As another aspect of sharing and learning with and from one another, I would like you to post to the Blog the short description you wrote in class today. I would expect 50 or so words, minimum, and maybe not more than 150 max. If you have a longer paragraph-or two-than that, feel free to use an excerpt.
If for some reason you don't feel comfortable sharing this time, please email me at jbaldwin@ma.org and let me know why.
This lady at First Bank does her job astutely. She works hard and I can respect that because sometimes I have trouble starting my homework or other work. It looks like she enjoys her job and if I had a concern about money in my bank account, I would want someone like her to help me out. She looks trustworthy and someone who is approachable. She is alone in this bank without customers or any employees. As alone as an orphaned child yearning for potential parents. I know nothing of this woman yet can assume a lot from first glances. She leaves her chair to grab a cup of coffee. She's tired after starting work at an early hour. She needs a caffeine boost at 2 pm every day and routinely gets coffee. She feels awake afterwards and ready to work until dinner. How would this woman function without coffee? She would be tired like Muhammad Ali after knocking out Joe Frazier.
ReplyDeleteIn the spot closest to the exit there is a hot pink Mazda Protégé with a Florida license plate. Next to that there are two large, shiny, white pickup trucks then a red Volkswagen Jetta, and a hard top, black Jeep Patriot. Further down the aisle there and five cars; a mix of sedans and SUVs. They are all white. The most expensive car in the lot was a black Mercedes Benz from 2006. Although the lot is behind the police station, many patrons of the library next door use it. About half of the people enter the library. The other half, looking as though someone has just told them bad news, enter the police station. Most have clear direction and purpose. They walk from one place to another, focused on that action and their thoughts. Very few wander or turn their gaze to their surroundings.
ReplyDeleteThis is an excerpt from the middle of my writing (mine was a bit lengthy)
ReplyDeleteHe immediately returns to his reading, and puts his hand to his head, pulling at the few white hairs that exist. His fingers rub the edge of the pages tenderly, and he mutters as he looks up to the ceiling to wake up his degenerating memory. He crunches the Ricola back and forth, as if he were releasing some sort of knowledge and energy with every bite. The man begins to cough, slowly and hesitatingly, and his whole body shakes. He holds on to the page, as if it will cure him of all his struggles, as if something so flimsy as a piece of paper could sustain his aged and worn body. The coughs subside, and he returns to his reading, steadying his hand on the table. Occasionally he picks up his pen, and writes something down on the miscellaneous scraps of paper that surround him, all the while scratching his head. His fingers snap in hope of magically commanding an “AHA” moment, over and over again, but nothing happens. His fingers straighten, and he waves his hand back and forth, trying to conjure up something to write down. Nothing can interrupt him: not the unruly homeless man being asked to leave, not the man pacing back and forth down the book-lined isles, not the woman knocking her purse into him. That is until a small child begins to cry, and he abruptly turns to the side. It is as if he has been woken from a long sleep; he is groggy, grumpy. He glares at the child, turning entirely around in his chair, and looks on with disgust. When the child disappears, he returns partially to his work, but still is too disturbed to return. He shakes his head, muttering to himself, and attempts to return to his train of thought. He clears his throat, and turns his gaze back to the book.
The man and his dog are slowly shuffling down Fifth Street in San Rafael. They fit that stereotype about how owners look like their dogs. Both old, male, white-haired and slow moving, they look like they could be in a cartoon. The dog sniffs the ground to the right, lifts his right leg, and relieves himself. The man looks at him, stops, waits and then they both continue down the street. They turn right, and pass the Marin Conservation League building, and as they are passing the parking lot, the man chuckles while he is looking at one of the cars. It is a Subaru Outback with four stickers on it. There is one of a Hawaiian flower, a Hawaiian turtle, Keep Tahoe Blue, and Marin Conservation League.
