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.