Reflection

My essay refinement process has improved throughout the term. I think a big problem a lot of young writers have is being too attached to their work. After writing a long piece, whether I really believe that it is the best work I can produce, I will be too attached to my work to intensely refine or scrap it. I’ve learned to detach myself from my writing enough to realize when a piece isn’t going well, and how I can immediately turn it around for the best. A major portion of that belief stems from laziness. I remember used to saying to myself that why would I want to restart this whole essay when I already put so much effort into it? What I’ve come to learn that the final product is worth the extra effort put into the refinement.  

I was excited to start my extended metaphor comparing anger to a cup of coffee. What I was not excited about, was the turnout. The original version of the extended metaphor was not what I wanted it to be, I did not go about it the way I should have. Even after submitting it, I thought there was so much more I could have done with that piece. For re-submission, I completely scrapped the entire extended metaphor, except for the idea. The new result was on par with what I originally wanted:

You wait in line, order in mind. After paying you wait at the counter, and pick up your drink. A table opens up and you sit down, put your cup down and look at it. Steam ascends from the cup, from the hot brown liquid. The sweet golden drizzle- once shaped like a leaf- melts into the creamy foam, dissolving into the espresso and steamed milk. The surface of your drink becomes one monochromatic khaki color, and the steam subsides. You failed your exam, slept through lecture, lost your phone charger, your entire family is coming to YOUR house for thanksgiving, and your bank account balance matches your GPA. Anger is a cup of coffee. The bold, lively, strong, rich and full hearted base of stress, with extra fluff added on top. Steamed milk or soy, sugar, syrups, whipped cream, extra drizzle, mocha cookie crumble and Brule crumbles on top and piled on, like homework, studying, laundry or making that awkward thank you call to your aunt who sent you a card on your birthday- which you swear you will make tomorrow. But right before you want to scream "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE" - turkey leg in hand, you cool off. The  extra fluffy sugar in your life melts, and the steam goes away. The result is sweet and strong.

I really liked the concept, and the potential of this piece, but its execution went wrong. I had no trouble however, scrapping this entire piece in order to write it more successfully. What I have taken away from this term is learning to let go of a piece that you know you can make better with extra effort.

I have also learned how to play with, and manipulate my writing to produce a specific effect. I chose to pair the 200 word sentence, and the six sentence piece because they both evoke two distinct tones  that contrast with each other. The six sentence piece actually follows the 200 word sentence chronologically, they are both on the same subject. In the 200 word sentence, I discuss my dazed and confused emotions that bled into each other; versus the six word piece that is clear, cut and concise, where  I came to terms with my emotions. I added the third paragraph as a conclusion that merged the two types of syntax: long and loose versus terse.

pictures

Barista

My anger is a fresh cup of coffee:  roasted, ground, pressed and brewed, steamy. But you don’t go to a coffee shop and order from a menu with one item on it. There are levels of anger, different intensities and brews.

 I personally enjoy Americano’s, and they’re  the same style I most often deal with anger. I start with a shot of espresso. Black, thick strong, but I manage to dilute myself, water down the intensity, as to not burn anyone around me. It’s the same amount of espresso, the same amount of pure angst in every form of anger, but its how I deal with it that creates the different  drinks. 

I can be so intensely angry but you may not even know it. With copious amounts of steamed milk and cream and sugar and whip and drizzle and Brule sprinkles, you may barley recognize the espresso in a macchiato or Frappuccino.

I will admit I can be a frivolous person. I’m easily angered about my appearance, and how others perceive me. I make the effort to appear well for others. But when that effort is tainted, the espresso brews. Other times however, I wake up in the wrong sleep cycle, I lose my phone charger, forget my headphones, need to do laundry, try to study for an exam, or need to finish an assignment minutes before class, and a simple cup of joe is brewed. No double-soy-whip-cookie-crumble-drizzle nonsense necessary. The effort to add all the sweet extra fluff dissipates and I openly hate the world and everyone around me.

I’m as clumsy as I am angry. As easy as it is for me so spill my drink all over the table, dripping onto the floor, others looking at me, embarrassed, I implode with anger, smiting almost anyone around me unintentionally. It’s not as easy however, to clean up the words that come out of my mouth  as it is to wipe up spilled coffee. Soap and water don’ wipe away spoken words.

I get angered when I don’t meet my own standards. I feel defeated when my design doesn’t get chosen for the week’s top four picks. I need anger to keep me in line. Keep my priorities straight. My anger keeps me motivated to try. And my morning tumbler of coffee energizes me for the new day. 

Too much anger leaves me exhausted, dry and quenched. My indulgence in coffee can leave me dehydrated. I know when to avoid it when I know it, when it will consequently affect me.

Then it’s easy. After the steam diminishes and I cool off, it’s manageable to drink. I get up, throw away the cup, walk away and leave.

pictures

Grandfather

They left as soon as they got the call, and by the time they told me, they had already been hours into the trip, and Florida’s a two day drive, it was the middle of the week so my dad must have taken off work, my mom was still on disability, she would have taken off anyway, it was important to her- that she be there for his last days, hours, minutes, they weren’t too sure, I wish I could have gone too, the same words murmured from my brother and cousins but now we all have our own lives, in different corners of the east coast, this one has midterms, that one can’t get off, I’m on a ten week term and it just wouldn’t have worked, but my dad kept me in the loop and I reciprocated the information among the others, my mother, all of our mothers, sisters, were too alike, barley handling the situation themselves, how could they have helped distribute the updates, but my dad did his best, he described the tears, the cries, the monotonous vibe, I conversed with my cousins about our guilt, our confusion, our sorrow, and I thank God I cannot afford to smell the formaldehyde myself.

