That's All Folks | Last Blog CRTW 201

A pool of tears have accumulated near by from crying. Why does it have to be like this? Why does the class have to come to a close! --Haha, totally not crying, but I will miss all the new people that I've met in the course, and you too JD. Who could ask for a more understanding and compassionate professor? Winter semester has been one of toughest times in my life thus far. I'm only 20, so I have a lot of better times to come--hopefully! With the passing of my grandmother, trying to maintain school work, two jobs, and babysitting, you could only imagine how hectic things have been! I want to thank JD for extending well needed deadlines and overall being such a sweet person.

The phrase that keeps running through my head is "Show!--Don't tell!" Before taking this course I had no idea of how much showing--being descriptive and placing your reader in the scene, could change a writing piece for the better. Thanks for drilling that into our heads, haha.

I wish everyone the best of luck with the rest of their classes, our paths are bound to cross once more. The sky is the limit!

-Kiki

Don't Let Me Be Lonely by: Claudia Rankine | My thoughts...

Sometimes I pick up a book solely for how it looks and feels, alone. Yes, I know--one shouldn't judge a "book" by it's cover, but I often do, sew me. The cover would have been more appealing if the field of roses and clear skies overhead wasn't thrown off by the huge Don't Let Me Be Lonely sign. If the sign is such a pressing issue (which, I am aware that it is indeed an issue because it displays the title) then it could have at least been in a different font perhaps? Anyway moving on from the fact that I didn't agree with the look and feel of the book--the content was worth reading.

Rankine wrote in such a way, that I could image everything happening in a step by step sequence as if I were there--though, every time I encountered a picture of a television set, I grew irritated, alright, we get it already, you don't watch t.v. and when you do it acts as a muse for your writing.

The passage I could most relate to in her compilation of....writing, is ironically the one that started off the book (pg.5). I talks about how she hadn't known anyone who had died until her mother had a miscarriage. My mother also had a miscarriage, three to be exact. Unlike the nonchalant shrug that the mother in the book gave in response to the questioning, my mother cried. It was painful, she had lost a life that she was excepting to care for, nurture, and watch grow into adult. She cried and displayed her emotion outwardly. What the mom in the book and my mom had in common, was the fact that they were both hurting.

One thing I love other than the fact that Rankine pulls the reader in to her reading as if they are actually with her during the events, is that she leaves us at random cliff hangers. She engages is into the content, deserts us, and leaves us thinking. A perfect example is (pg.103):

The Sunday I turn forty the delivery guy pulls the front door shut as I pick up the phone to call my parents and thank them for the lilies. "A lovely flower. I carried them on my (birth) day and now I place them in this vase in memory of something that has died," Katherine Hepburn in Stage Door. My parent' housekeeper answers the phone.

May I speak to my mother?

They're still at the funeral.

Whose funeral?

Is everyone you know alive?

While reading that the fact that "birth" was in parenthesis struck me as strange. After finishing the passage and analyzing it's magnitude, I realized the significance of the word being separated by the parentheses. One: Because the passage leaves one thinking about the inevitable; death. And Two: Rankine wanted to give the reader a heads up of what was to come in the learning process; while dissecting the piece. Another aspect of the small piece, is why didn't the narrator know that her parents would be at a funeral? Isn't it ironic that they are attending some unknown person's funeral on the BIRTH date of their daughter? Are this family as tightly nit as the flowers portray? Were they just sending the flowers because they didn't have the time to actually plan an outing with their daughter on her birthday; simply separated by distance? Where is the communication in this family? Who died? So many questions left unanswered to ponder.

In closing, I appreciate Rankine as a writer and am glad that I've been exposed to her writing, even if the style of the book isn't all that great--the content, the questions left in ones mind, the feelings evoked, is what matters.

