User:R.Armstrong

=English Composition=

Statement of Intent


For this Quarter I will be writing a set of ten letters that contain short personal stories for people to read. The short stories will be written in the form of prose poetry and are about the intent of the emotion, not so much about the actual memory. Each letter will have a story based on a moment and or feeling that has helped shape me as a person. These prose stories will be mailed out to the public are meant for people to take time and think to actually read them fully and remember moments and feelings like the ones in the letters. It is to remember that the simple things in life are what matter the most. And how emotions and are feelings are what run or very selves.

Overview


I want to accomplish being able to write how I feel and portray the raw emotion I felt during that moment and be able to execute that into a poem and or short story. As well I hope to accomplish getting over others critiquing my work.

Rationale


I hope to get over my fear of people critiquing my writing skills and stories that I put a very large amount of work into.

Publication/Presentation


They will be actual letters that I will be mailing out on the seventh and eight week to the public. Half will go to random people the other half will go to people I know.

Schedule


Week One. Write up proposal. Start Brainstorming.

Week Two. Pick the ten topics I will be writing about. Start the first two short story letters.

Week Three. Have two letters ready for review be teacher and or a peer. Start next two letters.

Week Four. Have three short story letters finished, revised, and edited. Ready to be mailed out to the public. Start on next set of two letters.

Week Five. Fourth story finished and ready for mail out. Seven and eight letter started.

Week Six. Final two letters started. Half of them should be completely finished. Revise and edit last five letters.

Week Seven. Bring all letters/stories to class for reviews to see what needs to be changed before I send into the public.

Week Eight. Send out first four letters. Work on finalizing any lose ends on each story that has not been finished.

Week Nine. Send out all final letters. Work on response piece If I do receive any back from who I send each letter out to.

Week Ten. Make extra copies for presentation of work for class.

Week Eleven. Final week.

Anticipated Problems


Two things that can go wrong is Finding was to write about these moments without going two deep into my own personal opinion. I want to write about what they mean to me without me being in them. There is also my other work loads. Will I be able to finish two short stories a week?

Week 6 Project Review


As of week six I have five on my short story letters written. I will be writing three or five more stories and by week eight I will be mailing these out to the public for two weeks to random people all around the U.S. as well as people who attend the art institute of Seattle. I feel that my project is on track and that I can complete me final stories with the next two weeks. Hopefully they will be read and I will have a response from people. I want people to realize these short story letters are about moments that shape a persons life and this case these are moments that have shaped mine so I hope that they make people think about the small things that matter most in life.

Reader's Report


Project


Letter One.

This is nothing more than the silly fluttering of an equally silly heart. This is my tongue tripping on the truth and my trembling fingers clawing at my arm trying to get rid of the heart bleeding on it. This is my teeth clacking together and my emotions knocking against my ribs so I might please let them out to play. This is my words getting abandoned in the silences and the pauses swallowing the tension whole. This is using your moss green eyes as a northern star when I’m getting lost in possibilities, using your smile as the curve I rest in when the world's too much to bear.

This is fighting my own spine to stand up straight when your voice is unwinding my nerves and using my vertebrae as your personal game of jenga. This is allowing you to take small pieces at a time, eroding at my walls until I’m crumpling like origami on your front porch, unwinding to lay helplessly at your feet.

This is daydreaming about nights with you and instead spending them painting your laughter on my ceiling. This is wondering what your mouth tastes like and how your arms feel and if my pulse will pattern yours or if together ours will make a brand new symphony to dance to. This is burning my past to make room for our future, finally finding something worth believing in. this is waiting for years and being rewarded with your salty kisses at dawn, your calloused fingers on my shoulders, your cheek leaning against mine. This is hope bleeding into faith. This is a wish turning into reality. This is I finally finding you.

Letter Two.

Death; something that seems to take away and never give back. Death takes the things that you treasure most in your life, the people that you need by your side; despite not knowing that you needed them. Life is too short to sit around and wait for things to come your way, you have to reach out and take them. Because you could die tomorrow. You could be taken from someone who needed you, and you may not have known that they did. You could die, not knowing that someone loved you, because they had been too afraid to tell you, or perhaps it could have been you that missed out on a great opportunity for not telling someone you loved them.

You could leave the world after not patching something up with a loved one, or friend. And they would forever be wishing that you could have worked through your differences before you had died. Death is spontaneous, He is cruel. He does not always give you a sign that the one you love is going to die; sometimes it just happens, in a split moment, in a blink of an eye. The person you loved could be dead. Leaving the world behind unable to walk the streets with you, laugh with you, talk with you. Not even a smile, or a look that is meant just for you. Instead you are left here, to grieve and mourn the passing of your loved one. Left here to wonder and hope and dream. Wishing that they weren’t dead, that they would come back and that it would all be okay again.

