olympic madness

If I've been neglectful at all of my blog the last couple of weeks, it's because of the OLYMPICS. I mean, honestly, it's the coolest thing to be in London for the Olympics, and I'll tell you why (and it will be 85% relevant to field studies, I promise):

1. Melting-pot mayhem: There are already 300 languages spoken in London on a regular basis (seriously, look it up), but the Olympics attracts athletes and fans from about 200 different countries so, as you can imagine, things are a little loco here (but it's nothing that this city can't handle [so far], and all of the naysayers who were predicting massive transportation issues have hopefully been impressed with the way things have unfolded up to this point). One of the things I love about London is that you don't just get a single cultural experience; rather, you constantly find yourself in the middle of a hundred different cultures, like a giant kaleidoscope where every pattern represents fractured pieces of different countries and heritages dancing around each other in fragile harmony. And yes, the Olympics heightens this cultural tension, but cultural influence is something this city does better than anywhere else. And if the influx of athletes and fans from all over the world means that I have a better chance of meeting a hot foreign swimmer, so be it (although with Lochte and Phelps in the pool, who needs foreign?)

2. British commentators: So, I've been a fan of the Olympics since I was a wee little bairn, so I'm really used to my American commentators with their phrases and quirks, and I never realized how much of a difference the British commentators would be. Honestly, I shouldn't be surprised, but it's really quite fun to hear the different vocabulary and pet phrases that the commentators here use. I've heard of gymnastics routines described as "scrabbly," "scrappy," "scruffy," and they refer to people as "nice chap," and "good lad," and say things like, "now, that's the ticket, isn't it just?" It's quite comical. And it also brings me to my next point:

3. British lens: It's been quite interesting to see the British people view their own athletes. The British commentators are so proud of their athletes, and their national pride is infectious. For example, the British men's gymnastics team won the bronze medal in the team finals, and apparently it was an unexpected win, so the commentators were just busting with pride. They were as eager to praise their athletes as we are to praise ours––sometimes even more so, perhaps, because Team USA always sends so many athletes that sometimes we can forget how truly cool it is to come from behind and win the almost-out-of-reach gold medal. With that said, they still recognize and respect athletes no matter where they come from, and when Michael Phelps won his 19th  Olympic medal, the commentators remarked that every single person in the arena stood and cheered for him, knowing what an incredible accomplishment he had achieved and not caring where he was from. It has also been infinitely fascinating to see how they view American athletes––and how many of the American stereotypes, like enthusiasm and team spirit, sometimes hold up in comparison to the other athletes. I've noticed coaches from different countries ignore an athlete after he/she has performed poorly, and American coaches seem encouraging and sympathetic even in those cases––and it's hard to say which method works the best. I'm inclined to think that at times athletes need a tougher hand, but maybe we just don't see that on TV. It's just a different way of responding to performance that could just be chalked up to different coaching styles, but the consistency of the coaching styles across different cultures is telling, because it shows that some cultures value personal achievement over self-esteem, and some value self-esteem over personal achievement.

Anyway, that may or may not make any sense, but there it is.

writer's block

it's been a few weeks since i've posted here or on my personal blog and, to tell you the truth, i haven't written much of anything in those weeks.

not that i haven't been productive. i've gotten so much reading done, it's amazing. but that's only one part of my project. reading from the large pool of classical essayists has been delightful and instructive, but at the same time, i wonder if it's all the reading i've done that has stopped my writing––in more than one way. the time that i've spent reading has, of course, taken away from time that i could have been writing, true. but on top of that, it seems like the more i read, the less i am confident in my ability as a writer. sometimes the little voice of self-doubt comes as i'm reading robert louis stevenson or alexander smith or charles lamb or whoever, making myself wonder if i could ever presume to write when so much wonderful literature has already been written. also, i doubt my ability to create anything that comes close to the quality of literature i've been reading.

and of course, self-doubt is the archenemy of creativity. so i'm stuck in a rut, yes. every time i think of an idea, i try to put it down to paper or sort it out further in my mind, and end up disregarding it as rubbish. i really should just set aside the drama and just write, for heaven's sake, but that's easier said than done. so i continue reading.

i also wonder if part of the reason why i'm struggling to write is that i miss being around people who love and are passionate about writing. my first year as a master's student has spoiled me, i guess, because i've been around so many people who share many of the same doubts and ambitions as i do. we created a great little support network, trying to get through our first years, and i'm looking forward to returning to that network. because, truth be told, i'm not sure i'm ready to work and be productive as a writer without a similar support network of people who encourage me and know what i'm going through because they themselves are on the same path. i miss writing for an audience, i think, and knowing that my peers will look at my work with a critical eye, telling me what i can improve while encouraging me by complimenting my successes. and i do miss people who love essays as much as i do, who understand why i'm doing what i'm doing instead of merely putting up with my enthusiasm. although i'm a person who enjoys alone time, i think i'm the type of person who needs to share my passions and excitements with other people, people who will sit and glory with me in the beauty of a perfect sentence, or at least listen attentively when i tell them about it. i'm a passionate person––i am positively in love with so much of what's around me. i love being able to see van gogh's sunflowers in the national gallery, love seeing a play in shakespeare's globe, love all the massive bookstores in london, love the food and the parks and i'll even put up with the rain to enjoy all of that. but that enthusiasm can be dampened when it's only laughed at or patronized. it's those times when i really do miss my family and miss my friends back home, because i know they'd be as enthusiastic about these things as i am. i haven't been affected by much homesickness, probably because i've spent enough time away from home that i know distance doesn't affect that my family loves me and i love my family. but i do miss their enthusiasm.

i might need to change myself a bit, and develop the ability to be creative and productive without validation. i read an alexander smith essay the other day that he wrote on christmas, a christmas he was alone for. i've never been completely alone for christmas, and it breaks my heart to think about him sitting by a fire on christmas eve alone––but what really impressed me was that his essay wasn't depressed or overly melancholy. it had twinges of melancholy, yes, but overall was reflective and celebratory and beautiful, and i have to ask myself, would i be brave enough to write beautifully when there wasn't anyone around me to validate my efforts? because i know that, in the end, i have to write because i love it, and not because i want to please other people. i should write with an audience in mind, as i tell my students, but if i write only to please other people, i'll likely lose why i loved it in the first place. if i'm ever to be a writer, i know that i will have to steel myself against disappointment, and hope and pray for the determination and confidence to work hard in the face of rejection and apathy. and i have to work not to lose enthusiasm for the things i love even if they're not shared by people around me.

so there's a bit of writing. i'm not completely lost after all.

in defense of pigeons

Ahem. It has come to my attention that I am part of a small minority when I say I like pigeons; and, in fact, many people hate the creatures, to the extent that committing crimes against them has become acceptable. I myself have laughed at how easily the nervous creatures panic and take flight, and how a small stamp of the foot sends them into a frenzy, but for one to kick them as a cur would kick a dog, or rejoice to see a dead pigeon––my conscience compels me to intervene on behalf of these birds. I must say, it seems rather unfair to me the merciless vendetta that some people have against this poor species. That one should take pleasure in giving them pain is horrifying indeed. What have they done to merit such loathing? And why, in this blessed world so full of wickedness and crime, would one waste hatred on so unassuming a species? 

Pigeons are actually smart little birds––and, you know, there may be a thing or two one could learn from these good fowls. For one, I was interested to learn that pigeons, those feral creatures scattered about London and other cities, actually mate for life. There is always something tender I feel whenever I hear of another species in the animal kingdom that mates for life. Emperor penguins, for example: while the husbands sit freezing in the arctic winds, warming the egg containing penguin junior, they wait faithfully for mum to return home from the great hunt. Such loyal creatures! Pigeon fathers also share the nesting duties, taking turns warming and protecting the nest from harm, so maybe shared fatherly duties comes hand-in-hand with mating-for-life-ness. Mating for life is a characteristic that seems to have fallen out of fashion with humanity. As people go through spouses like milk (keep it till it sours, then throw it out!), we really should turn to the birds and learn from their faithfulness. I can't imagine a pair of pigeons filing for divorce; they don't seem to suffer from humanity's current marital disease: irreconcilable differences. No leaving Jennifer Anniston when Angelina Jolie is hotter––pigeons have infinitely better sense than Brad Pitt. They are clever, really, and resourceful, I might add. City pigeons know exactly where to swarm to––the heavily trafficked touristy spots where a person is likely to leave a crumb or two of crumpets and cake for the birds to snatch up. They gladly accept what humanity discards.