The Samurai

My infatuation with Asian culture, admiration for a certain Japanese Anime series, Samurai Champloo, and a line that I often quote that describes my lifestyle, alter ego, and character; "Geisha by day Samurai by night," immediately drew me into Goldberg's chapter entitled, The Samurai, before I even knew what the content would consist of. From the title alone, I knew that it'd impact and influence my perspective on writing in a positive way.

Goldberg states that,

"when you're in the Samurai space, you have to be tough. Not mean, but with the toughness of truth. And the truth is that the truth can never ultimately hurt. It makes the world clearer and the poems much more brilliant."

After reading these words, I immediately took my lime green highlighter to it. I tend to highlight things that I find intriguing, thoughts that may be useful and in the future, and moments that I find myself sinking into a pool of enlightenment after reading. This was definitely one of those sinking moments. I was always taught that the truth is something that "will set you free" or how "the truth hurts". While both of these teachings about truth, are true (5 points for word play, haha) Goldberg's shines light on the after match of it all. After one is hurt by the truth, then is set free by this truth, this truth illuminates an ignorance once held and shines light on ones past clouded mind set allowing ones world to be like crystal, "clearer" and for writers a head rid of ignorance and filled with enlightenment (like that of the enlightenment that I just encountered after reading Goldberg's passage) is a step closer to her/his poems becoming richer and "much more brilliant".

Another admirable thought that I'd like to keep from this reading is, "Write one good line, you;ll be famous. Write a lot of lukewarm pieces, you'll put people to sleep." Ha! Classic.

(Below I've pasted two videos that express my adoration for the ways of the Samurai. These videos are songs from a genre of music that I appreciate greatly--Jazz Hop, it's a fusion of both Jazz and Underground Hip Hop. Underground Hip Hop differs greatly from Hip Hop and Mainstream Rap from in both it's entirety and integrity. Underground Hip Hop is poetry, spoken word, adjoined with music to enhance emotions escaping to be portrayed by the poet/culture and to engage the audience while also enlightening them. Enjoy!)

Teaching A Stone How To Talk: Annie Dillard

I always have thought of clowns as sinister creatures. This story confirms this theory. While reading the very detailed description of the veggie made clown a feeling of eeriness hovered - alluding to a wacky or weird ending. Words like "dark" "derelict" "unknown" and "motionless" also gave way to the feeling of the story.

When the narrator mentions how she "watched the landscape innocently, like a fool, like a diver in the rapture of the deep who plays on the bottom while his air runs out." I felt as if the narrator was conveying a sort of back handed pessimistic view through an optimistic shell. What I mean by this is, children are innocent and naive, it takes very little for them to be fascinated, they hang on to the little things in life and are content - but children, while being naive to reality have a looming sense of trouble ahead, this trouble being growing up, hitting puberty, and realizing the world is full of mysteries and pain and in general isn't really cracked up to what it's seen to be in the young eyes of a child. Young eyes, this is what the narrator has when looking out the window on this journey, she travels because she doesn't want to be able to grasp reality, she wants to see the eclipse, to be taken away and feel closer to that unknown hemisphere, that unknown universe that possibly is a captor of pain, such as that of the earth.

A theme of death lingers through the essay with descriptive words like, "motionless" "deathly" "pale" "skulls" "winter-killed" "lusterless" "colorless"....While describing something the is supposed to be beautiful in all of its defects, she uses cold vocabulary and gracefully brings up the theme of the eclipse.

Gail Scott's Bathhouse Reading and ramblings on Henry Louis Gates, Jr.'s "Sunday"...

The black haired woman’s hands shook every so after while reading excerpts from the great Gail Scott. I was hopeful when she had finally finished her wordy introduction and finally introduced the well known and respected fiction writer, in hopes that the author would be a bit more exciting in while reading her works; giving it more justice than the announcer.

Gail Scott was remarkable. Her own personal persona was witty and informative. She rambled at times but gave off a good vibe, I liked her. She stood down right center on the Proscenium stage, defining her space and her title with no exaggerated smoke effects or bright spotlight needed to shine down upon her.