When it isn’t, when you cry yourself to sleep at night because you miss them, their touch, their voice, even their presence around you. You can’t seem to find a good reason to be happy because you are mourning their death, and you can’t smile at a joke because you would think of them. You would think, they would have laughed, they would have told them it wasn’t funny; they would have been here with me. The thoughts bring you down, make you upset, your heart aches with each dull heart beat that pulses through your body, you find yourself unable to find things cheerful to think about, you find yourself sitting and wallowing constantly. But that is okay, it is okay to grieve, to mourn, to cry, to lock yourself in your room, to need that time alone. To be able to think clearly and logically to be able to get it out of your system.

For years you could mourn their death, every year you would fall with sadness when they had died, or perhaps at their birthday you would cry because it is another year that they have missed of their life. You would sit and think of them, pray to them. Let them know that even though they aren’t living, they aren’t gone. Tell them how you are; let them in on your life. Even though they are watching down on you, making sure things don’t go too horribly, guiding you through tough obstacles you may come to face in life. The dead never truly leave. They are always here; they live on in your heart. You may not be able to see them, but you can feel them. To know they are there watching you should bring a smile to your face and a tear to your eye. A smile because you have them with you always, never truly parted, and a tear because they aren’t physically with you, only in spirit and in your mind and soul they are there.

But the things you do to honor them, and their death, will make it seem as though they are still living with you, that they’re by your side. To live on and do things that they would have wanted you to do, embracing their memory, as the years go on. Their death won’t cause your heart to ache as much as it first did. The initial shock, the first year of sadness, and the following years to come become easier, you begin to accept their death, and you accept and acknowledge that despite being dead; they are still there. You take them with you, and they watch over you, wherever you may go and end up in life. They will be there for you when you need them, all you have to do is see them, remember them. Live for them. Take their lives and full fill their dreams, make them proud, but still be who you are.

Become the man or woman that they would have thought you to become, someone who they would have been proud of you being. Whether you did as they wanted or not, be who you are, be everything you can be. Because in the end, they would be proud of you, because you lived after they died, you carried on, and you grew as a person and that in itself would have made them proud of the person you have become.

Letter Three.

Call me a fool. I won't sew your mouth closed; I won't block your path. Call me heartless and I'll split open my chest to show you what's pulsing, what's bruised and lacerated and aching like hell but still alive. I'll show you my scars and my burns, I'll turn my neck and show you the jagged slice where I was foolish enough to trust a knife against my throat.

Call me weak. I won't rage against the accusation, I won't deny with vigorous defiance. I’ll sit and absorb each and every slur because I know you'll never understand. I’ll take the wicked slices and soak them in, my skin cut open and bare. I’ll let you paint me into a corner and I won't try to leave. I’ll open my hands and stand with my palms facing the sun. I’ll sigh and stand with my ribs dropping slowly one by one to my feet.

Call me broken. I won't shake my head; I won't cut off the insults. I’ll just lift my shirt and show you where I’ve staunched the blood. I’ll show you the homemade stitches, the places where circumstance and reality were too cruel and I was too slow to jump away. I’ll show you the knife-wounds and the places where gunmetal was jammed under my chin.

I’ll show you how I danced in the flame and I won't call the places where it licked my flesh bare hideous. I’ll show you how the scars all add up, I’ll show you the places where they pucker and cross. I’ll let you touch the parts where my elbows have been rubbed raw and my heart has been scrubbed with steel wire.

If you'll rise above the water of hate for a moment, I’ll show you every mistake I’ve ever made. I’ll take your hand and let you feel my faults branded on the crook of my elbow, the places I’ve known where I’ve slipped, my blemishes harsh and hot-blooded. I’ll walk you slowly through each one, not turning away or wincing from where you've thrown them into full, uncompromising light. And then, then I will sit silently and let you call me foolish, weak, and broken. But I will know and I won't bow my head in shame. I will know what I really am.

Letter Four.

You know it's coming when you can feel it in your heart, you just can't tell when it will happen but you know it is coming. The pain is lingering in the pit of your stomach, lingering until the words are spoken and the deed is done. Then it will slowly rise from the depths of your insides, making its way to your heart and once there it will grab hold and give a squeeze.

