An amazing article from one of my favorite blogs:
http://ilovetypography.com/2010/08/07/where-does-the-alphabet-come-from/
Check it out—especially the last part, which speaks to the materiality of writing.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Freewrite in the dark
When I was a kid, my family and I would drive to the Adirondack Mountains, to a property remotely squished bin between Lake Placid and a small pond called Boy Pond. TThere, I experienced life at a slower pace, experiencing life at in a test tube, and allowing for my childhood experiences to be bottled up and kept forever.
One
There was a river than ran from pond to pond, running downhill for three miles, pulling and shaking over cliffs and hills, and, at the end of its journey, emptying out into a bucket—Cranberry Rapids,. We;d take Jeeps from place to place before sunset, enjoying the nature sounds and sights.
One night, around a campfire at Crandberry Rapids, I opened my notebook, grabbed a tiny bit of charcoal, and, in trying to keep as natural as possible, wrote a poem in the light of the fire and in the sound of the rapids around me. I still have that poem. My dad remembers the night. That was my earliest and proudest memory of writing—a blip of expression, embracing nature that surrounded me.
One
There was a river than ran from pond to pond, running downhill for three miles, pulling and shaking over cliffs and hills, and, at the end of its journey, emptying out into a bucket—Cranberry Rapids,. We;d take Jeeps from place to place before sunset, enjoying the nature sounds and sights.
One night, around a campfire at Crandberry Rapids, I opened my notebook, grabbed a tiny bit of charcoal, and, in trying to keep as natural as possible, wrote a poem in the light of the fire and in the sound of the rapids around me. I still have that poem. My dad remembers the night. That was my earliest and proudest memory of writing—a blip of expression, embracing nature that surrounded me.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Chapter 2 response
In Chapter 2 of Writing Space, Bolter references “students of culture” such as Walter Ong and Jacques Derrida who assert that literate people “structure their speech as they do their writing,” claiming that literacy changes thought and speaking patterns in ways not usually explored. After reading this, I realized how true it is—I, without thinking, will structure my speech as I do my writing, “talking in sentences and even paragraphs.” I’ve never given this any thought, but these habits do seem to be directly influenced by my experience of literature (along with some cultural influences: it is considered correct and mature to speak in sentences).
With this in mind, how would people living before movable type speak? Would they have partitioned their spoken thoughts into sentences? How would writings of that time be different?
With this in mind, how would people living before movable type speak? Would they have partitioned their spoken thoughts into sentences? How would writings of that time be different?
Friday, March 25, 2011
Can rigid routines sprout creativity?
Check out an interesting article on the daily routines of creative, productive people:
http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/The99Percent/~3/5xrB9WzaSnc/How-Mundane-Routines-Produce-Creative-Magic
I’m immediately reminded of the sort of argument against cubicle officework. People say it’s terribly restricting and monotonous. Yet, it seems that there’s something behind the routine of daily life that makes way for deeper, creative thoughts—not to mention the fact that most of the people explored above incorporate some type of physical activity and steady sleep patterns. Perhaps this creative freedom comes from the reduced need to constantly be focused on new challenges: it seems that these people aren’t challenged or surprised on a daily basis... I’d imagine this to be the life of a philosopher, as well.
http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/The99Percent/~3/5xrB9WzaSnc/How-Mundane-Routines-Produce-Creative-Magic
I’m immediately reminded of the sort of argument against cubicle officework. People say it’s terribly restricting and monotonous. Yet, it seems that there’s something behind the routine of daily life that makes way for deeper, creative thoughts—not to mention the fact that most of the people explored above incorporate some type of physical activity and steady sleep patterns. Perhaps this creative freedom comes from the reduced need to constantly be focused on new challenges: it seems that these people aren’t challenged or surprised on a daily basis... I’d imagine this to be the life of a philosopher, as well.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Response to Bolter
Bolter, across various sections in the first chapter of Writing Spaces, establishes the context in which literature finds itself across human history. Starting with the Bible, and ending in the contemporary age of information, Bolter defines “the late age of print”—the last hurrah of print’s existence in the literary world. Threatened by new technology, the physicality of print isn’t the only thing that could rapidly decline; as Bolter investigates, the literary novel style that accompanied the book will also decline, making way for more interactive forms of literature. He introduces the views of critics, old and new, who each predict the efficacy or weakness of the print medium. Lastly, he addresses the ever-growing prospect of graphics and film as something more suited for the computer screen. With those media, different rules apply for conveying information. All of these media seem to be growing with the rise of the computer, and the book seems to be losing relevance.
