On the Spider

The spider descends from his web-in-progress, down from a two-piece light fixture on the ceiling of my basement. I have learned it over the past few days: how it moves, what it eats. It is terrifying, like a quick and concise nightmare that wastes no time creating a jump scare that leaves you shaking and sweating. The spider knows me as nothing more than a creature it cannot catch, yet I "know" it as a clear and present danger. The spider is often killed simply for being a spider, an attribute it cannot help. It is remarkable how easily we are able to stomp out an arachnid with no remorse. Perhaps even more remarkable is my aim with the Nerf gun that I use to take its life. We cannot share a room at any time. Not when he has that vantage point.

Response to Essays

Emily Free's "I Am Not A Vegetable" and Virginia Woolf's "The Death of the Moth" seem like they could work together fairly well. Emily's essay gives off repeated feelings of conflict and anxiety that occurs as a result of perhaps results from the over-analyzing of a situation. Woolf's does some of the same, especially in the beginning, as she says that those moths that fly during the day "are not properly to be called moths" because they don't "excite pleasant senses". She still admits that she notices the moths are content with their lives, however. It is the acute yet somewhat unusual attention to details that drive both essays.

"In Nebraska" Response

The opening of Ted Kooser's "In Nebraska" is stunning, characterized by unique and wonderful metaphors that provide the most accurate descriptions of the mundane one can imagine. For example, describing clouds as "dump wads of fabric torn from the hem of the mountains" evokes a feeling of mystery and awe-inspired wonder, perhaps reminiscent of an younger period in all of our lives relating to when a cloud very well could have been that piece of fabric torn from a mountain.

The description of the land itself also paints a vivid visual image of Nebraska. From the "scratches" in the ground caused by wagons to the grass not being able to hide the wear and tear of the harsh weather that occurs in the area. The contrast between new and old is also presented in a way that is as jarring to us, the readers, as it is to Kooser. He writes of almost ghastly scenes, such as how "the young mother was buries and left in a grave marked only by the seat of a broken chair". This, compared to common things we see today such as twelve-story banks and insurance agents with briefcases, has a great effect.

On South Bass

“I’m not climbing up those stairs,” Justin told me. It was mid-July, and we weren’t dressed for the heat.

“You silly bastard,” I replied. “You’re going up there. I want to see what everything looks like.”

We were on South Bass Island, visiting the small village of Put-in-Bay, Ohio. It was a place I hadn’t heard of until two days prior, but being that we were poised to be in the Cleveland-Sandusky region for a few days, I was definitely interested.

While my buddy Justin had already been there once (or twice; I don’t remember what he told me), I finally had convinced him to take the elevator up the Perry’s Victory and International Peace Memorial. After all, it’s the world’s largest Doric column, which means something, I suppose. His hesitance was brought on by a small few of three or so dollars that would be required to ascend. I must have spent ten minutes fishing around my pockets for quarters to help him out. He was already agitated because we made him pay for the rented golf cart we were driving around the island, so looking back, I guess I understand.

The ride up was awful. The elevator was tiny and packed with the most tourist-looking people on the planet. It smelled terrible too, some mix between the sweat and the elevator’s unique smell itself. A “park ranger”, as they called themselves, was on-board, spouting off facts about the Memorial itself.

Once at the top, you could see the whole island, which looked significantly smaller than it felt as we drove around. You could see mainland Ohio (it looked ugly compared to the island, in case you were wondering) and various other islands in every direction.

“Damn dude,” I said, turning to Justin. “I want to live here someday. It can’t be that expensive, right? What do you think? Few million for a house?”

He was preoccupied with another “park ranger” at the time.

“Do you have guns,” he asked.

“No, we’re not allowed to carry guns.” The ranger was visibly nervous.

“So I could hold everyone up here hostage, right,” he replied.

Everyone else (including myself, of course) thought it was funny, at least. The ranger sort of laughed it off, and I figured that he got this kind of thing all day, being that the island is a hot-spot for people our age.

