Another 55 Word Story

Following a little too closely to the car in front of me, I drive down I-25, keeping pace with the flow of traffic. The passenger door on the white Nissan Altima ahead opens slightly and the passenger leans out. Surprised and afraid, I watch cautiously. Out sprays a liquid. Vomit. Now I’m at the carwash.

Jutta has us work with fairy tales and adaptations.  I wrote about Sloth--one of the seven deadly sins.

Sitting in the ragged overstuffed chair, she surveyed the wreckage strewn throughout the room.  Empty pizza boxes were stacked by the door.  I meant to take those out to the trash on trash day, she thought.  DVD's, and their empty cases littered the TV stand, haphazardly stacked in no particular order.  Bits of paper covered in hastily scribbled notations lay covering the various surfaces of the room.  Dust motes rose into the air as she shifted in her seat and sighed.  I really need to clean this place up, she thought, as she picked up the remote and began her endless search for something to watch on TV.

Here is a mathmatical poem--can you guess what it is about?

263 education tips
154 dream houses
188 books worth reading
648 style ideas
97 places I'd like to go
73 favorite spaces and places
252 recipes

= 1691 ways to waste time!

Rich challenged us to write 55 word stories--here is mine.

This is it, she thought.
She opened the door and walked through.
Expectant faces stared her down.
Good morning, let's begin.
She turned to the blackboard.
The room erupted in laughter.
What?  she asked.
Your skirt is tucked in your pantyhose,  they cried.
Blushing, she ran out.
Way to start your first day of school!

Response to "The Lanyard" by Billy Collins

The other day I was daydreaming in DWP about writing the world's greatest story.  I rambled around my mind, sifting through images and came across one of you.  Standing at the head of the classroom, your hair disheveled, your scarf askew as you performed the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet for the 25th time, in voices.  You gave me my love of literature both great and small.  You gave me the inspiration to become a teacher and inspire others.  You lit a fire in my soul that burns brightly to this day.  You made me think about things greater than me.
and I write you a silly rhyming poem about teenage drama and a crush gone wrong.  I was embarrassed to turn it in.  So really, I gave you nothing.

Elsa had us describe a villain for her demo-I thought of the early Frankenstein movie.

I remember the first day I met him.  I was in a colorful field of wildflowers by the bank of the sleepy river and his shadow loomed up before me like a cloud full of rain.  I was startled, so I dropped the wildflowers I was holding onto the grass.
"Uhhhh," he said.
"Uhhhh," I replied, "hello."
He pointed at me with his long, pale finger and grimaced.  I was only 6 years old so I thought he was smiling.  I held up my last flower to him.  Tentatively, he reached out and with a jerky movement, crushed the flower in his hand.
"No, like this," I said.  I picked a large urple flower and held it to my nose.  he watched me closely and mimicked my movements.
"Uhhhh," he said as he sneezed loudly and his nose fell off.  I laughed.

An Ode to Pho Duy

If you are a lover of the Vietnamese soup pho, Pho Duy is the place in Denver to go. After you order, the first plate that arrives has all the “goodies” that go in the pho—the pungent basil, the slices of spicy jalapenos, the earthy bean sprouts, the tart limes. Then the steamy bowl of thinly sliced beef and rice noodles arrive. The broth has a faintly sweet taste spiced with garlic and onions. Slowly you add the ingredients, caressing the basil, breaking it up gently, getting a whiff. The bean sprouts get gently plunged into the broth with chopsticks, the jalapenos placed strategically around, and the lime squeezed with delight, a slight mist lingering in the air. Finally, comes the spicy chili paste that gets stirred and mixed throughout. All this mixing and plunging and caressing and squeezing are the foreplay to the act of love you are about engage in while slurping down the beefy broth and vegetable-laden noodles. Pure love in the form of soup! Pho Duy love, that is!