As a young kid, I begged my dad for a computer. At the time, even the slowest (by today’s standards) of computers were expensive, and my father felt he needed to delay the purchase until I was older. When that day came, I was enthralled. Ever since then, I’ve been a geek—fascinated with new technologies. Yet, I still feel attached to both the physicality and literary structure of a real novel... Unlike my children, who will probably never touch a physical book (or, perhaps on a less drastic level, think that books are archaic), I know I won’t be able to part with a hard, non-electronic copy of my favored literature.
As a young kid, I begged my dad for a computer. At the time, even the slowest (by today’s standards) of computers were expensive, and my father felt he needed to delay the purchase until I was older. When that day came, I was enthralled. Ever since then, I’ve been a geek—fascinated with new technologies. Yet, I still feel attached to both the physicality and literary structure of a real novel... Unlike my children, who will probably never touch a physical book (or, perhaps on a less drastic level, think that books are archaic), I know I won’t be able to part with a hard, non-electronic copy of my favored literature.
Taylor Mali’s “Like you know”
Taylor Mali’s performance video
Typographic adaptation
I appreciate Mali’s performance of his poem much more than the typographic adaption video because this type of poem is best seen while it’s delivered. Mali’s physical movement and appearance contribute to the poem’s meaning: his facial expressions contribute to the overall feeling of satire, as does his hand movements and body postures. It is true, as well, that Mali’s criticism of contemporary thought expression concerns the physical postures as well as grammatical structures. As such, I felt that the performance video was more compelling.
Typographic adaptation
I appreciate Mali’s performance of his poem much more than the typographic adaption video because this type of poem is best seen while it’s delivered. Mali’s physical movement and appearance contribute to the poem’s meaning: his facial expressions contribute to the overall feeling of satire, as does his hand movements and body postures. It is true, as well, that Mali’s criticism of contemporary thought expression concerns the physical postures as well as grammatical structures. As such, I felt that the performance video was more compelling.
Response to Shelley Jackson’s “Stitch Bitch”
Body Not Whole
In this section, it is Jackson’s objective to continue the thought she introduced in her preface, when she claims she’s (not) the author of a text about “the patchwork girl.” In a way that seems to introduce the fragmented form of the complete text, Body Not Whole aims to describe the oddity of the body, separate from the mind, as a “patchwork” (adapting the word from her preface and self-proclaimed title). Later in the section, she discovers that the “project of writing” lies in “unhinging” the mind as it tries to solidify its own hold on reality by “[substituting] an effigy for that complicated machine for inclusion and effusion that is the self.”
Gaps, Leaps
This section, which occurs later in the sequence, is a comparison between modern literature (the novel) and “hypertext.” As Jackson begins: “a conventional novel is a safe ride,” implying that the literary structure of novels, entangled with their existence in a physical form, has dictated their linear form. But as Jackson continues, it is seen that the physical form of a novel affects readers in more ways than one. Describing the novel as ”the mechanism of the chute,” Jackson criticizes it by asserting that its too quick, equating it to a ”slalom.” Hypertext, on the other hand, is random, formless, and dependent on the reader’s moods, attitudes, or other constraints. It’s existence without physical form and traditional scaffolding, Jackson implies, makes it attractive to “piratical readers, plagiarists and opportunists.”
In this section, it is Jackson’s objective to continue the thought she introduced in her preface, when she claims she’s (not) the author of a text about “the patchwork girl.” In a way that seems to introduce the fragmented form of the complete text, Body Not Whole aims to describe the oddity of the body, separate from the mind, as a “patchwork” (adapting the word from her preface and self-proclaimed title). Later in the section, she discovers that the “project of writing” lies in “unhinging” the mind as it tries to solidify its own hold on reality by “[substituting] an effigy for that complicated machine for inclusion and effusion that is the self.”