He’d pick me up on Friday. My cousin and I weren’t close. But he went to school nearby. He goes to TCNJ, good school. I am only thirty minutes away. But the circumstance brought us closer. And yes we do feel sad. But our mothers are in grief. We both knew we had to. I got it at three fifteen. It was early Sunday/Saturday night. The day does not really matter. I got the text from dad. I am doing my work early. Assignments due Monday, I’ll do tonight. I don’t want to be busy. I’ll have enough on my mind. I am not excited like usual. Going home is usually a break. It’s not that I need to. I just know that I should. Just being there will be enough. To console, comfort, ease, or relieve. It will be awkward and unsettling. My family is not ‘lubby dubby’. I don’t know what to do. Like what should I actually do? Or how should I actually act? Hugging: rare and a little weird. Love you’s: reserved for drunken parties. Whatever, I guess I’ll do it. Swallow my pride, push down discomfort.  I am almost scared to go. Unsure of what awaits at home. 

My grandfather was a tailor and a harvested sugar cane in Guyana. That was while he could work. After the killer bee incident, he was left with a hearing aid and glass eye. I plan on dedicating my next tattoo, a spool and needle above my knee, to him. This symbol won’t represent the love and affection I always had for him-because there wasn’t any. It will be a symbol of regret. I didn’t know him. No one really did. He was always so detached. But I regret not making the effort. I should have tried to know him more. Half hearing, and half seeing, he spoke very little. But on the few occasions when I visited him- I can count on my hands how many times I remember visiting him- the look he gave me (with his functional eye), I knew he knew me. I remember his hands, they were strong, and I would feel the words he didn’t say as he patted me on the back.

pictures

Crystal Castles Dialog

Discussing electronic duo Crystal Castles, their rise to fame, and past and previous albums.

Barry: Yeah I know! Just look at their album cover! I looked into their album art when they released it before the actual album. The photo is of “a veiled woman cradling her son after he was exposed to tear gas. It was shot in Yemen during the Arab spring and won World Press Photo of the Year 2001” (Nicolson 53). Oh yeah, and “the cover shot was taken by Samuel Aranda, a Spanish photojournalist who has covered wars in Iraq, Gaza and Pakistan and freelances for the New York Times” (Nicolson 53), I actually almost met the guy at a conference. As bat-shit crazy Alice may be, she has a heart, a big one. When you muddle through her synthesized words, she ‘sings’ of breaking through what you believe is right in the world. A co-worker of mine actually interviewed her and they talked about the new album. He said that she said “ ‘ a lot of bad things have happened to people close to me since [the last album]. It feels like the world is a dystopia where victims don’t get justice and corruption prevails. I’m one step away from being a vigilante and bringing justice to people I love” (Nicolson 53). If that isn’t hard core I don’t know what is.

Matthew: I didn’t even know all of that and I’ve practically stalked all their moves since hearing them.  I mean I knew that part about Alice running away at like fourteen, I remember the discomfort in hearing that. I was only about fifteen at the time that I first heard them. I imagined my life in Alice’s shoes. Rather than being home with my parents going to school, she was literally living under bridges with homeless people, crudely singing with a bunch of random other girls. I want to know what was so awful about her home that drove her to run away . . . at fifteen. Like damn, fifteen? I mean I was super angry all the time but I could never seriously think of running away. She must be so broken, and angsty on the inside.

Barry: She is. She really is sad and angry and full of hate and empathy all the time. Like right before we got pulled out of the crowd, when they were performing ‘Crimewave’, Alice ‘repeat[ed] intones ‘we…love…you’” (Nicolson 53) to honor a “fan and blogger who recently died of cancer, as a result, [the show] took on a mournful and subdued quality . . . you can tell his passing has deeply affected Glass and it’s altered the whole vibe of this show from a ritual of hate to the celebration of life”  (Nicolson 53)” The general audience probably doesn’t realize Alice has this side. They just see this fist throwing notions to his black and swollen eye, high pitch screaming, abrasive, menace of a girl. I can’t speak much for Ethan. Other than the fact that he hovers behind her mixing sweet synthetic beats like a phantom . . . I don’t think he says much in general. I mean, I’m sure he’s sad on the inside too?

Louis: But this new album is so unexpected. It “adds a bigger sound and glossy production values to the mix” (Pattison 9). The last two albums were more raging, while this one is more celestial and soulful. A lot of the newer songs sound like [ sincere yearning, although it’s tough to say for sure, with the shape of her words obscured amid the blurry synths . . . [and full of] twinkling icicle melodies” (Pattison 9). Not all of their stuff has changed though some songs mirror their old albums, like “a bold move in a game of chicken in which losing is not being killed in a fiery automobile accident, but being mixed into an Ibiza terrace set my Judge Jules” (Pattison 9).  “They’ve re remade themselves. Not entirely. But in toning down the shock and awe, they’ve revealed the beating heart at the centre of their work, the message, still, is that the world is a cruel and fucked-up place. But being doomed seldom sounded so beautiful” (Pattison 9).

Matthew: I’ve tried explaining this to my friends. Not everyone I know listens to the same music as me, but when they ask me what music I like and I respond ‘electronic’ they make this . . . face squinting his eyes and pushing his head back a little. I know that face, and I know why they think it. They have this conceived idea of electronic music that disregards the soul and emotion that is present in any other genre! Country music? They just mournfully sing these drab tunes saying ‘baby’ and ‘girl’ and ‘love’ and ‘pickup truck’ a lot. R&B music? Well they practically sing about the specific motions of sex. Pop? Yeah pop music just glorifies sex and stupid things. But in electronic music, like especially Crystal Castles, they evoke specific emotions of torment and pain and love THOUGH the beats and tones and synths.