Essay 4 Revised.

Asbury Park

By: Stephen Mesa

I park my car on the corner of Second Avenue, about a block away from the beach and the boardwalk because now they have numbers on all the spots closer to the waterfront so you have to pay the meter in order to park there. It never used to be like this. I used to park here for free and I’m sure not going to pay to park here now. So I park a little further, past Kingsley Street where the numbers stop and the parking is free and always available. This is my usual spot. Right in front a cozy little yellow house with white shutters. It would be perfect for a small family of four, except its abandoned and boarded up. I often wonder what happened to the tenants who lived here and fantasize about one day buying it for cheap, since it is condemned, and fixing it up so I could raise my family a block away from the beach. But the yard of this house is full of big chunks of cement from the remains of a demolished building, I assume, and it wouldn’t be very forgiving for kids to play upon. Many of the houses in this area are in the same condition. The majority of them are big old Victorian houses that look like they were probably gorgeous in their prime but now they are run down, dilapidated and now abandoned or condemned and boarded up. Every couple houses you come across one that was restored though. They tend to all look the same. Giant, beautiful, quaint architecture with pastel colored beams and shutters, plenty of flowers adorning the yard and a rainbow flag flying waving off the front porch. They all moved here a couple years ago and started pumping money into the community, saying they’re gonna bring back the “glory days” of Asbury Park. They always say that about this place, but every time they try it never quite makes it back.
During these “glory days” they speak of it was thriving shore town. A merry go round on Kingsley Street, was one of the earliest attractions the city had to offer. It was called the Palace Amusement Complex and many wealthy Families from New York used to come spend their summer weekends in accompanying high rise hotels. Now, as I walk across Kingsley, there is no traffic to heed, and the light at the intersection just blinks yellow, instead of turning red and green like most lights do, since the street now doesn’t get nearly as many cars passing through as it used to and the amusement park and many hotels have long since been torn down.
I walk on the grass past the back of the Stone Pony. “Bruce Springsteen used to play here” they say. This is where he got is his big break, that’s the Stone Pony’s claim to fame. Now when you walk by, through the ever empty parking lot, all you can hear is dissonance blaring through the walls from the local punk rock bands playing inside. There’s always some sort of battle of the bands going on here, or a Motor head cover band playing inside while there’s five Harleys parked out front. The summer stage is still up, though it is late November. They have their “summer concert series” outside here in the back parking lot and they make sure that everybody is aware of it by putting signs, posters and billboards all over the city advertising it since it is one of the few things still going on in the city.
I cross Ocean Avenue, the board walk is my horizon. On the other side is the ocean. I can hear the waves crashing already from where I stand and as I draw nearer the board walk I hear the sound of a lone percussionist drumming cadences in hopes to draw some generosity from the hearts and pockets of the passers by. He is surprisingly talented for a kid with a Mohawk I think to myself as a man sits next to him on a bench shouting inaudible nonsense along with his music for some reason. The man has on tan, grease stained overalls. He has long grey stringy hair and a tired face with the expression of a sad pug and skin that resembled a used baseball glove. I would’ve dropped a dollar in the kid’s bucket if I wasn’t so intimidated by the obvious case of substance abuse induced dementia sitting next to him.
After examining the pair for a moment I turn my attention to the ocean in front of me. The sea is a cold color grey, mirroring the sky above. The storm had only passed this morning. I was hoping it would bring more significant sized swells than this. Disappointed by the conditions of the waves off the usual jetty I surf, I decide to take a walk up and down the boardwalk and check some other spots in search of maybe a more appealing break.
To my right is what remains of the Casino that used to be one of the main attractions the city had to offer during its hay day. I could imagine it during the roaring 20’s as I’ve only seen it in pictures. Women with feathers in their short curly hair and pearls around their necks, long frilly dresses showing a little bit of leg at the bottom, sitting next to their men with their pin stripped suits and matching hats, smoking cigars and gambling away their wealth. If only they knew what was to come next.
The great depression wasn’t kind to Asbury Park and business moved to other shore towns with newer bigger board walks like Seaside Heights, Atlantic City and Wild Wood. The Casino was shut down along with many of the cities other attractions. Years later that they put a Skate park in the building, this was my first impression of it and why I first started coming to this place. But I only got to enjoy it for maybe a year before they shut it down and boarded up the building entirely, though they left some ride able remains of ramps inside and kids would break in through windows or pry off boards to get in and skate them.
Now a walkway through the old Casino building has been opened up, allowing the boardwalk to continue on into the neighboring town, a private community known as Ocean Grove, which had long since been blocked off to pedestrian traffic and the residents of Asbury. This opening of the walkway in 2005 was meant to kick-off the revitalization of the city’s boardwalk and it was around that same time that many commercial plots along the boardwalk, that had long since been vacant, opened up as new restaurants, shops and attractions. It was right around this time that they installed the parking meters as well.
Adjacent to the casino, a new, high scale, Italian restaurant with maroon settings on the tables outside appears void of customers and a miserable young blonde hostess gives me an awkward smile as I pass by. The ice cream shop next door to it is closed for the off season but the next place I pass shows plenty of signs of life. It is The Empress Hotel, complete with a bar and lounge in the lobby and rainbow lights flashing along the side of it to draw attention.
As I continue up the boardwalk I begin to take notice to how very few people there are to keep me company, and there are even less people on the beach, probably because the weather is so inclement. I near the small water park just recently completed this year but already closed for the winter and a couple walks their dog past me. The one man wearing macro made jean shorts and the other has a receding hair line and a mustache. My opaque sunglasses disguise the fact that I am analyzing them. There are still several unoccupied retail spaces along the middle of the boardwalk and just on the other side of Ocean Avenue is the foundation for what were to be luxury condominiums that were never finished.
At the north end of the board walk, what used to be a Stewart’s and a Howard Johnson’s is now the Saltwater Beach Café. At least they left the uniquely shaped peaky roof, and orange spiral stair case that circles the building, making it a land mark of Asbury Park. Next to it are other famous structures that have endured through the times with the city such as the Wonder Bar. Painted on the building is the recognizable, grinning, cartoon character of Tillie, or as some call him “The Face of Asbury Park.”
Across a big open yard of grass stands the Berkley, One of The Cities oldest and most distinguished hotels. I remember first coming here as a youth to watch my favorite bands play in an annual concert series called the Warped Tour in the parking lot of this hotel, before the concerts were relocated to a different venue that was not so Asbury Park. The Berkley was where all the bands stayed the night. I still consult the flag perched atop the establishment to judge winds direction while surfing.
I am at the north end of the board walk now. Only one building separates me and this city from the wealthy private beach community of Loch Arbor on the other side. It is the Convention Hall; a staple structure and probably the cities most famous building. It is a magnificent old brick, palatial looking monument really, a relic still standing testament to the rich cultural history of Asbury Park. In it is The Paramount Theatre where they used to hold plays and musicals. This weekend there is going to be roller derby, apparently, according to the advertisements out front. As I am staring at the majestic building I hear a man playing blues guitar from inside. I watch his leathery looking fingers work the fret board as he sits on a bucket and pours his soul into the guitar. I am interrupted from my admiration by a homeless woman asking for change. She explains to me her name is Terry and she didn’t used to be homeless until her boyfriend pushed her in front of a train. Now she has a bad back and needs to get her fix, as she makes a smoking gesture with her hands. I give her a dollar and after another five minutes of rambling about nonsense she says “may God bless you” and we go our separate ways. I turn around and walk through the open gates of the Convention Center but not before I look up at the side of the building to a sign that caught my attention. I chuckle to myself quietly as I read the words “Greetings from Asbury Park!”

Course /Evaluation Reflection

Course Evaluation/Reflection

1. Meeting course objectives
Course objectives
Learn to recognize and use strategies & conventions commonly found in cnf including: reflection, segmentation, narrative voice, use of scenes, dialog, character development, and detailed description, movement between the subject at hand and a personal, reflective perspective focused on a concept
Develop an invention process based in writing
Develop/extend revising process
Explore different forms for CNF
Questions:
What did you learn in this course?
I learned about what creative non-fiction is, before this course I had no idea. I learned how to make a point by telling a story and not really coming out and shoving my point down the readers throat. I learned how to let the details and the descriptions do that for me subtly which is important in all literature, not just CNF.
About the form of CNF?
I learned that CNF should move back and forth between storytelling and reflection. They are often personal essays and it is good to tell it from multiple views to offer different perspectives.
What did you learn about how to write CNF?
I learned to keep my opinions and blatantly obvious statements out of the story and let the reader draw the conclusions from the story instead of telling them.
About where to publish/find publishing venues for your creative writing?
I just looked at all the ones you had listed on your blog and I found that fourth river would be an appropriate one for my work because of the subject matter.
Did you change anything /try anything different in your writing process? Please describe.
Certainly, I think I grew a lot in my writing skills over the course of this class. The first essay I really just told a story with no point. Then the second essay I told a story with a point but I made it way too obvious and came right out and said it. Then finally for my last essay I finally learned to do it just right by telling a story with vivid description of a place that drove home a point discretely and not too overtly and I think you agree.