Now many distrust city pigeons because they are mistaken for disease-carrying pests. In all actuality, pigeons have very good immune systems and aren't liable to transmit bird flu or other such diseases because they themselves don't carry the diseases. There are one or two diseases that one may contract from handling pigeons, but mostly from their dropppings (which, let's face it, we don't exactly scrape off the pavement and use as ice-cream toppers). As far as disease-carrying goes, you're one hundred times MORE likely to contract a disease from human contact than you are from pigeon contact. Think about the thousands of diseases which we pass around in our shaking hands and hugging and kissing––we thoughtlessly and shamelessly spread our germs, while shrieking at the sight of a pigeon, who is in reality a safer companion than another human. You might as well walk around with a surgical mask and gloves, for all you're concerned, and that would be no way to live.

But if you persist in arguing against the birds, yes, I do concede that there are pigeon populations in some big cities, leading to property damage and pollution from their droppings. But you can hardly blame them for that––they're only in cities in such great numbers because of us! Yes, the truth of the matter is that city pigeons are just descendants from domesticated pigeons gone feral. If we hadn't domesticated pigeons, the little problems they cause would never have existed. But doesn't a decent population of cooing, twittering pigeons just make a city? Think of a large city––London, or New York––and imagine it without pigeons. Wouldn't the streets be too solemn, too dull without our feathered friends?

But back to what we can learn from pigeons. Pigeons have an undeniably incredible sense of direction. Pigeons could fly thousands of miles and always be able to fly home. Drop a pigeon in the middle of the pacific blindfolded and it would know exactly where to go to get back home. We can't explain it, but we accept it and certainly trust it, which is why pigeons we have used them throughout time as carriers. Our militaries have trusted pigeons with vital information across enemy lines, and they have consistently fulfilled their duties and saved human lives with their faithfulness. G.I. Joe, for example, was a carrier pigeon who saved thousands of soldiers during WWII. In October 1943, the British were making advances on Colvi Veccia, a German-held Italian town. The Brits ordered an aerial attack of the town but were soon afterwards able to break through German lines and take up positions in the city. With a half-hour until the aerial attack, the soldiers in the city hurriedly tied a message to G.I. Joe's leg, telling headquarters to call off the attack to prevent thousands of British troops in the city from being killed by their own bombers. G.I. Joe flew 20 miles in 20 minutes and they were able to cancel the attack just as the bombers were taxiing up the runways.  Cher Ami was another heroic pigeon, during WWI, and delivered another life-saving mission despite being shot out of the sky by German troops. The bird arrived having been shot through the breast, blinded, and with a leg hanging by a tendon, but he delivered his message.

So for their loyalty and faithfulness, I appeal to your humanity and ask you to reconsider your opinion of these our feathered friends, and next time you go to kick a pigeon, remember how many lives its ancestor saved, and spare the poor bird a bit of pain. 

about the queen and other things

 Question: Who in the world would stand outside in the drizzling rain and freezing cold for hours on end to see the Queen of England float by on a big boat? First of all, me, that's who, along with thousands and THOUSANDS of British people braving the weather to celebrate their Queen. The Queen's Diamond Jubilee was quite the affair, so naturally a 1,000-boat flotilla was necessary. My friends and I arrived hours early, and still were barely able to see for the crowds of delighted drunk people waving the Union Jack as they awaited Her Majesty. Smiles and drinks were passed around freely as the crowd cheered, and momentarily everyone forgot how cold and rainy it was when the royal family passed by (emphasis on momentarily, though).

This is one of the only clear shots I got during the flotilla. I had to elbow a few nice old ladies out of the way and step on some toes, but all in the name of a good photo, right? (I think I must have gotten a drop of water or something on my camera lens, as you can tell from the dot in the middle of the picture. Or maybe it was just an overenthusiastic grey cloud.) Anyway, I have to say that I'm glad I went to the flotilla because I can check that off my list of "things to do once and never again." It was neat to see all the boats and neat to see how much the British really love Queen Elizabeth.

 This was the grand boat of the royal family, and if you squint really hard you can see the Queen (she's the cream-colored dot on top). (Oh, and don't mind the grey-haired ponytail man. He's in several of my pictures.) At this point in the flotilla, I had been standing for several hours in the cold, and I thought, "this is really what I came here to see? A cream-colored dot on top a red boat?" It was a bit of a disillusioning moment, but I'm sure it was due to the weather more than it was to the view.

But on to my favorite part of the Diamond Jubilee celebration: a tea party hosted by my ward's Relief Society. We drank cinnamon apple tea and ate delicious treats like scones, tarts, little cakes and sandwiches. We sang all five verses of God Save the Queen (I didn't know there were five. It's a long one!) The British sisters sang the national anthem, and two older ladies who remembered the coronation told us about the grand event. Actually, one old lady stood up and recited the history of the kings and queens of England (an abridged version––took about 15 minutes), ending with the coronation of Elizabeth II, where she went into great detail about the ceremony. It was quite impressive (her memory, that is).

To top it all off, we took a quiz about Her Royal Majesty, which I promptly failed. But I wrote down the answers, so for your pleasure, here's a list of facts you will never need to know about Queen Elizabeth:

1. She acceded to the throne in February of 1952
2. She was in Kenya when she heard about her father's death (the King)
3. She was thirteen when she first met the Duke of Edinburgh (Phillip), who was later to be her husband
4. She and Phillip have been married 64 years
5. His nickname for her is "cabbage"
6. The Queen's official birthday is in June, but her real birthday is in April
7. Her first corgi's name was Susan
8. Willow, Holly, and Monty are the names of the Queen's current corgis
9. Winston Churchill was the Prime Minister when she was coronated
10. She wore Victoria's diamond necklace for her coronation
11. She has nine thrones
12. She's the fortieth monarch since William the Conquerer
13. She wears black while visiting the Vatican
14. She wears the Diamond Diadem to and from the State Opening of Parliament
15. She has her ears pierced
16. She wears blue more than any other color
17. She has eight grandchildren
18. She's 5'4"
19. She has never worn jeans (crazy, right??)
20. She doesn't carry any form of personal identification

week three: memorializing and remembering

One of the purposes of my field study has been to not only study the words of London essayists but to see how they interacted with the city, and to see how the city remembers and memorializes them. I've more than enjoyed reading their essays (I've finished with two of Lamb's essay collections and am in the middle of Hazlitt's), and have tried to explore the city through an essayist's eye. I want to spend time looking for memorials to these authors, because I think it's interesting to see how London remembers these writers. I had read of a few sites in London associated with Lamb and Hazlitt, and I've gone to see a couple of them (there are some outside of London a bit, so I'll need to travel probably an hour or so one day to see them). Anyway, the picture below is a fountain dedicated to Charles Lamb, and is situated in the Inner Temple Gardens right off of Crown Row Lane, which is where Lamb was born. The fountain, flanked by the statue of a small boy, is––as you can see––very understated less than grandiose. There is no plaque dedicating the fountain to Lamb, but the boy is carrying a book with the quote, "Lawyers I suppose were children once," inscribed on it (one of Lamb's more well-known quotes). In the park there were a lot of people in business suits eating lunch and chatting, but they trickled out as the lunch hour came to a close. There were people sitting on benches around the fountain, but no one paid heed to the fountain or statue itself; I wondered, how many of these people know that this fountain is actually dedicated to Lamb? how many of these people know who Charles Lamb is? There are many more popular writers, like Charles Dickens, whose names are widely recognized and remembered with larger statues and museums and graves in Westminster. Lamb might not have achieved the fame and success during his lifetime as many of these great writers, but still it seemed sad to me that he is less remembered and memorialized. 

But fame doesn't always mean genius, and while we celebrate writers like Wordsworth and Shelley–and rightly so–we miss out on so many writers that might not have been as published or recognized in their time, thus not standing the test of time. Still, we judge great literary works by how they stand the test of time, but how much we might miss! How many beautiful sentences sat on a desk, unpublished, in their time and were thrown away after the unknown writer died? We put so much trust in publishers to filter and sift through literature, but how much certainly must slip through the cracks, to stay sitting in the slush pile while other essays or poems or novels are published. 

It's kind of a dizzying thought. 

Maybe my point is that it doesn't really matter that Charles Lamb or William Hazlitt don't have grand statues or graves in Westminister because it doesn't really change how much I enjoye and learn from their writing. One thing my project is teaching me is that public memorials matter less than the writing itself, that the words of the essayists I'm studying are more important than how they are remembered (or forgotten) by others.  

