Araby

I have to say I really did not enjoy this story. I found it relatively pointless. The main character is in love with his friend's sister whom he never speaks to with the exception of a brief conversation about going to a bazaar. He decides to buy her something from it and goes, however, due to his uncle's late arrival at home he doesn't get to the bazaar until close to 10 and most places are already closed. He ends up not buying anything and is very distessed. I wonder if this ending is a metaphor for his relationship with the sister. This was his chance to start something with her but now he cannot. He doesn't know what to say to her and just like the end to his night at the bazaar, he will be too late. The way the main character handles his feelings for his crush make me wonder how old he is. 13? 14? old enough to be melodramatic but young enough to have not grown out of that and live with his aunt and uncle and attend school. I can identify with the unrequited love and its anguish but I cannot stand reading about it for an entire story. Maybe I'm too jaded or cynical to be able to put up with it but it just annoys me. If you are so in love with the girl do something about it. I did appreciate some of the writer's descriptions, especially of the rain being like needles and the way they fall in the garden beds.

Granny's Solution

    They say the first step is admitting you have a problem and one of the biggest signs that you do is denying it. I wouldn’t say I have a ‘problem’ I’d say it’s more everyone else. I’m just fine; I like me. It’s everyone else that seems to disagree. Admitting that everyone else has a problem seems like that should be a pretty good first step, right? Okay, that’s the bottle(s) talking. But who else is going to talk? If they didn’t I sure as shit wouldn’t say much. That can’t be a good sign either. Was going mute one of the ‘signs’ they talked about? I don’t think it was. They say I get mean when I drink. Really mean. I say things I don’t really mean (or do I?). I say things I shouldn’t say (or should I?). I get mad and fly off the handle (more like to it). Life isn’t all that bad, I just like to have a good time and sometimes, things get in the way of my good time.
    Things like my husband (pop open a beer), his job (pour me a glass of wine), my kids (make me a mixed drink), their spouses (one for each hand), their kids (time for shots!), and whatever else would like to tramp through my back door wanting help of some kind (I’ll just hit the bottle on second thought). Can’t they see I’m drinking here? Okay. Okay. This has got to stop. I love my kids, my grandkids and my husband. This is crazy. I’ve tried to quit before and I did for a little while here and there. But old habits die hard, especially the fun ones.
    I’ve been through Alcoholics Anonymous too many times to go back; they know me now. Most rehab programs through churches want you to admit there’s a higher power. I’m all for admitting there’s a God but what does he have to do with my drinking? I just can’t make a strong enough connection to keep me away from the booze. So what am I going to do? Just quit cold turkey? Yea that’ll work. I’ll pour all the liquor down the drain, be hung-over for a day and then sober for maybe two. Then it’s time to go grocery shopping and you know the liquor store is right next door so why not stop in and pay my friends the cashiers a visit? Not a very good plan. I can see the pit falls in it already.
    They say it helps to have a strong support system from people close to you. I learned that at some of the AA meetings. I believe it. It’s good to know your family and friends are proud of you (or at least not embarrassed by you). It’s good to know how much happier they are when you are away from the booze (it’s so good to be able to make them feel that way). It hurts to know how much you hurt them, but the best part is knowing they love you. But it isn’t enough. I don’t want to make excuses here but they say alcoholism is a disease-- a bad one. And let me tell you; there’s a picture of me next to the word in medical dictionaries. Isn’t that terrible? The people who mean the most to you-- they just aren’t enough to keep you away from it. It’s because deep down inside you know they’ll love you either way.
    So what to do? This has got to stop. My friend Jack isn’t such a friend to me anymore. My youngest son is about to get married; I’ve got grandkids and more on the way. I want them to stay with me; I want to play with them. I don’t want my kids, their parents, to worry when they leave their precious babies at Granny’s house. I’ve got to change. I can’t stay mean. What if I don’t though? What if I can’t again? What if I don’t change…. What if something else does? Yes! Why should I be the one to change?! I like me just fine and so does everyone else. I’m not the one who needs to change; it’s my habit that needs to change! I have to tell Bill!
    Bill! I’m done! I know I’ve said it before but I really am this time! I’ve got a brand new plan that’s really going to work.