The first one will be mild but sharp, and then as it gets a good grip you will truly feel it crushing your heart. This blow will bring you to your knee's and make you wish for the sweet quietness of death and in a way you will die but only for a short time, not long enough for the pain to pass, just long enough for it to set in deeper, it will squeeze harder till finally it breaks you inside, breaks you into pieces.

These pieces will heal but only with time and they will leave scars, scars that get thicker each time it happens. Sometimes will hurt more than others, yet each time you don't see how it can hurt anymore than it does now. I can feel it now, quietly waiting to rise up but this time I think I will let it take me, take me to the darkness and not come back, I want this time to be the last.

Love – What a complex emotion. Not even the most intelligent people completely understand it. Unfortunately, with love comes heartbreak. Its mind bottling how a person’s heart can be ripped into two, then fixed later by staples, tape, and glue. These are the lucky ones. For some, when their heart is broken it not only breaks but shatters into a million pieces. The person is then left picking up and sorting out pieces of their heart. This process of rebuilding can take ages, and even when it is finished, can still result in missing pieces. These pieces can never be found back and not even duct tape can completely mend these shattered hearts. These are not your stereotypical breakups. Heartbreak this severe only happens at the loss of a true loved one: a close family member or a friend, and a soul mate. This loss will leave imprints in the follower’s heart that can never be filled.

Letter Five.

One day, I’ll smile when I remember you. If the winds of change have stopped blowing and I find myself tossed out of the gusts, I’ll smooth back my hair and sink to the ground. And if it is silent where I sit, I’ll close my eyes and face the memories I’ve been running from. I’ll remember the way you ducked your head when you laughed or contorted your face to catch me off guard. I’ll remember the way you could slip a word into a conversation that would completely derail me and how you'd use your next breath to scoop me back up. I’ll remember the way I was never sure of where I stood with you but how I always knew I didn't want to be standing anywhere else.

That’s when I’ll lay down on my back and let my thoughts off their leashes for a while. I’ll let them yip and howl and run in wild, arcing circles. I’ll see your face rising above their writhing forms but that won't surprise me terribly much because you're so often with them. And it will make me think of the first time you used the word beautiful. Which will make me remember the time I put a hand over my heart and told you I was scared you could take it without a second thought. I know if you're there you'll frown and tell me that you didn't mean to hurt me.

Which is when I’ll touch your cheek for a second and tell you to stop being silly. That of course it hurt but I don't regret a second of it. That we were a firecracker that lit up the sky and singed the tips of my fingers. I’ll remind you that the burned flesh doesn't detract from the stunning way the colors spread over the constellations. That I bled but I’m healing and even touching the sore laceration doesn't make me lament the full-fledged beauty of the blade that caused it.

And here I’ll be struck with the memory of talking through slumbering cities and laughing in the middle of crowds. I’ll remember nerves that fishtailed down my spinal cord and the way it made me feel alive in ways I didn't even know you could. And I’ll hug you tight and thank you. I’ll let you go with a sigh and wave as you leave. And I’ll smile for me, for the memories, for the odd way life works. But mostly, oh, mostly, I’ll be smiling for you

Letter Six.

With the beginning tied to the end, I finally understand: there is nothing easy about this. So many rest on their laurels of Love and proclaim it to be a fall, a drift, autumn-leaf-hearts simply riding the breeze until they kiss the ground and kneel before the oak of emotion. They describe it, as an arrow of happiness, simply securing one's self to the golden bullet before being launched from point A to point B. There are no detours, no dead ends; there simply is the arrival and nothing more.

One moment one is standing on the brink of un-Love and the next second, their foot slips and they arrive at the next state of their being. There is no in-between, no middle ground. They breathe deep the change and shed their skin, embrace their new life and go forth. Oh, but I now know different! I know Love not as a fall, or a trip, or a tumble, but rather as a beast. A savage creature with tooth and claw and hoof. An ever-changing animal to grapple with, one that stalks before it pounces, one that eludes and dodges, teases and pursues. Love is alive, is dangerous. One does not arrive at Love, they fight with it, and they tangle with it. Sometimes they arrive victorious with Love walking harmoniously side-by-side. Other times they are left with their throat slit to bleed them dry.

Never, however, do they emerge unscathed. Then again, I also know Love as an ocean. A raging, angry sea that feeds into rivers and streams, that pounds against shore and cliff. There is no path, no direction, no way towards or away from it. One just fights to keep their head above, one spits and claws, floats and wrestles until the waves carry them. Love pulls and tears, tugs and pushes until all who dare brave it is waterlogged, sore, pleading for mercy. Sometimes, a contender learns to tame the tides, learns to ride the currents and breathe the wild exhilaration deep. Other times, Love claims them, places their broken body to rest along the coral and heartache-ocean-floor.