This is Lamb's memorial in the Inner Temple Gardens

And this is the church, St. Andrews, where Hazlitt was married with Lamb acting as best man. St Andrews was a Christopher Wren church, but was unfortunately bombed and gutted in WWII, and all that remained were the outer walls and tower. The public, however, decided to restore it to its original state. It's in the middle of busy London, sandwiched in between new buildings and thousands of businessmen and women rushing to and from work. The inside was, despite its central location, quiet and nearly empty. 

best reading spots in london (so far)

*These posts, along with many others, can also be found on my personal blog: onawhimandafancy.blogspot.com

When I read for long periods of time, I tend to get tired of reading in the same spot, so I bounce around every hour or so (or if I'm really fidgety, every 30 minutes or so) and find new spots to settle down in. Now when I'm in Provo, this usually means I go from the couch to the floor to my bed and maybe to campus (where I'll go from the carrels to right outside the carrels to the JFSB etc etc). In London, I've decided to create a master list of the best places to read, so I can bounce around the city and see all there is to see with a book in my hand.

With the blustery, cold, rainy, and altogether uncooperative weather in London thus far, I've had to find indoor locations and save the parks and gardens for later on in the summer (when it will hopefully warm up a bit). [aside: the side of me that loves sunshine and weather above 90 degrees is wilting away.] Anyway, here's a start to my list:

1. Notes Music Coffee is a small coffee shop just off Trafalgar Square. I'd read online that it was a good spot to go, and because of the cold weather I'm determined to find the best cup of hot chocolate in London. So coffee shops it is. Notes Music Coffee makes a mean cup of hot chocolate: it's frothy, not too sweet, and comes out with a lovely design drizzled into the foam. I don't know how they do it; all I know is that it looked as good as it tasted. They also have a fantastic fruit scone. But the food, though important, was not the primary reason I was there. I was there for about 45 minutes, leisurely sipping hot chocolate eating my fruit scone with blueberry jam, and reading Charles Lamb. NMC isn't the quietest place to read, but sometimes I like to read in a semi-noisy place to read because it forces me to concentrate on what I'm reading. There were a couple of people who were, like me, reading, but many of the people there were chatting with friends. They were playing Ella Fitzgerald in the background, and had a fantastic light fixture hanging above the long wooden slab tables. I can only handle reading in a noisy crowd for so long, so I skipped off to find another spot.

Assessment: great place to read if you don't mind the crowd. I was there during lunch hour, though, so I might try again at a not-so-busy time of day. Good hot chocolate, good scones, good music.

2. I didn't have to go very far to find a quiet spot. St Martin's in the Fields church is almost next door to Notes Music Coffee, and as I passed by, I realized that a church would probably be a perfect place to settle down for a bit. I was right. Architecturally speaking, St Martin's is an impressive structure, especially from the outside. The inside is more understated, though, and except for the carved, vaulted ceilings, it's quite simple and plain. Also, the windows are very interesting: there's no stained glass, only paneled glass. The east window, behind the altar, is the same simple paneled glass, but it's designed to look like the image of a cross reflected on the water, so the steel framework is warped and bent around in the shape of a cross, but more of an understated cross. It's very unusual, and I really loved it. I didn't want to be disrespectfully snapping pictures, but you should look it up online.

That's all aside from the point. I was there to read, so I sat down and pulled out my book. There was a string quartet in the church rehearsing for an upcoming Vivaldi concert (it was actually that evening), so I read whilst basking in the glorious silence of the crowd and the glorious music of the instruments. It was perfect, and I took a moment to thank heaven for beautiful music, beautiful churches, and beautiful reverence. I read there for almost two hours, and when I left I was reluctant to get up.

So far, those have been my two favorite spots. Maybe another day I'll tell you about my worst spot. But today, only the best.

culture shock on the london underground

I have to say, the public transportation system is one of my favorite things about London. Is that strange? I love that each tube stop is different, from the colorful mosaic tiles in the Tottenham Court Road station to the thousands of tiny Sherlocks in the Baker Street station to the sleek grey simplicity of the Westminster station. I love that you can find the stylish business types sitting next to the goths, or the hipsters, or the ever-present tourists. I don't always love them individually, but collectively they really are fascinating; they remind me that no matter who you are–rich, poor, whatever–you still need to get around somehow. And the overwhelming number of people who choose the tube to get from point A to point B makes the ride interesting.

Of course, when you have that many people coming together, there are bound to be tiffs. Take today, for example, when Ari and I were coming home from Southampton, and at the very last leg of our hourandahalf journey back to London, a disturbance threw a wrench in the typically eventless tube ride. We were technically in the London overground, not the underground, but it's pretty much the same thing.  Anyway, allow me to relate the experience:

Our train was at a routine stop, and a large crowd was still trying to get in when the doors started closing. Enter The Jerk. The Jerk was a tall man in a business suit, with a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He was probably around 6'3", with pale skin, almost-black hair, high cheekbones, and a sardonic smile. He entered the train, narrowly missing the closing doors, and yelled at the Tired Train Operator to not close the doors so quickly, as there was still a number of people coming on board. Tired Train Operator was a black man, medium build, probably 5'10", his hair braided into cornrows. He looked worn out. After The Jerk yelled at him, the two men had some sort of heated verbal exchange that I only heard bits of. It ended with The Jerk accusing TTO of abusive behavior and TTO demanding that TJ leave the train so they could sort the problem out so the train could proceed on its journey. They were at a standstill: TJ refusing to get off the train, and TTO refusing to start the train until he did. Enter Level-Headed Man. I didn't get a good look at LHM, but I remember that he was also in a business suit and had a neatly-trimmed beard. He started talking to TJ, calmly saying that everyone was tired and anxious after a long day's work, and that everyone should let the matter drop so the train could move on its way. The standstill continued for a while, as TJ continued to argue with TTO, and TTO stubbornly but calmly waiting for the man to get off the train. LHM finally got out of the train and spoke to TTO, and I heard nothing of their exchange. By this time, the other passengers onboard started to murmur and a few called out to TJ to get off the train already. Enter Autistic Child, who was in the train and starting to get angry with his mother, nervously and anxiously proclaiming that they should NOT have taken the tube. AC's mother called out to the men, saying that she had an autistic child who didn't handle waiting very well. He was getting really upset, and everyone around TJ started to urge him off the train, and he finally stepped off, spoke with TTO for a brief moment, got back on the train, and in less than a minute, the doors closed and the train squealed as it picked up speed, and we moved away from the platform. No one in our car said a word, and silence hung awkwardly, heavily, and oppressively in the air, until the next stop, when Ari and I exited the train, wide-eyed and relieved.

As I reflected back on the incident, I realized that I found it both funny and disturbing at the same time. I mentioned above that the Tube is one of my favorite things about London, but at the same time, the mix of people on the Tube can obviously be problematic–volatile, even. And getting on the Tube during afternoon rush hour can be frustrating because people are never as understanding or happy after a hard day's work. Even morning rush hour can be awkward, especially when you're getting on the Tube with a hundred well-dressed businessmen who all seem to be subject to morning grouchiness, and at times I feel like I need a business suit to fit in on the Tube in the early morning. So I can say that the Tube has been the cause of culture shock, and sometimes it helps to slip in my earbuds, listen to music, read Charles Lamb, and ignore the grouchy businessmen or creepy guys staring unabashedly or hundreds of French school children who don't understand the meaning of the phrase "silence is golden." So yes, I have experienced a little bit of hostility towards the gente in the Tube, but overall it has been a positive experience, especially when I pass talented buskers or the occasional handsome stranger. Love when that happens.

learning journal 04.09: last one!

I feel that somehow this post needs to be a culmination of my entire learning journal experience; however, I'm not very good at culminations, so this might be a bit anticlimactic. I wanted to continue some of the thoughts I developed in my last post, because I am {still} thinking about place. I wanted to do another creative post incorporating the theme of place in my writing. As far as my project goes, when I'm in London I want to gain experiences in the city that I can write about. I want to allow myself to have as much experience in the city as I can, which will inspire writing, likely writing that is centered on place. Writing with place in mind for personal essays means exploring the self in the context of place, so there will be explorations of the city itself as well as my experiences in the city. Theoretically :)

So here goes:

Burnt Orange and Blue

At the start of the Civil War, leaders of the yet-to-be-annexed state of Utah sent settlers down to Southern Utah on a cotton mission, hoping the growth of cotton would help to achieve their goal of self sufficiency. The endeavor, although eventually abandoned, earned Southern Utah the nickname “Utah’s Dixie.”

I can image the first settlers’ reaction when they came to Southern Utah. Many of them, coming from the lush green countryside of the eastern United States, must have cringed at the sagebrush laden landscape. The rust colored dust, kicked up in the suffocatingly hot breeze, forms dust devils that look like a weak, red-tinted version of a tornado. Unlike a tornado, you probably couldn’t be killed by a dust devil; it doesn’t do much more than blow around more dirt and roll around the dried up tumbleweeds. I hope the settlers didn’t show up in mid-July, when the heat seems to sink down from the sun and rise up from the ground simultaneously, creating the uncomfortable feeling of being inside a waffle iron. Granted, I’ve never been inside a waffle iron, but I can imagine how it would feel.