After about ten minutes and numerous threats from Justin (“I’m going to throw this kid over the edge! If only you had a gun to stop me!”), we finally descended. He promptly raced out the back of the building, jumped in the golf cart and took off without me. And by took off without me, I mean that I jumped in front and he hit me with it.

We have plans to go back this summer. I’ll be sure to make him climb the stairs, ride the elevator and endure the suffering again. I think my excuse will be that I forgot exactly what it looks like.

Two Hot Weeks in August and Muskgrass Chara

Ryan Hoke’s “Two Hot Weeks in August” and Kathleen Dean Moore’s piece “Muskgrass Chara” go incredibly well together, so much so that it feels like a happy accident that we are tasked with reading both on the same day. The primary feeling at play here is the use of sensory description, which, while generally limited to smell in Moore’s piece, is still prevalent enough to make sensory feeling the main idea. Ryan delves into smell a bit in the beginning (“the smell of freshly cut grass welcomes you as you arrive”) but uses other senses to help the essay live up to its name. The feeling of the humidity and pain is especially prominent. I prefer Ryan’s due to him not only focusing on one sense but trying to include all of them in a way that isn’t immediately obvious.

Comparison

In looking at "Planet Unflinching" by Kelly Cherry and the unnamed essay by Camille Davis, I think that they work well together in terms of theme. I say this because in Camille's essay, we the have the issue of a father who is typically away from his home. In the first part of Cherry's essay, she remarks that through the use of cyberspace, the idea of an object being in two places at once is completely possible. I feel like these have a strong connection because I feel that, deep down, one of the primary wants of Camille's essay was for their father to be home, but it seems as though he cannot both work and fulfill his promise of being home at the same time. I guess the connection I drew here is that, in a way, it is possible, and deep down, we probably all have somewhere else we always want to be, even if we can't.

"The Lantern-Bearers" Response

In Robert Louis Stevenson's "The Lantern-Bearers", the primary metaphor seems to be the lanterns being used as a symbol for both happiness and pleasure. Stevenson writes of those who look at the boys who bear the lanterns: "To the eye of the observer they are wet and cold and drearily surrounded; but ask themselves, and they are in the heavens of a recondite pleasure, the ground of which is an ill-smelling lantern."

This is a juxtaposition to the character of Dancer, who Stevenson writes as someone who "had willingly forgone both comfort and consideration" and "the disdain of many pleasures." Dancer himself seems to be a bit of a representation of not just himself, but all of those people who after childhood have given up on taking pleasure in the small things in life.

Ultimately, I see the lantern being held under the overcoat as a metaphor for keeping close a sense of adventure and joy. They're not only letting any of it escape them, but they are not even daring to give it a chance to escape. The lantern is what distinguishes an active yet comforted mind from a dulled and irritated one.

Beyond Dislike

I hate the cold that bites through clothing on an early winter morning. The pain makes motivation a tough thing to achieve.

I hate the sound of the phone as I try to sleep. Sometimes it is never-ending and I wish I could smack the caller.

I hate the sound of a dog barking as I try to sleep. I can shush it as many times as I want, but it will just go back to barking within five minutes.

I hate the homophobe that places his or her own rights above other human beings.

I hate the racist that does the same.

I hate not having enough Coca-Cola to get through a weekend.

I hate the Facebook junkie who won't admit their problem.

I hate the Facebook user intent on expressing their "thoughts and prayers" in regard to every little disaster. Both thoughts and prayers are private, and you are only posting them to make others think highly of you. In the end, you crave each and every notification that says someone has 'liked' your status.

I hate the bug that crosses the boundaries I have set for us. We could have coexisted, but if it insists on charging me, it must die.

I hate the snow, but only when it interferes with my ability to go places I need to go.

You'll get this a lot, but I hate people. I don't inherently hate them for who they are or what they believe (that can come later). I hate them simply for being other people. The perfect world in which I can go about my tasks without interaction from the people in my town could never exist outside of my own imagination, and that alone is worth all of the hate.