Never, however, do they emerge dry. So do not tell me about the simplicity of Love. Do not reminisce about the way you fell towards Love with the gentleness of winter snow, the freshness of spring rain, the warmth of summer heat. I do not care to hear about the paved path you took, the cherry blossoms wreathing your head, the serenading of bird and mammal alike.

Instead, show me your battle scars, your wounds, the risks you took in your fight. Tell me of dark nights and darker mornings, the inglorious way in which you behaved. Show me how you tricked, fought, challenged Love. Show me the abrasions; tell me of the rough, unromantic edges. Show me the unpoetic disaster that it is. Show me the gruesome ugly truth. Show me the reality of Love.

Letter Seven.

If you asked me who I am, I’d probably forget to tell you my name. Instead I’d tell you that my eyes are blue and I’m shorter than most but taller than some. I’d tell you that I like walking better than driving because feeling the ground under my feet is somehow affirmation that I am alive and that I am connecting to something bigger than me. I’d tell you that I think the sky looks too big at night and not big enough in the morning. I’d probably explain that has something to do with the fact that I wake up with every intention of flying and go to sleep knowing my elbows haven't sprouted wings yet.

But don't worry, I’d say, because I’ll wake up hopeful again tomorrow. And if you were to wait around a little more, I might be persuaded to tell you I’d lost my mind seven years ago and would you be kind enough to help me look for it? I’d probably tell you about the boy with teardrop-eyes who chewed up my heart because he thought it'd be aspirin and was indignant when it burned a hole through his liver. I’d probably shrug and tell you my lips must be acidic because I never can kiss the same mouth twice.

This is probably about the time I’d laugh and tell you that I’m silly because I run away when I see what I most want. I’d tell you that I’d rather spend my days messing up the puzzle pieces than enjoying the way they fit together. I’d say that most people think their crazy but I know I actually am because I can't take a good thing and keep it that way. I have a talent for pushing people away and lighting fires under bare feet. But I’d shrug and smile because I really can't blame the people that run.

And this is probably when you'd pat my shoulder and tell me I’m not so bad. So I’d put my hand over yours and say I know, because to be honest, I think I love myself too. It’s just sometimes I have to look in the mirror and remind myself that I screwed up again. I’d say that its days like that that make me wish I were a smoker. Because hazing out my nerves would be better than sitting on the train with them pinched all the time.

You’d probably try to tell me about cancer and black lungs and yellow teeth and I’d laugh because I wasn't serious. But if I was serious, I’d probably tell you that I feel bad for the man who ever has the bad luck to fall in love with me. I’d purse my lips and think and tell you that he's going to have to have a taste for uncontrollable frustration because I could promise him that. And it's a shame, I’d say, because every morning he's going to have to pick up the same pieces off the ground that he glued back together the night before. But it's okay, I’d say, because I really am worth it.

And don't worry. I’d notice the way you're checking your watch and I’d stretch and say the weather's beautiful and isn't it a shame that I have to leave? I’d give you a hug and say what a pleasure it'd been to meet you and remind you to watch your tongue because you'll trip more often with that then your feet. I’d pick up my purse and walk off thinking I’d look better if I was wearing a grace Kelly inspired hat. And I’d have forgotten you by the time I turned the corner. That’s about the time you'd remember I forgot to tell you my name. But you didn't really need it to know who I am, did you?

Letter Eight.

Gently pulling away from the embrace you held me so tightly in leaves me gazing into the endless depths of your gentle eyes. There, wreathed by wisps of your hair, I see the deepest of emotions reaching across my soul. My heartbeat quickens as you lean closer, pulling me into your arms once more. My face grows hot and I turn my head, afraid that you’ll see my crimson cheeks. What if I do something wrong? What if...

Your hand under my chin cuts off my thoughts. My heart pounds a little louder as you draw my eyes back to your gaze. The love so richly shining through your midnight blue orbs reassures that there is nothing to fear as you lean ever closer. I allow my emotions to take over as I close my eyes and point my face upwards, my hands resting lightly on your defined chest. One of your arms moves over my back and I can feel you cradle the back of my head as your other arm pulls me in tighter.

Then our lips meet in that one moment of pure emotion. The kiss is warm and sweet, and you ask of me no more than what I am willing to give. A feeling like never before floods my heart, a feeling that I want to last for eternity. It is all too soon that you pull away. I open my eyes to see you softly smiling at me; I know you wonder what it is that’s running through my mind. I am lost to your gaze, knowing that you are perfect, and that was the perfect first kiss.

