The summer as an in-between place, a border
-I sat on the sand and rock beach of the Olympic Peninsula in Washington as the sky shifted expression from the fiery reds and oranges of the setting sun to the lingering purple hues of west coast dusk
-Bow drill fire
-Sitting around fire reflecting on life at home
-Timeless feeling: The backpacking trip, and the summer, was like an interlude in our lives, much like an interlude in an album that splits up related themes and gives the listener a moment of calm reflection
-These images still sustain me
-Inspiration also comes from role models
-Jonny–> parents
-Standing on a ridge in Yosemite with two friends, also role models, as the sun rose
The summer has always acted as this special interlude in my annual routine of school. In thinking about the summer as a border, I looked to Fun Home for much of my inspiration. In Fun Home, Alison has many of her moments of growth in these in between places (eg. with the cross dressing truck driver in the diner) and takes inspiration and hope from these moments to fuel her during her more repressed existence at home. She looked to this truck driver as a role model, and I also look to role models in my life for inspiration. The colors, and lack of color, in Fun Home also impacted the way I gave the speech.
^^ this link will take you to my final creative project. A huge thanks to Dan Frazo for filming me as I awkwardly asked people to participate in a survey.
Song Credits:
Rainbow Kitten Surprise — Painkillers
Hozier — Almost (Sweet Music)
A glance into the mirror,
bruising at the cheek
a black and blue blossoming
of trial and error
identity unanswered
darkened eyes
shining against the
flirtation of reflection
and a woman
silhouette, frail in white
the delicacy of her frame–
a program of defeat–
shoulders, hunched
searching
and above all,
the cloud of doubt
a humid sickness
tendrils of unease, reaching
yearning for the front
of the mind; the tool of the eyes
and then, a circus,
trapeze artists looping
ropes of control
around frantic hoards
of anxiety
the largest beast, asleep in its corner
but with its fluttering eyes,
fear within the bleak of them
reaching
awake now;
fatty, sour smells
loafing about the
atmosphere of the room
cut light crafting a
stage of the kitchen
her dancing hands
making a ribboned show
of squash, eggplant,
and carrots
and me, reminded
of the shallow echo
of her voice
a fine whisper of
wonder; a reminder
of the magic of our time here,
together
I sit still, marveling
at the calls left
unanswered
fates faltering
footsteps leaving
aching answers
behind
names somewhere
within the smeared lines
of their print
that, yes, would
have liked to be seen
would have liked
their syllables to roll off
of the tongue
to have know the stillness
of Spring without bitter smells
poetry without
the shattering tone of pain
the therapy of sunlight through
maple leaves
their red a passion
of the sun
their green a promise of
another beginning
and itch, a step,
a progression
upwards.
Where Sport Meets Art: A Creative and Physical Escape
Tying flies, for many fisherman, is a pastime, a therapeutic escape, and a source of income. The prospect of using the flies one has crafted in hopes of convincing whatever looms in the river below they have found an easy meal is motivation for many to sit at a vise for hours. The vise is your easel, the river your gallery, and the trout below are the stingy critic deciding whether or not to buy your piece. For me, tying is a reminder of the places fishing has taken me in the passenger seat of my dad’s Suburban. It is a pair of bald eagle’s on a cold-summer morning alongside the Green River. It is river otters that ruin the fishing but make your day as they play like children in a back-eddy, and the flies buzzing around your head driving you to the brink of insanity. And just as fly-fishing is about the process and not just the result, as is tying.
When you sit down in your tying seat, in front of the table covered in spools of thread, dubbing, floss, wire, lead, beads, foam, hair, and dozens of tools, you are at ground zero. A hook clamped between the pressure of metal forceps, which will eventually hold your final product. As you wrap thread turn after turn, down the shank of the hook, you envision the final product in your head, and start to imagine how a culmination of miscellaneous crafts can mutate into a caddis, stonefly, worm, drake, midge, mayfly, minnow, or mouse. The infinite variations are limited only by the tyer’s creativity and desire to experiment with new ideas, techniques, and materials. Flies can be tied to appear hyperalistic, imitating the natural bugs almost perfectly, or with neon colors such as fuschia, chartreuse, and magenta. Just as Monet attempted to replicate the beauty and complexity of water lilies, great tyers will try to mimic anything from the tiny legs that propel nymphs through a river channel to the yellow spot indicative of an egg-laying mayfly, in order to persuade a stubborn fish, the only opinion that matters. Impassioned fisherman may spend more time at the vise than on the water in hopes of spinning a timeless pattern, guaranteed to work.