Despite the unrelenting heat, the settlers would have been impressed by the sweeping vistas of brightly colored rock against skies of unbelievable blue. The rocks are called red by residents and visitors alike; really, their hue is correctly categorized as burnt orange, a fusion of bright orange and brown. I suppose it’s easier to say “red rocks” than “burnt orange rocks” Kind of like it’s easier to say “redhead” instead of “burnt-orange head” (which would also be a more accurate description). The land, previously occupied only by Native Americans, has earned every inch of its ecosystemic category: desert.

When my family first moved to the desert, we house hopped around Southern Utah until we settled in Ivins. Ivins is right outside of St. George and, being much less populated, is more in touch with the desert and lies in the shadow of the big Red Mountain (burnt orange mountain). When my parents purchased our home in Ivins, I was four(ish). Before the initial purchase, my sisters and I were allowed to accompany our parents to “check it out.” I remember peeking my head into the windows, on my tiptoes, seeing not much more than dingy emptiness inside; I explored the overgrown backyard, a veritable wilderness decorated with spiked stickers and worn weeds.

The lonely house, previously vacant, came with unabashed 1970s style, complete with left-over linoleum, assorted colors of carpet (boring brown, sage green, neon orange, and dusted pink), a large backyard that looked like a true desert field, and a gnarled, half dead rosebush planted smack dab in the middle of the front yard. In no time, the six of us (soon to be seven, later to be eight) plus two cats, Calvin and Hobbs, permeated the bare house with activity and Barbie dolls.

Over the years, little by little, the house has been painted, tiled, refurbished, updated, added onto, and landscaped. When I look at the little picture of our house in its original state of desolation and compare it to the home it has become, I can barely see the resemblance. Several times my parents have looked into buying a newer house, but somehow (happily) it has never worked out. Our home has been lived in. Six girls, two dogs, a few birds, a gerbil (who chewed through his cage and got stuck in the corner kitchen cupboard) and who-knows-how-many cats later, it is ours in every sense of the word. And situated conveniently in the middle of the desert, it provided ample entertainment for my girlhood days.

As a girl growing up in the desert, I fondly recall my sisters and I (my mom, even) screaming and standing on chairs as intruding lizards raced through the house. Our cats, well adapted to the environment, didn’t bring us gifts of dead mice on the doorstep like usual tamed felines; instead, to show affection, our domesticated desert housecats brought us lizards. I remember Yoda, our grey tabby, strutting around with a deceased lizard tail hanging limply out of her mouth (so appetizing).

My sisters and I would race through the fields, risking ticks and scratches, and catching horny toads. Horny toads (as we called them) are actually called Horned Lizards; they were slippery fellows, and quite tricky to catch. Once caught, the reptiles would sit annoyed, waiting for us to tire of petting and investigating their scaled and bumpy skin. Their exterior appeared hardened, spiked, tough as a helmet, and able to inflict harm on anyone who touches it. One touch, however, reveals that the lizard’s skin is like a dog whose bark is worse than its bite; the roughened texture is satisfyingly fun to touch.  After letting the lizards scurry off to their sheltered retreats, we would continue to race and frolic under the brilliant sun. The tumbleweeds provided more opportunity for sport, though not much more than desiccated sagebrush shriveled and dehydrated to the point of being a ball of prickled twigs. Ranging in size from a few inches to four feet in circumference, they could serve as soccer balls or high-profile hiding spots; we played carefully with tumbleweeds, because one slip and the offended tumbleweed would bite back with its prickles. After returning home, panting and beat, we would pick the stickers out of our red-dirt stained socks and brush the orangey earth from our play-worn clothes. The oxidation of iron in the dirt makes it burnt orange, but I didn’t know that. All I knew was that it’s nearly impossible to keep white socks white in the desert.

A culmination of childhood memories collected under the Southern Utah sun branded me with an endearing, yet not often expressed attachment to the desert. Last summer, standing on top of a mountain in Zion National Park, I realized what I had always known: there is a part of my soul, epidermis-like in size, that can only be touched by the desert. Located in Southern Utah, Zion contains some of the most stunning, almost unreal, sandstone canyons and cliffs I have ever seen. Castled, imposing cliffs jut out of the ground, towering over and intimidating the surrounding landscape with their majestic display of warm-toned rock. Angels’ Landing, one of the tallest peaks in Zion, affords a sweeping view of the park, as well as the miles of sagebrushed desert beyond. The climb to the top of Angels’ Landing is no easy feat; the two and a half miles to the top appears menacing at best. Determined to tackle the beast, I put my right foot forward on the trail and started up. After I trudged up the seemingly endless switchbacks that make up the first part of the hike, I held fast to the chains anchored in the rock that provide a safe passage up the cliff. Finally, I stood windswept, enchanted, and three feet away from 1500 feet of down, down, down; and I understood. I understood how the sum of prickled sagebrush and dried earth and red rock can be a soul’s perch; I understood how settlers braved the imposing southern heat to settle the wild land; and I understood how this geographical location can be a home for me as it was for them. 

learning journal 04.06: planning my london excursions

I found this book. Okay, I don't know what the title is, because I have a packet of copied pages my faculty mentor gave to me. It's some sort of literary guide to London, and goes through the long history of London authors by district, giving the locations where London writers intersected with the city {birth sites, death sites, home addresses, churches frequented, etc. etc}. It is AWESOME, because it completely justifies my entire field study. For example, there's an entry for St Andrew's church, where William Hazlitt was married, with Charles Lamb acting as best man. It gives A.A. Milnes' address where he wrote the Winnie the Pooh books {he was an essayist, too, so I'm not just interested in his children's lit. but Winnie the Pooh is pretty great}. This book will be key in my literary adventures, because it will cut out much of the work I'll have to do in searching through the city for anything that has to do with the authors I'll be studying. I'll be able to compile a list of sites to visit from this book, then I can supplement with any additional sites I find in the essayists' writing, and I'll be off to have an adventure interacting with the beloved dead. It's going to be freakishly awesome. As you can tell, I'm super excited about it.

But this post is more than just a place to express my excitement. I wanted to take one of the last learning journals in this prep course to explore and justify the purpose of my project. I've obviously taken time in my project proposal and other assignments in the class to do just that, but I wanted to take a step back and look at the larger picture of how important I feel it is to explore not only literature but the places where that lit. was conceived. One of the ideas that always comes up in my writing is how much of who I am I can attribute to where I come from, both physically and, eh, genetically {if that makes sense}. I'm from Southern Utah, and I find that the desert of Southern Utah has helped to define who I am. We have more of a connection to the place(s) we grew up than we tend to give credit for, and I think at some point we have to come to terms with our place of origin. When I say come to terms, it has an almost negative connotation; nevertheless, coming to terms, for me, means that we should think about it enough that we realize how much of an impact it has had on our lives. But maybe I just think about it too much.

No, I don't. I don't think you can think about it too much. Well, let me amend that as well. Of course you can think too much about something, and I think that thinking about place is an important thing to think about more than once or twice or five times. So that is why a project like mine is so attractive to me, because it gives me a chance to ponder about place outside of my own experience. It's my hypothesis that being more familiar with place will help me to better understand and experience the authors I'm studying. That's the hypothesis, and the hope that I have.

Before I end, I wanted to look at a couple example of authors' using place as a vital part of their writing. First, let's start with a classical essayist: Virginia Woolf. I often use her as an example, because she not only lived in London but wrote a LOT about London. She would take walks through London and tell the reader, in her very frank yet approachable way, what she saw on her walk. She was keenly aware of her relationship with London, and it's very evident in her writing that she identified with the city. Take London away from her writing, and you would be not only cutting out a sizable chunk of text, but alos cutting out a sizable piece of Woolf's character and relatability. Now another example: Terry Tempest Williams. She's a contemporary writer, and one that's closer to home. Terry Tempest Williams writes a lot about different landscapes in Utah, and I can tell by reading her essays that place is a huge part about her identity as a writer, and as a person in general. For example, in her book Refuge, she writes about her mother's death from cancer in context of the 1983 flooding in Salt Lake City, and the effect it had on the landscape, especially the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge. She writes a lot about the birds in the refuge, and makes amazing connections between her family life and the refuge (and its inhabitants) and the landscape. It's a fantastic book.