Which class assignments/class experiences helped you learn whatever you learned?
I think the two most influential pieces I read in this class were George Orwell’s because his really showed the point and reflection in CNF and then reading Marvin Gardens showed me how to do that using only detail and not being as straight forward as orwell and that greatly impacted my last piece of work and I think, no exaggeration, made me a better writer and I will carry the things I learned in this class room with me for the rest of my life.

What do you wish the course spent more time on?
Honestly I cannot think of any particular thing. I think the course was conducted well and we spent a good amount of time on reading and writing and it was enough of each.


What do you wish we'd spent less time on?
The only thing I can think of is sometimes reading everyone’s journal entries out loud took a great duration of the class and then there was no time left for anything else. And it’s probably not your fault but some people just told really long boring stories that I was not interested in at all.

2. Structure of course/assignments
Assignements
Blogs- Honestly at first I thought that the use of the blogs was annoying because I am not a fan of technology or web enhanced classes. I tend to be old fashion. Though I was overwhelmed by the idea of a blog at first because I did not ever really understand what a blog was but not I do and they sort of grew on me but if I had the choice to have class with a blog or not I would still prefer blogless. Lol
readings
writing journal
writing assignments
exploration of publication venues
Questions:
Right pace/schedule?
Yes. I think the course moved at a good pace. Though, honestly, I’m feeling a little rushed and there seems to be a lot of work at the end such as the final draft, presentations and portfolio but that is typical of a college class for professors to unexpectedly run out of time and then try and jam everything left into the last minute.
Coherence of material?
I found the majority of the material pertinent, though some of it was a bit dry. The only one that I do not think was coherent was Montigaine, I have a hard time seeing that as CNF.

Workload => Too much, too little, just right? What would you change?
I felt like it was a little much at time. Especially keeping up with the blogs was pretty cumbersome, we had something to write for every class. It would be nice to not have any homework for once to be honest.
Cover material appropriate to course goals?
See coherence of materials.

Enough feedback for grades?
Definitely, I especially found the one on one conferences very helpful rather than just writing a few comments on a paper and handing it back the conferences were at more personal and we were able to have intellectual discussions that really helped point me in the right direction for revision.

3. Provisions for feedback/grades
Forms of evaluation + feedback
comments/grades for blogs
comments from classmates
reading aloud from journals + class discussion
conferences with professor on papers
group work with classmates on papers
written feedback/grades on papers
reflective writing about your work (in you journal, on your blog)
Questions:
Which form of feedback was most helpful? Like I said the conferences were incredibly helpful, though I thought it was a bit of a paint to take time out of my schedule to have to meet outside of class it turned out to be very productive and insightful.
Which did you enjoy most? I enjoyed group work. I always do.
Any which you felt was unproductive?> I never really paid much attention to my classmates feed back because when I did they mostly made broad statements that weren’t all that useful such as “I liked your story, it was good.” Guess they were just being nice and didn’t wanna criticize too much.
What would you do more of? I should’ve read more of my classmates work and participated more in class but social anxiety of paralyzes me from doing so.
What would you do less of? I don’t know. I think I did little enough. Lol
Did you feel the grading system was fair? Indeed , I especially like your concept you explained to us one day that you really like to grade on whether you think a student gets it at the end of the course rather than taking a cumulative average.
Did the grades/grading system contribute to learning? I think it really encouraged me to try and understand the material more so that if I got it I could get an A.

4. General response
Is there anything you could tell me that would help me teach a better/more engaging course?
I thought the course was very engaging. From the reading, to journal writing and reading to the group work with classmates and your own personal stories and feedback. It was a very friendly, intimate environment in which I really felt comfortable expressing myself creatively.

Anything you want to say about your experience of the course?
Overall I must say I really enjoyed the experience of taking this class, and I am glad I registered for it despite not knowing what it really was. I think everything happens for a reason and I learned a lot in taking this course and I feel like I learned some really key things about being a writer that I will carry with me forever. Such as using details to describe people places and things instead of just coming out and saying it, and I never realized it before this course but that is what all good authors do. I think I have learned to apply this well and my writing has improved greatly from the beginning of this course to the end and as I said I will carry the things I learned with me about writing in this class for the rest of my life, which I more than I can say about most of the English classes I’ve taken at this university.Thank you.

presentation summary

The Fourth River

About the Fourth River

The Fourth River welcomes submissions of creative writing that explore the relationship between humans and their environments, both natural and built, urban, rural or wild. We are looking for writings that are richly situated at the confluence of place, space and identity, or that reflect upon or make use of landscape and place in new ways. Nature and environmental writing that is edgy and provocative, that goes beyond traditional nature writing, and contributes to a new type of place-based writing has the best chance of finding a home in our journal.

Pittsburgh is situated at the confluence of three rivers: the Monongahela, Allegheny, and Ohio. A fourth underground river, unseeable but indispensable to the city’s riverine ecosystem, is one muse for our journal. As our founding editor, Jeffrey Thomson, wrote in first issue of The Fourth River, we are inspired by the notion that “between and beneath the visible framework of the human world and the built environment, there exist deeper currents of force and meaning supporting the very structure of that world."

Our second muse is Rachel Carson, Chatham’s most distinguished alum, who wrote, in “Design for Nature Writing”:

“... if we are true to the spirit of John Burroughs, or of Jeffries or Hudson or Thoreau, we are not imitators of them but—as they themselves were—we are pioneers in new areas of thought and knowledge. If we are true to them, we are the creators of a new type of literature as representative of our own day as was their own.”

Submissions

Contests

Our 2009 contests are now open for submissions (guidelines below).

Deadlines have passed for our two recent 2008 contests: The Fourth River Award for Poetry and The Fourth River Award for Creative Nonfiction. A big thanks to all who submitted. Winners will be chosen on March 31st, and announced on our website and in our newsletter soon thereafter.

Fourth River Award for Poetry 2009
Fourth River Award for Creative Nonfiction 2009

We are looking for poetry and creative nonfiction that capture the places—natural, built and imagined, urban, rural or wild—where humans and nature converge and collide.

First place winner in each category will be published in the Fourth River and will receive a $500 cash prize upon publication.

Contest judges to be announced.


Contest Guidelines

1. Submissions should be postmarked no later than October 15, 2009
2. Previously published works and works accepted for publication elsewhere are not eligible. Students, faculty and employees of Chatham University are not eligible.
3. Include a title page with your name, address, phone number and the title of your submission(s). Your name must not appear on the actual manuscript.
4. The reading fee is $5 for three poems or one essay (7,000 word maximum), and includes a copy of Issue 7. Please make checks payable to Chatham University. Multiple submissions are acceptable, but each submission must be accompanied by a reading fee. Manuscripts will not be returned.
(Please note: the reading fee does not apply to regular submissions.)
5. Send your submission, your reading fee and a self-addressed stamped envelope to:

The Fourth River
Chatham University
Woodland Road
Pittsburgh, PA 15232
Attention: Fourth River Award for (please insert genre here--Poetry or Nonfiction).


Submit Your Work

**Note: Submissions are now closed for both Issue 6 and the International Issue--no new submissions will be reviewed at this time. The International Issue is due for release in Fall 2009, and Issue 6 in Spring 2010.

The Fourth River will begin reading work for Issue 7 on August 1, 2009.


Submission Guidelines

In August, the Fourth River will be accepting nonfiction, short fiction, poetry, and young adult/children ’s writing (without illustration). Please send up to seven poems or up to 7,000 words of prose to the address below. Due to the volume of submissions we receive, we will recycle all the manuscripts we receive. Please do not send us your only copy.

No reading fee is required for submission to Issue 7. Accepted authors receive two contributor's copies of the journal.