In reality though, there is never just one fly that gets the job done. The variability of weather, water temperature, time of year, river entomology, or moon cycles all affect your results, which is what drives people away in frustration or lures them in until they succeed. But success in this situation is relative. For many success is catching a huge fish or a multitude, but the people that are truly in love with the sport can not have a bad day on the river. These individuals, regardless of fish count or weather, make the most of their experience. It does not matter if the fishing sucks when the day is remembered by the aerial display of yellow warblers, the rukus of bankside mink, or the lumbering of a bull-moose as he crosses the river, whos rocks shake under the weight of his massive body.
Fly-fishing and tying has been an escape of mine, mentally and physically. It has taken me unforgettable places, and sparked the flame that is my love and appreciation for the outdoors. The sport began as a game of numbers, but has developed into a place of sanctuary, of memories with my dad, of struggling ecosystems, and of ones thriving. It has become a creative outlet as well, allowing me to experiment with the artistic but also practical, find complexity in seemingly simple things, and expanded my understanding of watersheds and the bugs, birds, mammals, and plants that depend upon them for survival. It has introduced me to incredible people be they guides, clients, coworkers, or fellow fly fisherman met on the river, who share a unique openness when exploring new water. Writers such as Ernest Hemingway or E.O. Wilson and artists like Eric Clapton or Jimmy Buffet all have found sanctuary alongside a river. It has established a community of people that are far too into birds, bugs, and especially fish, but more importantly, a group of individuals passionate about wilderness, its protection, and preservation for future generations to come.
Description: This piece tackles the border between human and earth, between body and other. In a theatrical sense, we’re exploring our voices: How can we push the voice beyond speech and text to communicate a visceral experience. And how can we use our bodies to communicate this as well. How can one person or entity become many, and how can many become one?
I wrote this about an experience I had in order to explore what, in my mind, is a very arbitrary border. That of skin. In my spirituality, I have wondered about the skin being this barrier that technically separates us from one another, human to human, human to nature. However on an atomic level, the same essential building blocks of life continue beyond the body, into the air and our surroundings, making us all one. A continuation of energy. The question of what we can see and what we cannot is a very spiritual pursuit for me. And it is one that I explore in this piece.
Script:
(A moment. The sound of transcendence. A piece of music. A single being stretching. Two hands opening to grasp at infinity. A sigh.)
A Voice: That whole time, I wanted to let go. I wanted to melt into that place. There had been rain days before. The river was nearly level with where we walked. The whole time, we noticed the marsh nearly touching the edge of the boards. I kept asking myself, “Is this safe?” I couldn’t help but think it was. I trusted the land. I trusted the water. I don’t know why. I trusted that the water would stay put. And that he and I would just lie parallel to it. Our hearts beating against the wooden boards, almost pounding against the surface of the water.
We kept walking. When we reached the river, I again asked, “Is this safe?” This river. In a grand expression of power, it danced in purples and greys and whites. How do I even begin to explain?
This is what I want to tell you: When I saw that river, I thought I was going to die. No, no, no. Not panic. Not Holy shit, this is it. I just thought that because the water was so close to the edge of the boardwalk, because I was in some state of mind, and because that river welcomed me so with its ferocity, that I would make the choice to jump in. A huge part of me thought, Oh look, I want to be that. I wanted to be the river. And the image and feeling of simply leaping in, over the railings of the boardwalk flashed behind my eyes. And I knew that I would die in that moment. In my attempt to become the river, I would dissolve.
(A breath.)
Later, I told him this. And he said he would have saved me. Jump after me and pull me to the air, to the sky. I didn’t tell him that the sky also meant to encompass me. I didn’t tell him either that he, I knew, would have died, too. And in a way, we did die. We lost ourselves. We laid on that river with only some wood separating us from washing away. And I, feeling the energy of the water, could not stop moving. “You look like the water,” he said. “You are the water.” And too, the sky spoke. I asked it questions. It asked them back. And morphed into images upon images upon images…
I felt it happen, although I didn’t know it in the moment. The first drops. At that point, I had forgotten what rain felt like. So it was a revelation when suddenly my thoughts awoke: Is this safe? With rain, will the water continue to rise? Are the sky and river working to consume me? Consume him? Will no one ever see us again?
