also... here is a link to my short novel if you would like to read it:
INSPIRATIONAL QUOTE for everyone to read before they continue:
"The world is ticking and you are tocking."
"You can laugh at anything...yes...anything."
-Chris Vinan (ME)
"You can laugh at anything...yes...anything."
-Chris Vinan (ME)
HIGH STAKES: The Race Against The Curb
1:
Back then I remember how easy it was to stone a person. Witches, thieves, even black people. I don’t know what’s happening with society now; we should go back to stoning, there would be fewer problems. Sure I’m old, and I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not racist, I have a black neighbor. Sure he tries to steal my things every once in a while, but he can’t wash off his blackness, I cannot blame him. I even had a black friend once, Jimothy. He was more brown than black, but what’s the difference? We became friends because we equally hated our boss: an Asian.
Mr. Tagasoki was skinny, black-haired and rude. He felt so powerful because he successfully bombed the crap out of US. His people had killed my son, sent planes right into his heart. I remember the pictures of his body that were sent to me. Blonde hair wet with blood and his skin pulled back by fire, I cried like a baby. I didn’t go to work for two days after I saw those pictures. Mr. Tagasoki fired me.
2.
Today is Tuesday, another day of dying. I don’t work anymore I just wander around, slowly pacing myself so I don’t run out of things to see. Everywhere I look my world has been ruined by races. The Japs bombed my son and the Mexicans spray painted my town. I don’t have the guts to shoot myself in the head, so I just keep living. I have this itch to die that I can’t scratch; I’m too much of a coward. Wrinkly hands, wrinkly shirt and wrinkly demeanor, I hate myself. I’ve only been proud of myself twice in my life. When my son was born and when I was awarded for shooting the shit out of the Germans. I used my gun like a hammer, smashing the tiny inferior nails.
Today is Tuesday and helicopters still blow me back. I’ve decided that today I will have breakfast at a diner, a little break from the old-man routine. I tried to make breakfast for myself today, but it was pulled back by fire. Burned toast is proof that black is terrible. My legs hurt now and I’ve only walked one block, I hate being old. I remember the younger days, when you could stone your problems away. Now it’s all complicated by stupid laws, loud cell phones and yelling teenagers. I think I’ve aged because the world is so loud now; it makes it so hard to sleep. I’m tired as hell and its only 9 AM. I don’t know how many blocks are left, each step is a risk.
Today is Tuesday, but not like any other Tuesday. Today I ran into my favorite slice of burned toast: Jimothy. “Long time no see,” he said as we walked to the diner together, major emphasis on the long.
3.
The Indian waitress sat us at the oldest table and handed us two menus. I already knew what I wanted. “Coffee with a lot of cream,” I told her. Jimothy told me he was watching his weight because his health was aging. He ordered a veggie omelet, “With bacon. Oh, and a milkshake,” he added. While we waited for the waitress we talked about the good old days and ignored that terrible Tuesday.
Jimothy yelled about how much he hated Mr. Nagasoki. I agreed. We joked and laughed about Mr. Nagasoki’s cheap suits and his expensive dental jobs. The Asian had always invested large amounts of money into permanent things, like his teeth. Jimothy recalled a time where we found an invoice in Mr. Nagasoki’s desk for an eye surgery he had never gotten done. That damned chink was trying to widen his eyes for seven thousand dollars! Mr. Nagasoki was trying to be white; he was trying to be me. It sickens me that he was trying to blend into the whiteness of the world. He was trying to fool everyone, trying to fool me.
4.
Jimothy told me that he had ran into the old Asian last Tuesday and that he was hard to recognize. Mr. Nagasoki had stopped him on the street for an old conversation about the weather. “Cold today isn’t it?” Jimothy said in his best gook voice. A nigger being racist, HAH, I never thought I’d see the day; everyone is trying to be white now. Nowadays, children with wet backs run around with American clothing, painting on American makeup and listening to American music. Everyone wants a white Christmas.
The re-enacted conversation went on for a good five minutes. Jimothy opened his mouth and flapped his tongue, each word more offensive than the next, I couldn’t stop laughing. Blacks are funny; it doesn’t surprise me that there are so many black comedians. Jimothy told me that the old Asian had paid for the surgery. Apparently Mr. Nagasoki’s eyes were as wide as a white man’s.
5.
I ordered another round of cream for my black coffee before I said goodbye to Jimothy and the cash register. I didn’t tell him where I was going, but for once in decades I had somewhere to go.
For the first time in forever I knew how many blocks were left to walk. I knew I’d find Mr. Nagasoki, I felt certain I’d run into him at that same corner where I’d run into Jimothy. I went to the corner and sat there.
Minutes passed, hours passed, people passed. Asian after Asian none of them were him. I never realized how similar they all looked. Mr. Nagasoki is like a piece of hay in a haystack. A chink in a chinkstack. He has about a billion twins, each from different mothers, but from the same motherland.
But Mr. Nagasoki wouldn’t look Asian anymore, he looks like me now. I don’t even know what I look like anymore. I removed every reflection from my house many years ago when I grew old and tired of looking at a wrinkly mirror. How am I supposed to find myself, if I don’t even know what I look like? I started walking in search of a reflection, searching for myself. I kept my eyes wide open on my search just in case he crossed my path. No sign of him.
A reflecting surface caught my attention and my face.
6.
It was worse than I thought. Wrinkles slid down the sides of my reflection, each crevice deeper than the next. A wrinkle for each year that has passed, how long have I been alive? It seems to me that each past tear has eroded its way down my face. A wrinkle for my dead mother. A wrinkle for my dead father. A wrinkle for my dead wife. A wrinkle for my dead son.
My face is a map of sorrows. Time isn’t fair. My eyes can hardly see myself. Squinting and crying like a baby, I pressed my palm against the glass. Why was I so old? I had more wrinkles than a thousand-year-old oak tree has rings. I’m just a thirsty potted plant that doesn’t want any more water. I want to die already. I want god to blow out my candle.
Looking at that reflection gave me the courage. I remembered where I kept my gun, I began running home. My aching hips creaking with each sprinted step. My back folded like an accordion, I didn’t care. My pain would end soon, with a bang. Street after street and avenue after avenue, each step closer to god.
7.
I’m so happy now, I’m going to die. I’m so sleepy and that gunshot will wake me. That loud noise will mute the loud world. I can already feel the bullet traveling through my head, making its way towards heaven. It was so easy for me to kill japs, krauts, and wops, now it is finally easy to kill a white. Now it’s so easy to kill myself. The reflection gave me the courage.
