My Sense of Tragedy

When we first received the assignment, I was completely and utterly stumped. All in all, I would say I've lead a fairly privileged life: two parents, four grandparents, two sisters, a roof over my head, an opportunity to receive a college education. "How can I write about tragedy when my life really isn't all that bad?"... Then I heard Amber's story about her pets passing away and suddenly the floodgates of my memory opened wide up. I completely relate to all the stories about a pet dying, especially dogs, and how it can be a tragedy. I mean, think about it... what is more tragic than life being taken away from something so innocent, almost as innocent as a small child (I know that's kind of a stretch, but still...).

Growing up, my family had two large, sloppy, loving Golden Retrievers that were essentially apart of the family. We got our first dog, Britta, when I was six and the second one, Hannah, when I was 8. They were the perfect family dogs, even tolerating when my sisters and I would dress them up in stupid costumes. When I was 16, we found out Britta had a tumor near her heart and the veterinarian told my family to start expecting the worse. Britta was becoming so weak that she couldn't manage to walk herself up and down the stairs. My dad had to carry this full grown dog down the stairs of our deck in the backyard every time she went outside.

I had a job at a clothing store in the mall and I had just begun doing all of the nightly closing tasks - mopping, vacuuming, cleaning mirrors, etc. when I went back to my locker to check my phone to see I had one new text message from my sister. I opened it. "Michelle, Britta died tonight." Is that not the worst way to hear about a death? Through a text message? I don't think my 12 year old sister understood that and all I kept thinking about was how I still had another half an hour before I could go home. I spent the rest of my shift mopping the wood floor, trying my hardest to keep from breaking down in sobs.

Then, not even a month later, our younger dog, Hannah (who until this moment appeared to be in good health) collapsed on the kitchen floor and peed herself. Her body was entirely limp and her lips were beginning to turn blue. She laid there completely helpless on the floor, but her eyes were still moving and she appeared to still be breathing. My dad picked up Hannah (who weighed a little less than I did) and carried her out to the car as my sisters and I followed. She died later that day from what appeared to be heart failure.

Whenever I told my friends this story, they all said the same thing - "She must have died from a broken heart." Being so emotionally attached to someone that losing him or her would literally break your heart. Like your body just gives up on you because you lost your other half and have no will to live. To me, that's one of the most tragic things about life - knowing that everyone you love will eventually pass away. Some day (hopefully not soon) your father will die, your mother will die, your siblings will die, your spouse will die. And how will you go on? Will you survive the rest of your life with a piece of your heart missing? We often talk about this with people, but in my experience, this is also true with my two sloppy, loving Golden Retrievers.

Spark Notes

Reading the spark notes of the Brothers K. is like drinking grape juice instead of fine wine.

Like watching the film "Smooth Talk" instead of reading "Where Are You Going Where Have You Been".

Like being paid in Monopoly money after a 40-hour work week instead of the real thing.

It's just not as rewarding, and is a water-down attempt to explain the message Dostoevsky was trying to convey.

Sonnet Therapy

Just to touch on last week's (or the week before..?) discussion on sonnet therapy or sonnet "radiation", I didn't really think much of it because I didn't need a therapeutic source to put any energy towards at the time. Sure, writing is a good way to express your feelings and get troubling thoughts off your chest and onto paper, but sonnets do something that just plain writing cannot. If I were to just write how I feel, what I wrote would appear just as jumbled as what I'm thinking. Needless to say, I'm not very good at explaining myself or anything else. At least not without some structure and organization. You follow the sonnet format (iambic pentameter, 3 quatrains, 1 couplet, etc.) and get frustrated because the word you want to use doesn't fit, or the perfect adjective doesn't fit the rhyme scheme and so and and so forth, but once you find something that fits, you're ten times more proud of what you wrote because you accomplished something you didn't think you could do (or at least something I didn't think I could do).