But I didn’t move. Do you know what that’s like? To lie on your back, eyes wide open, interrogating the sky as it rains on you? Have you ever done that? Become mud? Become indifferent to wetness and dirt and cold? Become something beyond a body? And to melt, dissolve, disappear?
My skin. No longer a boundary between the world and me. All that I have inside is not human but earth. I laid there and felt my skin absorb each drop. And I closed eyes. And I let go.
I was first inspired by Citizen, by its mixed multimedia approach to telling a story. I was also really interested in Fun Home’s exploration of relationship borders. I remember narrator Alison making the point that it’s normally harder for fathers to connect, that the bar is lower for them. I wanted to create a sort of musical representation of the crossing, or at least the attempt to cross, the border between me and my Dad. I used songs that conjured up strong memories of my Dad, songs that bring me closer to him and help me maybe cross that border.
Works Cited
Dire Straits and Mark Knopfler “Walk of Life.” Private Investigations: The Best of Dire Straits & Mark Knopfler, Mercury Records Limited, under license to Warner Bros. Records, 1985, 10. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/Compilations/Private Investigations_ The Best of Dire Straits & Mark Knopfler/10 Walk of Life.m4a
Jones, Norah. “Come Away With Me.” Come Away With Me, Blue Note Records, 2002, 5. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/Norah Jones/Come Away With Me/05 Come Away With Me 1.m4a
The Beatles. “I Saw Her Standing There.” The Beatles Box Set, EMI Records Ltd, 1963, 1. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/Compilations/The Beatles Box Set/1-01 I Saw Her Standing There.m4a
The Beatles “Julia.” The Beatles (White Album), EMI Records Ltd, 1968, 17. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/The Beatles/The Beatles (White Album)/1-17 Julia.m4a
The Beatles. “Strawberry Fields Forever (Take 1).”Anthology 2, Apple Corps Ltd/EMI Records Ltd 1996, 2. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/Compilations/Anthology 2/2-02 Strawberry Fields Forever (Take 1).m4a
The Beatles. “Nowhere Man.” Rubber Soul, EMI Records Ltd, 1965, 4. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/The Beatles/Rubber Soul/04 Nowhere Man.m4a
“Real Love – John Lennon (Piano Version).” YouTube, 26 Apr. 2009, youtu.be/grK2KV0Ziwo.
“Passport” is a collection of short poems and texts inspired thematically or stylistically by the texts we have read this term. The collection is comprised of eight pieces: “Disclaimer,” “Bees,” “Gospel,” “Inside,” “Leidenschaft,” “1964,” “Guillotine,” and “Rosetta Stone.” I have mainly drawn from Anzaldua’s Borderlands, Zamora’s Unaccompanied, Morrison’s Sula, Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, and Rankine’s Citizen, as well as the poem “Charlie Howard’s Descent” by Mark Doty. In the process of translating parts of these texts into my own poetic language, I focused on exploring themes of longing, belonging, and pertainment to others, to places, and to the self. I applied some creative skills I learned in this class to draw inspiration, such as thinking of the most important metaphor of a text, or which color or element would best represent it.
Bathtub with water running. Ibuprofen bottle with glass of water. Candle burning with lighter. Water’s hot and the skylight is open. Chipping wallpaper, robin’s egg blue. Door latched, steam rising. ……………………………………………………………..
Bunk beds with red sheets. Dark wood and white walls. Frayed carpet. Closet door, cracked white paint and cracked wood. Red coat on a hook and white nikes by the door. Swiss army knife on the table. ……………………………………………………………….
Wet sneakers and skinned elbow. Cracked white helmet on the damp pavement. Shaky knees on the walk back home. Loose bike chain and grease stains under my nails. Walking home on the dirt road. ……………………………………………………………….
Sweaty palms and a Louisville Slugger. Feet wide next to home plate. Broken thumb and red stains on my white baseball uniform. Dirt stains on my knees in the back the minivan. ER nurse and gauze. ……………………………………………………………..
Street lamp in Le Marais. Gin and tonic. Old man down the road, in the metro. “Viens-me voir.” “Non merci.” “Prendre un verre avec moi.” “Non merci.” “Vous êtes mignon” “Laisse-moi en seul.” “Non.” ……………………………………………………………..
Chlorine and matted hair. Cool water and so many people. Hands on my head, held under the water. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Fight and kick and swim and scream. Pushing up for air. Breathe. ……….. ……………………………………………….
Persephone in a bar.
…………………………………………………………….