    “ ’Ill, I’m-nun! I know I said-it-for but I realllllyyyyyy am this ti! I gotta rand n-plan thas really gonna werk.” Hmmm…. That didn’t sound like it came out quite like it was supposed to.
    “What was that Mary?”
    No. No I guess I might be slurring a little after all. I’ll try again.
    “Doll, sit down before you fall and hurt yourself.”
    He doesn’t get it. He just thinks I’m drunkenly rambling like usual. Shit. No. I’m fine! But listen! I’m going to change! I promise this time.
    “NO! I’m-Fine! Lissssen! I’m gonna change! Promissss time…”
    He sighs. He looks at me. He looks tired, maybe even a little sad. He stands and walks over to me. Did he understand and just not believe me? Or is he giving up for tonight?
    “I love you doll, I’m going to bed.” He bends down and kisses the top of my forehead. I know I reek. How could I not? He’s so good to still kiss me good night. He walks down the hall and I hear the door to our bedroom close. Suddenly my legs aren’t working and I’ve sunk into the easy chair next to me that faces the couch where Bill was sitting. I stare at where he was, wishing he were still there, wishing I were sober enough for him to understand. Would he believe me anyway? I’ve let him down so many times before. Maybe I could just surprise him. One morning he’ll wake up and I’ll be not drunk for the rest of our lives together. I want another drink. I try to muster the coordination to stand; it fails me. Maybe another drink isn’t what I need. But I am going to need help.
    The next day is beautiful. It’s warm and sunny. I’m sitting at my kitchen table, staring out the picture window fighting my way up through a fuzzy brain and nicotine high. I just finished a cigarette. I light another one. I don’t know why. I don’t even want one. I hold it in my hand and watch the smoke curl and purr through the light rays. My hangover is mostly gone by the time Scott and Jenny walk through the garage door.
    “Hey there mom!” Scott booms. He walks over to me and kisses me on the cheek as I stand to hug him. His nose wrinkles at the smell of me and gives me a once over. His conclusion: I’m sober, but I wasn’t last night. I smile meekly at him.
“Hey there Mrs. Edge!” Jenny coos from behind Scott. I fight past him to her.
“Jenny, sugar, what did I tell you about that?! If you are going to marry my son you are going to have to call me Mary.” It makes her smile. She has a beautiful smile.
“Where’s dad?”
“Upstairs in his woodshop.”
Scott rushes off to visit with Bill, probably to ask him about my drinking, and leaves me alone with Jenny. Perfect.
“Sit down Lov-in’ come visit with me!” Jenny sits. “You want a smoke?”
“Uhh no thank you Mrs—Uhh Mary.”
“Jenny, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You know these are the 80’s we are living in and it is a wild time.” How do you go about this? How do I ask this?
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Well, do you ever do wild things?” She smiles at me and shrugs.
“I don’t think they are wild now but I’m sure I will when I look back on them.” This girl is smart.
“Jenny, if I had a problem—would you help me?”
“Of course! I’d do anything I could!”
“Well, That’s good because I have to admit, I do have a problem.” She looks concerned.
“What’s wrong?”
“You know I have a—err—problem when it comes to drinking?”
“Yes, I know.” She fidgets a little when she confesses to having noticed. She doesn’t want to be impolite I can tell.
“Well I want to change.”
“That’s great, Mary!”
“Yes, I think it’s a good idea too but you see I’m going to need your help.”
“Sure! Of course! Anything!”
“Now I know you kids and your hippie stuff. Don’t think I’m ignorant. Scott is the sixth of five children—I know better. And you and him, well you two strike me as the hippie type. Don’t worry; relax. I love you two that way and wouldn’t change it for a thing.” She smiles that beautiful smile again. “So I’m gonna need your help now you see?”
“Well… yes, but what are you asking me for?”
“Honey, I’ve decided I’m gonna quit drinking and start smoking pot instead.” Her jaw drops.
“Are… Are you serious?”
“Yep, I think it’s the only way. Just gonna replace one bad habit with another. I heard the dope makes you happy and calm; I don’t want to be mean anymore. But now I don’t want to get caught and you know I love to garden. I mean just look at all those pretty flowers out there. So I want to grow my own. That way I can have it whenever I want it and there won’t be any ‘deals’ going on.”
“Oh…. Okay, So what do you need from me?”
“Well do you think you could give me your old seeds? I know you kids don’t do anything with them cause I find them scattered all over the back porch on Sunday mornings after ya’ll have been over. A seedling plant would be even better but I’ll take what I can get.”
“Ummm… Sure Mary. I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Thanks, you’re a doll. Really. Oh and I don’t care if you tell Scott but tell him not to let this get back to Bill yet. I want this to be a surprise.”
“I’m sure it definitely will be.”