I'm excited to start my project in London! Can't wait.

learning journal 04.04: i'm allergic to everything

On Sunday, I was telling {not bragging, okay? just telling} a couple of friends that I haven't gotten allergies at all the past couple of years, even though I used to be allergic to every single season change in Provo. Aaaand then Monday came, along with the sneezy hazy eye watery bleary allergies I love so much. I was sneezing alldaylong, and it hasn't exactly gone away, so I ended up on the coach for 85% of today, mindlessly staring off into space and watching hours of the Forsythe Saga, which is still full of drama and scandal but is significantly more worthwhile than America's Next Top Model. Just sayin'. And also, it's British. But no, this post isn't about another tv show, as much as you'd like it to be. I just got to thinking that I'm probably going to have to suck it up tomorrow and be an adult and go to class and teach even though I'm currently a sniveling fool....

...that was last night, and this is today. And yes, I came to campus today to be a productive student and instructor. But all this is beside the point. Well, somewhat. I will tie it in to today's post, you'll see!


Okay, so as I was reading the culture shock article, I realized that the wide variety of culture shock symptoms makes it really hard to recognize if you're not aware of the potential problems. I had quite the revelatory moment as I was reading the article:  I know exactly why the first few months of my mission were so difficult. I've always thought that my first few months were so hard because I didn't get along well with my trainer! Well, I realized how much culture shock spoiled our relationship. In fact, I might go as far as to say that almost every single problem I experience as a new missionary was tied back to culture shock. And because of culture shock, it magnified so many of the problems that might not have been a big issue without the addition of learning the Uruguayan culture. Most of the magnified problems, sadly, tied back to my companion. So many things she did drove me BONKERS, and I can see now how much of the tension in our relationship could have been avoided had I known to deal with culture shock (or had I even known that it was a problem. Giving a name to my troubles would have helped in and of itself.)

It's been a few years now, but I can still remember how frustrating it was for me to adjust to the language; my speaking skills were probably better than average, due to a little more experience with the Spanish language than other new gringo missionaries, but I had the HARDEST time understanding the people. I would get so tired in lessons because I couldn't understand half of what our investigators were saying, so I felt like I lived in a bubble, and that contributed to the already huge adjustment of missionary work and missionary life--I would definitely have a hard time staying awake. I would get so MAD at my companion for the smallest things: she was very chatty with investigators, and after having lessons (in which I could understand more), she would sit and chat with them for the looooongest time. When I would talk to her about it, I attributed it to the fact that our district and zone leaders had been emphasizing the importance of using time wisely as a missionary, and sitting there for 45 minutes talking after a lesson seemed like such a waste of time. And maybe it was, to a degree. The biggest frustration, though, was that I couldn't understand most of what was going on in our after-lesson discussions. Because of that, I was more disconnected with the people and thus had little to no desire to sit and chat. I was really frustrated that I didn't know Spanish as well as I thought I did, so I really wanted to teach more in lessons and get as much experience as I could. Problem is, my companion wouldn't really give me much time in lessons to teach. She would teach the whole thing and turn to me at the end for me to add a few lines of testimony. I know that she was probably thinking of me, and thinking that because I was insecure I wouldn't want to talk in lessons. This would have been an easy barrier to overcome, but my frustrations tied back to the language and culture made me more irritable than usual. When I got to Uruguay, it was summer, so that was simply delightful (note a slight edge of sarcasm). I was frustrated because we didn't have air conditioning, so I didn't sleep as well at night. I insisted we sleep with the fan on even though my companion insisted that our power bill would be so much more expensive if we left the ceiling fan on all night long. She said we should just sleep with the window open, and the first night I agreed and we slept with it open, but the problem was this: when I woke up in the morning I was absolutely covered in bug bites; the whole night I was plagued by little buzzing and freaked out when bugs flew into my ears or in my face or... just gross. I was so irritable that I insisted on having my way and sleeping with the window shut and the fan on.

Without giving you an entire list of my grievances, I will just say that many of these problems would have been less of a big deal had I understood that I was experiencing culture shock, and taken the steps to deal with it directly. As it was, once I was with another companion I started seeing how wonderful missionary work could be, and thought my change of attitude was again directly tied back to my companion. True, yes, I did get along with her much more, but at the same time, I could tell I was getting more used to the culture. I was a little more confident with the language, and amazed that I was able to sufficiently show my companion around our area without mishap. As I got more used to the culture, the initial culture shock wore off, and I feel like eventually I was able to advance to biculturalism--if not completely, than to a much greater degree. I loved the culture and felt that I could understand more of the people's motivations and values.

Also, as I was reading the culture shock article I got to thinking that the MTC could probably do a much better job of preparing missionaries for experiencing culture shock. Because the adjustment from regular to missionary life is already a huge transition, and with the added stress of culture shock, it can be traumatic for a lot of missionaries. A lot of missionaries develop depression or other health problems on their missions, and I have to wonder how much of that is tied to not coping with culture shock.

So here's where I tie it into the beginning of my post. Because culture shock is a real problem, just as allergies or any other sickness is, it can have a real effect on our desires to get out of bed in the morning and actually work or go to school or be a missionary. Much of the time, and especially with culture shock, the best thing to do is get out of the house, stop feeling sorry for oneself and dwelling on the issue, and go to work.

The end.

learning journal 04.02: justifying a waste of time

The genesis of this post may seem really trivial (okay, okay, it really is), but I think there are some interesting cultural implications worth analyzing. So, onto the subject of my starting point: America's Next Top Model (ANTM). The current season is called the "British Invasion" because there are British models competing with American models for the title of America's Next Top Model. This show is mostly  a waste of time, which is why it's a perfect distraction from my homework when I just don't want to think about anything. But here's what I found interesting about this season:

Actually, first off I'll address a likely concern. Because this is a reality show, and they are largely scripted, I realize we have to take everything with a grain of salt. I might come back to the scripted element of the show, because I could definitely comment on that as well. Okay, now I'll get started:

• ANTM is pitting the American girls against the British girls. Although, in the end, this is an individual competition (because there will only be one winner), the television show seems bent on creating as much drama as possible, and of course they will exploit the cultural differences to the maximum. By doing this, however, the television show is creating an unfair comparison between the two cultures. It's never productive to ask "which is better?" when it comes to culture, so even though there will only be one winner, they are going to make a big deal out of whether or not it's an American or a Brit. By pitting the two teams against each other, they are unconsciously showing fans that one must be better than the other. It's not a celebration of two cultures coming together; it's a commentary on which one is better. 
• The cultures are represented unfairly. One episode there was a challenge where each team had to eat traditional foods from the other country. Problem is, they picked some of the most disgusting, weird, and off-the-wall food items (okay, there were some normal things), and the girls themselves commented on how disgusting "American" food or "British" food was. This is a perfect example of stereotyping based on the least amount of information possible. The girls, sadly enough, don't seem smart enough to figure out that the show was selecting perhaps the least appetizing foods. Oh, and that reminds me of something else. Often, the American girls are stereotyped as stupid and the British girls are stereotyped as snobby. This is a classic example of two cultures coming together and not understanding social cues. In all reality, most of the girls on the show act pretty stupid, but ANTM seems to highlight this more in the Americans. The Brits seem to be constantly judging and looking down at the Americans for being loud, obnoxious, stupid, and inexperienced. A lot of these differences could be explained by cultural differences, but I think most of it is explained by what the show chooses to broadcast (or not broadcast). They seem to want to represent both cultures negatively in some way, and they are definitely successful in that. 
• The judges seem to view the competition as a "celebration of two cultures coming together," but it's actually just a bloodbath. The rooms they sleep in are conveniently sectioned off into the "UK room" and the "Yankee room." 90% of the interactions between the two cultures are cat fights, so something is clear: the show is pretending to sell it as a celebration of culture, but are really selling it as drama, drama, drama. 

Okay, so what in the world does this have to do with my project besides the fact that I'm American and I'm going to the UK? Let me 'splain. I think if either culture looks to television and media (especially reality television) as a sole indicator of culture, both are in for a big shock. Television shows like ANTM are doing nothing to help people appreciate differences--they are merely exploiting them for drama and money. While they could have an opportunity to bring the two cultures in a way that they could learn from each other, they are focused on the negative differences and the ways cultures collide. Even when American television depicts Americans and British television depicts British people, they are still using stereotypes and caricatures which are unfairly representative of either culture. There are so many different aspects of culture that we can't rely on media to give us an accurate representation of culture. If I were to go to England with the expectation that they are all like the ANTM British models, I am setting myself up for a disaster. Why? Well, I think that as is true with most situations, you find what you are looking for. If I'm expecting Brits to be snobby and I focus on that as I interact with them, I will probably find enough examples to support my claim, and I will have missed out on great interactions with the people. I think the best way to enter a different culture is to expect there to be differences, but try not to make judgments on the people before you begin your actual interaction. That way your actions aren't tainted by previous judgment. 