I left the bar somewhere between midnight and one in the morning and walked down the dimly lit street for a few blocks. I approached the metro I’d taken from my hostel, but I wasn’t quite ready to go back to my lumpy bed. It was a fine night for a walk around Le Marais, and so I took a walk around the neighborhood. The bars were still open, it was a Saturday. On either side of the street people were spilling out onto the sidewalk, liquor was heavy in the air. The music was loud and good and so I sat at a bench near a streetlamp listening and watching. I wasn’t so tired anymore, and so I walked to another bar around the corner. I stood at the crowded bar and ordered a gin and tonic and then another. I danced for a long time on the light up dance floor. I stayed until a little past three in the morning. I stumbled on the uneven cobblestone street towards the metro station, passing a few more bars on the way. Somewhere in the darkness, between one streetlamp and the next, a man called out to me. He asked if I spoke french. I lied and said no, hoping he’d leave me alone. He replied in english. Shit. He wanted me to drink with him and his friends at the bar across the road. I declined, forcefully. I kept walking, he followed behind. Grabbing my arm, I could smell the alcohol on his breath when he told me to drink with him. He wasn’t asking me, he was pulling me back towards the bar with him. I’m pulling away and he’s trying to kiss my neck. Now I’m running down the street, down the stairs into the metro station. Sitting in the empty train. Slipping into bed, shaking.
…………………………………………………………….
Below is the link to the video of my final creative project.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkhcnjFAabY&feature=youtu.be
The summer as an in-between place, a border
-I sat on the sand and rock beach of the Olympic Peninsula in Washington as the sky shifted expression from the fiery reds and oranges of the setting sun to the lingering purple hues of west coast dusk
-Bow drill fire
-Sitting around fire reflecting on life at home
-Timeless feeling: The backpacking trip, and the summer, was like an interlude in our lives, much like an interlude in an album that splits up related themes and gives the listener a moment of calm reflection
-These images still sustain me
-Inspiration also comes from role models
-Jonny–> parents
-Standing on a ridge in Yosemite with two friends, also role models, as the sun rose
The summer has always acted as this special interlude in my annual routine of school. In thinking about the summer as a border, I looked to Fun Home for much of my inspiration. In Fun Home, Alison has many of her moments of growth in these in between places (eg. with the cross dressing truck driver in the diner) and takes inspiration and hope from these moments to fuel her during her more repressed existence at home. She looked to this truck driver as a role model, and I also look to role models in my life for inspiration. The colors, and lack of color, in Fun Home also impacted the way I gave the speech.
Hello Everyone,
Below is the link to the three poems that I wrote for my project.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1KmqmVjWs6u4tBIgFYEdXJMjZY4Pn_paAPRq8o8AZXUs/edit
It was awesome to see what you all made!
Dan
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AC5qEGAmO3s&t=1s
^^ this link will take you to my final creative project. A huge thanks to Dan Frazo for filming me as I awkwardly asked people to participate in a survey.
Song Credits:
Rainbow Kitten Surprise — Painkillers
Hozier — Almost (Sweet Music)
Zack M
Fine Print
A glance into the mirror,
bruising at the cheek
a black and blue blossoming
of trial and error
identity unanswered
darkened eyes
shining against the
flirtation of reflection
and a woman
silhouette, frail in white
the delicacy of her frame–
a program of defeat–
shoulders, hunched
searching
and above all,
the cloud of doubt
a humid sickness
tendrils of unease, reaching
yearning for the front
of the mind; the tool of the eyes
and then, a circus,
trapeze artists looping
ropes of control
around frantic hoards
of anxiety
the largest beast, asleep in its corner
but with its fluttering eyes,
fear within the bleak of them
reaching
awake now;
fatty, sour smells
loafing about the
atmosphere of the room
cut light crafting a
stage of the kitchen
her dancing hands
making a ribboned show
of squash, eggplant,
and carrots
and me, reminded
of the shallow echo
of her voice
a fine whisper of
wonder; a reminder
of the magic of our time here,
together
I sit still, marveling
at the calls left
unanswered
fates faltering
footsteps leaving
aching answers
behind
names somewhere
within the smeared lines
of their print
that, yes, would
have liked to be seen
would have liked
their syllables to roll off
of the tongue
to have know the stillness
of Spring without bitter smells
poetry without
the shattering tone of pain
the therapy of sunlight through
maple leaves
their red a passion
of the sun
their green a promise of
another beginning
and itch, a step,
a progression
upwards.