* Include cover letter with name, address, phone number, email contact, and titles of enclosed work.
* All manuscripts must include a SASE for response to be considered.
* No e-mail submissions accepted.
* Kindly let us know if you are submitting simultaneously, and inform us if your work is accepted elsewhere.
* Reading Period (for standard issues): August 1 – February 15

Submission Address

The Fourth River
Chatham University
Woodland Road
Pittsburgh, PA 15232

Essay 4

Asbury Park

By: Stephen Mesa

I park my car on the corner of Second Avenue about a block away from the beach and the boardwalk because now they have numbers on all the spots closer to the waterfront so you have to pay the meter in order to park there. It never used to be like this. I used to park here for free and I’m sure not going to pay to park here now so I park a little further, past Kingsley Street where the numbers stop and the parking is free and always available. This is my usual spot. Right in front a cozy little yellow house with white shutters. It would be perfect for a small family of four, except its abandoned and boarded up. I often wonder what happened to the tenants who lived here and fantasize about one day buying it for cheap, since it is condemned and fixing it up so I could raise my family a block away from the beach. But the yard of this house is full of big chunks of cement from the remains of a demolished building I assume and it wouldn’t be very forgiving for kids to play upon. Many of the houses in this area are in the same condition. The majority of them big old Victorian houses that look like they were probably gorgeous in their prime but now they are run down dilapidated and now abandoned or condemned and boarded up. Every couple houses though you come across one that was restored. They tend to all look the same. Big, beautiful, Victorian style architecture with pastel colored beams and shutters, plenty of flowers adorning the yard and a rainbow flag flying waving in front off the porch. They moved all moved here a couple years ago and started pumping money into the community, saying they’re gonna bring back the “glory days” of Asbury Park.
During these “glory days” they speak of it was thriving shore town. A merry go round on Kingsley Street, was one of the earliest attractions the city had to offer. It was called the Palace Amusement Complex and many wealthy Families from New York used to come spend their summer weekends in accompanying high rise hotels. Now, as I walk across Kingsley, there is no traffic to heed, and the light at the intersection just blinks yellow, instead of turning red and green like most lights do, since the street now doesn’t get nearly as many cars passing through as it used to and the amusement park and many of the accompanying hotels have long since been torn down,
I walk on the grass past the back of the Stone Pony. “Bruce Springsteen used to play here” they say. This is where he got is his big break, that’s the Stone Pony’s claim to fame. Now when you walk by, through the ever empty parking lot, all you can hear is dissonance blaring through the walls from the local punk rock bands playing inside. There’s always some sort of battle of the bands going on here, or a Motor head cover band playing inside while there’s five Harleys parked out front. The summer stage is still up, though it’s November. They have their “summer concert series” outside here in the back parking lot and they make sure that everybody is aware of it by putting signs, posters and billboards all over the city advertising it since it is one of the few things still going on in the city.
I cross Ocean Avenue, the board walk is my horizon. On the other side is the ocean. I can hear the waves crashing already from where I stand and as I draw nearer the board walk I hear the sound of a lone percussionist drumming cadences in hopes to draw some generosity from the hearts and pockets of the passers by. He is surprisingly talented for a kid with a Mohawk I think to myself as a man sits next to him on a bench shouting inaudible nonsense along with his music for some reason. The man has on tan, grease stained overalls. He has long grey stringy hair and a tired face with the expression of a sad pug and skin that resembled a used baseball glove. I would’ve dropped a dollar in the kid’s bucket if I wasn’t so intimidated by the obvious case of substance abuse induced dementia sitting next to him.
After examining the pair for a moment I turn my attention to the ocean in front of me. The sea is a cold color grey, mirroring the sky above. The storm had only passed this morning. I was hoping it would bring more significant sized swells than this. Disappointed by the conditions of the waves off the usual jetty I surf near, I decide to take a walk up and down the boardwalk and check some other spots in search of maybe a more appealing break.
To my right is what remains of the Casino that used to be one of the main attractions the city had to offer during its hay day. I could imagine it during the roaring 20’s as I’ve only seen it in pictures. Women with feathers in their short curly hair and pearls around their necks, long frilly dresses showing a little bit of leg at the bottom sitting next to their men with their pin stripped suits and matching hats, smoking cigars and gambling away their wealth. If only they knew what was to come next.
The great depression wasn’t kind to Asbury Park and the Casino was shut down along with many of the cities other attractions. Years later that they put a Skate park in the building, this was my first impression of it and why I first started coming to this place. But I only got to enjoy it for maybe a year before they shut it down and boarded up the building entirely, though they left some ride able remains of ramps inside and kids would break in through windows or pry off boards to get in and skate them.
Now a walkway through the old Casino building has been opened up, allowing the boardwalk to continue on into the neighboring town, a private community known as Ocean Grove, which had long since been blocked off to pedestrian traffic and the residents of Asbury. This opening of the walkway in 2005 was meant to kick-off the revitalization of the cities boardwalk and it was around that same time that many commercial plots along the boardwalk, that had long since been vacant, opened up as new restaurants, shops and attractions. It was right around this time that they installed the parking meters as well.
Adjacent to the casino, a new, high scale, Italian restaurant with maroon settings on the tables outside appears void of customers and a miserable young blonde hostess gives me an awkward smile as I pass by. The ice cream shop next door to it is closed for the off season but the next place I pass shows plenty of signs of life. It is The Empress Hotel, complete with a bar and lounge in the lobby and rainbow lights flashing along the side of it to draw attention.
As I continue up the boardwalk I begin to take notice to how very few people there are to keep me company, and there are even less people on the beach, probably because the weather is so inclement. I near the small water park just recently completed this year but already closed for the winter and a couple walks their dog past me. The one man wearing macro made jean shorts and the other has a receding hair line and a mustache. My opaque sunglasses disguise the fact that I am analyzing them. There are still several unoccupied retail spaces along the middle of the boardwalk and just on the other side of Ocean Avenue is the foundation for what were to be luxury condominiums that were never finished.
At the north end of the board walk, what used to be a Stewart’s and a Howard Johnson’s is now the Saltwater Beach Café. At least they left the uniquely shaped peaky roof, and orange spiral stair case that circles the building, making it a land mark of Asbury Park. Next to it are other famous structures that have endured through the times with the city such as the Wonder Bar. Painted on the building is the recognizable, grinning, cartoon character of Tillie, or as some call him “The Face of Asbury Park.”
Across a big open yard of grass stands the Berkley, One of The Cities oldest and most distinguished hotels. I remember first coming here as a youth to watch my favorite bands play in an annual concert series called the Warped Tour, in the parking lot of this hotel, before the concerts were relocated to a different venue that was not so Asbury Park. The Berkley was all the bands stayed the night. I still consult the flag perched atop the establishment to judge winds direction while surfing.
I am at the north end of the board walk now. Only one building separates me and this city from the wealthy private beach community of Loch Arbor on the other side. It is the Convention Hall, a staple structure and probably the cities most famous building. It’s a magnificent looking old brick, palatial looking monument really, a relic still standing testament to the rich cultural history of Asbury Park. In it is The Paramount Theatre where they used to hold plays and musicals. This weekend there is going to be roller derby apparently. As I am staring at the majestic building I hear a man playing blues guitar from inside. I watch his leathery looking fingers work the fret board as he sits on a bucket and pours his soul into the guitar. I am interrupted from my admiration by a homeless woman asking for change. She explains to me her name is Terry and she didn’t used to be homeless until her boyfriend pushed her in front of a train. Now she has a bad back and needs to get her fix, as she makes a smoking gesture with her hands. I give her a dollar and after another five minutes of rambling and her wishing blessing from God upon me we go our own ways. I turn around and walk through the open gates of the Convention Center but not before I look up at the side of the building to a sign that caught my attention. I chuckle to myself quietly as I read the words “Greetings from Asbury Park!”

Blog 18 describe a place and make a point without saying it

The sun is shining. I walk up through the green and flowery dunes to see the oceans waves are big, clean and peeling perfectly right off the pier.
The beach is uncrowded except for a couple other surfers. Tucked away behind mansions in a little shore town that nobody really knows about besides the rich inhabitants of these estates from that are never even at these palatial homes with the exception of a few summers out of the summer. The ocean a clear greenish color. A secluded paradise in New Jersey, all to myself and my friends behind the vacant summer homes of rich Syrian Jewish doctors, accountants and investment bankers from new york. I park my car and get changed in front of a huge house that must cost millions of dollars. There are no cars in the drive way. You see more Mexicans mowing lawns in the neighborhood than people actually living in it. I grab my surfboard run onto the beach, passing a sign that reads "cation unprotected beach, no lifeguards, no swimming" and I go and enjoy the peace of an empty beach and vast ocean all to myself as the sun is rising and the waves are breaking, I wonder what that same sunrise looks like from an office building in the city.