Finally, I grew too tired to make it home but I had to keep running, I was scared I would outlive this brief moment of courage.
I had to rest; I sat down on a curb. Panting and groaning I clutched my heart. Loud buzzing sounds echoed in my ears. My hearing aid was damaged, wrecked by the loudness of the world. My eyesight wavering and wiggling in a haze of craze, I’m so thirsty now.
A light tap stabbed my shoulder. Another wrinkled hand clutching a water bottle. My thirst took its toll and my roots quenched their thirst. I looked up at my ironic savior. An Asian man with wide eyes looked down at me in pity. He hardly looked Asian. It was Mr. Nagasoki and behind him stood Jimothy. I felt like a coyote in a wolf pack.
When my eyesight returned I realized I was sitting at the same curb. The same curb where I ran into Jimothy and where he had run into Mr. Nagasoki. Earlier this Tuesday I had wanted to find Mr. Nagasoki and shoot him in the head, but there he stood now, above me, making sure I was okay. A calm feeling bombed me as I looked into his eyes. The loud buzzing blasted at my hearing aid. An epiphany quenched my thirst: We are all the same, all birds eating from the same hummingbird feeder.
I don’t think Mr. Nagasoki recognized me behind my wrinkles. The buzzing stopped. He turned around and kept walking.
REFLECTION:
This is a writing assignment for my Creative Writing class. In this assignment I had to follow a technique invented by Nancy Zafris for organizing short story elements. I really enjoyed writing with these guidelines because it helped steer the story in a great direction. This format helped push me to write vital plot points and characters. I liked the formula because it strung format and free will together. I was able to be creative and experimental while still adhering to the strict guidelines. Zafris clearly knows what she's talking about.
This assingment and its guidleines helped me bring out the critical thinker within me. I was able to think critically about Zafris' structure before adhering to it. Analyzing Zafris' structure and studying its progression helped me grow as a critical thinker. Thinking critically about this assignment helped me apply its rules and regulations better. Knowing about the formula inside and out really came in handy during the project. I knew where the story would veer off to next, so I prepared as I wrote.
Writing this story was a little hard because of its content. I was constantly worried about the critical reception of what I was writing. Will I offend anyone? Will people understand that these words are a characters, not my own. I enjoyed writing stories that I was scared to write. The language I used alarmed me, but when I became the character I just kept writing.
Underneath all this writing there will be a few pictures. These are pictures of where I got my idea for this story. I picked out my character from a freewrite and decided to surround my story above him. I used this description of an old-man as a jumping off point for the entire story. I really liked how it came out.
HERE IS THE DESCRIPTION THAT INSPIRED THE STORY:
HIGH STAKES: Hugging Hurts
Hugging my hunting gun, I step forward. Inches away from me stands a beast, a big beast, a big beast with big feet. “Just a deer,” I tell myself, I know I’m lying, I know what it wants, I know what it is.
Kill the killer before it kills. Little heart and little hands won’t bring the beast to the dirt. Mighty arms and mighty fists will smash the man in me.
Neck hairs rising and chest falling, I am scared. Only once have I felt like this before, when I was waiting outside the theatre. Pounding chest and sweaty palms, I stood there waiting for her.
Quick and reluctant. Rapid and frightened. So pathetic. Tiny man and towering beast, side by side, in confrontation. Under its chest bones I know there is no heart. Veins pump my fear, bulging and strangling my own neck. When will it go away, when will it leave me be?
Xena, the warrior princess, wouldn’t be afraid, and she doesn’t even have a rifle, I do, I am a man. “You have to man up,” I tell myself. Zeus wouldn’t be afraid, and he doesn’t even have a rifle, I do, I am a man.
All around me I hear the silence bellowing from the trees. But above me growls a growling monster. Cock my gun and point my eyes. Dying doesn’t seem easy.
Everyone I know and everyone I am won’t matter in a bit, in a few minutes I’ll be gone, in a few seconds my rifle will have met its match, I’m tired and exhausted, tired of trying, tired of waking up, tired of tiring ties, in a few beats my heart will retreat into silence, my being will fade into the silent trees, silenced and ashamed my rifle will retreat into the dirt, the soil doesn’t want me yet, the clouds aren’t ready for me, but the frightening fury wants me, it wants my flesh, it wants my bullet, it wants my everything, everyone I know and everyone I am, I am a dead man.
Forget me if you can’t. Gone.
REFLECTION:
This particular piece was very very tough to write. Our assignment was to pick a letter in the alphabet and begin the story with a word that begins with that letter. The challenging task was to have each following word begin with the following letter, according to the alphabet.
Alphabetical order was a difficult thing to comply to during the course of this assignement. I learned that, as a reader, I tend to enjoy a lot of self-diologue. I love books where the narrator contemplates plot elemtns to hiself because he is also the main character. Learning this about myself transcended into this assingenr.
Kill the killer before it kills. Little heart and little hands won’t bring the beast to the dirt. Mighty arms and mighty fists will smash the man in me.
Neck hairs rising and chest falling, I am scared. Only once have I felt like this before, when I was waiting outside the theatre. Pounding chest and sweaty palms, I stood there waiting for her.
Quick and reluctant. Rapid and frightened. So pathetic. Tiny man and towering beast, side by side, in confrontation. Under its chest bones I know there is no heart. Veins pump my fear, bulging and strangling my own neck. When will it go away, when will it leave me be?
Xena, the warrior princess, wouldn’t be afraid, and she doesn’t even have a rifle, I do, I am a man. “You have to man up,” I tell myself. Zeus wouldn’t be afraid, and he doesn’t even have a rifle, I do, I am a man.
All around me I hear the silence bellowing from the trees. But above me growls a growling monster. Cock my gun and point my eyes. Dying doesn’t seem easy.
Everyone I know and everyone I am won’t matter in a bit, in a few minutes I’ll be gone, in a few seconds my rifle will have met its match, I’m tired and exhausted, tired of trying, tired of waking up, tired of tiring ties, in a few beats my heart will retreat into silence, my being will fade into the silent trees, silenced and ashamed my rifle will retreat into the dirt, the soil doesn’t want me yet, the clouds aren’t ready for me, but the frightening fury wants me, it wants my flesh, it wants my bullet, it wants my everything, everyone I know and everyone I am, I am a dead man.