In short, no one should use ANTM as an accurate representation of either British OR American cultures. I don't know who would, but I'm sure there is a whole slew of teenyboppers who are susceptible to believing such crap is actually all true. In fact, I wouldn't recommend watching the show at all! I am definitely going to keep watching this season, though, because I'm looking forward to who they crown the winner (will it be a Brit, telling us that they are better than us? or will they crown an American to reinforce ideals of American exceptionalism? I have to know!) 

In other words, do as I say and not as I do. The end.

annotated source 04.02

Benson, Arthur. "The Art of the Essayist." 1922. Quotidiana. Ed. Patrick Madden. 13 Oct. 2008. Web. 29 Mar. 2012

This essay, much like Alexander Smith's "On the Writing of Essays," explores the idea of the essayist persona instead of focusing on the essay itself. This also reinforces the notion that in order to write essays, one must be an essayist. Benson writes that essayists must be curious, realistic, alert, and "emotional in a reverential way." Describing these characteristics of essayists is interesting to me because it shows me more and more that essaying is a way of life, rather than a mere occupation (and if it were a mere occupation, it would be a poor occupation, because it's not the most lucrative career out there). This is relevant to my project because while in London I will continue my pursuit to be an essayist, and there I will have more time to actually focus my life on my project, which is essay writing. It will be an excellent time to both observe the world around me and write about it.

annotated source 03.30: agnes repplier

Repplier, Agnes. “Words.” 1893. Quotidiana. Ed. Patrick Madden. 10 Apr 2007. Web. 30 Mar 2012.


This essay explores the important role of words in writing, and in it Repplier mourns that writers often don't appreciate the power of words. She uses a metaphor I love: "Musicians know the value of chords; painters know the value of colors; writers are so often blind to the value of words." I think this is definitely true--writers often just throw words together without thinking about their specific impact. I can definitely attest to that, and this is why Repplier's argument in this essay is so relevant to me and my project. It's essential for me to continue learning to appreciate the value of words as a writer, and this essay is a helpful reference to help me out with that venture. 
Favorite Repplier quote: "For every sentence that may be penned or spoken the right words exist." 


Boom. 

T

annotated source 03.28

Schwabe, Liesl. "The Intimacy of Forks." Creative Nonfiction 41(Spring 2011): 16-19. Print

Creative Nonfiction is one of the literary journals I have explored lately. It's definitely a "reach" journal, as far as my own chances of publication go, but as I read the essays published in the journal, I find them stylistically within my foreseeable reach. "The Intimacy of Forks" is an interesting essay exploring a waitress' observations of customers who come and go from the restaurant she works at. It falls into the personal essay camp because it combines scene (and some narration or dialogue) with rumination and exploration of the author's mind. Here's one quote that exemplifies what I'm trying to describe: "Despite all the awkward interactions, moments of shared understanding flicker through most every exchange. We recognize one another in the simplicity of eye contact, which buoys my faith but can also break my heart. I will never forget the plaid shirt and the rolled jeans of the man whose hand shook so much he couldn't get his spoon to his mouth. Now, his wife comes in along to order take-out, which we rarely do, except for people we like" (19).

Fantastico. One of the characteristics I love about essays (and what often distinguishes an essay from a memoir) is the addition of personal insight (hindsight) into the narrative, where the writer is allowed to be transparent about feelings and judgments; in other words, in essays, authors "show AND tell," whereas in other forms of literature writers are told to "show, NOT tell." So, yes, good essay.

learning journal 03.28: literary experiments

As I have read and studied essay theory this semester, I have continued to experiment with that               

theory in my own writing. This piece I wrote trying to explore the ambiguity of truth and fact, to    

incorporate what I've learned. This is a current attempt:

Pictured Truth

~I have a black and white photograph of a couple sitting on the porch steps of a white brick house. The young man is sitting in an easy, relaxed position—a bit slouched, both legs bent but one more extended than the other. He is gangly, charming, and holding a ukulele. His plaid button-down hangs loosely on his body, and his jeans are folded up at the cuff, showing his argyle socks and broken-in loafers. His grin probably has more to do with the young woman whose arm is draped around his shoulders than it has to do with the camera. He is looking at the camera, but she isn’t; she is looking at him, and her smile is only for him. Her cheek is resting in her hand, and her knees are drawn nearly up to her chest; where he is gangly she is graceful, and her profile as she looks at him is delicately fine. Her shirt, plaid like his, is paired with white capris and ballet flats; her short wavy hair—which, from what I guess looking at the black-and-white picture—is light brown, and perfectly in place. She adores him.

It’s not only the way she is looking at him that suggests they love each other; he is leaning into her, one of his knees is touching hers ever so slightly. A sense of familiarity seems to exist between them that goes beyond the photograph; I may only think that, however, because the couple pictured are my grandparents, and the familiarity that exists between them now translates into my perception of the photo. They seemed so unaffected by future troubles, troubles that their present selves have born. Their black-and-white forms in this photograph are merely shades of the grandparents I know now; and yet, the shades are as familiar to me as the true, colorful forms I know now and remember from my childhood. I wrote true in the last sentence, something that slipped from my fingers but now seems erroneous: what was true then is just as much true as what is true now—just through a different lens, with a different exposure. My grandma is still graceful but perhaps not as willowy as she is pictured; the way she looks at my grandpa is still admiration but deeper, with a longer history. My grandpa’s crooked smile still exists even though change has altered his once lanky frame. The mischief visible in the picture is still there, though he now has fewer moments of seemingly careless ease.

Careless ease is probably another misconception as true was in the paragraph above. My grandma and grandpa took this picture shortly after being married in 1952, and they are sitting on the porch steps of their first apartment in Atlanta, where my grandpa was stationed in the army. There can’t be too many moments of careless ease in a soldier’s life, especially because shortly after this picture was taken he was deployed to Korea, where he saw and experienced the inexpressible terror of war that I don’t understand and never will. He spoke very little about the war throughout the next few decades; it wasn’t until the past ten years or so that he broke his silence and began telling his war story. He and my grandma wrote hundreds of letters throughout the time he was in the army. At first, they wrote while they were engaged, when he was in training and she was a senior in high school; they then married and moved to Atlanta while he finished he training. They resumed their letter writing again while he was in Korea—so while the rest of the family remained ignorant of details for decades, my grandma knew what he had been through and kept his confidence. So, in reality, her careless ease in this picture likely hid worries of losing her husband, of widowhood, of loneliness. Just looking at this picture alone, it seems like the couple had nary a care in the world; under the surface, though, there is much I could speculate about what was going through their minds. Worry, doubt, fear, anxiety, determination to just hold on, to just have hope.

I realize that what I know of them from my memories and what I know of them from this photograph represent a scant view of their lives together, of their relationship. I assume they clung to each other; I assume he told her about the horror of war; I assume so much that my perception has little chance of coinciding with their true selves and true experiences. I know little through their stories, stories from my dad, stories from my aunts and uncles, but I’m not sure I will ever understand who they were and are—the “truth.”  Identity, though, might never be truth; it is always in flux, and it is always impossible to pin down. So all I can do is cling to the shards of truth, and I will have to be satisfied that I will probably never understand the whole picture, understand their true selves.

           

  Meanwhile, I just realized: I didn’t know my grandpa played the ukulele. 

learning journal 03.26: looking ahead

Because I'm in the Creative Writing MFA program, I have definitely become more invested in the idea of publishing. Writing my project proposal for this class has helped me to solidify my future publication goals, mainly because I plan to write extensively while I'm in London, so this will help add to my pool of publishable material. But it's also been helpful because it has made me more alert to the type of literary journals and other places where I could publish my work. I've been researching some literary journals lately in hopes that I could find some that publish the type of work I write. Also, it shows me what I could aspire to as a writer--shows me what kind of work is being published in the current literary atmosphere. I thought I'd share a couple examples of current literary journals where I could send my work:

Ruminate Magazine (http://www.ruminatemagazine.com/)
Ruminate's tagline is "chewing on life, faith, and art," which immediately interested me because I feel that my beliefs and faith come up in my writing, and sometimes it's hard to find a venue eager to publish spiritual writing. From what I can tell about the magazine, they publish mainly fiction and poetry, but they seem to have at least a couple of essays in each issue. So it might be harder to publish essays, but it's possible that they don't receive as many nonfiction submissions (and from what I've heard, that is often the case). So the fact that they publish less essays than they do short stories and poetry shouldn't necessarily discourage me from submitting. They publish quarterly, and they look for pieces that "resonate with the complexity and truth of the Christian faith." Although the essays I write in London may not be essentially "spiritual" writing, my faith has a way of creeping into my writing, so it's something that I often drift into. One of the essays I read could also be categorized as a travel essay, but it dealt with spiritual issues. This is an interesting magazine I'd love to continue exploring.