Blog 17- Draft essay 3- objected oriented cnf

MY SKATEBOARD

My skateboard is my best friend. Better than that my skateboard is like my girlfriend. No, my skateboard is my companion. There it is. There is the right word, for it is always there to keep me company. When I am feeling lonely, it is my skateboard that I call upon to spend the day with. When it is a nice day out, we go down to the park and pass the time together. I always have fun with my skateboard. When I am on it I forget about everything. It helps me get away. My mind just goes blank for a couple of hours and the weight of the world is lifted off my shoulders as I rest my weight on it.
My skateboard is always with me. It has been ever since I was 5 years old and was first introduced to it. Though others may come and go, my skateboard is my life partner. It has always been there for me and I know it always will be. My skateboard will never leave me for another guy, or start doing drugs and going to parties with pretentious hipsters in New Brunswick and stop calling me because it thinks it is too cool for me now. A skateboard never has plans. He is always down to do whatever I'm doing and go wherever I'm going.
In fact my skateboard doesnt have to call. Its cool, we just have that sort of relationship where I know its always there. Its at the foot of my bed as I sleep at night, and in the passenger seat of my car when I am driving. It gives me a ride to class, so I never have to walk on my bad ankle when I am on campus. On a rainy day, if a professor sees me around without my skateboard they always make an inquiry as to where it is because I am seldom seen without it.
It has become a part of me, a part of my identity. I'm that kid in class with the skateboard. In fact I'm sure those of you in class who may read this may not even recognize my face or my name but could tell who wrote this as soon as you saw the title because I always have my skateboard with me.
My skateboard has never done anything bad to me. It has never lied to me or hurt me. Sure some say things like, when you fall doesn't it hurt? Indeed it does, but that is not the skateboards fault. It is my own. Most of the time because I am trying to go beyond my or the skateboards limits.
Sometimes I may even break my skateboard, but it forgives me. I get a new one and get used to it and we are happy together once again.
I know you may think that this is silly and some may not be able to understand how I could have such a strong bond with an inanimate object but most of you have probably never skateboarded. Who needs friends, as long as I have my skateboard I shall never have to go through this life alone and I know it will always be there by my side, which is more than I can say for any human being I have ever met.

Blog 16- Proposed focus for object oriented cnf

At first i was thinking about writing about the ocean, but nothing that good was coming to me, then i was going to write about a tattoo/ cd story, but the story was someone else and not mine and i dont feel i could really tell it well from a third person perspective without losing alot of the emotion. I was having alot of trouble with this until it just recently hit me. I am going to write about my closest companion... my skateboard. For my skateboard is almost always with me and is sort of like my life partner as others come and go. it is definitely the inanimate object that i have the strongest bond with so i am going to write my story about that. may seem stupid but hopefully through my examples it wont seem so and people will understand. Any feed back is appreciated

Blog 15 Final Draft 1- Justice (revised)

Justice (revised) By: Stephen Mesa
When they showed up at my house they asked me if I knew what they were there for. A trick cops always try to play when they pull you over or interrogate you. They try to get you to admit what you did wrong and incriminate yourself because they actually know little. But I knew better than that. So I said no, though I actually knew exactly why they were there, but the thing is I didn’t know how much they actually knew, and I wasn’t about to tell them anymore.
“We just want to ask you some questions about your phone. How bout’ you come down to the police station with us and we’ll talk.”
You see about a week earlier I had dropped my phone by accident at the bar that I had been working at, at that time, and I must not have noticed. But an off duty cop, who frequented the bar, certainly did, and he picked it up. I spent the rest of my shift searching the bar for my phone. I made an announcement over the P.A. that it was missing, and asked everyone at the bar if they had seen a phone, including him. But instead of doing what most people would do and returning the lost property to rightful owner he decided to open it up and look through my pictures, totally unwarranted, and invading my privacy. That is when he discovered several pictures of graffiti and decided to turn my phone off, because I was calling it, of course, to try and find it. After that he got in his car like he did every night after drinking at the bar and drove it over to the police station to brag to the other boys about what he had “found.” I’m sure he tried to justify his actions in his own mind by telling himself that I am a criminal and I deserve to be prosecuted. I’m sure in his mind he considered it bringing me to justice, not stealing my phone. But what is justice? Some define it as fairness. A wise woman once said to me that if you expect any sort of fairness in this world you are just going to end up really disappointed.
“Before you guys ask me any questions shouldn’t I have a lawyer present?” I didn’t want to answer any questions or tell them anything. I knew my rights and I certainly wasn’t going to. “And also can I have my phone back? I’m pretty sure you guys aren’t allowed to just take my phone like that. I’m going to call a lawyer and find out and get it back” were all the things that I told them.
It was at this point they got really aggravated and went from good cop to bad cop mode because I wasn’t cooperating with them. “Oh you wanna be a wise guy, huh? You wanna play hardball? We can play hardball too. Fine go get a lawyer and well get a search warrant for your phone your house and your car and were officially opening up an investigation on you. I’m sure we’ll see you very soon” were all things that they said.
So they went through my phone and questioned my friends, but not before I got in contact with them and told them what was going down. Not only did I tell them the cops took my phone, and came to my house and tried to coerce me into talking about the pictures of graffiti on it, most of which were done by them. I also gave them advice on how to handle it when the cops came and questioned them. I told my friends not to talk to the cops and that they didn’t have to tell them anything besides their names without having a lawyer present. Just decline to be interviewed I told them.
The first person they interviewed was my friend Dan. He told me that he didn’t tell them anything but he also told me that he was in the interrogation room for 3 whole hours. He told me that they brought him to the point of tears. Though he said that he didn’t rat on me he told me that he did tell them he knew I was into graffiti and painted sometimes at art shows but didn’t know if I did it on the streets or not. Up to that point they didn’t even know I painted, they just knew I had pictures of it on my phone and wanted to find out why. So after Dan they had their leads to go upon, and they did.
The next person they interrogated was his friend, a graffiti writer who used to write “meows.” He always had this queer obsession with cats. He swears that he never told them anything but the police report says “a good citizen informant who chose to remain anonymous because of his friendship with me” gave them information.
After that the interrogations stopped.
They came and got one day after I was leaving band practice with the very same kids I just spoke of. They pulled me over and when I asked why they said there was a warrant out for my arrest. They searched me, cuffed me, impounded my car, and took me to the police station. They never read me my rights, guess they figured I already knew them.
When at the police station they laid out 27 documents on a table in front of me. “Do you know what those are?” they asked rhetorically. “Those are the charges you’re facing, all 27 of them.” They smiled smugly as they told me and were even more elated, it seemed, to tell me the amount of my bail, twenty seven thousand dollars, a thousand for each account. “Are you sure you still don’t want to talk” they asked me but I just shook my head no like I did every time they asked me a question.
And that’s when they told me “Did you tell him the best news of all yet?” I remember one pompous officer asking the other. See cops have a way of trying to belittle you when you get arrested, I don’t know if it’s to try and make you feel worse or to make themselves feel better. But the news was that they had also arrested my friend Mike earlier that day, he was running around writing cryptic phrases that began with the word “because” so that became what they referred to him as. He was the big fish that they were really trying to catch because his graffiti was unsightly, anti-social, and causing quite a stir in our quiet little suburban town.
They booked me and brought me to Middlesex County Jail, all the while teasing me about how I was going to get raped. I spent the night in a cell no bigger than a closet with two other men. They occupied the bunk beds so I slept on the cold, hard concrete floor. Other than the bunk beds in the room there was nothing but a toilet. No clock, no calendar, no television, no windows, no phone, no pencil and paper. Nothing to do except sit around and wonder what time it was, or what day it was, or what everyone you loved was doing outside of that cell. It was mental torture. Thankfully my parents came and bailed me out in the morning before I had to spend 23 out of 24 hours a day in that cell as they do. I honestly don’t know how they pass the time in there but it was enough for me to know that I never want to go back to find out.
It was after this that I got a lawyer, a very expensive, reputable one at that. Maybe too high class for this case as I look back on it now, at the time I thought it was a good idea to get a high priced lawyer because I thought that the more you pay the better they are but I soon learned that that was not the case at all. My lawyer had better things to do than worry about this petty little graffiti case. I wanted to fight it; he did not by any means. All he wanted to do was settle for a plea bargain. I told him about the illegal search and seizure of my phone and all he kept saying was that it was their word against mine and its best that I just don’t try and fight it because I will not win. But it was not my job to fight it, it was his and he just did not want to do it. Up until a day or two before the trial it seemed like there was little to no real evidence against me. For the longest time all I knew they had was a phone with pictures of graffiti and I still didn’t understand how they were able to arrest me for that. But before the trial they have to give your lawyer something that is called a “discovery” which is all the evidence they have against you so that the lawyer can prepare your defense. It was in this discovery that I found my friend Mike ratted on me. He had been my friend since 5 yrs old. We used to play soccer together, we grew up skateboarding together, and we were in a band together. He was like a brother to me. And I could have easily ratted on him to save my own tail because he was the one that they really wanted but I didn’t.
When it came to trial he didn’t even end up saving his own tail. He admitted that he did graffiti and that was the “because” artist and that I was “Meds” and because of his cooperation he really didn’t get off any easier than I did. We both got the same charges, fines and community service when we went to court and they only difference is he didn’t have to spend that night in jail and make bail because of that deal he cut with the police. So that’s what he got, he saved 2700 in bail money but he lost a friend.
So in the end I’m sure that everyone thinks that justice was served. I’m sure that cop thinks that taking my phone and turning it in was the right thing to do. I’m sure that Mike somehow tries to justify snitching on me in his head by saying that he just couldn’t go to jail or he just couldn’t afford that money, which is what the apology letter he wrote to me said. And I’m sure that my lawyer thinks that justice was served because I actually did the crime and I was convicted of it and he got his money and everyone was happy. I guess I got what I deserved, I did the crime and did the time but I still haven’t seen these other criminals and crooks get what they deserve and I fail to see the justice and or fairness in that.