Forget me if you can’t. Gone.
REFLECTION:
This particular piece was very very tough to write. Our assignment was to pick a letter in the alphabet and begin the story with a word that begins with that letter. The challenging task was to have each following word begin with the following letter, according to the alphabet.
Alphabetical order was a difficult thing to comply to during the course of this assignement. I learned that, as a reader, I tend to enjoy a lot of self-diologue. I love books where the narrator contemplates plot elemtns to hiself because he is also the main character. Learning this about myself transcended into this assingenr.
As a writer I learned that I reflect the styles I read. This story was very mental for me. I wanted the story's setting to be inside the main character's head. It is better for a reader to become knowledgeable about a characters external conflicts by listening to their internal debate. This skill that I picked up really helped me explore myself as well. I placed myself into my character's shoes and wrote my thoughts. Learning this new skill was a great writing technique because it helped make a character's reaction more natural.
Though I enjoyed the outcome of this project I feel I could still improve the skill I mentioned earlier. I want to improve my ability to recognize when to utilize that skill. I feel that I could really become a more natural writer if I knew when to become the character. Being able to recognize what assets and skills to use in various situations is vital to becoming a good writer. Like Batman and his bat utility belt, I want to have my own collected writing techniques and skills ready to use when I want.
Below these next few sentences are a few images. These images are the first drafts of the story you just read. I wrote them in the back of a car on the way to see Anchorman 2 for a special screening before it came out. Sounds cool right? You'd want to go? If you dont want to go then something is wrong with you because apparently everyone wanted to go! When we got there the line was so long and the wait was too tiring and the theater was too full! We were not able to come in and watch the free special screening of Anchorman 2, months before its theatrical release. Anyways, these drafts are very hectic and premature. They were basically just thoughts exploding onto paper. But it was great to see the draft's shape change so much. It began a caterpillar and ended a final draft.
HERE ARE THE DRAFTS:
Below these next few sentences are a few images. These images are the first drafts of the story you just read. I wrote them in the back of a car on the way to see Anchorman 2 for a special screening before it came out. Sounds cool right? You'd want to go? If you dont want to go then something is wrong with you because apparently everyone wanted to go! When we got there the line was so long and the wait was too tiring and the theater was too full! We were not able to come in and watch the free special screening of Anchorman 2, months before its theatrical release. Anyways, these drafts are very hectic and premature. They were basically just thoughts exploding onto paper. But it was great to see the draft's shape change so much. It began a caterpillar and ended a final draft.
HERE ARE THE DRAFTS:
Exhibit Z Video
Exhibit Z-Gallerie Di Difformite VIDEO
REFLECTION:
This piece is a video that I directed, filmed and edited. It is not a writing like the rest of the contents in this ePortfolio. I really enjoyed making this video because I was able to artistically experiment with composition, meaning and framing. The assignment was to copy the work of another author, and then deform it. I did this in this video by writing the original text on a hand, and then having it deform when the water washes it away.
In this assignment we each worked with a group of students. I enjoyed my work because we all collaborated fairly and equally. We all veered off in our own directions but assembled a project in the end. The process was fun and entertaining and I hope you enjoyed my particular contribution to the overall project.
THE LINK FOR THE VIDEO IS AT THE TOP
BUT THE LINK FOR THE ORIGINAL TEXT THAT THE VIDEO IS BASED OFF OF IS BELOW THIS:
http://difformite.wordpress.com/exhibits/exhibit-z/
HIGH STAKES: SPARKY
Old dog relaxing on his fur carpet
Smooth, greasy, golden stained hair
Eyes tired and ears tired
Chest rising and falling in his sleep
Smells of grass and sprinklers stain his coat
Pink tongue colored in wet
The rumble and grumble of a creeping truck
His subtle whiskers jab into the exhaust-tasting air
The mail man creeps and the dog sits
His ears and eyes tired and turned away
Hair poking and folding at the edges of his face
Uninterested and weary, he has forgotten to bark
In his younger years he enjoyed the occasional
Yap, bark and ruff
He is now unexcited about the world
He has seen it all
He has heard it all
His ears and eyes tired
The dog is tired of the mailman
REFLECTION:
This poem was very fun to write. I tried out a new technique when writing this poem. I found my dog and sat beside him and watched him for a few minutes before I began writing. I tried to study him so I could translate him naturally into words.
I learned that, as a writer, I have a very tough time articulating my ideas onto paper. Ideas rush through my head before I start an assignment. When I begin, my brain goes dry. Sometimes I have a hard time translating my thoughts, ideas into writing. Writing thoughts is difficult because thoughts aren't tangible. When one writes about an existing item, place or person words form easier. This is because the words simply have to describe. How can one describe what doesn't exist? What description could there be?
I would like to improve my inability to translate thoughts into words.With this ability I could be very versatile next semester. It would be grand to be able to write what I see in my head. This can be achieved through practice and studying. One must learn more words if one cannot say what they want with their current vocabulary. Expanding my vocabulary would be a great way to help me find words to be used in my writing.
Like I previously mentioned, I had a problem capturing my dog's essence and personality because, well, he is a dog. He doesn't have the same human characteristics that I am used to recognizing. I found myself trying to personify my dog, which was a very amusing task. I liked the poem because it helped me focus my writing abilities into capturing reality. Trapping sparky onto a computer screen using text was a tough task that I loved. This poem reminded me of a photograph because my goal was to capture his current essence eternally.
Below this next conglomerate of words are a few screenshots. They show the thought/writing process behind the poem you read. My steps are clearly shown in the photographs. First I observed my dog and jotted down smal descriptive phrases of him. After I typed down enough I began constructing my poem by putting some of my favorites together.Also, below the first photograph are few pictures of my dog. This is the dog I was trying to bring to life with words. I hope I characterized him well.
HERE ARE THE DESCRIPTIVE PHRASES THAT I USED:
BELOW THAT ARE THE DOG PHOTOGRAPHS I TOOK:
HIGH STAKES: The Cat in the Hat by: Edgar Alien Poo
The day was grey and my hands were cold. The warm soup couldn’t heat me up, it was turning cold. I remember hearing wet missiles destroying the pavement. And then I remember hearing a pound. A deep thud on wood. It sounded as though the wooden door was reenacting the sound it had made when it fell to be made into lumber. I heard the pound three times. Three aggressive knocks. Each thud louder than the latter.
