Thursday, October 20, 2011

Assignment #3 -Vignette author's note-

The muffled sound is my name, but why can’t I see anyone? Like a computer boot up sequence, my senses came back online slowly one at a time. Each bringing on a new sense of panic I’ve never felt before. I’d like to say it was an indescribable feeling but unfortunately I remember too much of it so vividly.

That smell, there is only one kind of smell that my brain can associate with automatic pain and discomfort, And that is Sterile medical plastic. I didn’t need to see it in order to figure out what it was. The pain is so intense. Im still in a fog and haven’t the slightest clue of what it going on. Dad? That has to be his over sized bear claw of a hand touching my arm. It’s a warm and soothing feeling for the moment but that quickly changes.

I was unable to make out the silhouettes but I was able to notice not being able to breathe. Breathing, the one component of life we take for granted on a daily basis and never realize just how important it is until you’re unable to do it willingly. An overwhelming sense of panic sets in and I begin flailing like a fish out of water. That is when I notice I can’t bite down and I feel like im choking. I felt the bear claws pin my arms down so I wasn’t able to rip out the breathing tube.
This is actually the first creative paper I have wrote in about fourteen years. To be quite honest it was pretty easy for me to write. The source of this paper came all from memory. You see back in November 2003 I underwent valve surgery on my heart. My heart valves were leaking for what must have been years and went unnoticed. In all honesty it was found by accident. At the time I was employed as a service elevator operator for a residential building. My union offered what was called a clinic day for its members. Basically you show up, get a check up for fifteen minutes and skip work the rest of the day. Well lets just say that didn’t workout the way I was expecting.

Waking up from surgery with a breathing tube down your throat is one of the scariest things I have ever been through. The feeling of not being able to control your own breathing is just simply god awful. The surgery was a success but I have had many set backs with my since my first surgery. Simply put, I wrote this piece as a reminder to myself that someday soon I will have to go through this again. Maybe I’m just trying too get my head ready in advance for what’s to come down the road?

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Assignment #2 - The Things They Carried-

Choosing which story to write about for my second blog assignment wasn’t an easy choice. It was a toss up between The Things They Carried by Demetria Martinez & Luis Alberto Urrea’s From Across The wire. Both were very powerful examples of how even the smallest of details can make you feel like you are apart of the story. After Reading the stories once more, I decided to write about The Things They Carried because I found myself wondering about the stories of the individuals that left these items behind. Were they successful crossing the border , picked up by immigration or did they finally succumb to the elements? I realize her piece was supposed to one of anger and awareness for a general sense but I couldn’t help wondering about the individual stories that were housed in the display case at the church. When reverend Hoover says " We find about one hundred bicycles a week" how can you not wonder what happened to the owners?

I like the fact she kept the politics about the immigration issue out of the story and kept it more personal for the reader. The most powerful phrase she used in my eyes was, " abandoned by a gluttonous nation that craves cheap labor but detests the laborer." Here in this statement you get a sense of just how angry the author is about the treatment of the people crossing. Yet still, even knowing the possible outcomes, they march through the unforgiving terrain in hopes of finding a better life. Even though we never get a sense of the individual stories, our minds can relate to the things they have left behind.

While most people will never agree about illegal immigration on our side of the boarder. You can’t help but see the humanitarian issue at hand while reading this.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

My story

"A man child is a male who is over the age of 25, who still lives as though he is a juvenile." According to urban dictionary and my fiancee, this pretty much sums up "My Story". For example. Saturday morning I woke up early so that I could pickup an order  I placed a few days prior for some Spawn comic books that were delivered to the comic shop. Afterwards, I walked about eight blocks to Barnes and Noble to retrieve a copy of Paradise Lost for my English 102 class. Quite the difference in reading material, wouldn’t you agree?

I signed up for this class because of the Non Fiction portion of the title. I’ve always loved to read non fiction, more specifically true crime. I’m pretty sure this does not sit well with my fiancee because I’ve amassed quite the collection of books based on serial killers. I think She’s starting to wonder what kinda freak am I marrying? Rest assured to the class and to her, I do not have an ice box full of human bones in my cellar. Its in the attic next to my comic book collection.

Im looking forward to this class for a few reasons. For starters, the material looks highly interesting for the semester. Also, having been away from the classroom for quite some time, my grammar and writing can certainly use a most needed refresher.