Anger Managment

I have been giving it a lot of thought recently and I have decided that while I prefer typing most of my writing, I feel a little insecure about blogging. I thought, I'll just write in my journal but that was ruled out when I realized how quickly my hand cramps, and how time consuming the whole process is (sometimes I feel like I'm writing a manuscript...it's insane- and I don't dislike writing, it's just the time it takes to form each individual letter...). So perhaps I am over-reacting, it wouldn't be the first time, but it has been plaguing me. Wouldn't it be convenient if i were lying though? "Oh, i just didn't blog because I feel weird about posting my stuff on the internet..." But it's TRUE. You can ask people, I've spoken about it and finally just decided to write a blog about blogging (thats how much this whole thing has peeved me). But after writing this I feel a bit better about it. To be honest, now I don't really care. You know what? If people want to read my shit and fucking copy it, or just read it to read it, whatever. I don't care. It's my writing anyway and I don't fucking care if they all want to read it. Just keep in mind that I didn't write it for you. I wrote it because I felt like it.
It does piss me off though when people read something personal for the explicit purpose of copying it. Not that that has happened here, but it's happened before and it always has bothered me. They're like "Oh, I just want to see what you did" and then they end uplike fucking formating their ENTIRE PAPER from yours. And you can't be like "What. the. fuck." Because they're all "Oh I just admire you and I totally didn't copy.." Riiiight you didn't copy. Tell that to the teacher who gives you an A because he thinks it's your work. HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT???????????
aHHHHHH blogs.

The Riddle of Poetry

I wasn't originally sure what to make of this particular piece of writing...was it actually intended to be spoken rather than written? If indeed it was originally formatted to be a lecture and read aloud, I would like to hear this lecture. I find the emphasis of an authors voice is sometimes just as important as the words he/she wrote themselves. In any event, I was stuck (of course) by the "obvious" assumption that poetry is mainly for enjoyment, whether as you write it or as you read it. Many people seem to skip over this tiny detail, the one that states how poetry is not meant to be a death sentence or a labyrinth of mixed meaning, but rather a form of art to be enjoyed and explored. The author of this, however, seems painfully aware. I liked how he mentioned poems, or any writing really, was just a "set of dead symbols" (4). I'm sure I have thought of words in that way, how only certain people of that language can find meaning in those words, but dead symbols? I like it. It gives rise to the thought that with proper attention, care, and understanding, they might find life. And, of course, the author follows up on his point, referencing these very dead symbols as springing to life, "we have a resurrection of the word" (4).
I like to believe that everyone takes from a given poem what I take from it, but this is sickeningly unrealistic. He makes a good point though, one which I have almost based my life on; you get out of something what you put into it. I am a firm believer in this; you can ask any acquaintance and I should hope they would concur that I indeed am the type to live by this. I also like to consider myself somewhat of an optimist about certain things, which is why I also was moved by the idea of the world overflowing with beauty. However terrible this world may be, I seem to think there is always some dash of beauty.
But you know what really got me? Two things really. The river and the colors. I'll explain. The river, he says, is always moving and so are the people, growing, breathing, changing, and so naturally one cannot step into the exact same river twice. You see, he would have to be unchanged and so too the river, and how could this be? It simply cannot due to time elapsing and natural processes, but it's a crazy thought, isn't it? Perhaps my favorite was the colors though. I've always had a thing for colors, and when they were referenced I instantly felt that twinge of excitement, the one you get when you recognize a friend in the cafeteria after having eaten alone for the past twenty minutes. A happy recognition, really, but also and excited can't wait to talk recognition too. The author says we know poetry, but it is indefinable to us because we know it. Like, for instance, "we cannot define the taste of coffee, the color red or yellow, or the meaning of anger, of love, of hatred, of the sunrise, of the sunset, or of our love for our country" (18). The last bit got me too, but I was pulled in by the color. It is a true statement too; imagine descibing the color green to a blind person. It is impossible because we know is so well and he does not, nor will ever. And anger and love and hate, these are feelings we feel but cannot teach in any way other than to exhibit it ourselves and let others mimic. Defining patriotism? For me, it is impossible to truly define it because it is so deep and powerful within me that I cannot find words enough to express it. And, even if I could, how could I expect another to understand when they have never felt it themselves? I suppose poetry is like that. It hits you somewhere you can't explain and it can be wonderful and deep and sad but also indefinable. Maddeningly so.

The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World

For some reason, once I had started reading this story, I had to see it all the way through. I think it's Marquez's writing style that makes it hard for me to put it down. What i found most interesting was how he was able to keep my attention, even though the story has no real plot or clear point. I suppose you take from it what you want to take from it.
The description of Esteban, the dead man, was also quite fascinating. His size is still hard to fathom but I can picture a massive human being's body washing up on shore, being mistaken for some kind of a whale, and that is borderline scary. I would have been intimidated, and yet, Marquez seems to descibe his features as soft, and that too interested me. The villiage was so inpired by him, even though they never knew him alive, which just goes to show the impact his presense had on the people. I was glad they didn't let his body sink; I think that would have been wrong. After all, he did seem kind of magical anyway, so why not lay him to rest with the mermaids and other such mystical sea creatures? I now want to read more of Marquez's work...