Entry Number Two, Week Nine: Nature Walk Prose Poem.

The sky is the beginning pallet of the artist’s work- pale pinks, light violet, dark oranges, and pastel yellows. The garden is the beginning pallet of the homeowner’s graveyard. The strawberries, once a luscious red topped with green paradise are a dark, ugly taunting brown; the skeletons of a fulfilling fruit. The hostas, once plentiful with boisterous, busty, light-and-dark green leaves are fragile wisps that threaten to blow away with the wind. Bones of flowers, long forgotten, lie in the neglected flower bed. The lone tree, guardian of the yard has a skinny, lightly tanned trunk. Not a robust trunk like the ones at the park. Not a trunk for protecting the others. The bushes in the back hide the destruction, hide the jungle, and hide the horror. A graveyard for plants. A graveyard for resurrection? My future home.

-Abigail Lawrence J

Entry Number One, Week Nine: "Follow That Cab"

I found the predicament described in the work, “Follow That Cab,” to be amusing. I’ll admit that a few chuckles escaped me. I am picturing an older gentleman that has little to no experience with advanced technology racing around to find a trunk containing items vital to his work and life. I can also see the disgruntled wife, who has a more advanced grasp of technology, as well as, the depths of her husband’s forgetfulness. In respect to the style, I felt slightly jumbled throughout the entire piece. There were certain fragments I had to re-read several times. I understand that the author wanted to convey the panic and hectic emotions that he and his wife were feeling, but as a reader, it was disorienting. I also didn’t care for the last sentence fragment, “Not first time.” It didn’t really resonate with strong finality.

-Abigail Lawrence J

Entry Number Three, Week Eight: Freewrite. "Naughty Girl."

I am a naughty girl, a selfish girl, a liar. I have not been consistently keeping up with my writing schedule. Sure, once-a-week, twice-a-week, whatever I can muster.  But even then, I'm not truly free writing. It's not for me. It's for someone else. Some other teacher. Some other organization. Some other individual. My lapse in commitment is probably disappointing to others. Does it mean I love writing less than another classmate? Absolutely not. I love writing. I appreciate writing. I appreciate those with the caliber to write well. I try to justify not writing daily because I have "too many other activities occurring." However, I don't think that is the absolute truth. I think I am just scared I won't  have anything special or meaningful to write about. That my writing will be superficial and bland. Cheesy. Not real. I also find myself comparing my works to those of others. How immature. I feel like a little girl again. A small part of me feels guilty for not being better disciplined, but at the same time, I feel I am making the right decisions for my psyche. Writing brings up unwanted, dark feelings. They distract me. Make me think of my demons. Take away from my productivity. I stop working; I think deeply. I laugh. I scream. I curse. I cry. I covet others's abilities. On days I write, I am burdened, but I feel intuitive and wise.

-Abigail Lawrence

J

Entry Number Two, Week Eight: Rewrite poem. "Praise the Chocolate Shake."

“Praise the Chocolate Shake”

I praise the chocolate shake because of its seductive, powerful nature.

Goddess of frozen treats, the Aphrodite of the Dairy Diner

Which always serves as a temptress to my will.

The thick, creamy, cold, brown concoction aesthetically begins to tease my eyes.

My eyes plead with my hand to retrieve money.

Money is mean.

Money is selfish.

Money does not like to be spent.

But, then, one of the presidents sees my treats

The president smiles.

“Buy it, child. Devour it.”

I must oblige the dead.

I reach for the chocolate shake.

My fingers tingle.

I take one bite.

Savory

Instantly, my ass, thighs, and stomach get bigger.

Calories spread quickly.

Fat cells multiply, triple, quadruple

But the chocolate shake doesn’t care

She has conformed me, controlled me.

Oh, mistress, may I take another bite?

“You will be my disciple. Sing my songs. Praise my praises. Taste only me.”

I am no longer free thinking.

She lives within me.

-Abigail Lawrence J

Entry Number One, Week Eight: Review a poem. "I Went into the Maverick Bar."

For a group assignment this week, I was asked to explicate the poem “I Went into the Maverick Bar” by Gary Snyder. Honestly, if I would not have done some research about the Black Mesa issue and the song “We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie [Muskogee]” then, the meaning (or what I perceive to be the meaning) of the poem wouldn’t have registered within my own mind. That is not to say I did not enjoy the reading. In the poem, the narrator goes to the Maverick Bar in Farmington, New Mexico. He hears the song “We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie [Muskogee]” and watches an older couple dance. The narrator begins to recall a simpler time when he had “short-haired joy and roughness.” After the short-lived nostalgia, he leaves the bar and receives a “dose of reality.”