Tapka

I'd like to start off by saying I did in fact enjoy this story. It was predictable; as I read I called the reactions of the Doctor and Rita and Misha play by play and about two pages into the story I knew the dog, Tapka, was going to hit by a car. Despite how predictable the story was I wanted to keep reading it; it flowed. I identified with the pride Mark takes in caring for Tapka and his childish love for her. I liked the image of wearing a shoe lace with the important keys on it as a necklace for a first grader. It was a specific image that made the story more believable. I also identified with Mark's repulsion at Jana calling Tapka 'Shithead'. Someone could call me 'Shithead' and it wouldn't bother me; if someone were to call my horse 'shithead' I would be angry (I'm the only one allowed to call her shithead). It was also a little funny because in the first grade I may have known the word shithead but I might not have realized what it meant or how to use it. This first grader and second grader, via Mark's emotional distress about calling Tapka the derogatory term prove their mastery of the word. When first reading I thought they used it because they had heard it but they seem to know what it actually means.

Gogol

A line that really struck me as a great simple character description was, "It has never occurred to him to buy his wife flowers." I also liked the advice Ghosh gives Ashoke. He tells him, "without thinking too much about it first, pack a pillow and a blanket and see as much of the world as you can. You will not regret it. One day it will be too late." Up until the train derailing this story was immensley boring to me. Had I not needed to read it for this class I would have quit reading it before I got to the interesting part. Ashoke dealing with worrying about not being able to do the mundane day to day things of life to the point of dreaming about them was very moving. Ashoke recovers and lives to see his baby boy born. Once again, I was ready to put click the little "X" in the upper left hand corner of my computer window. I did find it amusing how little thought Ashoke and his wife put into the naming of their son. While the name choice is obvious, prior to choosing it they placed all faith in the name their grandmother would choose. I have little to no connection to the characters; I just don't care about them. Maybe it's because I can't relate to them-- they are in a different world from me. I can't imagine moving to a different country, or giving birth, or placing so much emphasis on family heritage and tradition.