She stood out as a person, non glamorized, simply put, a regular a person like you and I; reading passionately from her favorite pieces and even graced us with unfinished work that she’d been working on for quite some time. She stood in probably an inch taller than me and was wrapped in black clothing, allowing only a green scarf to attract any attention as it loosely hung down from her neck swaying here and there as she read her words intensely. I loved to watch people her were passionate about their work and actually fulfilling their dreams.

The piece of fiction from which she had been reading was dedicated to her mother that had passed away at a young age. It takes place in a triplex (a house with three floors) that housed different families. The main character’s name was Rosleen. She was the heroine aka protagonist. Scott mentioned before indulging into the piece with us that everyone in the novel was a ghost, she thinks. I chuckled out loud at the statement, what a witty thing to say. You are the author, yet you are even undecided about the physical forms of the character. Yes, I liked Scott indeed.

The reading ended with a sex scene! I looked around the auditorium and watched as everyone’s facial expression grew alarmed and intrigued as the scene heightened. What an amazing writer, her use of “show don’t tell” was on point. I wish I could re-read this excerpt from this unfinished novel so that I can further analyze the whereabouts of the plot and deeper meaning. I’m honored to have had the opportunity to attend my first reading. The fact that Gail Scott was the guest made it all worthwhile.


I will now discuss my take and interpretation on Henry Louis Gates, Jr.'s " Sunday". The author is using the argument that white people can't cook and black people can because they season their food to relate to different issues that were going on in the civil rights movement on so many different levels. By saying white people can't cook he's saying that they are inferior to blacks in a sense because blacks can. Blacks can survive without the white man, and on several different accounts. The black man appreciates his family and takes eating with his family as a blessing and a time to be free and feel loved. The black man has more charisma and flavor. The black man is appreciative of the little things in life. He has no choice but to be since in this era things are constantly getting stripped from him solely because of the color of his skin. The narrator is looking and things in a sarcastic yet positive light. He's basically asking, why is it so important to integrate restaurants when the whites can't cook anyway? Why sacrifice time with my loved ones to eat with those who feel everyone BUT love towards me? Why?

Also when the essay states "They don't know nothin' about seasoning...I like my food seasoned." I viewed this as a comparison between white and black culture as a whole. Blacks like their stuff (in general) with a little flavor! Music, style of dress, even the way they (we, me being black) talk. Everything has a sense of edginess and flavor; in modern slang - swag. When on the other hand whites don't. They are proper speaking, they have no rhythm, and their style of dress has no flavor. They yearn to be like the black man and embody the black man's swag, studies have proven that white America buys more rap albums then black America does. That shows a lot.

Of course, while writing this response I'm going off of general stereotypes of white and black culture (to make a point about the reading).

Morning News by Jerome Stern

In recent news, sadly, I can now feel the heart of the matter in this passage - and relate to the death that was spoken of.

I woke up to a very disturbing phone call this past Wednesday, informing me that my Grandmother has passed today. The hurtful thing about this whole thing - besides the fact that she is gone forever - is the fact that we had lost contact after Dad got locked up again about 2 and a half years back. I had just recently sent Father a letter(this past valentine's day; first letter sent since he's been locked up - due to the fact I just found his mailing information on OTIS) stating that I felt lost and empty with out that side of my family...and now this news comes to me about a week later. I believe in an awesome God. He is not a God of confusion, and I know for damn sure that everything happens for a reason. My steps are ordered. It was meant for me to contact my father when I did. Even though I didn't know that Grandma' would pass on, the reason behind me sending the letter stands firm. Dad needed to know...he needed to be aware of the fact that I still existed and the fact that I still acknowledge him as my father. He needed to know that he had some one out here that loves him; doesn't think he's a monster - especially after Grandma's death today.

I love you Grandma' Jean...
sorry that I didn't try harder to find you - contact Dad earlier. At least then I would have been able to tell you that I love you, and miss you. I miss you and Grandpa'. The only one left from that side of my childhood; the happy care free side of my past, is Dad. I won't lose him again.