I tried to ignore the first two knocks, I didn’t want to move; I was a potato. But that third knock got to me. It had taken me 4 hours to get my blanket into the right position and it was all for nothing. I stood up, planted my toes and then walked down the hallway. I caught a glimpse of myself in the blue reflecting window. My face was red hot and furious, I was a tomato.
I continued my furious fret until a few feet from the door and then I stood there, listening to the rain. I was frozen like a deer, listening and waiting for the next sound so I could run off. But I couldn’t feel a presence at the other side of the door. I convinced myself to open it. With every step I took the carpet seemed to pull me back in reluctance.
Creak! The nervous wind slammed the door open and the porch was empty. I stuck my head out into the icy winded chamber and saw nothing in my yard. The wind slapped me like an insulted woman, I had to retreat. I moved my body from the sub-polar weather to the artificial warmth inside. I felt a presence on my side of the door.
MEOW!
That’s when I met Mr. Phelline Meowsworth, the fanciest cat I’ve ever come to know. He was only six feet tall, but his hat made him seem taller. His fur was marvelous, it was as warm as soup should be. I ran myself through his blanket until my cold hands were warm. He purred and twirled his whiskers and then said, “Hello child, we are going to have some fun today.” Then he handed me a pill. A blue pill. A blue small pill.
I twirled it in my hands and then I twirled it with my tongue. It tasted like a bad holiday. But I knew it was good for me, Mr. Phelline Meowsworth wouldn’t hurt me. I finally gathered enough courage to ask what the pill was for, but I don’t remember his reply. I also don’t remember what happened next.
REFLECTION:
This was one of my favorite stories to write. It was so weird and experimental that it consumed me entirely. I couldn't think of anything else when I began writing. My original idea was to rewrite The Cat in the Hat in a creepy way. I felt that if I drew a sharp contrast between the two very different writing styles I would get an interesting reader's reaction. I hope I was right.
I would like to improve a few things next semester. But if this assignment showed me anything is that I want to imporve my ability to fluctuate my writing voice. I want to be able to tell funny stories and scary stories, I dont want my writing abilities to be restricted to one genre. I think this would be a great improvement for me next semester because I could explore the many types of writing styles that exist.
This assignment was conceived with a few failures. This particular piece of prose was one of the many drafts of possibilites I had for this assignment. I was so indecessive because I didn't have a plan for my writing. Success comes from preparation. A lot of time would have been saved if I had compared outlines instead of drafts of my prose.
Also here is the link to a video read of the Cat in the Hat book:
HERE IS THE PHRASE:
HIGH STAKES: The Heavenly Hellish Mattress
The morning was cold and sunny, the dew gathered on the glass and the knots gathered on my back. I needed a new mattress. My brown filthy excuse for a bed has sponged enough worries from my head, its springs look like winter. So many years sleeping, pounding, resting, sighing, fucking and dying on my bed, I don’t want to send it to the dirtiest hole on earth.
I want someone else to please it, like I did. I want someone else’s worries to make the mattress reek. I carefully carried the crust until the burden of its weight shifted to the back of my truck. I crawled onto the mattress one last time, foolishly hoping for it to convince me not to take it to Goodwill.
The engine rumbled and jittered the springs and each bump in the road brought the mattress a few inches closer to the heavens. God was aware the mattress had lost its life and God was trying to pick it up. But each time God’s claw reached into my truck I sped up. My foot pounded the floor of the car, in tune with my radio.
The wind stabbed the truck, slowing it in its tracks. 95 miles per hour. Pot holes yanked on my wheels. 100 miles per hour. I had to be quick, or else the world would stop. My wife was being awarded a purple heart for her red heart and I didn’t want to miss its beats.
I saw a red silhouette blazing across my windshield. 55 miles per hour. The shape of a boy in the road. 25 miles per hour. The boy grew into a man as my truck grew nearer. 10 miles per hour. The silhouette was dressed in dirt-blue jeans, a tired hat and a smirk. 0 miles per hour.
The man put his claw on the bumper and gently caressed my car until his fingers touched the tip of my window. Black fingernails and wet forehead, a brown filthy excuse for a man. “If this be your truck, I command these feet be driven.”
I wanted to say no, I was going to be late, but something about his gray smile and black eyeballs made me want to help. His mud smothered the clean carpet and his breath spun my steering wheel in his direction. His name was Lu. I knew it was short for something, but I didn’t care. He asked me about my mattress and why I was going so fast. I blamed god.
The road pumped and my hands choked the wheel, only 90 minutes to drop off the mattress and drop off the hitchhiker. Time seemed to race my truck, I needed to be faster, and I needed to win the race. Lu told me not to throw away such a perfectly good thing, and I explained to him I wasn’t. “Donating is the same as throwing it away,” Lu grinned.
Lu kept asking about the mattress. How much it had originally cost, how much it was probably worth, how well I had kept it, how many times I had slept on it, and if he could keep it instead. A dirty mattress for a dirty man. One man’s trash is another trash’s treasure.
I didn’t want to give it to him, I wanted charity to have it. I wanted some orphan to open it up for Christmas. But Lu was very tempting. He told me I would make it on time if I let him sleep on it. His eyes followed my internal debate and finally convinced me. His black eyeballs convinced me.
The highway kept growing, I was not closer to my brown blonde beauty. Every time I asked Lu if we were closer to his destination he just laughed and changed the topic. His gray smile growing wider with every mile. He was starting to scare me. I asked him where he was headed. He told me he didn’t believe in heads. He wasn’t funny. He was starting to scare me.
Black hair, black eyeballs and black laughter. Lu turned up the radio and turned down his window. I asked him why he was so dirty. The wind shouted over his answer. I shut the world and he leaned his head back to rest and said,
“I blame god.”
My truck froze on the desert highway, Lu scorched and squashed the ground as he stepped out with my mattress.
Satan wanted my brown filthy charity more than god.
REFLECTION:
This piece was very challenging to write. We, as a class, were given a standard plot that we had to personalize. The given plot was: Character A has to donate a mattress to Goodwill before Character C gives a speech, Character B gets in Character A's way.
Personalizing such a standard plot was challenging because at first no ideas came to mind. I had to think carefully about a story that would fulfill the assignment's requirements. I loved this challenge because it taught me how to be fluid with static material.
My mindset has definitely changed a lot since this project. At first I thought creative story writing needed inspiration, but that mindset is long gone.I realized that sometimes you have a deadline that you have to meet whether you have an idea or not. This assignment helped me write a story without waiting around for an idea. Ideas will arise later on, after you commence writing.