The Pocket

     Leah stared down at the dotted line. It seemed so trivial to still draw with purple ink on her projects these days. How long ago had she graduated? How many times had she done this? It didn’t matter. She still drew out her guidelines—a blueprint for her work; planning out what would go where instead of jumping in, trusting years of practice. Was that it? She just didn’t trust herself? No. She knew better. The purple dashed line was all a part of the image; a tool to help her through the job she never really wanted but landed anyway fresh out of med school.
     The gleam of surgical steel winked at her, caught her eye, in the artificial lighting. It drug her kicking and screaming away from backing out, throwing up her hands, ripping off her latex gloves and quitting on the spot. It happened every time. She was afraid. She was terrified, disgusted, and far too close to reality to do this. Leah stared at the scalpel in her hand. It was so sharp. The edge sparkled; the sides up to the handle had eyes that stared back at her. Mirror, mirror on the wall… Who’s the fairest of them all? Leah blinked, the eyes reflected on the scalpel blinked. They didn’t answer her. She was relieved. She couldn’t put it down. Even if she opened her hand, tried to throw it, it would stick there defying the laws of physics. Leah sighed.
     The scalpel positioned its self above the dotted line, held in Leah’s hand like a pen ready to write something that would change the world. She pushed the edge down, onto the pasty skin of Mr. #48862. The skin split behind her knife like seas parting; she could see places never meant for human eyes to know. Bile bubbled up into the back of her throat. Leah fought it down, swallowed it, forcing it back down into her stomach. It’s a seam ripper. You’re just ripping a seam.
     Through the dermis, a layer of adipose tissue, the abdominal muscles, and sternum and rib cage Leah ripped seam after seam, widening the hole to a pocket she couldn’t fit her hand in. She peeled each layer back, noting normalities and searching diligently for the irregular. So far Mr. # 48862 was no different than any cadaver laid in front of her in med school. She looked down at her work. Leah would start with the heart like she always did; not really sure why—that wasn’t the way they taught her in med school. It didn’t matter now though; no one was watching over her shoulder grading every movement she made. It’s hard to screw up dead people after all.
     The heart came out, was examined and deemed normal. Lungs, liver, and stomach followed with the same diagnosis. Then it was time for the intestines. Leah reached her hand in, willing herself to believe she was rummaging through an unfamiliar purse or pair of pant pockets. Even through her latex glove she could feel the slippery wetness her fingers maneuvered through. She closed her hand around the folds of sausage links. Kind of a weird thing to keep in a pouch but who was she to judge? She pulled out the slippery pale pink chain of organ onto the examining table, flipping the contents of the pocket completely inside out.
     Leah ran her hand down the snake like viscera with a firm grip, feeling for any blockages or hard areas that could explain Mr. #48862’s mysterious death. Around foot seven of the 21 approximate feet of intestine something didn’t feel quite right. Leah marked the area and finished the inspection. When no other abnormalities cropped up she returned to the circled section and looked closely. She noticed a small rupture in the delicate lining just above the hard mass she had felt. That certainly explained why Mr. #48862 was dead. Having digestive juices leaking out of your intestines contaminating the rest of your body would certainly do it, not to mention all the bacteria that would set loose.
      Now for the more important question: Why did it tear in the first place? Leah set the portion of intestine on a separate rolling table. She closed her eyes for a moment, reestablishing her pocket façade. Exhale. Scalpel once again in hand, unzipping an invisible zipper, Leah cut into the intestine over the hard lump. The whispering scrape of metal against razor sharp metal made her cringe. She didn’t want to look, couldn’t look. Exhale. Don’t taste the air. Her fingers danced through the small slit, tentatively touching the anonymous piece of metal lodged in the dead man’s intestine. She trapped a cold rock of metal between her index and middle finger and scooped out the treasure on to the metal examining table. She didn’t want to look but after the initial clang of solid metal hitting metal, a curious hissing sound made her open her eyes.
     It was badly tarnished from the stomach acids, covered in slime and grime from who knows what kind of food and white blood cell attacks attempting to destroy this foreign object, but still intact and horrifying. The silver heart shaped locket lay opened on the examining table; whatever picture had been inside it was long destroyed, the slender silver chain was knotted and twisted and full of kinks. Leah grabbed some near by gauze to wipe away the bodily residue. Why would someone swallow a locket? Corners rarely got the back-story on their subjects and Mr. #48862 was no exception. She didn’t know where he was found, what he had been through, or where he had come from. But what good reason could he have to eat a piece of fine jewelry? Leah looked down. It had cleaned up fairly well from the little attention she had given it. She flipped it over in her latex clad hand and noticed an inscription. Her eyes rolled over the pretty cursive script as a chill crept up her spine and spiked the hairs on the back of her neck,
     “Love is watching someone die.”

Nativity Caucasion

       I love the line, "... and smokers not inhaling but hooked anyway." I felt like this really added to the scene of the southern women's persona when together. The narrator focuses on how 'well-bred' and the high society they all 'represent'. Smoking was in fashion but the idea that none of them are addicted and just doing it for show really shows the character of these women; the type that will say your dress is lovely and then when you leave the room say to their 'friend' how they saw it on sale for 5$ at Wal-mart because it was last season's throw back. I also thought the action of the two women upstairs listening in on the phone call to the hospital berating the woman who makes the phone call for not requesting an ambulance when they could have easily said something themselves about it was funny and further added to the character of all these women. They crave action and attention but are too caught up in their societal image to do anything but feed off of others and blow things out of proportion.
       The attention to detail, almost over whelming the reader with images, adds to the idea that he has heard this story second hand from his grandmother. It's almost as if he's recounting what she told him word for word while she felt the need herself to give gross amounts of detail to prove the accuracy of the story. The focus on the physical also adds to their shallow focus on life, the 'keeping up with the jones' mindset.