Ecotone Journal (http://www.ecotonejournal.com/)
The Ecotone website says that they look for work that "seeks to reimagine place." Thematically, place often comes up in my essays, because I think that so much of who we are as people comes from where we originate. So any attempt to explore myself as a person tends to come back to an exploration of place. Place will be an essential part of my field studies project, as I will be looking at the connection between British essayists and London, and because I will be in London there will be an added dimension of my own experiences with place. This journal seems to publish a lot more nonfiction than Ruminate does, which is good to know. I always love to know when journals either favor or welcome a lot of nonfiction and personal essay. Especially because my field study project as well as my master's thesis will be a collection of personal essays. Good to keep in mind!

annotated source 03.26

Arthur, Chris. "An Essay on the Esse." The Pedestrian vol 2, 2009. Web. 21 March 2012. 


This is yet another example of a theoretical essay that exemplifies what an essay can look like while commenting on the actual form. Very meta. Arthur's essay explores the "essay" as a literary genre, comparing it to "esse," which means "essential nature, essence, to be, etc.," and "esse," a type of wood-burning stove that was in his home growing up. These may seem like disparate things, but he comments on the connection (and the use of seemingly obscure connections in essays) towards the end, saying:


"Touch the Esse with the hand of the essay and all sorts of windows open up. It is cocooned in a delicate tracery of stories. Pull on one thread and it awakens the lives of those in foundry and warehouse, in canal barges and in shop, all the hands that touched this cube of iron. Pull on another thread and the ore from which the Esse was forged takes us back to the geological age when it was laid down in the earth..."
(I could have gone on, because Arthur's prose is so dazzlingly beautiful, but I'll spare you the reading time.) 


There is value in meta essays because a writer like me, trying to better understand the form and function of essays, can see how other essayists understand the essay--and they explain it in a way that follows the form they are writing about. Arthur's essay is extremely helpful because it accomplishes this meta-commentary. And it helps that his prose is, as I mentioned, dazzlingly beautiful. If you don't believe me, you should read this essay. The second paragraph is one of my favorites. Arthur is one of my favorite essayists, and this essay reinforces that favoritism. 

annotated source 03.23

Church, Steven. "Auscultation." The Pedestrian No. 2

This is a very moving essay by Steven Church that I look at as a contemporary interpretation of the classical essay. It explores the different avenues of one word/idea (auscultation, stethoscopes), and contains stories and observations of the world around the author, as well as a bit of personal experience from the author's life. This is a great example to look at because it follows the style of looking at the world through the eyes of the author without the author telling us about his/her whole life. Scott Russell Sanders said in an interview: "My writing is personal, but it's not confessional. I don't present myself as the focus of interest. Rather, I am a witness who glimpses things, has hunches about things, and wants to convey those glimpses and hunches to the reader..."

This Steven Church essay exemplifies this quote, a quote which is common of classical British essays. They weren't confessional in nature as much as they were observatory--personal in that they were writing about the world through their own eyes and interpreting thus, but not personal in that they were airing out their dirty laundry. If you get a chance to read this essay, you should definitely do so.

Here's a link to the full-text version in the online journal The Pedestrian: http://thepedestrian.org/issues/no2/3

Enjoy!

learning journal 03.21: beautiful sentences

I think it's important to pay particular attention to beautiful writing on a sentence level, and really dissect what works (and doesn't) in other authors' writing. I have taken 10 sentences from my recent reading and analyzed why they are as fantastic as I think they are. As I write essays, I want to pay more attention to my writing on a sentences level, and learn how to craft beautiful sentences.

1. “Through the broken casements we watch the flitting shadows of the dead, and the saddest shadows of them all are the shadows of our own dead selves.” (“On Memory,” Jerome K Jerome. Quotidana.) I really love the mouthfeel of this sentence. Reading it out loud emphasizes the alliteration of the s, as well as the repetition of the word “shadows.” Typically when I end up repeating a word three times in one sentence, it just sounds like I couldn’t think of any other word to use or any better phrasing. Jerome, on the other hand, seems to repeat intentionally—and I think he is successful because of his adjectives (“flitting,” “saddest”), which in and of themselves may not be the most original or astounding adjective, but the combination of the words together leaves an eerie chill in my mouth as I picture the shadows of my dead self. Excellent.

2. “Such, thought I, shall be my method this evening; and since it is that day of the year which I dedicate to the memory of such in another life as I much delighted in when living, an hour or two shall be sacred to sorrow and their memory, while I run over all the melancholy circumstances of this kind which have occurred to me in my whole life.” (“An Hour or Two Sacred to Sorrow,” Richard Steele. APE.) First, I could probably dedicate a whole annotation like this to the phrase “sacred to sorrow,” which just kills me with its beauty. “An hour or two shall be sacred to sorrow and their memory.” Really, though? How can he have written something so beautiful? I don’t know that I could even tell you why it entrances me so, except that the pairing of “sacred” with “sorrow” is genius. Besides that phrase, I love the flow of the sentence. It seems to start and end with an almost business-like precision, leading to and falling away from the climax of the sentence, which is, of course, my favorite part.

3. “It was not the least of the satisfactions in my survey, to go up stairs, and pass the shops of agreeable females; to observe so many pretty hands busie in the foldings of ribbands, and the utmost eagerness of agreeable faces in the sale of patches, pins, and wires, on each side the counters, was an amusement, in which I should longer have indulged my self, had not the dear creatures called me to ask what I wanted, when I could not answer, only to look at you.” (“Twenty-Four Hours in London,” Richard Steele. APE.) I always admire long (correct) sentences. I always try to write long flowing sentences, and I’m never quite sure if I succeed or not. This sentence is delightful because I can picture perfectly what Steele is observing, and I can sense a fondness in his tone for the women he is observing. The style is charming yet almost strictly observatory in nature, making it a good example for what I’d like to achieve in my “Observation and Analysis” essay.

4. “So I saw things, but never about myself.  I saw a meteor light up the sky for an instant, saw two tons of butter carved into an astronaut, saw nine bald eagles sitting on a bank by a river.  I saw a pork tenderloin as big as my face, saw two hundred crows in a tree beside a sandwich shop, saw a field look green where all that yellow met all that blue.” (“Still Things,” Amy Butcher. Brevity 38.) This is more than one sentence, but I felt that all three depended on each other for maximum impact. The reason I like these sentences is the juxtaposition of images held within: the meteor, butter carved into an astronaut, eagles, pork, crows, and a field. Each of these images is interesting in and of itself, like the carved butter, but put together the writer achieves a mesh of startling images that the reader imagines as they go through the list. What is most effective is that the list of items is preceded by “I saw things, but never about myself.” As I read what follows, I can imagine the author seeing these things—observing the outside world, but for some reason not able to see herself.

5. “High on the walls mirrors with blind patches were hung, multiplying the flickering of the firelight and reflecting shifting images.” (“Dr. Henry Selwin,” W.G. Sebald. The Emigrants.) Sebald’s writing can be so entrancing, and this sentence exemplifies this perfectly. As I read this sentence, I close my eyes and see the scene he describes, see the light refracting as it passes through the mirrors, distorted by the blind patches but still reflecting the images. His use of the passive voice is interesting, and I typically try to edit out most of the passive voice in my writing and my students’ writing, but in this sentence I feel that the passive voice is preferable because it puts emphasis on the mirrors themselves, not whoever hung them. On top of all that, I feel this sentence encapsulates much of Sebald’s writing; it’s almost like his essays were the mirrors with blind patches, reflecting images that are shifting, not stagnant, and multiplying the influence of whatever he’s writing about.

6. “The silent symbolic notes that are sounded in the heart by the gesture of laying a dead infant on a swan’s wing and placing it thus cushioned in the grave, play gently over a range of comforting tones with unobtrusive virtuosity.” (“Swan Song,” Chris Arthur. Words of the Grey Wind.) Chris Arthur is a beautiful sentence rock star, if you ask me. This particular sentence is interesting because it subtly uses music to carry the reader through the image: “notes that are sounded in the heart…play gently over a range of comforting tones.” He is dealing with the topic of death so very gently, and his words are crafted as carefully as the scene he describes where a dead infant is buried on a swan’s wing. He is able to pack so much punch into this one image of the infant on a swan’s wing that the image carries the entire essay. Love it.