The Talking Cat: from Sharon Krinsky's Mystery Stories

The Talking Cat

I go to a performance. A man is talking about a woman and her cat. After the show, I meet the cat and he extends one of his front paws to shake my hand. He tells me he's happy to meet me and we have an instantaneous rapport. The woman seems jealous.

After reading this I paused, then giggled, and read it again. It's witty. It expresses how self absorbed the human race can be. This woman's cat greets and starts a conversation with the narrator and all the owner can do is grow envious. Why? Because the cat never conversed with her in the same manner?

She's so wrapped up in her self, trying to twist her mind around the fact that her cat has better people to talk to than her, rather than pondering the question of why her CAT is SPEAKING in the first place. It isn't a matter of "Oh my goodness, an animal is talking!" it is more a matter of "Hey why isn't my pet talking to ME?" Unbelievable, and amusing all at once...

THE LETTER FROM HOME: Jamaica Kincaid

This entry in our poetry packet caught my interest, not because of the title or the length, or the way the words flowed but simply because of how curvy and different the letter "I" looked. The text has this vine wrapped around it and the "I" is cursive and delicate to plant's embrace.

So I proceed to read...

Upon finishing the last section, I take another read through and let my mind interpret what it has just been fed.
As the narrator goes through the passage explaining her daily chores, well, stating them rather - there's a sense of time is frozen - still. Everything is serene. The setting reminds me of how you can here a fly buzzing and hit the window when the house a dead quiet. Everything moves in slow motion almost. She has a keen eye and feeling for detail:

"...some handkerchiefs fluttered; the drawers didn't close, the faucets dripped, the paint peeled, the walls cracked, the books tilted over,"

I wouldn't doubt that the narrator also had the ability to feel each follicle of her hair growing out of the top of her head!

I get the vibe that maybe she's floating the life. She poses philosophical questions and allows her mind to drift and wander. I often do this, question my reason for being here. The human race seem to be so wrapped up in materialistic items of the world and daily regimens and routines...but what is it all for? Where does it all lead? I'm sure every being has pondered these questions.

I strive for an above average grade in college courses. Eat healthy. Cater to friends, work, survive sleep, church on Sundays, attain the pleasures and wealth of the earth, strive and try to follow Jesus and his path - the path of righteousness. But when the lights are out for me, what will be the reward? All the things I attained on earth are not capable of being brought into the after life...if there even is one. What was the purpose? What is the point? School, Job, Family, Love, Pay taxes...then Die. Then your just one less character of the soap opera.

You see, this short story simply expresses our expression of the philosophy of life...

Survivors by Kim Addonizo

T cell:
A type of white blood cell that is of key importance to the immune system and is at the core of adaptive immunity, the system that tailors the body's immune response to specific pathogens. The T cells are like soldiers who search out and destroy the targeted invaders.

That's the definition I found on http://www.medterms.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=11300 after reading Kim Addonizio's Survivors. I had to define "T cells" in order to better understand the entry. From my understanding and prior research this entry is about a guy wishing he would die from the disease (AIDS) before his lover does so that he wont have to bare various responsibilities for his lover. I feel sad. The family doesn't approve of their sexuality and it seems like despite their current illness the family's minds are still set - on not approving of their lives together.


I relate to the narrator in more ways than I'd like to admit. I often feel as if my family doesn't approve of my lifestyle as well. I am a christian; non-denominational, however I have a open mind set about life. I'm not quick to judge people, that's not my place. When I get my first place, I will have posters of various bands, The Beatles, Blue October, and expressive paintings. Unlike Mother's house, there wont be crosses around every corner and pictures of family members (that are barely spoken to) clustered around the fire place. Mother wont approve of the set up of my house, she doesn't approve of many things but that's life. I know that she loves me nonetheless. The narrator should live free the last days of his life and not be bothered with thoughts of how his lovers family doesn't approve of this and that. He should keep in mind that real parents love their offspring regardless to their lifestyle. If this isn't the case for his lover he should keep pushing on and be the support that his lover needs.