Quick Write with Rich 6/21/12

Pet’s Cemetery

Dead bodies kept showing up on my doorstep.  This time it was a woman I had seen in the city. She had sat by me in the subway, and I remembered her because when I entered the train car and sat down, she had looked up from her newspaper and smiled at me. She certainly wasn’t smiling now.

I darted back into the house and threw up in the kitchen sink. Kitty kept bringing me all these victims like presents, and I was at a loss of what to do to stop it. I knew that if I tried to confront her, my dead body could end up as a gift in somebody else’s porch.

But I had to do something about it, and soon.

I washed the sink and forced myself to get the wheelbarrow. One more grave to dig in the back yard. Soon there would be no room left.

Found Poem 6/13/12

A Ray Bradbury Original

Found Poem by Elsa Pla

From “A Martian Joined Ray Bradbury and Me for Dinner in Paris” by Henry Fountain,

New York Times, Tuesday, June 12, 2012.

He was a masterly writer,

a bit dressier than most

and so passionate about the subject.

That, it turned out, was no obstacle.

He wrote at least a thousand words a day,

and the wine kept coming.

A prolific signer of autographs,

funny, effusive, and genuinely friendly,

he carried around some felt-tip markers

just for that purpose.

So it didn’t really surprise me

when he knocked over his wine glass

on the white linen of the small square table

in a bistro on the Left Bank.

“My! That looks like a Martian!” he shouted

and opened his sport coat,

revealing five felt tips of different colors

lined up neatly in the inside pocket.

He added a couple of antennas

to the purple stain seeping across the tablecloth

and an alien face appeared—

A Martian in Paris.

He signed it and added the date for good measure.

It didn’t really surprise me

when a month or so later, I stopped at the bistro

and there was the tablecloth,

prominently framed on a wall

like a canvas from Picasso.

Writing in to the day with Rich:

This time it was a woman I saw in the city.  She hung on the wall staring complacently out at the world.  Her eyes beckoned and her body language was inviting.  The bottle she held was luxuriously draped in blue velvet, the color of the sky when intimate secrets are shared.  She was dripping in diamonds that only the one percent could afford.  "Luxury," her speech bubble said, "is not only for the rich."  I thought about this as I drove home.  Later, sitting on my patio, the grill giving off the enticing aroma of chicken and roasting corn, my dog on the grass, my husband singing in the kitchen, and an ice cold can of PBR in my hand, I thought, "Now THIS is luxury!"

Writing leads with Jenna:

It was quiet in the woods.  Here, twilight lingered and peace reigned.  the canopy of trees was tall and majestic, protecting the earth and sky like a gossamer veil.  here and there, thin shafts of sunlight illuminated the undergrowth, highlighting the ferns like lace.

This is one of my favorites!  From the Book of Qualities:

Doubt

Doubt is a little imp who sits in the back of your mind, always just out of your line of sight.  doubt waits patiently until a comment is made--usually in jest--then rushes forward to stand tall, arms wide, ready to leap in to the abyss, and take you with him.  He likes to stay there for as long as you like.  Doubt travels with you, though sometimes you don't notice him.  He can jump from mind to mind and replicate himself like a cell.  He is a parasite who feeds on your past and regurgitates your future, never minding the present.  Sometimes, Doubt looks out through your eyes at the world around you.  Doubt likes to throw big parties sometimes.  his favorite friends are Fear, Uncertainty, and Worry.  the four of them stay up late into the night creating instead of solving the world's problems.  Doubt and his friends also like to argue sometimes with Faith, Trust, and Confidence.  When they show up, Doubt shrinks back until eventually he and his friends move on.

Lee had us playing games and writing about characters from cards in a game.  Here is mine.

James loves to say "I put the fun in funeral," and he really does.  The ever present, huge headphones, Batman shirt, and "skull" cap all make you think that James is living in his own world, but he is the go-to guy for whatever is new and hip and cutting edge in town.  James is known in our circle as "Norm," and we all shout that as he walks in to any room like on Cheers.  Like Norm, his acerbic wit and spot-on commentary of what is happening in the world make us all laugh hysterically.