7. “To me there is no room for naifs or solemn primitives in the essay; it's a performance of extreme sophistication, the argument rising or falling on the basis of verbal nuance, persona pirouette, exposure of unconscious contradiction in oneself and others.” (“A Resurgence of the Essay,” Phillip Lopate. Random house: <boldtype>.) I like this sentence for its concision and straightforwardness. Despite its concision, though, it’s not plain or undecorated. Phrases like “persona pirouette” and “exposure of unconscious contradiction” color the sentence and add interest to the matter-of-fact tone that Lopate creates throughout this essay. Also, his diction is subtly consistent: he uses “performance of extreme sophistication” and “persona pirouette,” and I suddenly see the essay as a dance. Also, I really like the word “naïf.”

8. “Besides, this is what is practiced every day in Westminster Hall, where nothing is more usual than to see a couple of lawyers, who have been tearing each other to pieces in the court, embracing one another as soon as they are out of it.” (“Nicolini and the Lions,” Joseph Addison. APE.) Although Addison and Steele’s essays are grouped together in APE (I’m not really sure why), it’s amazing how different their styles are. Here is a perfect example from “Nicolini and the Lions” of how subtly hilarious Addison is. Upon first glance, it seems so matter of fact that it couldn’t possibly be funny, but upon revisiting the sentence, you really can’t help but smile. The comparison between squabbling lawyers and lions tearing each other apart and then embracing is delightfully executed.

9. “This is a mystery I am content to witness without understanding, like my toaster, my computer, my wife’s love, my children’s wonder, my father’s long wisdom, and the ways we resist and rely on each other, we grow and emphasize, meet another soul along the way, and resonate.” (“Buying a Bass,” Patrick Madden. Wabash, Fall 2011). I couldn’t help but include a sentence from this essay that I completely enjoyed. I remember Patrick Madden saying once that “beautiful writing is correct writing,” and I haven’t really gotten it out of my head since. This sentence takes on a sprawling, Brian Doyle-esque quality, but still maintains grammatical correctness and precision. Besides being sprawling and correct, I love the transitions and tone shifts in this sentence. From “my computer” to “my wife’s love, my children’s wonder, and my father’s long wisdom,” the sentence deepens in meaning. It subtly goes from lighthearted, from a computer to a toaster, to sincere, and I love it.

10. “Before perhaps she’s even developed ears, she resonates sound in her bones and tissue, her whole body trembling like a tuning fork to the everyday noise of our lives—the howling passing of trains, the white noise of the 180 and 41 freeways, barking dogs, the nightly oscillating drone of the police helicopters, and on better nights the soft sounds of her brother reading to his mother’s belly, talking into the button, his voice vibrating through the amniotic drum.” (“All of a Dither,” Steven Church. AGNI.) This sentence kills me. I don’t even know if I could put into words all that I love about it. It’s another long sentence, sprawling and still correct, so I admire that about it, but just like the previous sentence, the beautiful structure of the sentence is only the skeleton, and what fills in between the cracks—“howling passing of trains,” “nightly oscillating drone,” “soft sounds of her brother reading,” “voice vibrating through the amniotic drum”—is what gives it punch. With the last two sentences, I love the fact that they both talk about family in a way that resists sentimentality and portrays love without being sappy. This is something I’d love to incorporate into my essays because I want to write about family and I want to write optimistically without being naïve or sentimental. As these last two sentences show, I have examples to help me in that endeavor.

annotated source 03.21

Prose, Francine. "Learning from Chekov." Reading Like a Writer. New York: Harper Collins, 2006. Print.

First of all, I wanted to point out how fantastic it is that the author's last name is "Prose." As an aspiring writer, I would die for a last name like that. Anyway, one of my professors recommended this essay to me  as we were discussing my upcoming prospectus and thesis, because I am going to be taking on the same themes about classical essay style, writing from a tradition, etc., that I will be working with for my field study project. Anyway, this essay talks about Prose's experience teaching the "rules" of fiction as she was reading Chekov's short stories. She writes that she would give her students a hard and fast rule of something never to do in fiction, and then as she read Chekov on the bus ride home, she would find that he broke the very same rule she was giving to her class, successfully writing against the rules she was prescribing for her students. It's an interesting discussion about the rules of writing, and how writers prescribe them and break them, and I will keep this essay close as I am exploring the "rules" of essay writing.

annotated source 03.19

Steinberg, Michael, Thomas Larson, Mimi Schwartz, and Phillip Lopate. "The Persona in Personal Narrative: Crafting the Made-Up Self." Association of Writers and Writers Programs. Chicago, 2012.

This AWP panel was one of my favorites. The panelists are all essay superstars, so it was interesting to see them talk about how they construct themselves in their essays. They speculated on their own writing and other authors' writing to consider whether or not the self on the page was just a construction of the author. They varied in opinion--for example, Phillip Lopate (who is delightfully snarky, by the way) talked about his own writing, reading two different pieces that were written decades apart, but are both clearly written in a singular voice. I think they'd all agree that no matter what the essayist does to construct his or her persona in writing, the self is multifaceted, thus leading to a large variety of voices and tones and "selves" that can come from one individual while still remaining true to the author's identity. This was a helpful source because I am always seeking understanding of my genre, and knowing the current discussion on the creation of self in personal essays will help me to be more aware of how I construct and portray myself on the page.

learning journal 03.16: steven church

Some people go through their whole BYU experience without knowing this, but BYU does a weekly reading series where visiting authors will come and read their work every Friday @12 (noon) in the library auditorium. If you go to the English Reading Series website, you can watch the past readings they recorded. That was my shout-out for the day.

So this week, the author was Steven Church, who is a nonfiction writer. He teaches at University of California Fresno, and he's published three books and a ton of essays. I'd read his book Theoretical Killings, which is a fantastically weird genre-bending conglomeration of essay and fiction and essayistic fiction. It is awesome. He definitely plays around with genre in Theoretical Killings, but other essays I've read by him are more "traditional" personal essays. They are awesome. HE is awesome. Let me tell you a little more and hopefully you'll see how useful this was for my writing and my project.

Last night, me and five other grad students in the MFA creative writing program workshopped essays with Steven. I don't know why, but I was SO NERVOUS about the workshop. We had submitted an essay to him and to each other, so we all showed up having read each other's essays. As soon as I sent my essay, I was second guessing myself all over the place, wondering why in the heck I sent that essay, thinking it was a piece of crap, he was going to eat me alive, I'd get shunned, things like that. I was having some major intimidation issues. But as we started talking to Steven, I felt so at ease around him that the whole workshop experience was a complete delight. He is the most down-to-earth person, very real, not like a lot of self-important writers. He seemed honest and willing to help us and discuss writing with us. From the workshop last night and the reading and Q&A today, I took some notes that I want to remember as I head into the field and continue writing:

• The best essays come when you pretend you're talking to someone--nonfiction is a conversation between the reader and the writer: This is something I've definitely noticed as I have studied personal essays. They are personal because the writer is much more transparent in telling the reader what's going on. I think a lot of people (including myself) are drawn to this genre because we like to think we can know the author from what they write, and with personal essay this is largely true. He also said,
• Genre is fundamentally arbitrary but important: There is a seemingly never-ending debate about genre, and the rules of genre, and what makes one thing an essay and another a short story and another a poem, etc etc. I appreciated what he said because I think genre is important and I like to write in my genre and such, but I know I have room to experiment as long as I let my reader know what stuff I'm making up, a process that Church calls signposting (or letting the reader know what is imaged and what is real). 
• Do some research when writing an essay: I love essays with a research element. I think research is fundamentally important to essay writing because essaying has so much to do with exploring and being curious about the world around you, and as Church said, often the best essays are essays with research in them. He says he often starts out an essay with an idea or with some research instead of with personal narrative, and then the personal narrative usually just shows up. 
• "Kill your darlings" or "dismember your baby": These slightly disturbing adages (the "kill your darlings" adage you might have heard before) mean that during the revising process, you have to look at an essay as a whole and decide what's important to that essay, and sometimes you have to cut things you initially loved or cut things up and scramble them around. Basically, don't be married to a first draft. This is something I need to practice more. When I'm writing, I have a hard time going back and taking out parts that I may love but may not be essential or necessary in the essay. But the good thing about it is that you don't have to necessarily throw those passages away, just set them aside, and if they fit into a different essay at some point and time, great!

Anyway, I really learned a lot from Steven Church's visit. It's always important to get the perspective  of multiple authors, and it's something I crave. Even though I become weirdly nervous about it sometimes. I have an inferiority complex, okay? Really, though, as I start my project, this and other bits of advice from Church and other contemporary essayists will be very valuable, because they have experience in the publishing world, experience that helps me know what I can do to improve as a writer and eventually publish my essays.