A great skill I learned during the course and progress of this assignment was: how to just write. Sitting down, whenever, and writing about whatever is a pretty great skill. This skill was definitely taught earlier in the semester with the concept of freewriting, but I never knew how to apply those concepts to an assignment with guidelines.
Below this entire body of text are two images. These images are pictures. These two pictures are of my thought process before the story. I didn't really change the story much from the original draft because by this time I had learned to contemplate ideas before I begin writing. I asked myself questions about the story before I wrote the story because I wanted to create a hypothetical background for each character. I wanted to develop their purposes and relationships before I started the story.
HERE ARE THE OUTLINES/THOUGHT PROCESSES:
I want someone else to please it, like I did. I want someone else’s worries to make the mattress reek. I carefully carried the crust until the burden of its weight shifted to the back of my truck. I crawled onto the mattress one last time, foolishly hoping for it to convince me not to take it to Goodwill.
The engine rumbled and jittered the springs and each bump in the road brought the mattress a few inches closer to the heavens. God was aware the mattress had lost its life and God was trying to pick it up. But each time God’s claw reached into my truck I sped up. My foot pounded the floor of the car, in tune with my radio.
The wind stabbed the truck, slowing it in its tracks. 95 miles per hour. Pot holes yanked on my wheels. 100 miles per hour. I had to be quick, or else the world would stop. My wife was being awarded a purple heart for her red heart and I didn’t want to miss its beats.
I saw a red silhouette blazing across my windshield. 55 miles per hour. The shape of a boy in the road. 25 miles per hour. The boy grew into a man as my truck grew nearer. 10 miles per hour. The silhouette was dressed in dirt-blue jeans, a tired hat and a smirk. 0 miles per hour.
The man put his claw on the bumper and gently caressed my car until his fingers touched the tip of my window. Black fingernails and wet forehead, a brown filthy excuse for a man. “If this be your truck, I command these feet be driven.”
I wanted to say no, I was going to be late, but something about his gray smile and black eyeballs made me want to help. His mud smothered the clean carpet and his breath spun my steering wheel in his direction. His name was Lu. I knew it was short for something, but I didn’t care. He asked me about my mattress and why I was going so fast. I blamed god.
The road pumped and my hands choked the wheel, only 90 minutes to drop off the mattress and drop off the hitchhiker. Time seemed to race my truck, I needed to be faster, and I needed to win the race. Lu told me not to throw away such a perfectly good thing, and I explained to him I wasn’t. “Donating is the same as throwing it away,” Lu grinned.
Lu kept asking about the mattress. How much it had originally cost, how much it was probably worth, how well I had kept it, how many times I had slept on it, and if he could keep it instead. A dirty mattress for a dirty man. One man’s trash is another trash’s treasure.
I didn’t want to give it to him, I wanted charity to have it. I wanted some orphan to open it up for Christmas. But Lu was very tempting. He told me I would make it on time if I let him sleep on it. His eyes followed my internal debate and finally convinced me. His black eyeballs convinced me.
The highway kept growing, I was not closer to my brown blonde beauty. Every time I asked Lu if we were closer to his destination he just laughed and changed the topic. His gray smile growing wider with every mile. He was starting to scare me. I asked him where he was headed. He told me he didn’t believe in heads. He wasn’t funny. He was starting to scare me.
Black hair, black eyeballs and black laughter. Lu turned up the radio and turned down his window. I asked him why he was so dirty. The wind shouted over his answer. I shut the world and he leaned his head back to rest and said,
“I blame god.”
My truck froze on the desert highway, Lu scorched and squashed the ground as he stepped out with my mattress.
Satan wanted my brown filthy charity more than god.
REFLECTION:
This piece was very challenging to write. We, as a class, were given a standard plot that we had to personalize. The given plot was: Character A has to donate a mattress to Goodwill before Character C gives a speech, Character B gets in Character A's way.
Personalizing such a standard plot was challenging because at first no ideas came to mind. I had to think carefully about a story that would fulfill the assignment's requirements. I loved this challenge because it taught me how to be fluid with static material.
My mindset has definitely changed a lot since this project. At first I thought creative story writing needed inspiration, but that mindset is long gone.I realized that sometimes you have a deadline that you have to meet whether you have an idea or not. This assignment helped me write a story without waiting around for an idea. Ideas will arise later on, after you commence writing.
A great skill I learned during the course and progress of this assignment was: how to just write. Sitting down, whenever, and writing about whatever is a pretty great skill. This skill was definitely taught earlier in the semester with the concept of freewriting, but I never knew how to apply those concepts to an assignment with guidelines.
Below this entire body of text are two images. These images are pictures. These two pictures are of my thought process before the story. I didn't really change the story much from the original draft because by this time I had learned to contemplate ideas before I begin writing. I asked myself questions about the story before I wrote the story because I wanted to create a hypothetical background for each character. I wanted to develop their purposes and relationships before I started the story.
HERE ARE THE OUTLINES/THOUGHT PROCESSES:
HIGH STAKES: Waking, Walking and Working at Night
Sometimes you can hear the streetlamps coming on. That little zap of energy rings in the street, but only restless ears can hear it. I hear that sound every evening, every evening it wakes me. I try to sleep all day but then I hear that noise, that little zap. The streetlamp rises at night.
My name is Tea, I'm a detective. Since you can't see me I'd like to tell you that I am four feet tall and my hair always looks wet. I don’t really talk much, but I do write a lot, so you're not missing out. My barber always tells me that I'm not very talkative, but then again am I supposed to talk to my barber? Am I supposed to talk to anyone? The only person I've had a full conversation with is someone I can't forget.
The night was brown, tinted with dirt and exhaust. Smog and smoke rolled up my pant legs as I walked to the end of Streit Ave. I remember thinking it was cold, and then I remember thinking that was a weird thought since I was wearing a heavy coat, and then I remember thinking that was weird since I live in California.
My steel toe boots smashed the narrow black-bricked road until I came to a stop. Below the stop sign lied a dead poodle. The dog's eyes black as brick and its fur brown as night. I stepped back and examined it from afar.
The dog's skin had been slit in several areas. Regions of its body without skin or fur. Red flesh mudding brown hair, someone had tried to skin this animal for its fur. Was poodle in fashion now?