Mary and the Gummy Bears

Action exercise for Forms of Fiction.

At the heart of any person’s problems lies a cause. What a cause is doing lying around in someone’s heart I’m really not sure. It doesn’t sound very healthy, like maybe it could block a ventricle or something and cause heart failure. I feel pretty healthy though, not at all like I’m about to die. Do most people feel like they’re going to die before they kick the bucket? Part of me thinks it’d be a nice warning for them if that were the case. The other part of me feels like it’s a sick joke. You know it’s about to happen; you can feel it down to your very core. It’s not a pain, there’s no suffering; it’s just a weight pressing down on you, slowly squashing you like a bug on the sidewalk. And there’s nothing you can do about it. It sounds like a joke I would like to play on someone. This is why I have a problem with a cause lounging around in my chest.
I’m not a very nice person; I’ve come to terms with it. I’m really quite happy being miserable. I push my friend’s (if you can really call them that) and family’s buttons and watch them turn red for fun. I’m difficult with people I’ve never met. I make a habit of trying to get an employee fired from Wal-mart every time I walk into one (which I’ve gotten surprisingly good at, only you can’t do it over and over again at the same store because the managers start to catch on). I don’t have any pets; I know from experience they don’t last long around me. Sometimes, when I’m really feeling my oats, I’ll spray birdseed with ‘Off deep woods mosquito repellent’ (it’s 30% deet). I can’t do that too much though because the neighbors start to ask questions about all the dead sparrows and squirrels.
However, there are two things I really do love. I’m staring at both of them right this moment. One is tiny, about the size of a pencil you can’t sharpen any more with out scraping the metal part of the eraser. It’s colorful and translucent and delicious. It’s also fun to destroy and easily replaced which fits my lifestyle quite nicely. The other wouldn’t be fun to destroy. In fact, destroying her would get me in a lot of trouble. Her name is Mary. Mary is perfect. She’s a cheerleader for the school.
She’s chewing gum right now. I love the way she chews gum: with her mouth just slightly open and every few minutes she stretches the gum across her tongue and blows a bubble. The bubble grows, pressing against her soft, pink lips until it reaches the size of a ping-pong ball, she sucks it back in and pops it between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. It’s so perfect. The teacher, Mr. Elliot, hates it when Mary chews gum. He has no appreciation for perfection.
I’ve struggled with how to confront Mary about my love for her. I want to tell her. She has to know. I can’t hold it inside anymore. I leave her a gummy bear on her desk everyday after lunch. I make sure I’m the last person to enter the classroom before Mr. Elliot begins to drone on again so no one ever thinks that I might have also been the first person to walk through the door. Seeing the two things I love together gives me no greater pleasure. Today I left Mary a red gummy bear. I try to leave her red ones or pink ones because those colors represent love and passion. Those are also my two favorite flavors. Mary never eats the gummy bear I leave her, though I wish she would. But if she did, she’d have to spit out her gum and I do love watching her chew gum. Sometimes Mary likes to tear the gummy bear into tiny gelatinous pieces; occasionally she’ll look at it on her desk, sigh and throw it away, but today she has decided to absent mindedly flick it off her desk.
I can’t just keep leaving gummy bears on her desk like this. I have to confront her. I must tell her. I can’t take my eyes off her. She looks exceptionally beautiful today, her blonde hair in a messy, carefree ponytail. She’s so perfect. She’s getting closer to me, but she’s still sitting. How is this happening? It’s like I’m zooming in a camera lens. Oh god. She’s looking at me. She’s so pretty. I don’t know if she’s ever looked at me before. I hear a muffled complaint from behind me. It sounds like Mr. Elliot. I can’t stop staring at her.
“Can I help you?” Oh my God! She’s talking to me! She’s looking right at me and her lips are moving and sound is coming out and everything! She’s actually talking to me. But why is she talking to me? Why is she so close to me? And why does Mr. Elliot sound far more excited than he normally does? I look down; I realize I’m standing. I’m standing in the middle of the classroom next to Mary’s desk. This is embarrassing. I can rescue this though! I can save myself still, it happens all the time in movies.
“Mary,” I can do this, now or never. I close my eyes. Deep breath, “I love you. Will you be my girlfriend?” The elephant standing on my chest goes to hide in a corner. I’ve done it. Just like the movies; she’ll remember this moment as long as she lives. I open my eyes. Her jaw has dropped; I can see the pink piece of gum she’s chewing. It’s sitting next to one of her tiny perfect white teeth. She looks me in the eye. This is it, the moment I’ve dreamed about. Her eyebrows raise, she closes her mouth.
“No.” She shakes her head. She looks around. I look up from her gummy bear green eyes. I hear laughter. It’s the class. They’re laughing at me. I turn around. Mr. Elliot is furious.
“Maybe you can come up with a better pick up line in detention, Alex.” He hands me a pink slip. The class laughs harder. I turn back to Mary too. She’s started laughing now. The elephant that went to hide in the corner is now standing right next to me with all of his elephant friends. I hate the zoo. I hate Mr. Elliot. I hate these people. I hate that Mary doesn’t understand, can’t understand that we are meant to be together. Why doesn’t she get that?! Can’t she see?! I walk back to my desk and bury my head in my arms. I hear Mr. Elliot fighting for the class’s attention.