Blog 14- Write about a photograph

This may seem very similar to my last blog and thats cuz the topics are similar, but only this one has to do with a photograph and not tickets. For this one i dug into that box i referred to in my last blog and dug out some pictures of me and nicole, only this was far more painful than just looking at tickets and remembering because these we actual photos and i have to see her face. But also i am going to bring a photo of the ocean, that i keep hung up on my wall, to class. This picture is the ocean with a large set of waves coming. This photo is my happy place in my mind, its where i go whenenver i am down, i just close my eyes and i am there and all the calamity in my mind ceases and it is just me and the waves. I want to use the ocean and the waves as an allegory for life because the ocean is so vast and you never know whats coming your way but if u miss one wave, or one girl, you can be sure that there is always another one behind it. It may not be as good, or it may even be bigger, or you may have to wait a while before another one comes. Sometimes u may not even go on that wave that looked good because your afraid to get hurt and so on and so forth if you see where im going with this. This is what i plan to write my next paper on since it is object oriented creative non fiction.

Blog 13- look in your closet ...

Its funny that this should be an assignment at this point in my life because i actually just recently cleaned out my closet, both in the literal and figurative sense of the word. You see at 22 yrs old i just started feeling like i had accumulated alot of crap, materially, physically and spiritually and i felt like i really need to purge all this superfluous baggage that weighing me down. So the other month i tore all the posters off my wall(which was covered entirely in posters) and i cleaned out everything from the past and painted it blue. Then i put back only the necessary items. All the old pictures, ticket stubs, and memorabilia i was holding onto from the past i either threw in a box or the garbage, but for the most part the garbage because i wanted to forget about it all. But the funny thing is, tho i thought i covered all grounds and was rid of all that stuff i still find little things popping up every now and then. For example i was going through my laptop bag last night, which i dont often use, because i was looking for my flash drive and thats when i came across two really old concert tickets from the band that i used to play in. Just seeing those tickets was a rush of nostalgia, it immediately brought me back to happier times, happier times that have now ended and it makes me sad to reflect upon them and think about my loss and thats why i had purposely cleaned out my room in order to avoid seeing stuff like that. What may seem to anybody else to just be two ticket stubs to a rock concert meant so much more to me. There were so many memories tied to those two little pieces of paper. The memories of my old band, which has since broken up. My old friends that i used to be in the band with. They were my best friends then and we dont even talk anymore. And worst of all the memory of a pretty little girl named nicole that used to come to every last one of our shows. She was the best girlfriend i ever had, so loyal, she was at every single show for the three years we dated and then right around the time that the band broke up, she left me too. its funny how those two things happened at once, I lost all my friends and the love of my life almost simultaneously and in less than one week i went from having evertything and being the happiest kid youd ever meet to having nothing, no one, and becoming probably the loneliest and most depressing man you will ever meet. i took the tickets and threw them in the box that i keep tucked away, which is full of similar old tickets and pictures of my band and of nicole and memories of happier times that are good for nothing now but haunting me.

blog 12- which essay to revise

I plan to revise my second essay because i think that it is the better of the two. I think that is has a sharper focus and will be easier to refine where as my first essay is kinda all over the place and sorta just a story with no one clear point. As for how i will revise it, i will probably shorten it a little and leave only the pertinent details because the draft is kind of long because when i was writing i was really just flowing and getting my ideas onto paper but i know that it could use some editing and i think that i am going to have to take my obviously asserted opinions out of there because i know i really drove them in there blatantly but the other class you said that we should work and letting the story itself do that without necessarily coming out and saying it ourselves to drive it into the readers skull so i think i may have to work on being more subtle and disusing my meaning in the story instead of being so forward.

blog 11 draft 2

Justice

By: Stephen Mesa

When they showed up at my house they asked me if I knew what they were there for. A trick cops always try to play when they pull you over or interrogate you, they try to get you to admit what you did wrong and incriminate yourself because they actually know little to nothing. But I know better than that. I’m smarter than them. So I said no. Though I actually knew exactly why they were there, but the thing is I didn’t know how much they actually knew, and I wasn’t about to tell them anymore.

“We just want to ask you some questions about your phone… how bout’ you come down to the police station with us and we’ll talk.”

You see about a week earlier I had dropped my phone at the bar that I worked at by accident and I must not have noticed. But an off duty cop, who spent the majority of his time off at this very bar drinking and stuffing his fat face to oblivion, certainly did and he picked it up. I spent the rest of my shift searching the bar for my phone. I made an announcement over the P.A. that it was missing, and asked everyone at the bar if they had seen a phone, including him. But instead of doing what any decent human being would do and returning the lost property to rightful owner he decided to open it up and look through my pictures, without a warrant might I add, which is total illegal search and seizure since he is a cop and even if he wasn’t it would still be a total invasion of my privacy, and that is when he discovered several pictures of graffiti so that’s when he decided to turn my phone off, because I was calling it, of course, to try and find it, and then get his fat drunk ass in his car and drive it over to the police station to brag to the other boys about what he had stolen/ “found.” I’m sure he tried to justify his actions in his own mind by telling himself that I am a criminal and a scumbag and I deserve to be prosecuted but if you ask me he is the criminal for blatantly steeling my phone. I’m sure in his mind he though he was bringing me to justice. But what is justice? Some define it as fairness, and I don’t think that situation was very fair at all. In fact I think it was pretty fucked.

“Before you guys ask me any questions shouldn’t I have a lawyer present?” I didn’t wanna answer any questions or tell them anything and I knew my rights and I certainly wasn’t going to. “And also can I have my phone back? I’m pretty sure you guys aren’t allowed to just take my phone like that. I’m going to call a lawyer and find out and get it back.” Were all things that I told them.

It was at this point they got really aggravated and went from pretending to be nice guys to the assholes that they really are because I wasn’t cooperating with them. “Oh you wanna be a wise guy, huh? You wanna play hardball? We can play hardball too. Fine go get a lawyer and well get a search warrant for your phone your house and your car and were officially opening up an investigation on you. I’m sure we’ll see you very soon.” Were all things that they said. They were like little children who weren’t getting what they wanted and weren’t used to it. Getting angry and stomping their feet, trying to yell and force me into getting their way. But they weren’t going to and they never did. I never talked. I never even gave them the chance to ask me any questions. I knew better than to incriminate myself or anybody else. I knew my rights. I was smarter than your average criminal.

So they went through my phone, without a warrant once again might I add, because at this point they both told me they had gone through my phone and seen the pictures and then after that they told me they were gonna get a warrant to go through it. Self contradicting morons, cops always do that because they lie in order to try and get to the truth and don’t realize that they make themselves look like idiots to the people who actually know what going on. So anyway they went through my phone and questioned my friends, or at least the people that I thought were my friends at the time. But not before I got in contact with them and told them what was going down. Not only did I tell them the cops stole my phone, and came to my house and tried to coerce me into talking about the pictures of graffiti on it, most of which were done by them and I but I also gave them advice on how to handle it when the cops came and questioned them, because I knew they would. I told my friends not to talk to the cops and that they didn’t have to. They didn’t have to tell them anything besides their names without having a lawyer present. Just decline to be interviewed I told them and don’t listen to them when they say they know things because they don’t. Just keep your mouth shut and if you tell them anything tell them to go away. But of course they didn’t listen. They let the cops intimidate them. They weren’t as smart as me. They didn’t know the law the like I did. And they didn’t have the stones that I did. They just gave in and talked to the police like the stupid spineless cowards that they are.