Over spring break, my grandmother was diagnosed with dementia. She had been having a few episodes over the course of a couple weeks and when my family made an appointment with a neurologist, it was confirmed. Some times everything is ok, and I can talk to my grandmother about school and life and everything else and it's as if nothing has changed - as if there is no reason for her to be in the hospital. And then other times she is a completely different person. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has a relative who has dementia or Alzheimer's, so it's understandable to those people when I say she's not even herself anymore sometimes. My way of coping is doing exactly what we had been discussing in class: sonnet therapy. I only wrote a few but they seem to be helping me. There mostly nostalgic, recalling the wonderful memories my sisters and I have practically growing up and my grandmother's house, but they also discuss that despite the changes, she is still our Grandma Rose and this new condition does not affect the love she has for her family. Writing about something like this is very difficult, but once I completed it in sonnet-form, it really did feel like the end of what I would imagine to be a very good therapy session. The pen and paper do not judge, do not charge a fee, and are readily available whenever your are ready (sounds like a pretty good therapist, no?). I initially wouldn't have guessed that I could find some much peace of mind in my own writing, but the framework of sonnets provided me with a tool that is probably the best coping mechanism I've ever experienced.

Found (more) Poetry

This is my second attempt to find poetry. This time, I used the back of a box of tea bags. Here was the original:

A splendid cup of Tazo tea
How to make one

1.Bring fresh, filtered water to a boil
2For hot tea, place one Tazo filter bag in your cup, mug or gourd
3.Pour 8 fluid ounces of water over the filter bag
4. Steep for 5 minutes while contemplating your favorite eternal mysteries.

If it's iced tea you desire, use two filter bags, steep normally, then pour over ice.

And I kid you not, that fourth step is what it actually says.

So here is my "poetic" version:

Fresh, splendid tea
8 ounces to contemplate eternal mysteries
In a mug, In a gourd
Pour 8 ounces to contemplate eternal desire

Boil, steep, pour
Two filter bags to contemplate eternal mysteries
In a cup, in a mug, then in a gourd
5 minutes to pour over eternal desire

Iced or hot
While normally contemplating filtered mysteries.
Pour, Pour, Pour.

Sonnet - Work in Progress

August

When we first met, your hair was gold as wheat
Your eyes grey-blue, squinting at the sun
At first I was not swept right off my feet
But in the end my affection you had won.

Often we laughed upon these summer days
Ice cream cones never tasted quite as sweet
Then to the lake is where we chose to play
As young love goes to hide from blood red heat.

Your smile left my heart pounding much too fast
As you first placed a hand upon my own
Our bare toes spreading in the fresh cut grass
This teenage romance was the best I'd known

Don't tell me that this fling we have is through
It would take a lifetime to forget you.

I wrote this sonnet about the first summer I started dating my boyfriend, Josiah. After reading it through a few times, I still think it sounds pretty rough, but I was trying really hard to make it fit the iambic pentameter format. I understand it's not poetic genius, but I definitely plan on making changes before Friday.

Found me some poetry

In.... my Intro to Organic and Biochemistry book (ooooh, ahhhh how interesting).

"Double Bonds"

Fatty acids

saturated, unsaturated

Naturally occurring

Double bond cis configuration
Naturally occurring

Palmitic, Stearic, Oleic

essential fatty acids
Synthesized, yet only by plants
Animals still need.

Naturally occurring.

Hahahaha, I read this and just laugh. In my mind, it sounds so cheesy. I don't really have a knack for poetry, so perhaps I will go through some other textbooks and try to come up with something a bit better. Let's just my poetry is still hiding for now....

Understanding Chekhov

I will be the first to admit to anyone that I was initially not the biggest fan of "The Lady with the Pet Dog". This is probably because I read the Oate's version first and it didn't strike my fancy after reading it so I was slightly turned off to the idea of reading another version of the same story. But after reading it and discussing this story in class today, I have a new appreciation for the Chekhov's style of writing; the way he intertwines everyday "small talk" with profound epiphanies makes the story very rich and intriguing. This hit me like a ton of bricks today. I mean, here I was, reading what is considered one of the greatest short stories of all time and all I can see is the big picture - the overall story of infidelity and promiscuity when I should have been paying attention to the smaller details that make this work of literature unfold so beautifully. In my mind, "The Lady with the Pet Dog" was being told from the perspective of an unknown person who was in the backdrop, eavesdropping on this affair and all of the couple's encounters. As if this unknown narrator could read into the minds of Dmitri and Anna. This "unknown" makes very matter-of-fact observations all the while tapping into their deeper emotions.

There was one part, however, that reminded me of a song as we were discussing it in class. It reminded me of the part where Gurov begins to feel haunted by the memory of the woman he surprisingly still longs for... and begins to follow her.

	Death Cab For Cutie - I Will Possess Your Heart .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

There are days when outside your window

I see my reflection as I slowly pass

And I long for this mirrored perspective

When we'll be lovers, lovers at last