Where Sport Meets Art: A Creative and Physical Escape
Tying flies, for many fisherman, is a pastime, a therapeutic escape, and a source of income. The prospect of using the flies one has crafted in hopes of convincing whatever looms in the river below they have found an easy meal is motivation for many to sit at a vise for hours. The vise is your easel, the river your gallery, and the trout below are the stingy critic deciding whether or not to buy your piece. For me, tying is a reminder of the places fishing has taken me in the passenger seat of my dad’s Suburban. It is a pair of bald eagle’s on a cold-summer morning alongside the Green River. It is river otters that ruin the fishing but make your day as they play like children in a back-eddy, and the flies buzzing around your head driving you to the brink of insanity. And just as fly-fishing is about the process and not just the result, as is tying.
When you sit down in your tying seat, in front of the table covered in spools of thread, dubbing, floss, wire, lead, beads, foam, hair, and dozens of tools, you are at ground zero. A hook clamped between the pressure of metal forceps, which will eventually hold your final product. As you wrap thread turn after turn, down the shank of the hook, you envision the final product in your head, and start to imagine how a culmination of miscellaneous crafts can mutate into a caddis, stonefly, worm, drake, midge, mayfly, minnow, or mouse. The infinite variations are limited only by the tyer’s creativity and desire to experiment with new ideas, techniques, and materials. Flies can be tied to appear hyperalistic, imitating the natural bugs almost perfectly, or with neon colors such as fuschia, chartreuse, and magenta. Just as Monet attempted to replicate the beauty and complexity of water lilies, great tyers will try to mimic anything from the tiny legs that propel nymphs through a river channel to the yellow spot indicative of an egg-laying mayfly, in order to persuade a stubborn fish, the only opinion that matters. Impassioned fisherman may spend more time at the vise than on the water in hopes of spinning a timeless pattern, guaranteed to work.
In reality though, there is never just one fly that gets the job done. The variability of weather, water temperature, time of year, river entomology, or moon cycles all affect your results, which is what drives people away in frustration or lures them in until they succeed. But success in this situation is relative. For many success is catching a huge fish or a multitude, but the people that are truly in love with the sport can not have a bad day on the river. These individuals, regardless of fish count or weather, make the most of their experience. It does not matter if the fishing sucks when the day is remembered by the aerial display of yellow warblers, the rukus of bankside mink, or the lumbering of a bull-moose as he crosses the river, whos rocks shake under the weight of his massive body.
Fly-fishing and tying has been an escape of mine, mentally and physically. It has taken me unforgettable places, and sparked the flame that is my love and appreciation for the outdoors. The sport began as a game of numbers, but has developed into a place of sanctuary, of memories with my dad, of struggling ecosystems, and of ones thriving. It has become a creative outlet as well, allowing me to experiment with the artistic but also practical, find complexity in seemingly simple things, and expanded my understanding of watersheds and the bugs, birds, mammals, and plants that depend upon them for survival. It has introduced me to incredible people be they guides, clients, coworkers, or fellow fly fisherman met on the river, who share a unique openness when exploring new water. Writers such as Ernest Hemingway or E.O. Wilson and artists like Eric Clapton or Jimmy Buffet all have found sanctuary alongside a river. It has established a community of people that are far too into birds, bugs, and especially fish, but more importantly, a group of individuals passionate about wilderness, its protection, and preservation for future generations to come.
hello, ma’ams and sirs!
Here is the link to my film:
https://vimeo.com/334562411
and then here is the link to my poem:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1HNISLpUPIUK9H8Frlz9_pOsjktCJNV-tqsSdCvB5VvI/edit?usp=sharing
Madison Middleton
May 12, 2019
Final Creative Project
“Eyes Wide Open, As it Rained”
Link to performance: https://youtu.be/LczMqtM4XWQ
Description: This piece tackles the border between human and earth, between body and other. In a theatrical sense, we’re exploring our voices: How can we push the voice beyond speech and text to communicate a visceral experience. And how can we use our bodies to communicate this as well. How can one person or entity become many, and how can many become one?
I wrote this about an experience I had in order to explore what, in my mind, is a very arbitrary border. That of skin. In my spirituality, I have wondered about the skin being this barrier that technically separates us from one another, human to human, human to nature. However on an atomic level, the same essential building blocks of life continue beyond the body, into the air and our surroundings, making us all one. A continuation of energy. The question of what we can see and what we cannot is a very spiritual pursuit for me. And it is one that I explore in this piece.