The first person they interviewed was my friend Dan. I don’t know exactly what they said but I know he was in the interrogation room for three hours. He told me that he didn’t tell them anything but I know that you do not sit there for three hours in silence. He told me that they brought him to the point of tears; I know that one does not get that emotionally worked up without saying something. Though he says he didn’t rat on me and I don’t know whether I believe it or not he still told them too much. He said that he told them he knew I was into graffiti and painted sometimes at art shows but didn’t know if I did it on the streets or not, which was still too much information to be giving out because at that point they didn’t even know I painted, they just knew I had pictures of it on my phone and wanted to find out why. So after Dan opened up his big mouth and dropped other people’s names they had their leads to go upon.

And they did. They person they interrogated was his friend, I say his friend because he was not mine. I never really liked the kid for several reasons, mostly because they were starting to replace me with him in the crew and I really just didn’t like his personality at all. Anyway this kid was a graffiti writer who used to write “meows” don’t ask me why but he always had this queer obsession with cats. He swears that he never told them anything but the police report says one of my friends ratted on us and chose to remain anonymous so it was either him or Dan and all I know is that after him they didn’t further question anybody else, probably because they got what they needed.

They came and got one day after I was leaving band practice with the very same kids I just spoke of. They pulled me over for no good reason and said there was a warrant out for my arrest. Cuffed me, impounded my car, and took me to the police station. They never read me my rights, guess they figured I already knew them.

When at the police station they laid out 27 documents on a table in front of me. “Do you know what those are?” they asked rhetorically. “Those are the charges you’re facing, all 27 of them.” They smiled smugly as they told me and were even more elated it seemed to tell me the amount of my bail, 27,000 dollars, a thousand for each account. “Are you sure you still don’t want to talk” they asked me. I guess trying to scare me with all these big numbers, they were trying to make some sort of deal with me but I wasn’t scared, and I still wasn’t going to incriminate myself or my friends and I certainly wasn’t going to make any deals with no cops.

And that’s when they told me the best news. “Did you tell him the best news of all yet?” I remember one pompous officer asking the other. See cops have a way of trying to belittle you when you get arrested, I don’t know if it’s to try and make you feel worse or to make themselves feel better, probably both. But the news was that they had also arrested my friend Mike earlier that day, he was running around writing cryptic phrases that began with the word “because” so that became what they referred to him as. He was the big fish that they were really trying to catch because his graffiti was just unsightly, anti social and causing quite a stir in their quiet little suburban town. “Do you know anything about him?” they asked me. I don’t know if you noticed but there aren’t a lot of quotes from me in this story, that is because I mostly jut shook my head so as to say no the whole time because I didn’t even want to speak a word to these cops because who knows how they could take them and turn them around on me in court.

They booked me and brought me to Middlesex County Jail, all the while teasing me about how I was going to get raped. I don’t know if they are allowed to do that but it doesn’t seem very fair to me. I spent the night in a cell no bigger than a closet with two other men. They occupied the bunk beds so I slept on the floor, the cold hard concrete floor. Other than the bunk beds in the room there was nothing but a toilet. No clock, no calendar, no television, no windows, no phone, no pencil and paper. Nothing to do except sit around and wonder what time it was, or what day it was or what everyone you loved is doing outside of this cell. It was mental torture. Thankfully my parents came and bailed me out in the morning before I had to spend 23 out of 24 hours a day in that cell as they do. I honestly don’t know how they pass the time in there but it was enough for me to know that I never wanna go back to find out.

It was after this that I got a lawyer, a very expensive, reputable one at that. Maybe too high class for this case as I look back on it now, at the time I thought it was a good idea to get a high priced lawyer because I thought that the more you pay the better they are but I soon learned that that was not the case at all. My lawyer had better things to do than worry about this petty little graffiti case. I wanted to fight it; he did not by any means. All he wanted to do was settle for a plea bargain although the whole entire way they went about arresting me was terribly wrong. I told him about the illegal search and seizure of my phone and all he kept saying was that it was their word against mine and its best that I just don’t try and fight it because I will not win. But it was not my job to fight it, it was his and he just did not want to do it. I was really frustrated by this because up until a day or two before the trial it seemed like there was very little or no real evidence against me. For the longest time all I knew they had was a phone with pictures of graffiti and I still didn’t understand how they were able to arrest me for that. But before the trial they have to give your lawyer something that is called a “discovery” which is all the evidence they have against you so that the lawyer can prepare your defense. It was in this discovery that I found out the devastating news. My friend Mike ratted on me. He had been my friend since 5 yrs old. We used to play soccer together, we grew up skateboarding together, and we were in a band together. The was like a brother to me and what’s even worse on top of all that is I could have easily ratted on him to save my own tail because he was the one that they really wanted but I didn’t because I am loyal to my friends and I would rather spend the rest of my life in jail than be known as a rat.

In when it came to trial he didn’t even end up saving his own tail. He admitted that he did graffiti and that was the “because” artist and that I was “meds” and because of his cooperation he really didn’t get off any easier than I did. We both got the same charges and fines when we went to court and they only difference is he didn’t have to spend that night in jail and make bail because of that deal he cut with the police. So that’s what he got, he saved 2700 in bail money but he lost a friend, a truly loyal friend which you can’t put a price on. And since he was the one who was disloyal to his friend and went and was a tattle tale he is the one that doesn’t have to go to jail; while I, the one who is a loyal good friend and an overall dignified person who knows that you just don’t go and rat people out, gets punished for it. I don’t think that’s very fair. I don’t this that’s very just.

So in the end I’m sure that everyone thinks that justice was served. I’m sure that cop thinks that stealing my phone and turning it in was the right thing to do. I’m sure that Mike somehow tries to justify snitching on me in his head by saying that he just couldn’t go to jail or he just couldn’t afford that money, which is what the apology letter he wrote to me said. And I’m sure that my lawyer thinks that justice was served because I actually did the crime and I was convicted of it and he got his money and everyone was happy, though I still don’t think that another criminals word saying that I did it too should really be grounds enough to hold up in court and I’m aware of other cases where other people have beaten similar circumstances but hey I guess I got what I deserved but I still haven’t seen these other criminals and crooks get what they deserve and I fail to see the justice in that.

Blog 10- idea for second essay

For my second essay I am going to tell of the time that I got arrested with the focus of the essay being how my friend was the one who ratted me out and he was the reason I got arrested and what that made me feel like. Also what it feels like being arrested and incarcerated and what I have learned from the whole experience as far as who you can/ cant trust and also how ive learned to just not do anything illegal anymore so that no one has anything to rat on me for because i definatley dont want to go back to jail. idk if thats like two completely different focuses. let me kno, give me some feed back if u can thanks

Blog 9

What went well in my first essay? Well at least I had alot to write about and I think it was a good story, you agreed that it was interesting lol. I was definately flowing when writing but I think that may have led to what didnt go so well with it, which was, as you pointed out, and I already knew that it was a bit disorganized and all over the place, and the focus was kind of unclear. So for my second essay or my revision i will try to work on narrowing down the focus to one more specific idea and really sticking with that and only writing details and parts of the story that are relevant to that. Also I am going to try to start right off with the action to try and draw the reader in as you suggested.

blog 8 personal esay 1 draft

Stephen Mesa

Writing Creative Non-fiction

Professor Chandler

Personal Essay Number 1 Draft

The following events are based upon a true story, only the names and places have been changed to protect the innocent.

On the Side of a Highway

The night started out as many of them did back then. My friends and I were drinking back by the lake in the woods in a remote part of town. We had the fire going as usual and Tim brought his old boom box as he always did. A mix of The Smiths and other punk rock band’s music filled the crisp summer night’s air with background music as we sat around the fire sharing jokes and anecdotes while drinking beers. I, being the active, energetic one used to enjoy jumping over the fire and doing standing back flips because the ground was soft clay back there. It was one of the girl’s birthdays. I don’t remember which one exactly but I do remember that’s why we were gathered there, that and the simple fact that we all liked to drink because there was nothing better to do at night, like many teens do.