After replaying the horrific incident over and over again in my head through the last two hours of the day, the hour of detention, and the twenty-minute walk home (not to mention the hell I caught from everyone and there brother for asking Mary, the most perfect creature ever made, to be my girlfriend) I had an epiphany. It took me long enough: three hours and some change. It pained me to acknowledge it. I fought it every step of the way. But there was no denying it. Mary had not only turned me down but she had laughed at me. She had laughed that perfect, songbird laugh at my expense. This was unacceptable. I hate to admit it, but Mary, despite how perfect she is, is just like everyone else I hate. They don’t understand me. They think I’m a freak. I thought Mary was different. She’s not.
At first I was overcome with misery. I cried. I hate crying. It makes me feel weak and pathetic. But I did. And I can admit that. I cried in detention when it first hit me. The jock ass hole next to me made fun of me for that too. He’ll never understand me though; he’s too shallow to ever feel the kind of intense, infuriating emotion I have for Mary. I couldn’t stop myself. As he sat there, berating me with taunts, sorrow evolved into hate, into anger. If Mary had just said yes it would be like the movies. Perfect. Everyone would be jealous of me. They’d envy me. But that’s not how it had gone. Mary has to know how deeply she has wounded me. She needs to understand the consequences to her actions.
One reason I love gummy bears is I can pretend they are people I don’t like and destroy them. I particularly like to melt them. Mary is the star in my gummy bear show this afternoon. It’s no use making a grand production though if she isn’t going to see it. I always was a problem solver. I found my old Polaroid camera, loaded the block of film, and began to document my masterpiece. I labeled each picture with the scene it represented. A scene from what could have been the perfect life with Mary. There was a picture of our first kiss staring two green gummy bears, two clear gummy bears under a wedding chapel match box I colored with white out, the first time we made love took place on a gummy bear rose petal, and our first child was represented between two red gummy bears and a pink gummy bear I creatively cut in half. It was beautiful. I had ten pictures total and then I ran out of film.
When I had finished the beginning to end of my life with Mary via a bag of gummy bears I was upset again. I started to cry. I couldn’t help but mourn the perfect life that could have been. Then the loathing returned. I wanted to destroy this. It would never exist. I moved the gummy bear characters, still in their respective scenes, over to the large picture window by the kitchen table. I took out my magnifying glass and waited. I made sure each one suffered slowly until it was a painful blob of colored gelatin. I couldn’t help but smile at it. After each one was a little pancake of color I peeled them off the table, stuck them in a gallon-sized plastic baggy along with the pictures and headed out the front door. It was a lovely night for a walk. The air was crisp and it smelled like rain. The sweet sickly smell got stronger the closer I got to Mary’s house.