How to write? First, you need something to say.
OK - so you are leaving.
The time between this day and your last day at CCS (or on Earth, for that matter,) is measurable. You have some "measurable" concern over your ability to express yourself.
Can I think?
Can I speak?
Can I write?
Can I make it?
Good questions. I ask the same ones daily. Always will
.
There are a number of folks who have already finished this adventure and who have left, not only some terrific contributions, but also the written evidence of what they were thinking.
I believe that what they had to say,
and how they elected to say it,
is ALWAYS the best place to start.
You might read some Lincoln, for example.
Or you might read General Patton,
Gandhi,
Mandela,
C.S. Lewis,
or King.
They were all thinkers - not about EVERYTHING, but about their own
unique corner of the adventure.
And they were able to articulate their thoughts in such a way
that even Carol Maxine can understand them.
THAT, men and women, is ALL that any language classes is trying to do - to equip her citizens to 1) think, and 2) express those thoughts in a way - ANY WAY - that someone else will understand.
In your particular time on earth, Steve Jobs was one of those articulate thinkers.
Here, listen to one fine example of the way he gives form to his thoughts.
Then, STUDY the text of this speech.
Look at the details.
How did he arrange his thoughts?
How did he deliver the spoken message?
And how did he punctuate - create rhythm - to the text?
It is possible, I guess, to learn from workbooks and copy-sheets. But how much more meaningful to learn from those who can show us that they have learned .
"Still Life with Fish" William Merritt Chase (Denver Art Museum)
"Paint the commonplace in such a way as to make it distinguished."
"I enjoy painting fishes; in the infinite variety of these creatures, the subtle and exquisite colored tones of the flesh, fresh from the water, the way their surfaces reflect the light, I take the greatest pleasure...It may be that I will be remembered as a painter of fish."
Between Walls
the back wings
of the
hospital where
nothing
will grow lie
cinders
in which shine
the broken
pieces of a green
bottle
Noon. Hunger is the only thing
singing in my belly.
I walk through the blossoming cherry trees
on the library mall,
past the young couples coupling,
by the crazy fanatic
screaming doom and salvation
at a sensation-hungry crowd,
to the Lake Street McDonald's.
It is crowded, the lines long and sluggish.
I wait in the greasy air.
All around me people are eating —
the sizzle of conversation,
the salty odor of sweat,
the warm flesh pressing out of
hip huggers and halter tops.
When I finally reach the cash register,
the counter girl is crisp as a pickle,
her fingers thin as french fries,
her face brown as a bun.
Suddenly I understand cannibalism.
As I reach for her,
she breaks into pieces
wrapped neat and packaged for take-out.
I'm thinking, how amazing it is
to live in this country, how easy
it is to be filled.
We leave together, her warm aroma
close at my side.
I walk back.. through the cherry trees
blossoming up into pies,
the young couple frying in
the hot, oily sun,
the crowd eating up the fanatic,
singing, my ear, my eye, my tongue
fat with the wonder
of this hungry world.
-Ronald Wallace
You Can't Write a
Poem about McDonald's
Activity 1. The Photo
"The Steerage" by AlfredStieglitz
Activity 2. The Poem
Danse Russe
by William Carlos Williams
If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees, -
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and siging softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely,
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades, -
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