Corey had us pick a narrative genre--I tried Steampunk, and Lee said it was OK.

She stumbled down the dark alley, gasping for breath.  Her full heavy skirt was soaked with rain and her boots were muddy from running through the cemetery over fresh graves.  The rain poured down the sides of the buildings in sheets, pooling at her feet, creating a river of filth and debris down the narrow passage.  She pulled out her pendant and pushed a small button on the side.  Gears clicked and whirred as it transformed itself into an intricate mechanical bird, wings spread.  she unclipped it from the heavy chain around her neck.  "Home." she whispered.  The mechanical bird chirped and flew down the alley, dodging fire escapes as it went.  she followed quickly, tracking the bird's path as she held her head up to the rain.

Here is my memory map writing from Monday 6/18

Our side yard was beautiful, but really creepy.  Ancient trees lined the southern edge, looming over the grass and creating twilight all day. The side of the house had rows and drifts of Lilies of the Valley which scented the yard beautifully in the Spring.  Toward the back was a decrepit garage which, in all the years I lived there, I don't think I ever went into once.  Right behind the house was a towering pine tree which added to the constant gloom.  We buried our hamster in that side yard one year.

Using a poem as inspiration:
This morning
you got everything
you wanted.
you woke up after
a deep refreshing sleep
crisp sheets
& soft pillows
as you stretched
a cool breeze
caressed your body
as you rose
to meet the day.
The dog lifted her head
as you poured
your coffee.
She rose and ambled
slowly to the door
and the two of you
went out into the world.
You walked and walked
stopping to smell the roses
among other things
and enjoy
the peaceful quiet
of the morning.
I'll write about this today,
you thought,
and here you are,
still yearning
to be there.

Aimee, Alexis and I wrote a sensory experience.

I bite into the soft bread, feel the sting of onion, hear the crunch of lettuce, taste the tang of mustard, and watch as the whole thing slides out the other end into my lap in a big, sloppy, juicy pile.  Dang it!  I knew I should have listened to my mother when she said to put a napkin in my lap.

some of the best writing I did this week came from Fletcher's workshop.
here are stretching exercises

The phone rang.  And it rang.  And it rang in to the emptiness of the room.  dust motes meandered through the air, illuminated by shafts of sun streaming through the blinds like an indoor Jacob's
Ladder.

A man sits beside me.  He sighs and flips the page of his magazine.  he shifts in the uncomfortable seat and apologizes as his elbow brushes my arm.  I smile.

All three girls were in love with the dog.  Daddy can we keep him?  They asked in unison.
the dog looked at the man with its soft, deep brown eyes as if asking too.  It sat at his feet and the girl's father smiled deeply, his eyes crinkling.

The night unwrapped itself like a woman removing diamonds after the opera.  The glittering stars of the Milky Way strung out like a necklae against black velvet.

here is a write like "Thumb Sucker"

The Borrowers

You can call and call all you want but I am not here.
In my hands I hold the thick grey rectangle of another world.  Inside are pages and pages of places you have never been and could never imagine.  You are too busy with others to go there with me.  You don't take the time to feel the rough scratch of the page edges as they turn and turn taking me further away on my journeys.  you want me to play Barbies on the porch with you and pretend we are grownups, but I am borrowing another life, another world between the pages of my books.

Here is a postcard memoir:

They looked confidently in to the camera lens, those sassy women.  Her arm extended behind Justine's back just to let her know she was there.  they laughed when they saw the barrel sitting in the studio with the slogan "We Should Worry" on its side.  They should worry, they giggled, knowing what they knew about their friendship.  Sure, people talked and rumors flew.  But no one really know for sure how deep and true their love was for each other.