The wind yelled at me to continue my path. So I did, you don’t argue with the wind, you go with it. I passed row after row of dirty street apartments, dipped in soot and suffering. This part of town was invisible. The smog always clouds its low floors, no streetlamps here. It’s too dark for me, my black coat blends into the surroundings. No moonshine.
Artificial yellow rays guiding my eyes. A purple and pink neon sign leads me to the front door of my favorite coffee shop. It didn't have a name people just called it "The Coffee Shop." An attempt had been made last week to formally christen the place with red spray paint. It was washed off immediately. The owner wants to keep it nameless.
I came in and sat at my favorite bar stool: the fourth one to the right. Greasy menu with greasy items saturated with flavor. I ordered a coffee, and then four more. The waiter and I were both on our dinner break. We shared each other’s company in silence. Then a door yelled at me to turn its way. So I did.
Under the cotton-shaped coat was a soft, nervous woman with loud, help-seeking eyes. White boots and sun stained hair; she walked toward the stool next to mine: the third one to the right. She tipped her nose and ordered a martini. A martini? At a coffee shop? Another waiter returned in a jiffy. She dipped her lips and took a sip. Her roses leaving a lip stain on the soft spout.
My stomach was filled to the brim with black drink, and then I ordered another to stay longer. The front of her hat swiveled in my direction. She said hello. I said hello. After I told her I was a detective she said "God has brought us two together, I need to use you for something." She began running her teeth and tongue furiously. She wouldn’t stop talking; her mouth jittered like an excited car motor. She tried to steal me, she needed to use me.
The next hour passed and we were at her store. She owned a fur coat shop. Each wall draped in soft fur. Beaver, faux, fox, marten, mink, otter, rabbit, raccoon, sable, skunk, grey wolf coats insulated us. Surrounded by skin, I realized I was stepping in a red murky puddle. Someone had christened her store with death.
I followed her down the green carpeted hallways of the back rooms until she came to a stop. Her breaths slowed and then I could hear a man panting, struggling, crying and yelling. I pulled my gun and pushed the door.
There stood a man covered in dirt, blood and tears. On the floor below lied patches of white fur. White cotton fur stained with red. He was squeezing a knife. I stepped back and pointed my right hand. I ran my left one through my wet hair, pushed it to the right.
His red arm squished me to the floor as he put his other around her neck. He shut the door behind us. His knife barely piercing her skin, she started yelling and begging. He told me we would both die for what we had done to him. He told her he loved her. He said that’s why he had killed the poodle. The fur for her. He had me confused with her lover. He was mad at her, mad at me. He squeezed his knife and I squeezed my trigger. I won.
When his head hit the tile he faded, "Its a story, nobody gets out of here alive."
REFLECTION:
Working with pre-selected words really challenged me. It forced me to think and work with what I had. I was given a list of 9 or more words for this project. I had to incorporate each word into the narrative, while still constructing a personal, unique story.
We were told to write a noir piece, and I enjoyed doing so. Writing a mystery is so much fun! It was great not knowing how the story would end until I ended it. Writing this mystery noir was one of my favorite assignments this semester.
The goal of this assignment was to write a noir piece while incorporating words provided by our professor. Some skills I gained from working towards this goal were: the ability to write a mystery and the ability to write with words that are not mine. It was challenging to write with provided words, since the story in my head didn't always agree with involving them in my story, But I had to manage and I was able to!
Under these words are a few pictures. They show the outline of the story.I wanted to write the story as I went along so I can only pre-determined the theme and structure of the story. I decided on a few main plot elements and improvised the rest. These pictures show the ideas I had for the work as a whole before I wrote it.
HERE ARE THE PICTURES OF CONCEPTS:
My name is Tea, I'm a detective. Since you can't see me I'd like to tell you that I am four feet tall and my hair always looks wet. I don’t really talk much, but I do write a lot, so you're not missing out. My barber always tells me that I'm not very talkative, but then again am I supposed to talk to my barber? Am I supposed to talk to anyone? The only person I've had a full conversation with is someone I can't forget.
The night was brown, tinted with dirt and exhaust. Smog and smoke rolled up my pant legs as I walked to the end of Streit Ave. I remember thinking it was cold, and then I remember thinking that was a weird thought since I was wearing a heavy coat, and then I remember thinking that was weird since I live in California.
My steel toe boots smashed the narrow black-bricked road until I came to a stop. Below the stop sign lied a dead poodle. The dog's eyes black as brick and its fur brown as night. I stepped back and examined it from afar.
The dog's skin had been slit in several areas. Regions of its body without skin or fur. Red flesh mudding brown hair, someone had tried to skin this animal for its fur. Was poodle in fashion now?
The wind yelled at me to continue my path. So I did, you don’t argue with the wind, you go with it. I passed row after row of dirty street apartments, dipped in soot and suffering. This part of town was invisible. The smog always clouds its low floors, no streetlamps here. It’s too dark for me, my black coat blends into the surroundings. No moonshine.
Artificial yellow rays guiding my eyes. A purple and pink neon sign leads me to the front door of my favorite coffee shop. It didn't have a name people just called it "The Coffee Shop." An attempt had been made last week to formally christen the place with red spray paint. It was washed off immediately. The owner wants to keep it nameless.
I came in and sat at my favorite bar stool: the fourth one to the right. Greasy menu with greasy items saturated with flavor. I ordered a coffee, and then four more. The waiter and I were both on our dinner break. We shared each other’s company in silence. Then a door yelled at me to turn its way. So I did.
Under the cotton-shaped coat was a soft, nervous woman with loud, help-seeking eyes. White boots and sun stained hair; she walked toward the stool next to mine: the third one to the right. She tipped her nose and ordered a martini. A martini? At a coffee shop? Another waiter returned in a jiffy. She dipped her lips and took a sip. Her roses leaving a lip stain on the soft spout.
My stomach was filled to the brim with black drink, and then I ordered another to stay longer. The front of her hat swiveled in my direction. She said hello. I said hello. After I told her I was a detective she said "God has brought us two together, I need to use you for something." She began running her teeth and tongue furiously. She wouldn’t stop talking; her mouth jittered like an excited car motor. She tried to steal me, she needed to use me.
The next hour passed and we were at her store. She owned a fur coat shop. Each wall draped in soft fur. Beaver, faux, fox, marten, mink, otter, rabbit, raccoon, sable, skunk, grey wolf coats insulated us. Surrounded by skin, I realized I was stepping in a red murky puddle. Someone had christened her store with death.