Gaps, Leaps
This section, which occurs later in the sequence, is a comparison between modern literature (the novel) and “hypertext.” As Jackson begins: “a conventional novel is a safe ride,” implying that the literary structure of novels, entangled with their existence in a physical form, has dictated their linear form. But as Jackson continues, it is seen that the physical form of a novel affects readers in more ways than one. Describing the novel as ”the mechanism of the chute,” Jackson criticizes it by asserting that its too quick, equating it to a ”slalom.” Hypertext, on the other hand, is random, formless, and dependent on the reader’s moods, attitudes, or other constraints. It’s existence without physical form and traditional scaffolding, Jackson implies, makes it attractive to “piratical readers, plagiarists and opportunists.”
Response to sample essay
In response to Sample R.
In this analysis of Kress, you claim that a “proper” sequence of writing entails ideas that are “sequenced,” implying that verbal arguments progress in a linear fashion. In describing proper form, you claim that “everything must occur subsequently” and that “one word comes after another, followed by a punctuation mark and the start of a new sentence.” What, then, do you make of poetry and non-linear writing? I’d assert that they are makers of meaning just as versatile as visual arguments. Verbal arguments need not take such rigid forms. Similarly, your assertion that visual arguments, “no matter how they are presented, still drive the same point across.” Visual arguments are not as clear, nor are as direct as you maintain. Your characterizations of verbal and visual arguments are too extreme; visual arguments are flexible, but are prone to misinterpretation. Further, visual arguments need structure in the same way verbal arguments may not need them. You claim that “one cannot take a paragraph and mix and match sentences,” yet this mixing and matching is seen frequently in poetry and can serve argumentative purpose—and perhaps provide that meaning more efficiently than prose.
In this analysis of Kress, you claim that a “proper” sequence of writing entails ideas that are “sequenced,” implying that verbal arguments progress in a linear fashion. In describing proper form, you claim that “everything must occur subsequently” and that “one word comes after another, followed by a punctuation mark and the start of a new sentence.” What, then, do you make of poetry and non-linear writing? I’d assert that they are makers of meaning just as versatile as visual arguments. Verbal arguments need not take such rigid forms. Similarly, your assertion that visual arguments, “no matter how they are presented, still drive the same point across.” Visual arguments are not as clear, nor are as direct as you maintain. Your characterizations of verbal and visual arguments are too extreme; visual arguments are flexible, but are prone to misinterpretation. Further, visual arguments need structure in the same way verbal arguments may not need them. You claim that “one cannot take a paragraph and mix and match sentences,” yet this mixing and matching is seen frequently in poetry and can serve argumentative purpose—and perhaps provide that meaning more efficiently than prose.
Response to Rodney Jones’ “Hubris at Zunzal”
hu•bris. n. exaggerated pride or self-confidenceJones’ speaker, at the end of the third stanza, describes a change of heart, and with it, the poem’s tone changes. After dumping his rum and coconut juice-filled coconut into the water, the speaker momentarily laments the act, saying “then the idea I was not finished, / then the act of reaching down / with the idea I would get it back.” Here, the speaker stops describing the gorgeous Zunzal beach and refutes the purpose of his own poem-writing: reflecting on a moment that makes the speaker stop to imagine his feelings after wasting his drink.
The poem’s title is significant as well, as it addresses the speaker’s haste in dropping his drink into the water.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
“Stitch Bitch” Inkshedding
It is Shelley Jackson’s view that books are not a “natural evolutionary end,” but that books (in terms of both their physical makeup and linear construction style) are merely “formal devices,” or man-made constructions of literature that have defended from early humanity’s first interactions with literature. Yet, the formal structure of the book is still changing—especially exhibited by the contemporary author-publisher relationship. This business model contributes to the constraints placed on publishing, determining what content reaches readers.
Publishers maintain a hold on a book’s final version, working with editors to augment an author’s manuscript. Why? To make it appropriate for audiences to read. In this lies a constraint often overlooked: our favorite versions of popular novels probably do not resemble their original drafts. If they did, would they be less “linear” or more like Jackson’s “favorite texts,” defying “the linear”?
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Visual argument project
Made with iMovie. Featuring music by Massive Attack and Kelly Bailey.
”Word” is an observation of antique and contemporary literature and journalism, highlighting the decline and perversion of English “words” as literature becomes subject to current-day injustices and corrupt world powers. It is a call to action for viewers to explore older texts as a way to discover purity in literature.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Freewrite: Response to Chel White’s video
The title card
The film’s title card shows the film’s title undergoing edits in real time: implying a motif that White’s work is constantly undergoing edits—a process affecting even this film. I think that the title card is an effective representation of the writing process because it shows how many mistakes a writer can intially make and how many edits are required to make that work ideal.