Even though I don’t see the poem as becoming a well-loved classic, I appreciate it. I do not think it will be extremely popular because it will be misunderstood. Some may mistake it for unpatriotic or cynical. If proper research is done, then readers may gain new insight. The narrator is headed to New Mexico to speak about the Black Mesa issue. While on the way, he hears a song about living a "good," pure (basically, Christianity's view of pure) life. He remembers being sheltered and turning a blind eye towards serious issues occurring in the world. Then, when the narrator leaves the bar, he remembers his focus on what needs to be done. I loved the nostalgic, mysterious language. It also seemed nonchalant. I pictured a calm, lonely bar in New Mexico during a cool, desert night. The line, “What is to be done” leaves readers pondering several questions: What does the narrator need to accomplish? And What do I need to accomplish?  After my little research session, the poem became relevant to me. I think the theme could be seen as “What is to be done” is not always simple and enjoyable. Perhaps, it (our short- or long-term life mission(s)) cannot be discovered until some of our innocence has been shattered, until we see the world through clear, unsheltered eyes and realize there is evil and badness.

I love the lines:

            “America- your stupidity

I could almost love you again.”

I think the lines are powerful, so brilliant. At a young age, I remember teachers, family members, older members of our community, trying to instill a deep-rooted pride in America. So deep, it could almost have been considered ethnocentric. My whole life I have tried to maintain that pride, yet often it falters: the current president will do something upsetting; a new group will form out of ignorance; or some unspeakable crime will be committed. I try to love America in the purest sense, then our country does something foolish, and the love seems out-of-reach. Like the “love jar” was moved from the first shelf to the tenth shelf, and suddenly, I can’t just stand on my tip-toes to get it.

-Abigail Lawrence J

Entry Number Three, Week Six: Honest, quick writing. "In the Clouds."

A). I am afraid that if I start dreaming… I will realize that I want something that doesn’t involve my boyfriend and living in Rock Port, Missouri.

B). I secretly enjoy reading… I enjoy reading stories my wonderful monsters (no, I’m not trying to imitate Lady Gaga). A couple weeks ago, I went to the Barnes and Noble in Zona Rosa with my boyfriend; automatically, I gravitated towards the Halloween table. I read an entire poem book about a zombie apocalypse. Then, I bought a book about vampires.

C). If I had had a perfect childhood, I’d have grown up to be… Boring, naïve, and unprepared for the “real world.”  

D). If it didn’t sound so crazy, I’d write or make a… I would write books about guts, gore, murder, and cults.

E). My parents think artists are… My dad appreciates artists; my mom tends to find them eccentric and egotistical.

F). My God thinks artists are… The God I like to believe exists thinks artists are brilliant.

G). What makes me feel weird about this creative writing class is… I share personal details (I don’t tell my family and friends) about my life with people I’ve only known for six weeks.

H). Learning to trust myself is probably… Not going to happen. I am too awkward, inconsistent, and incompetent.

I). My most cheer-me-up music is… Music from Phantom of the Opera.

J). My favorite way to dress is… Right now, I love to wear sweats and flip-flops. But, in a few months, I’m hoping to be able to wear cute day dresses, skinny jeans, high heels, and bangles.

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number Two, Week Six: Letting Go. "Daydreaming."

A). My favorite childhood toy was… I had a medium-sized scratched, forest-green bucket filled with plastic Disney characters. No one, not even my immediate family, was allowed to touch my bucket or my characters.

B). My favorite childhood game was… I played “house” a lot. Basically, that would entail me being the bossy “mom” and telling my unfortunate “husband” and “children” what to do.

C). The best movie I ever saw as a kid was… The Lion King. It is truly a classic.

D). I don’t do it much but I enjoy… Going to the zoo. I love the exotic animals; I feel like I’m on a safari.

E). If I could lighten up a little, I’d let myself… Buy new clothes. I am so cheap.

F). If it weren’t too late, I would… Apologize to someone that tried to help me, but I was too stubborn and selfish to listen.

G). My favorite musical instrument is… The violin. I can’t play it, but I wish I could.

H). The amount of money I spend on treating myself to entertainment each month is… I try my best to spend as little money each month as possible; I am overly frugal. But, I will say that two weeks ago at Zona Rosa I bought two books for twenty dollars. My answer is twenty dollars.

I). If I weren’t so stingy with my artistic self, I’d buy him/her… An I-Pad.

J). Taking time out for myself… Makes me feel guilty.

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J