Script:
(A moment. The sound of transcendence. A piece of music. A single being stretching. Two hands opening to grasp at infinity. A sigh.)
A Voice: That whole time, I wanted to let go. I wanted to melt into that place. There had been rain days before. The river was nearly level with where we walked. The whole time, we noticed the marsh nearly touching the edge of the boards. I kept asking myself, “Is this safe?” I couldn’t help but think it was. I trusted the land. I trusted the water. I don’t know why. I trusted that the water would stay put. And that he and I would just lie parallel to it. Our hearts beating against the wooden boards, almost pounding against the surface of the water.
We kept walking. When we reached the river, I again asked, “Is this safe?” This river. In a grand expression of power, it danced in purples and greys and whites. How do I even begin to explain?
This is what I want to tell you: When I saw that river, I thought I was going to die. No, no, no. Not panic. Not Holy shit, this is it. I just thought that because the water was so close to the edge of the boardwalk, because I was in some state of mind, and because that river welcomed me so with its ferocity, that I would make the choice to jump in. A huge part of me thought, Oh look, I want to be that. I wanted to be the river. And the image and feeling of simply leaping in, over the railings of the boardwalk flashed behind my eyes. And I knew that I would die in that moment. In my attempt to become the river, I would dissolve.
(A breath.)
Later, I told him this. And he said he would have saved me. Jump after me and pull me to the air, to the sky. I didn’t tell him that the sky also meant to encompass me. I didn’t tell him either that he, I knew, would have died, too. And in a way, we did die. We lost ourselves. We laid on that river with only some wood separating us from washing away. And I, feeling the energy of the water, could not stop moving. “You look like the water,” he said. “You are the water.” And too, the sky spoke. I asked it questions. It asked them back. And morphed into images upon images upon images…
I felt it happen, although I didn’t know it in the moment. The first drops. At that point, I had forgotten what rain felt like. So it was a revelation when suddenly my thoughts awoke: Is this safe? With rain, will the water continue to rise? Are the sky and river working to consume me? Consume him? Will no one ever see us again?
But I didn’t move. Do you know what that’s like? To lie on your back, eyes wide open, interrogating the sky as it rains on you? Have you ever done that? Become mud? Become indifferent to wetness and dirt and cold? Become something beyond a body? And to melt, dissolve, disappear?
My skin. No longer a boundary between the world and me. All that I have inside is not human but earth. I laid there and felt my skin absorb each drop. And I closed eyes. And I let go.
(A presence. The sound of rain. Then, all fades.)
Hi all!
“A Quarrel with Self”
Written piece: https://docs.google.com/document/d/15RKhCBr1SpXG84lOvEeVObUYX9VAkXHBh5vd4zJuls4/edit?usp=sharing
Music & recorded audio: https://youtu.be/9-YjAT8EetY
Recorded Video of full piece with dance: https://youtu.be/iL8zNWkAEUg
-Hannah
Here is the link to a folder with my photos, compilation, and works cited –
https://drive.google.com/open?id=11SBnrsKkD27Ig5L8jePhcR3jlvkDlwQX
Best,
Cecilia Needham
*Audio emailed
I was first inspired by Citizen, by its mixed multimedia approach to telling a story. I was also really interested in Fun Home’s exploration of relationship borders. I remember narrator Alison making the point that it’s normally harder for fathers to connect, that the bar is lower for them. I wanted to create a sort of musical representation of the crossing, or at least the attempt to cross, the border between me and my Dad. I used songs that conjured up strong memories of my Dad, songs that bring me closer to him and help me maybe cross that border.