Excerpt from Cole Swenson's "Noon"

The pages remind me of milk, and the words on it small sprinkles of chocolate that have been dashed into it that is left up to me to decipher. I may have a one track mind due to my new diet that my stomach has yet to adjust to but all in all, this is what I see.

The spacing of the words seem to make me feel at ease; free, before even reading the first stanza and preparing to unravel the underlying message the words hold. The breaks in between each thought and use of vocabulary instantly places me in a setting of intimacy, not necessarily romance. Specifically the words, "body" "hands" and "lip(s)" are repeatedly made reference to. Sensual, no?

The first page starts with a command and the narrator then is lost in his or hers own captivity into his or hers partner's body (of course the meaning is up for debate, this is just how my mind allows me to unravel this specific piece). Between the white sheets, thoughts are broken and a new world is revealed...
The top of the second page reads,

"And now the body is yours

and you fill it completely

what moved and say here:

what

and it moves

let me touch your lip..."

This is an example of the broken language I mentioned earlier. I feel as if the narrator is having a freeing moment, leading up to a possible climax? Who am I to say? However, this is my blog and these are my thoughts...I am free to interpret this piece however I may please, correct? Let us go on... :)


The two lovers are making both a physical and ultimately divine connection, their thoughts are not complete, in between motion is dead space filled with a fragment that utters out what may be lust and love and fascination all at once.

The end of the poem leads me to believe that everything that has happened previous to this stanza has been a pure dream or fantasy of some sort. The language has changed. It is lonely, it is no longer broken and tied into intimacy, it has learned of the reality that holds it down.

We Are Not the Poem

When reading the passage, We Are Not the Poem, in Natalie Goldberg's, Writing Down the Bones, I felt confused, at first. The opening line reads, "The problem is we think we exist." If you think as I do, we now share the same confused faces. The passage speaks of how when we write we are simply writing how we feel about a certain issue at that moment in time. Goldberg stresses for us not to let our writing make us, but to let us make the writing; that's how I took it. She speaks on how we change daily and I agree with this statement. With each day we learn something new, our take on life changes, our perceptions morph and twist into new meanings with each day.

After reading the passage in full, I thought of my own journal. I read back on past events and even dusted off one of my old journals from middle school and read a few entries. I chuckled as I thought about Goldberg's passage, in realization that she was right! A lot of things that I use to complain about and a lot of past pains that I felt to be SUCH a big deal, looking back on it now at an older age, were not.


Our perception changes daily. Let's continue to be freed by writing, but let's not get so wrapped up in our written words that we can not change our spoken word when it needs to be...

Take me to your leader...

I come in peace. o_o...Heh ^_^"...

Hello fellow holders of awesome creativeness. My name is Kierra Bonds but I prefer Kiki (key-key). Mom only calls me by the gov. name when I'm in some type of trouble. Which I rarely get into, I'm a good kid. Why I refer to myself as "kid" when I am nearing 21? I don't know. Maybe because it flows better than "I'm a good young-adult". I mean, who says that? Haha.

I'm a natural born goof ball. When I'm not joking about randomness and feeding my infatuation for Japanese Anime, I am admiring various shades of green and orange. I'm an Art Major with a passion for digital photography and a fascination for graphic design. In my free time I write short stories with the assistance of Panda, my laptop; and attempt to make music with Panda II, my guitar.

I like Pandas.

...and Arizona Tea.

These are a few of the many simple things that make me smile. I hate my smile though. But that's a different blog for a different day.

PS. I tend to experiment with my hair A LOT lol, do not be alarmed...:D
Here is a short video showcasing a few of the different hair phases I've went through. All photos edited and taken by me (two "woots" for being an Art Major!)