out loud. i noticed the "stop" signal in pencil at the bottom of the page several short paragraphs prior, and didn't realize it again until i met it at the end of the paragraph, the end of the first scene of significance. i stopped and could have exploded laughing - i read a whole page without stopping. the whole class was quiet. we moved on to another story.
wright's writing cadence is different from everyone else's, and of course you'd delight more in reading your own sentences aloud. but before that class, you'd succeed in throwing me off the rooftops first before making me read anything out loud in class. i read that whole passage out to a friend whose example i used, to ask for her permission, to which she readily gave. the words from my mouth flew easily and fell just precisely, like the grooves of a vertical bridge locking snugly in place, opened to let boats and hobbyists pass through.
for one interview with harrison ford for george lucas, ford argued with lucas, saying some lines looked good on paper, but you can't say them out loud. which is true, for network news and at certain instances in the movies - like how the millenniunm falcon can't yet just jump into hyperspace because, essentially, if rushed the engine will go kaput (star wars 4, "a new hope"). difficult sentences can be said, and often the listener will get it anyway. ¶ 4/17/2005 08:44:00 PM
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hi, melissa - just in class, and the assigned readings for.
the other things we read aloud were toni morrison's "the bluest eye" and selections from "trigger," the school literary magazine my teacher edits, and selections from the textbooks. there are several scenes from "the bluest eye" that sear my memory because they were read out loud.
otherwise, we read homework, journals (this blog had been a journal for that class at one point), work written during writing time (10 minutes or so), each other's work.
for outside of class, on the third saturday of every month, a theater group called pintig holds open mics to anyone who's filipino - so if you're a writer you'd want to sign up after a musician, because the contrast perks people up and everyone will listen to you. i like them because there's nothing expected of you - everyone's an amateur everything. want to see pix? :-)
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the other things we read aloud were toni morrison's "the bluest eye" and selections from "trigger," the school literary magazine my teacher edits, and selections from the textbooks. there are several scenes from "the bluest eye" that sear my memory because they were read out loud.
otherwise, we read homework, journals (this blog had been a journal for that class at one point), work written during writing time (10 minutes or so), each other's work.
for outside of class, on the third saturday of every month, a theater group called pintig holds open mics to anyone who's filipino - so if you're a writer you'd want to sign up after a musician, because the contrast perks people up and everyone will listen to you. i like them because there's nothing expected of you - everyone's an amateur everything. want to see pix? :-)
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