But I had something better to do. During this confusing, adolescent phase of my life I felt tiny and insignificant in a vast, complicated and fast moving world that quickly forgets and leaves most people behind only to exist in ambiguity and mediocrity. I was not about to go down in history like that, or not at all. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted to make an impression. I wanted to leave my mark on the world. So I did, with a spray paint can. Most call it graffiti and look at it as vandalism; I looked at it as a progressive in your face form of modern art and my cheap chance at fame. See what most people don’t understand is that it is not about damaging property, at least for me it wasn’t. It is about getting your name out there. It’s about getting noticed in world where almost everything an individual does is inconsequential, at least in the grand scheme of things that is. So that’s what I did. Every night after getting together with my friends I would drink myself up enough courage (because I am otherwise a paranoid anxiety ridden mess, who would never dream of doing the things I used to do when I was drunk) and go out and write my name all over the world, or at least all over New Jersey, which was the world to me at the time. Now don’t get me wrong, I never defaced anyone’s personal property such as businesses, houses, or any buildings for that matter. I was a dignified graffiti artist, with morals, not like those little kids who just scribble all over everything with no concern for aesthetics whatsoever. I stuck to state property that I thought no one cared about (apparently I was wrong). Among my list of things that I thought it was “ok” to leave my mark upon were trains, anything along train tracks, and my favorite, highways. Highways were the best because everybody driving by would see it, including myself, and thousands of other people traveling down a highway on any given day so there my art had the greatest chance to be seen. Forgive me for the digression but I felt it important to vindicate or at least explain the reasoning behind graffiti because I am totally aware of the fact that most of society just views it as mindless vandalism when that notion is just as ignorant as they think graffiti is because it is so much more. So now I hope you have a better understanding of what compels people to commit such a crime, a crime that I always thought to be victimless, so therefore not a crime in my eyes.

Anyway after drinking my fare share of beers and dancing around the camp fire I had a good buzz going and safe to say I was feeling pretty confident. So as the party and the fire were dying I grabbed my back pack full of paint and hopped in my friend’s car and we took to the highways as we so often did on many a night back then, or should I say early morning because it was usually between the hours of 1 and 5 that we went out, since that was when there was the least amount of traffic and the least likely chance to get caught because we were shrouded by the darkness of the night. Thank God I wasn’t driving I think to myself now as I look back.

“I’ve got a new spot we can hit.” I said as I directed them towards and interstate highway and the overpass that I intended to paint. I was always the leader of these missions since I was also kind of the glue that kept my friends together and I was the without a doubt the one that got them into this obscure hobby to begin with. And that’s exactly what these were, they we missions. Graffiti was exciting. It was the greatest rush I ever felt, so that, as illegal as it was, which was half the rush anyway, is what kept us coming back time after time. We parked the car in an adjacent neighborhood to the spot that I had done some reconnaissance on earlier and we got out bags out of the trunk. The bags contained our paints which were like our guns. Mine contained black and white cans of spray paint only. I liked it that way. It was simple. Just like my letters, BIG, simple, and in your face. There was nothing to interoperate or misunderstand. It was right there in plain English as simple as black and white. Plus only having two colors in my book bag made it easier and faster for me to re-load when one can ran out since I did not had to look around for certain colors. There were only two. I had to be as fast as possible when painting so as not to get seen or caught.

We walked through a park and came to a path that leads through some trees. “This way” I said, as they followed through the bushes, which always happen to be thorn bushes by the way. The path lead to train tracks, which back in those days I was always happy to see because where there is train tracks there are spots. So we followed the tracks down to where they intersected with and went over the highway. I saw a tag on the middle of the overpass, the part that is literally above the highway that read “CEP.” He was some kid from a town near me that had been going over and crossing out all of my work in a desperate attempt to get some attention since I was obviously better than him. “That little bastard actually climbed out there, he’s got some stones.” I thought to myself. “I’m gonna do it.” I told my friends. I had to climb out across the overpass and write my name over his because that had been what we were doing to each other and I wasn’t about to lose this war just because I was scared of heights. Plus, remember I was pretty drunk so I had all the confidence in the world in me and no voice of reason telling me that climbing out on the side of an overpass over a busy interstate isn’t a good idea. So I did. My friends did not even try to stop me. “Ha Ha cool your goin out there.” They said as they egged me on. For in the world of graffiti this dangerous stunt, which isn’t all that uncommon, is called a “halo” spot. It is where one hangs on by the tips of his fingers and stands on a couple inches of steel and shimmies out along the side of a bridge, then hangs on with only one hand as he paints it. It is called a “Halo Spot” because there is a good chance of dying. This is what I was doing. At first it was easy. I stepped out onto the narrow ledge and shimmied out without hesitation, because this really before I knew what I was getting myself into. I kept on scooting further and further out, painting over everyone of my rival’s tags, and then going even further out than him to show that I had more courage. It was not until I was done painting that I took a moment to look back to the ledge from which I had begun my climb. I looked to the right and looked to the left; I was in the dead middle of the highway. And I was so engaged in painting that I had not even noticed that it had begun to drizzle a little. It was at this point that my adrenaline started to wear off, I started to come down off my buzz and the frightening reality of the situation started to sink in. If you recall earlier I told you that I am normally an anxious mess who’s also afraid of heights, well I made the worst mistake anyone who’s afraid of heights can make in that situation and I did what they always say not to do in the movies. I looked down. All at once I became paralyzed with fear. My head started to spin, my hands started to sweat and my body started to shake. I grew afraid that I would not be able to climb back to the safety on the side of the highway from which I came. I started having thoughts that I may slip and fall backwards onto the concrete and hit my head, and if that didn’t kill me an eighteen wheeler would run over my body for sure. It was certain death in my mind to try and climb back across the highway to where I had climbed out from, especially in the weakened, woozy state I was in now. My friends had noticed that I stopped painting and wasn’t moving. “Steve are you okay?” They called out from their safe positions in the bushes on the side of the interstate and that’s when I decided “I’m gonna jump!” I told them.

“What are you crazy?!”

“No, I’ve jumped off of higher things on my skateboard” And truth is I have, but the difference is, there was a skateboard under me to distribute my weight and absorb a lot of the impact so that my ankles weren’t just taking the brunt of the force. But I did not realize this at the time because my mind was not in the right state due to alcohol, fear and adrenaline. I figured I was better off taking a controlled drop, even hanging a little first to lessen the height, onto a grass median than I was accidentally falling on my back from 25ft onto the cold hard, traffic filled, concrete interstate highway.

So I Turned around, wrote “JUMP!” on the side of the bridge and I let go.

“STEEEEEEEVE!” was the only thing I remember hearing as I free fell from the highway over pass. I recall the sinking feeling in my stomach, like the feeling of a drop on a rollercoaster, as I was in mid air. To this day, when I think about it, it still makes my stomach drop. I didn’t even close my eyes. I kept them open and watched the ground come up quickly, into my vision. I saw the grass come up to me faster and faster, closer and closer was the earth below me until… Booooooom! I saw a flash of white, and then black, I guess because the severity of the impact forced me to close my eyes for a second. Then a familiar feeling, I was hurt. At first I thought I just sprained my ankle. It felt warm with the rush of blood and just funny like I knew something wasn’t right but I stood up and hobbled across the three-laned highway. It was by some sort of Devine Intervention that I made it across those lanes of traffic, whether it was my guardian angel or the hand of god, but someone was carrying me because as soon as I set my first foot on the grass on the other side of the highway there it was. My left leg just collapsed. It was like nothing I had ever felt before. It just gave in under my weight, the bones were broken clear in two, and the lower half of my leg was no longer attached to the rest of my body.

“Are you okay?” my friends asked.

No, my leg is definitely broken. I can’t walk. You’re gonna have to go get the car and pick me up.” I told them

They didn’t even remember how to get back to the car, or how to get to the highway that I was now crippled on the side of so I had to give them directions while in excruciating pain.

After sending the troops to go get the tank so that they could pick me up and take me to the hospital I remember just laying there on the cold curb on the side of the highway, holding onto my leg and trying to keep it in a level, straight position so that the two bones who almost stay together and not get too out of place so that they are not to hard to re-align. I remember the feeling of the two rubbing and clicking together every time I would move my leg and they would pass each other underneath my skin, like no single bones are ever meant to do. The recollection of the feeling still makes me feel queasy. I was lucky I was probably in shock because I remember thinking “this hurts like hell I wish I would just pass out from the immense amount of pain already” but I never did. I just laid there in pain for what felt like an eternity, on the side of the highway, waiting for my friends, hoping the cops wouldn’t find me first because how was I to explain why I’m on the side of a highway with a broken leg and paint all over my hands. Better yet how am I going to explain this to my mom, who later met me in the emergency room after my friends, finally picked me up and dropped me off there. They told me I broke my fibula and my tibia clean through and chipped my ankle. I told everyone I did it skateboarding.