ReplyDeleteDressed in a black coat, he walks up and down the street. He strains his neck to the left as if someone is following him. He alters his route to avoid a coffee cup left in the sidewalk's path. The cup’s white exterior rivals the gray tones of its surroundings. The man appears frazzled by the presence of the cup in his path, discretely tapping his fingers against his side in quick motion. He then focuses his attention on the ground, as if nervous that there may be more coffee cups that were bound to surprise him. If one didn't know better, the man would appear to be casually checking his shoelaces. The tips of the man’s shoes are worn. If one squints he or she is able to just make out the exposure of their white interior, a shade similar to that of the cup, just barely peeking through. He drags his legs as his ankles were pulling iron weights. He is in no hurry, making no attempt to cross before the white figure’s light fades. He does not seem concerned when instead the welcoming figure is replaced by the lit up orange hand that halts his journey. He seems to like the attention, the eyes following his steps. You can see it in his own eyes, their corners temporarily held high as an Olympian holds his head after coming in first in the men’s division. His backpack does not appear full and yet he secures his back’s hold with an additional pull from his hands, as he once again peers back at me.
ReplyDeleteIt rises from the soggy, odorous tanbark between the dead trees, which match its depressed, forgotten character. Nothing great about it strikes you; you could (and perhaps do) walk right past it without ever recognizing it from its surroundings. Its neglected beige paint chips where it is rusting underneath, and the resulting brown residue drips down from the rusty gashes as if infected by a virus which now drips down slowly to the pole's base. Its ugly appearance hold no authority over the scene, which seems ironic since its purpose to illuminate the sometimes-occupied dinner tables.
ReplyDelete-Matt
“What’s your survey?” from a man in a grey beanie.
ReplyDeleteWhat makes him ask? Just as I am thinking there is not much interesting to write about, the act of my writing seems to become the most interesting thing on the block. At least judging from how quickly people begin asking me what I’m doing.
“You doing a project or something?” from a second unfamiliar man.
“Writing class,” I respond with a laugh. The man continues down the street, his black coat brushing his worn jeans as he walks. He gestures to Matt and Tess, working on other corners of the intersection, “So you guys are all working together?”
“Yeah.” He disappears around the corner of Bananas at Large.
A short, stout man in a baseball cap and jacket with a sports logo lugs a huge plastic garbage bag over his shoulder. He glances at me but does not ask what I’m writing like the others. His bag is clear so I can see that it is full of bottles and cans. I can only imagine that he is going to turn them in for refund. He creates a sad image of Santa Claus in my mind as he and his garbage bag retreat down the sidewalk.
The Desperate Housewives of Beverley Hills entertain her as she sinks into the couch. She made sure to set the thermostat at a warm 68° so she wouldn’t have to get up again during a commercial.
ReplyDeleteHer eyes switch between Amazon.com and the television as she ponders weather or not her sister-in-law will like this sweater.
She won’t. Let’s be honest here—no sister-in-laws like throw-up green wool coats. And for $79.99?! Please…
It is evident in her furrowed eyebrows that she has trouble controlling the DVR. Whatever happened to TiVo, she wonders. It was so simple and made charming “bluhdo” sounds when used. She finally remembers that the pause button is the one with the two, small blue dots; the parallel rectangles where rubbed off years ago, probably back when we used to have TiVo.
She readjusts the blanket so it doesn’t tickle her chin nor reveal her old stained shirt.
However, she is suddenly caught off guard—while her hands positioned the blanket, Brandi Glanville, her favorite desperate housewife, is cut off by a commercial! In the seconds it took to reach for the remote, she had already listened to two dreadful sentences about the power of the Glad ForceFlex Trashbag. She confronts the remote. “Which button does the fast-forward thing? How will I stop it once the commercials are over? I hate it when I fast forward too long and I miss the beginning of the next section, and then I have to rewind, but by that time, I will already know that in 2 minutes, Brandi is going to “accidently” spill her martini onto Camille—oh, drama!”
No longer paying any attention to the appalling sweater on Amazon.com, she focuses on the rubber remote buttons and guesses with her pointer finger.