Letter Nine.

Turn off the lights in your silver-threaded heart and open your eyes. Feel your way through the darkness and ease around the sharp corners of my insecurity. Be careful, step lightly, and don’t bruise yourself on my doubts. If you fall to your knees, just keep crawling forward. Don’t stop, be brave, I need you close enough to hear my whisper. I need another soul in the dark to hear these confessions.

I’m sitting in the middle of the ocean, choking on the reflection of the stars, but I think I’m starting to hear the echo of your pulse. I think I can hear the shallow crashing of your breath on the edge of your lips. So, shh, don't interrupt, because I’m starting now. Don’t shy from this tsunami of emotion or the callous edge of my well-used, wrung-dry heart. I promise, this won't take long.

I just need someone to hear the fears sending shock waves down my vertebrae, the lonely terror throbbing in my palms every time they kiss in prayer. I need someone to know that I’m floating in flames, crashing in currents. To know I’m reading tales of old and promises of new and neither one is fitting right, I must be shaped by the wrong hands, broken along all my fault lines. I need you to know, I’m watching the world spin beneath my soles, but I’m not feeling a thing.

So, please, sit close and hold my hand. Wipe away my tears when they form constellations along my lashes. Cradle my heart when my chest spits it out likes poison; tell me it will be all right. Lie to me and say the world is beautiful and I’ll find redemption in sunrises. Dig out the last of the living hope and paint it on the horizon, help me remember all that I’ve loved, all that I’ve never lost, just misplaced. I know, I’m asking too much, pleading with fractured lips, but you're my last chance. Needs are volatile and wants are cheap, but understand, I both need and want you in a way that bends the laws of time. In a way that rewrites the definitions, reshapes the value, reworks the meaning. So, hear my plea: loan me your mouth and breathe grace into my lungs. Before it's too late, loan me your light and set my nerves on fire.

Letter Ten.

I keep choking on saltwater. With every breath, I’m dragging the seaweed and lies deeper into my lungs. Every insecurity is swelling and dancing before me, every flaw magnifying until I can't see around it. I’m crawling on hands and knees up the beach and coughing up my mistakes, but I can't stop myself from making another one. I’m sitting with trembling hands, a spinning head and I can't stop, and I just can't seem to fucking stop.

I’d like to say I’m beautiful, I’d like to say I’m strong, but we know it's a lie. I’d like to say my mistakes make me endearing, my idiosyncrasies make me charming, but it couldn't be further from the truth. In reality, I’m insecure and shaking, I’m crashing down the stairs and sobbing against the bloody carpet. I’m trembling and biting my lip, throwing fists against the wall, screaming at the stars as if they have some answer to offer me. I’m begging the moon for salvation as if it's hidden somewhere beneath the scarred surface.

Can’t you see? I’m lost. I’m confused. I’m crumpling against the wall, sliding bonelessly to the floor and not bothering to stand again. I’m disconnecting my head because I can't bear to look truth in the eye any longer; I’m severing my nerves because I can't stand to feel this way without reprieve.

My wires are crossed and smoking, my ears are ringing with the echo of a thousand shattered promises. I’ve traveled this road before and I’m still getting lost. I’m still hitting dead ends. Sometimes, I see a ray of sunshine before I drown in it. Sometimes, I see a pathway before it's flooded, before the undercurrent drags me straight into the pitch-black. So, please, take pity; have mercy on this waterlogged heart. Don’t drag me into the undertow just because you know you can.

Self Assessment

In this quarter from this english class I have found a new love for writing. I have as always struggled to write what I feel and I never felt like I could get it out completely, but after this class I have learned to open up my mind on writing what you feel and not over critiquing yourself. I also have gotten a bit over my fear of other people hearing what I have written and listening to there critiques. The way the class was taught was wonderful that you let us pick what we wanted to write and explore more and not just follow a strict rigid curriculum. After this class I am going to keep writing prose poetry style stories and look into other forms of writing that I might want to try. For my final project I think I accomplished what I was looking for because I wanted to learn how to open up and write down what I feel in a way that shows the raw emotion and feelings at that time. And with that I feel like I created what I was looking for. I do feel like the amount of words I wanted to write could have been more but It still has been a big growth for myself. I did get to finish the ten letters I set out to do and there could have been longer letters but what I put into each seemed to fit well and I don't think I would lengthen most. Thank you for a fun class this quarter.