To this day I have still never told my mom the truth, which I feel terrible about but I’m sure she had an idea since it was 3 in the morning she was picking me up from the emergency room and my hands were covered in paint. I just couldn’t tell her what I was doing and there are something’s I think that parents just ignore instead of asking their kids because they fear they won’t like the answer. I spent the next 6 weeks in a cast, wondering if I would ever walk again. Of course I can walk today but at the time the thought crossed my mind. It has been two years since the incident and my leg has not been the same since. It is just always stiff, or locking up, cracking or in pain. I cannot skateboard nearly as well as I used before because my ankle is weak now and easily re-injurable. My ankle constantly aches now; especially when it rains and I am reminded of this event every time I do something as simple as take a step because it hurts with every step and now I can’t even run normal. Not to mention the fact that I feel like these aches and pains are not something that will get better with time but only get worse as I get older, it does sever damage psychologically thinking about that. I often see people running, jumping, skateboarding or performing some sort of physical stunt like a back flip that I used to be able to do that I am no longer able to do because of one stupid night and it makes me depressed. At least I learned my lesson though. Thanks to this occurrence I am a lot more cautious now and less likely to injure myself again. Also I don’t get drunk anymore and do stupid things and I don’t paint anymore so there is a positive side to it all. Plus I got one heck of a story out of it.

Here is an example of what I was doing (though this picture is not actually me) that is exactly what I was doing, just incase I didn’t describe it well enough to get the correct mental image. I’m just including this in here because I feel that it may be hard to get the full idea of what I was doing unless you’re familiar with it or have a picture. (btw my graffiti looked a lot better than that lol)

personal essay 1 draft

I tried posting my draft up here but i keep getting error messages about the html. maybe during out conference you can help me. and as for our confence- the things i wish the reader to take away from my story are a better understanding of graffiti, and why people do it and what its like to get inside the mind of a graffiti artist first hand while he's doing it. And also just one wicked, entertaining story from a crazy time in my life, that if it had no better purpose, i at least got good stories out of. and as for the feedback i would like from you maybe just what you thought of my story, and some help with the structure because i kno i tend to digress and be unorganized when i write. and thats all i can really think of. any thoughts, feed back, and constructive criticism would help, just keep in mind that it was only a 1st draft so please dont be too harsh : )

O'brien How to tell a true war story

Truth is a funny concept to try and grasp in Obriens how to tell a "true" war story. In fact it is hard to grasp or even define truth in anything. But he sure does seem to talk about it alot in this story. The thing that i concluded is from his story is that sometimes in order to tell the truth you may have to tell a lie, or embelish a little. For example when the man was tell the story of how they had to sit there in silence and stillness for seven days and they started to hear all sorts of crazy things like "gook operas" The fact of the matter is that there was no real gook opera but that is just exemplary of the kind of crazy things that they were hearing. So in order to get peope to understand the truth that he is getting at he had to kind of make that up and exagerate a little. The is also some other lines in there that I like what Obrian say such as the war stories that sound tru are probably made up because its so crazy guys make up normal things over there to keep from going crazy. and also at the end how he says that a true war story isnt about the war at all, its about the people there and love, that is the truth. so although some of the stories or things in the stories in how to tell a true war story may not be entirely tru, the people and the things about the people are tru and thats what those little incomplete truth help you get at.

Topic for Personal Essay Number 1

I apologize that this post is so belated but nothing was really coming to mind at first and I really wanted to give it some good time and thought to come up with a truly interesting topic that I would enjoy writing and people will enjoy reading rather than just writing a story in a perfunctory manner just because I have to. So after much deliberation I have decided I am going to share one of my stories from my crazy Graffiti writing days. Without going into too much detail right now because I do not want to give it all away up front, I think that this is full of action and excitement and will really be both interesting for me to tell and for people to read. And dont worry I plan on moving between story telling and reflection. I plan on emulating ?Kincaid's format and doing a sorta this is what I was thinking then and this is what I know now, although I honestly "dont know what I was thinking" then but I will try and explain my motives as best I can looking back on it now. I also think that this could be useful in providing a better understanding to people who really dont get why people do graffiti so I think that my story will both enlighten and entertain, hopefully.

Drummond and Danicat

The main point of Drummond's story, alive, I think, is the human condition of worrying and the issue of whether one is being too paranoid or just being safe. The story is about a woman who hears about a cereal killer on the prowl, then while shopping sees a man and starts to think that he is following her because he keeps on popping up everywhere she goes. At first she vacillates between wondering if it coincidence or not but as the story builds so does her anxiety. She starts thinking that this is definitely the real thing as she is going to her car and he is outside. Then she gets in her car and he follows her and just as she is about to call the police he exits off the highway and she breathes a sigh of relief. Until she takes an exit and realizes that it is for the town where some of the victim's bodies were found, which is when she comes to the conclusion that she is just vulnerable simply because she is "alive" which I think is a bit dramatic but I can really relate because I am often paranoid that someone is following me and I frequently suffer from extreme anxiety in situations that may not necessarily call for it, so I think that the emotions in this story are pretty universal. The structure of the story really is one that builds up a lot, starting of slow and then getting more and more intense as she gets tenser until finally at the climax there is relief... but not entirely. It leaves you feeling like this is something she probably will go through again and goes through often because it is all in her head... or is it?
As for "Westbury Place", I could not find it. I looked in the book, and on your blog and even searched for it online but could not find it anywhere so I apologize that I did not get a chance to read it and therefor cannot comment on it in this blog but I hope my feed back on Drummond is sufficient and I am not penalized to harshly for this which is really beyond my control because I honestly did try.

Schwatz "My father always said."

I think that the overall focus of this essay is understanding. First, understand ones culture, or heritage; one thing that I really took away from this story is that it is important to know where you come from. For example her father would always say things like "back in Rindheim we didnt do such things" and in the beginning of the story she didnt really understand what that meant at all, until they went and visited that place and I thought it was significant that she said after the trip her father stopped saying that phrase. I think it is because her father knows that she really understands now after having experienced it and he feels he doesnt have to say it anymore. The story is broken down into specific sections. It starts in Queens, New York and we get a taste of what culture was like there for jewish people at that time. For example wearing lipstick at 12, hanging out in front of Penn after basketball games and smoking at 15. Which is where we get the point of the story when her father says that famous line "In Rindheim, you didnt do such things." Then in the next section they are in Rindheim visiting her parents old home and she gets a sense of how her father grew up, compared her being raised in queens. Then they move to the old synagogue which is now a church and she gets a sense of a her jewish heritage and what happened to the jews during the kritallnacht. Then lastly a cemetery where she witnesses the graves if those who were not as lucky as her father to get out during the holocaust. Which brings us to the reflection and understanding of her roots and thats what the story is really all about.

I cannot say definitively what marks the works we've read up to this point as contemporary other than the fact that they were written more recently but I can say for sure that the essay I just read by Montaigne is certainly antiquated. I found it to be utterly incomprehensible. I'm still not sure if what I just read is a story or just a long pretentious display of run on sentences separated by entirely too many comas. It read like a bombastic list of archaic places, names and big words that I honestly was able to take nothing away from. It is because of works like this that I am glad we have blogs so I can express my feelings about them since I feel like I could never say this to a teachers face for they would call me ignorant or dumb, which I am not. I just cannot enjoy that which I cannot understand.
On the other hand, Orwell's story Shooting an Elephant was a tremendously enjoyable reading experience for me. It was written in plain, simple English. It delt with a real, tangible situations and human emotions that I can relate to. Not only was it an interesting story ostensibly but it dealt with much deeper issues; such as serving as a satire for oppressive tyrannical empires. It was also cathartic of real personal issues and emotions we all deal with everyday such as peer pressure, anger, fear, guilt and shame. The details were vivid. I felt like I was right there in the protagonist's shoes as he felt pressured into shooting the elegant beast and I shared in the terrible pity he felt after shooting the poor creature. It captured my attention from start to finish and moved me deeply which is something I wish I could say for the previous work.

thurs sept 10th

If anything, Kincaid's essay Biography of a Dress, took away from what I thought of creative non fiction. At first I thought at it was supposed to be interesting but i found this reading to be utterly drawl and uninteresting. The story was uneventful, boring and seemed almost entirely pointless. Not to mention it seemed like it was written by a child and not just a reflection upon her childhood. I found all the parenthetical insertions to be disruptive and hackneyed, and not to mention the repetition of a certain phrase "though I am now, or I know that now" was painstakingly redundant. I hope in the future that the works we read are better written and a bit more interesting.
On the other hand I found Lott's essay useful and interesting. I liked alot of the things he says about creative non fiction such as how its sort of like a diary or a way of not letting your life slip by undocumented and how he has its like taking what we have done and who we have known and putting it in a story. I found this work provided me with a better understanding of CNF and a definition that I really liked.

Creative non fiction- my defintion

Based upon what we read for homework, I think that creative non fiction is essentially writing about real life events but trying to make them as interesting as possible. For example the story "Superman & Me" was about a young Native American Boy who taught himself to read with a superman comic book. It was a true story but it was capturing and intriguing at the same time and I think that is what creative non fiction is supposed to be.

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