Hinged between 4th and E Street, it seemed like it was from a different time- a time when it might have served a purpose. Yet now, it simply doesn’t seem to.
ReplyDeleteWith streaks of blue paint dotting the bottom of the pole, it’s easy to see that this light post wasn’t always a piece of junk. It probably once showered the quaint seating area with light and created a lively atmosphere. However, as you look farther up the pole, it becomes increasingly more dilapidated. It is as if the rust from the top is slowly dripping down the sides with the ultimate goal of complete dereliction.
Awkwardly framed in an unnatural setting a boy is perched on a cement bench in the shadow of a dull and dirty, yellow house. He is clicking away on his silver laptop, looking up uncomfortably every minute, scanning the street then back down. On the busy street, cars in a rush hurry. A couple on a walk, a woman with a baby carriage and pedestrians of all backgrounds pass him by. He studies them, judges them and then turns his head slightly downwards toward his computer. While his head is down a middle-aged woman with oversized sunglasses, driving an SUV Porsche passes by and a young, short, homeless man shuffles across his path with a clear, plastic bag filled with cans. The boy is self-conscious with his gaze, of his unusual placement in the daily activities of the street, and of the people looking at him, wondering what he sees and why he is there.
ReplyDeleteHe drags the jack across the concrete surface, paying no mind to the piercing noise it makes. After throwing it in a corner, he picks up a large drill, untangling the cord as he stares aimlessly into the passenger seat of the car in front of him. He is focused, not disturbed by the sounds of the working cars passing by, nor by the wafting smell of the bakery, nor by the students across the street writing about him.
ReplyDeleteHe begins drilling at random points in the front of the car, mostly hidden from view by the hood. It appears that he is fiercely drilling at nothing, as if tearing out the insides of something useless.
He stops, lets the drill dangle by his side, and admires his work. He breaks out of his accomplished daze and returns to the inside of the shop.
There is a house surrounded by a beat down fence with a look of emptiness. The faded, chipped fence has tall bars, making the house look like a prison. The shingles on the roof are beat down and worn and the paint is beginning to chip. This leads me to the conclusion that the owners are careless. I suspect this because the house is evidently not well maintained as if the house is completely abandoned. I notice items in the windows suggesting the beat down structure is a home to someone. This fairly large structure holds somewhat of a questionable story as its eery presentation leaves the observer in question.
ReplyDeleteI stood at the corner of Forbes street a lone with my white notebook in hand. My back faced the VAC building which was shielded from vision by the large solid green bushes. At the corner I stared down at my feet and noticed how faded my blue converse were. I then allowed my eyes to roam forward while still remaining down. I saw a large puddle bubbling with an excess of water and I watched attentively how the ripples were made and where they originated. Then a large maroon Mercedes SUV rolled up to the curve. A skinny blond women with too much make up on sat in the front seat. While driving with one hand she quickly smacked her lips with lip gloss. I watched her attentively and I could tell she could sense my presence. She had an arrogant personality, someone who I am not sure I would want to be my friend. When she looked at me she looked down at me from her all mighty Mercedes seat. This does not bother me because as soon as I see her she is gone again. My next visitor was a middle aged man who drove up in an old white prius. He looked exhausted and was clearly in his own world because he did not notice me writing notes about him vigorously and I observed his strange behavior. He yawned for a long time and then took his big pinky finger and began scratching his ear.
ReplyDeleteWearing a grey sweater that resembles the mood of the weather, her dirty blonde hair blows loosely in the wind. She picks up her lap top and takes a step. Deciding where she wants to sit, she dusts off part of the bench to make a clean space for herself. She is sitting against the bushes, which separate her from the road. The road is full of speeding cars. Each one barely stopping at the stop sign before they continue down the road. Every time a car passes by, she looks up form her computer. Her head turns to the right. She acknowledges the car, and continues to write.
ReplyDeleteHer feet dangle off the edge of the bench. Her rainboots are skimming the top of two puddles. As they become wet each time they meet with the water, the drips slide off the edge of the shiny, black boots.