Works Cited
Dire Straits and Mark Knopfler “Walk of Life.” Private Investigations: The Best of Dire Straits & Mark Knopfler, Mercury Records Limited, under license to Warner Bros. Records, 1985, 10. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/Compilations/Private Investigations_ The Best of Dire Straits & Mark Knopfler/10 Walk of Life.m4a
Jones, Norah. “Come Away With Me.” Come Away With Me, Blue Note Records, 2002, 5. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/Norah Jones/Come Away With Me/05 Come Away With Me 1.m4a
The Beatles. “I Saw Her Standing There.” The Beatles Box Set, EMI Records Ltd, 1963, 1. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/Compilations/The Beatles Box Set/1-01 I Saw Her Standing There.m4a
The Beatles “Julia.” The Beatles (White Album), EMI Records Ltd, 1968, 17. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/The Beatles/The Beatles (White Album)/1-17 Julia.m4a
The Beatles. “Strawberry Fields Forever (Take 1).”Anthology 2, Apple Corps Ltd/EMI Records Ltd 1996, 2. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/Compilations/Anthology 2/2-02 Strawberry Fields Forever (Take 1).m4a
The Beatles. “Nowhere Man.” Rubber Soul, EMI Records Ltd, 1965, 4. Itunes, /Users/juliaprice/Music/iTunes/iTunes Media/Music/The Beatles/Rubber Soul/04 Nowhere Man.m4a
“Real Love – John Lennon (Piano Version).” YouTube, 26 Apr. 2009, youtu.be/grK2KV0Ziwo.
“Passport” is a collection of short poems and texts inspired thematically or stylistically by the texts we have read this term. The collection is comprised of eight pieces: “Disclaimer,” “Bees,” “Gospel,” “Inside,” “Leidenschaft,” “1964,” “Guillotine,” and “Rosetta Stone.” I have mainly drawn from Anzaldua’s Borderlands, Zamora’s Unaccompanied, Morrison’s Sula, Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, and Rankine’s Citizen, as well as the poem “Charlie Howard’s Descent” by Mark Doty. In the process of translating parts of these texts into my own poetic language, I focused on exploring themes of longing, belonging, and pertainment to others, to places, and to the self. I applied some creative skills I learned in this class to draw inspiration, such as thinking of the most important metaphor of a text, or which color or element would best represent it.
LINK: https://drive.google.com/open?id=1UhSFLeM7x-F2toxdwyhxRdltQBunASJy
Persephone in a bathtub.
William Blastos
Bathtub with water running. Ibuprofen bottle with glass of water. Candle burning with lighter. Water’s hot and the skylight is open. Chipping wallpaper, robin’s egg blue. Door latched, steam rising. ……………………………………………………………..
Bunk beds with red sheets. Dark wood and white walls. Frayed carpet. Closet door, cracked white paint and cracked wood. Red coat on a hook and white nikes by the door. Swiss army knife on the table. ……………………………………………………………….
Wet sneakers and skinned elbow. Cracked white helmet on the damp pavement. Shaky knees on the walk back home. Loose bike chain and grease stains under my nails. Walking home on the dirt road. ……………………………………………………………….
Sweaty palms and a Louisville Slugger. Feet wide next to home plate. Broken thumb and red stains on my white baseball uniform. Dirt stains on my knees in the back the minivan. ER nurse and gauze. ……………………………………………………………..
Street lamp in Le Marais. Gin and tonic. Old man down the road, in the metro. “Viens-me voir.” “Non merci.” “Prendre un verre avec moi.” “Non merci.” “Vous êtes mignon” “Laisse-moi en seul.” “Non.” ……………………………………………………………..
Chlorine and matted hair. Cool water and so many people. Hands on my head, held under the water. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Fight and kick and swim and scream. Pushing up for air. Breathe. ……….. ……………………………………………….
Persephone in a bar.
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I left the bar somewhere between midnight and one in the morning and walked down the dimly lit street for a few blocks. I approached the metro I’d taken from my hostel, but I wasn’t quite ready to go back to my lumpy bed. It was a fine night for a walk around Le Marais, and so I took a walk around the neighborhood. The bars were still open, it was a Saturday. On either side of the street people were spilling out onto the sidewalk, liquor was heavy in the air. The music was loud and good and so I sat at a bench near a streetlamp listening and watching. I wasn’t so tired anymore, and so I walked to another bar around the corner. I stood at the crowded bar and ordered a gin and tonic and then another. I danced for a long time on the light up dance floor. I stayed until a little past three in the morning. I stumbled on the uneven cobblestone street towards the metro station, passing a few more bars on the way. Somewhere in the darkness, between one streetlamp and the next, a man called out to me. He asked if I spoke french. I lied and said no, hoping he’d leave me alone. He replied in english. Shit. He wanted me to drink with him and his friends at the bar across the road. I declined, forcefully. I kept walking, he followed behind. Grabbing my arm, I could smell the alcohol on his breath when he told me to drink with him. He wasn’t asking me, he was pulling me back towards the bar with him. I’m pulling away and he’s trying to kiss my neck. Now I’m running down the street, down the stairs into the metro station. Sitting in the empty train. Slipping into bed, shaking.
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