I followed her down the green carpeted hallways of the back rooms until she came to a stop. Her breaths slowed and then I could hear a man panting, struggling, crying and yelling. I pulled my gun and pushed the door.
There stood a man covered in dirt, blood and tears. On the floor below lied patches of white fur. White cotton fur stained with red. He was squeezing a knife. I stepped back and pointed my right hand. I ran my left one through my wet hair, pushed it to the right.
His red arm squished me to the floor as he put his other around her neck. He shut the door behind us. His knife barely piercing her skin, she started yelling and begging. He told me we would both die for what we had done to him. He told her he loved her. He said that’s why he had killed the poodle. The fur for her. He had me confused with her lover. He was mad at her, mad at me. He squeezed his knife and I squeezed my trigger. I won.
When his head hit the tile he faded, "Its a story, nobody gets out of here alive."
REFLECTION:
Working with pre-selected words really challenged me. It forced me to think and work with what I had. I was given a list of 9 or more words for this project. I had to incorporate each word into the narrative, while still constructing a personal, unique story.
We were told to write a noir piece, and I enjoyed doing so. Writing a mystery is so much fun! It was great not knowing how the story would end until I ended it. Writing this mystery noir was one of my favorite assignments this semester.
The goal of this assignment was to write a noir piece while incorporating words provided by our professor. Some skills I gained from working towards this goal were: the ability to write a mystery and the ability to write with words that are not mine. It was challenging to write with provided words, since the story in my head didn't always agree with involving them in my story, But I had to manage and I was able to!
Under these words are a few pictures. They show the outline of the story.I wanted to write the story as I went along so I can only pre-determined the theme and structure of the story. I decided on a few main plot elements and improvised the rest. These pictures show the ideas I had for the work as a whole before I wrote it.
HERE ARE THE PICTURES OF CONCEPTS:
LOW STAKES assignment: Freewrite
The steel became transparent when he sat in front of me.
A man whose skin color is grey, 50 shades of it.
A man whose peak is blanketed with a snow of dandruff.
A man who hides behind his hat and sunglasses.
A man who is too nervous to look up.
A man who nods his head in agreement with the bus’s jerking.
A man whose shirt stripes shrivel in agony.
A man whose sunglasses have no eyes, whose face has no smile.
A man who looks uneasy, tired, and dipped in dirt.
I felt so close to the dirtiest man alive.
REFLECTION:
This assignment was great because it was a freewrite. Freewriting is my favorite type of writing because you have so much freedom! It was a great experience hearing the words I could write without thinking about them.Freewriting is so flexible and natural that you can write on anything and everything. Freewriting can help you discover your voice, which it helped me do. I really enjoyed it, I really enjoyed this assignment.
I noticed all the cons with my writing now that I am reflecting on this. I've noticed that sometmes I tend to repeat myself when I am writing. I am a bit redundant. I am a bit redundant. I feel like this is one of my failures as a writer. I think this because I feel a writer should be concise and precise. A writer should use his words as if they were scarce resources. A word should only be used if it is completely necessary.
I would improve this bad quality of mine for next semester. I want to become a clearer writer who captures a reader's attention entirely. This can only be done with words. I plan on getting better at deciding which words are vital and which ones are not.
Below this body of text there are some images. These images are first drafts of the work you just read. This was a freewrite that I wrote as I was on the bus home (before I had a car :{.) As I was beginning to write in my journal a very dirty man sat next to me, the dirtiest man in the world. His smell inspired my writing and my vomiting. After I revised my freewrite I decided to make it into a poem. I used my favorite lines of description from the original poem. The poem is what you just read.
HERE IS WHAT I WROTE AS THE DIRTIEST MAN SAT DOWN:
A man whose skin color is grey, 50 shades of it.
A man whose peak is blanketed with a snow of dandruff.
A man who hides behind his hat and sunglasses.
A man who is too nervous to look up.
A man who nods his head in agreement with the bus’s jerking.
A man whose shirt stripes shrivel in agony.
A man whose sunglasses have no eyes, whose face has no smile.
A man who looks uneasy, tired, and dipped in dirt.
I felt so close to the dirtiest man alive.
REFLECTION:
This assignment was great because it was a freewrite. Freewriting is my favorite type of writing because you have so much freedom! It was a great experience hearing the words I could write without thinking about them.Freewriting is so flexible and natural that you can write on anything and everything. Freewriting can help you discover your voice, which it helped me do. I really enjoyed it, I really enjoyed this assignment.
I noticed all the cons with my writing now that I am reflecting on this. I've noticed that sometmes I tend to repeat myself when I am writing. I am a bit redundant. I am a bit redundant. I feel like this is one of my failures as a writer. I think this because I feel a writer should be concise and precise. A writer should use his words as if they were scarce resources. A word should only be used if it is completely necessary.
I would improve this bad quality of mine for next semester. I want to become a clearer writer who captures a reader's attention entirely. This can only be done with words. I plan on getting better at deciding which words are vital and which ones are not.
Below this body of text there are some images. These images are first drafts of the work you just read. This was a freewrite that I wrote as I was on the bus home (before I had a car :{.) As I was beginning to write in my journal a very dirty man sat next to me, the dirtiest man in the world. His smell inspired my writing and my vomiting. After I revised my freewrite I decided to make it into a poem. I used my favorite lines of description from the original poem. The poem is what you just read.
HERE IS WHAT I WROTE AS THE DIRTIEST MAN SAT DOWN:
LOW STAKES assignment: Helmoffering
EV
er
Y T
hIN
g
YO
u
He
Ar
IS
A
S oU
ND
Everything you hear
Is a sound
Motorcycle sound blazes left, ear, right.
Wind woos, Venom whistles and
Seatbelts slap.
I can hear
A Chinese man speaks
Chinese while the Beatles play.
The sunlight manages to push
Through my closed eyes.
The speed of the
Bus Is loud.
The lady on
The GPS thinks she knows-it-all
Music blasting from the
Neighboring car,
Sound is a violent
Drummer pounding on the ear drum
Traffic is terrible,
Move an inch. Lose an inch.
Continues..Change when it becomes centimeters.
A red river of red lights
Each one halted and honking
Angry and paused
Immobile in mobiles
Saddle hurts
In a car.
Feat tire with distance.
Cars left and mint.
Not moving but speeding home.
My radio is louder than the world.
This moment is smaller than the universe.