In the mirror with clown faces
At this moment, Chel White is describing how, after throwing away much of the work he tried to start, he looks at himself in the mirror, and, delving into depression, tells himself how terrible of a writer he is. This is an effective way to represent his feelings because it communicates how childish and useless he feels. The clown faces communicate something trivial, weak, or meaningless. The image in the mirror is strong because it plainly transforms his face into a clown’s.
“I have to write it on my leg”
The image of the bare leg hanging in space with pens around it communicates the absurdity of the whole narrative, leaving White to eventually claim that the film isn’t entirely an accurate representation of how he writes, but something similar to his struggle. It’s also a campy irony, revealing the absurdity of his own film.
The film’s title card shows the film’s title undergoing edits in real time: implying a motif that White’s work is constantly undergoing edits—a process affecting even this film. I think that the title card is an effective representation of the writing process because it shows how many mistakes a writer can intially make and how many edits are required to make that work ideal.
In the mirror with clown faces
At this moment, Chel White is describing how, after throwing away much of the work he tried to start, he looks at himself in the mirror, and, delving into depression, tells himself how terrible of a writer he is. This is an effective way to represent his feelings because it communicates how childish and useless he feels. The clown faces communicate something trivial, weak, or meaningless. The image in the mirror is strong because it plainly transforms his face into a clown’s.
“I have to write it on my leg”
The image of the bare leg hanging in space with pens around it communicates the absurdity of the whole narrative, leaving White to eventually claim that the film isn’t entirely an accurate representation of how he writes, but something similar to his struggle. It’s also a campy irony, revealing the absurdity of his own film.
Freewrite: A sentence starts out like...
A sentence starts out like a dark cloud of wispy smoke: it’s an idea in my head—an unformed, unbirthed idea, expressing only some type of meaning. Words pop in my head, but they’re often fragments of a sentence: phrases like “compared to” and “just like a” and sometimes “nothing like”... sometimes cool adjectives, sometimes odd verbs.
The subjects come in first, as the body of the sentence takes shape. As a virtue of the linear nature of writing, the subject appears, then the object, then the verb—and some other complexities fall in after that.
Certain sentences are fickle: they need to be written down immediately, otherwise I won‘t remember them. They‘re giggling trick-or-treaters, clutching their candy loot and sprinting from house to house in the darkness. If I can‘t pinpoint them, the meaning is lost.
Once I‘ve got the sentence, I‘ll write it once, and then choose to keep writing it or start all over again. Constructing the sentence is assembling a train, with the locomotive (the period) at the end. If I don‘t get a great start, I usually start over again: consulting the smoke in my head for the few minutes it‘s there, trying to grasp it and force it onto paper.
The subjects come in first, as the body of the sentence takes shape. As a virtue of the linear nature of writing, the subject appears, then the object, then the verb—and some other complexities fall in after that.
Certain sentences are fickle: they need to be written down immediately, otherwise I won‘t remember them. They‘re giggling trick-or-treaters, clutching their candy loot and sprinting from house to house in the darkness. If I can‘t pinpoint them, the meaning is lost.
Once I‘ve got the sentence, I‘ll write it once, and then choose to keep writing it or start all over again. Constructing the sentence is assembling a train, with the locomotive (the period) at the end. If I don‘t get a great start, I usually start over again: consulting the smoke in my head for the few minutes it‘s there, trying to grasp it and force it onto paper.
Freewrite: On texting
I don’t think that the dominant texting function of cell “phones” is odd, it is merely now a new technology more widely adapted. In the beginning of the cellular phone’s existence, it really was a phone—now, it has taken on a multitude of features unique to mobile communication devices. It shouldn’t still be called a cell phone: the newest smart-“phones” that are emerging do more than just allow for telephone calls, and do those other functions more efficiently and reliably than its actual voice call features. The telephone line hasn’t changed from it’s original 56.6 kilobit per second initiation: even now, smart-“phones” take on different wireless antennas to communicate using the Internet at speeds faster than telephone lines... so why do we still have those antennas and networks?
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