Finally, we wrote about a conflict and a person

Julie

Your hands are open, palms flat and wide, fingers stretched to make your pint.  Your left hand waves to the side as though you are clearing the air of negative energy.  We are at the bar, surrounded by dark woodwork while heavy beams loom over our heads.  It is raining and grey outside.  Why are you so sad all the time?  I ask, turning sideways to face her.  She sighs, Oh Sue, you remember what it was like growing up.  Sure, but what parts made you so sad?  Well, think about it, I was 5 when we moved the first time, 9 the second--each time I had to start all over.  Now both hands, still open, wave in the air and one falls to my forearm seeking understanding and connection.

Standardized Testing

Standardized testing has been a part of education for decades.  That said, I feel like it is somethng I need to be mindful of but not subservient to.  I recognize the philosophy of those outside the classroom who think that numbers and data--emiprical evidence if you will--are the only ways to prove success in any field--but the classroom is not a lab and my students are not rats.  Because we are all unique, it would be impossible to run a classroom like a controlled environment.  So, sure, let them throw another standardized test my way, make me gather data based on the results, to submit for their disapproval, but until they come to our classroom to play with us, they will never understand that teaching is not testing.

Writing about a Did You Know

We wrote about how the father in law had to supply unlimited mead to the groom for a month after the wedding.  Hence, the word honeymoon!

this is interesting because the month after the wedding is usually when the bride and groom travel and get to know each other in another place without disruptions from friend or family.  Mead is a really strong drink and if you had as much of it as you could drink then I would imagine that your buzz would take you to another place!

I read an article on the READ Act recently passed in Colorado, it says all students should read at third grade level in third grade before they can go to fourth.

Here is my "found poem"

The READ Act

Early Literacy is the greatest separator
Benchmarks logged
Interventions tracked
Strategies learned
Achievements gained
All this for policy

But what about imagination?
Fairy Tales engage
Mythology is vicarious adventure
Quiet focus in learned
As is love of story
So much for policy

here is my thinking map/word bank poem:

ODE
It's Fall
in Houghton
crisp weather
pine trees
whispering in air
clouds drift
in a crystal blue
sky.
Inside
the house is warn
the smell of
cinnamon
wafts through
like spice from
caravans along
the Great Silk Road.
My mother is making
apple turnovers.
Tart apples
sugar & spice
flaky crust
and sweet glaze
burst
with the flavors
of Fall
in Houghton.

I thought I could use this space as a place to park some of my writing during Summer Institute so I could refer back to it and maybe show this as a way for my digital native students to keep a record of their own writing so here goes.

What does it mean to feel welcome?  How does it feel?

if you look at the word welcome, it is a combination of the words well and come.  when you are welcome, people are happy that you are there.  other ways to interpret welcome are that you are a needed addition to the group--as in this session--we are all welcome because we are now part of a grop of educators who are seeking our own professional development.  but what about when someone says thank you and we say you're welcome?  that could be transactional--I give you a piece of cake and you say thank you and I say you're welcome.  I suppose that is like a gift sort of thing.  I think originally welcome meant that it is good to have you here--but it has changed.  Oh and what about when you say you are welcome as in you are welcome to help yourself to some potato salad?  in this case it is like permission giving or allowing someone to share in something like you are welcome to have a seat means you can join the group.  but what does it feel like?  it feels good to be part of a group--we seek community and connection wherever we go, right?

I wrote into the day, and I just finished writing out of it. Thanks to Jovan's inspiration, I accessed some deep emotional space this evening and wrote what might be a slam poem (in seven years or so) :) about my brother never having the chance to meet his birth parents. I hope to mold it into something.... My biggest problem is that my projects begin with fire, but then it wanes and they remain unfinished. I'm great at starting. I'm lousy at finishing. What projects are you working on that have some energy, fire under them? Which ones do you hope to follow to some fruition? NP

Welcome DWP Summer Institute 2012! 
Here is our blog--it is just another way for us to communicate and possibly attach some of our longer pieces for the anthology and such. 
you are all invited as authors and as such are able to post freely.  Please feel free to do so! 

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