An itch and I don’t want to scratch. I don’t want to miss the moment,
I don’t want to miss the world.
Moment: Tnemom, Venom, Mom, Mother, Memento, Mime, Meme, Miming, Mint, Gnome, Womb, New, Ten
Traffic: Ciffart, Cliff, Art, Clifford, Clip, Fart, Stiff, Jip, Jiff, Life
Blazes: Sezalb, Saddle, Seltzer, Alba, Said, Says, Sentiment
REFLECTION:
I really loved this piece. I loved everything about it. I loved the technique used to write it and the thought process behind it. Our instructions were to simply write our thoughts. We had to pour our brains onto paper and then type it.
It was so great seeing how natural one can be when one lends no thought. This helm-offering is composed of pure thoughts, pure ideas and pure voice. No obstructions, no walls blocked my thoughts from transcending through my pencil.
I thought of this project as word vomit. I was simply spitting thoughts onto paper, hoping that they were good enough to be read. Then we had to go back and edit, reshape and re imagine our work, without changing too much.This assignment helped push me to find my natural writer's voice. I did it all without trying. I very highly recommend this writing exercise to anyone.
Below this last body of text are a few photographs. These are picz of my original helmoffering, before I revised and edited it. Revising was a long process since there weren't too many correlating ideas. It was hard to find a theme with all those different thoughts: HERE ARE THE PICS/Z OF THE ORIGINAL HELMOFFERING:
(I CLOSED MY EYES AND WROTE)
(I CAN WRITE WITH MY EYES CLOSED!)
(I WONDER IF I CASN TYUPE WITJ MYeYES CLpSED)
er
Y T
hIN
g
YO
u
He
Ar
IS
A
S oU
ND
Everything you hear
Is a sound
Motorcycle sound blazes left, ear, right.
Wind woos, Venom whistles and
Seatbelts slap.
I can hear
A Chinese man speaks
Chinese while the Beatles play.
The sunlight manages to push
Through my closed eyes.
The speed of the
Bus Is loud.
The lady on
The GPS thinks she knows-it-all
Music blasting from the
Neighboring car,
Sound is a violent
Drummer pounding on the ear drum
Traffic is terrible,
Move an inch. Lose an inch.
Continues..Change when it becomes centimeters.
A red river of red lights
Each one halted and honking
Angry and paused
Immobile in mobiles
Saddle hurts
In a car.
Feat tire with distance.
Cars left and mint.
Not moving but speeding home.
My radio is louder than the world.
This moment is smaller than the universe.
An itch and I don’t want to scratch. I don’t want to miss the moment,
I don’t want to miss the world.
Moment: Tnemom, Venom, Mom, Mother, Memento, Mime, Meme, Miming, Mint, Gnome, Womb, New, Ten
Traffic: Ciffart, Cliff, Art, Clifford, Clip, Fart, Stiff, Jip, Jiff, Life
Blazes: Sezalb, Saddle, Seltzer, Alba, Said, Says, Sentiment
REFLECTION:
I really loved this piece. I loved everything about it. I loved the technique used to write it and the thought process behind it. Our instructions were to simply write our thoughts. We had to pour our brains onto paper and then type it.
It was so great seeing how natural one can be when one lends no thought. This helm-offering is composed of pure thoughts, pure ideas and pure voice. No obstructions, no walls blocked my thoughts from transcending through my pencil.
I thought of this project as word vomit. I was simply spitting thoughts onto paper, hoping that they were good enough to be read. Then we had to go back and edit, reshape and re imagine our work, without changing too much.This assignment helped push me to find my natural writer's voice. I did it all without trying. I very highly recommend this writing exercise to anyone.
Below this last body of text are a few photographs. These are picz of my original helmoffering, before I revised and edited it. Revising was a long process since there weren't too many correlating ideas. It was hard to find a theme with all those different thoughts: HERE ARE THE PICS/Z OF THE ORIGINAL HELMOFFERING:
(I CLOSED MY EYES AND WROTE)
(I CAN WRITE WITH MY EYES CLOSED!)
(I WONDER IF I CASN TYUPE WITJ MYeYES CLpSED)
Critically evaluating the work of others.
REVIEW OF:
War of Kingdoms by Julie Wang
I really enjoyed the opening of the novel because of its beautiful imagery. It really painted a pretty picture. After the beautiful setting was established it made the story seem more realistic. I was able to get involved with the story because the intro really helped bring me into the fictional word. I really liked the following the most, "A pleasant breeze skimmed across the blue waves that gently lapped against the docks and beaches that stretched along the side of the port town, carrying with it a symphony of bird sound."
The author uses vivid phrases to let traders see what is happening. She seems to do this a lot with characters. She tells you what they look like and lets you guess their purpose. Here are three examples of the author showing us who the character is.
1: "sheaf of papers neatly stacked and held close to him and silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose sighed"
2: "Restraining another sigh and running his free hand rather roughly through pale blonde hair"
3: "a rather bored looking white-haired youth that sat among some of the cargo crates that sat on along one of the docks, waiting"
The character that I find most interesting is the old man. The old man is interesting to me because he is always described sighing.I want to know why this is. What makes him so tired, what makes him so exhausted? The way the author vaguely describes the character makes the old man more interesting and makes me more curious.
The narrative has a "top" story and a "bottom story." What I have read so far is that there is a boy, who is waiting at the dock. This could be symbolic of him waiting for his manhood. The boy is described as looking "bored" and this resembles how most boys act before they mature. Teens get bored of being immature, so they mature. I feel that the bottom story might be his journey into maturation.
I don't think the setup can really be improved that much. I really enjoyed the way the story bounces around from world to world. It adds excitement to the story since there are so many cliffhangers. It reminds me of War and Peace, one book telling the stories of many.
REFLECTION:
In this piece I found myself reviewing the work of another peer. I was supposed to read her work and then comment on it. My comments had to consist of helpful and friendly feedback.
This showcases my ability to read the work of others critically. I can evaluate the content, writing style and tone of someone's work, which helps me personally. Since I have gotten the opportunity to find flaws in the works of others and help them improve those flaws, I can now channel my experience into my writing. I can now avoid making mistakes, and I can now fix the mistakes I make.
Under this body of writing is a link. This is the link to the original work I reviewed in this critical peer review.
HERE IS THE LINK:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VxmOiTsOEpX419p2BGPLQiBlktVuDBKKeRvjikpxdhs/edit?pli=1
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