Response to "Emergency" by Denis Johnson

Several things made this piece odd, but perhaps the strangest thing about Johnson’s style is how he chooses to make his characters interact. For instance, when Georgie is given the responsibility of prepping the man with the knife in his eye, he emerges holding the very knife that was alleged to be lodge in the man’s brain. Naturally, one would expect the medical staff at hand to react in horror and dismay when an orderly appears with evidence that he may have very well killed their patient, but this is not the case. After a brief shocked silence, the doctor only asks, “Where did you get that?” Perhaps this reflects the doctor’s shock and inability to respond appropriately, but all hope of realism vanished when one of the nurses points out to Georgie, “Your shoelace is untied.” It seems as though Johnson is intentionally creating a scene that is meant to be somewhat ridiculous and unbelievable. I was reminded of epic theater to some degree; the goal is not realism, but to get the audience to think.

            It is also interesting to note how Georgie and the narrator rarely have cohesive conversations. A perfect example can be found when the two are lying on the back of Georgie’s truck on a summer day and Georgie talks about wanting to go to church while the narrator only talks about going to the fair. Being that the two were stoned for the vast majority of this story, these kinds of conversations fit expectations, but continued to distance me as a reader from a normal perception of reality within the story. The odd interactions and reactions of the characters created a kind of haze in this piece which seemed analogous to the drug usage itself and the 70’s in general. I feel I might use similar techniques only if my goal were to illustrate confusion and abstraction in my writing. All in all, an interesting piece, though it would probably take some deeper analysis to fully appreciate its intentions.

Make Reality (A Short-Short Story)

I am Dr. Travis Stork, Chief of Medicine and neurosurgeon at St. Peter’s Hospital. My most challenging case lies before me on the operating table: an elderly man suffering from dementia has developed a malignant tumor on his left occipital lobe. I was born for moments like this. Focusing my 27 years of operating experience, I turn to my assistant.

            “Scalpel.”

            “No.”

            “Cameron, hand me the scalpel.”

            “No, I don’t want to be doctors anymore. We only have a little bit longer ‘til Daddy’s done watching the news, and this is boring.”

            “Oh, so you just want to let Mr. Frumpkins die on our operating table do you?” I hold up the stuffed bear and glare at my little sister with seething accusation. “Where is your sense of humanity?”

            “Stop it. We’ve saved Mr. Frumpkins three times already.”

            “Ok, well what do you want to be?”

            “I want to be one of those famous people that dance. In the competitions, you know?” She proceeds to grab Mr. Frumpkins from my hand and spin him around the room, dancing what I believe is a ballroom waltz.

            I am Bruno Tonioli, world-renown dancer and famously charismatic critic. “No, no. Your sashays need to be much more graceful and your lines more elegant. Keep your chin up, darling. Up, up, up.” I clap my hands to the beat.

            Cameron makes a few laps around the room, my critiques following her every step. She finally trips over the beanbag we keep in the far corner and falls into it. She and Mr. Frumpkins enjoy a nice laugh. I listen to the sound coming from the other room: the seven-day forecast. We don’t have much longer.

            Shaking my head, I approach the dancers sprawled out in the corner. With my arms folded behind my back, I say what I must. “I know you have both trained very hard to be where you are today, and from the first day, you have both made great strides in both your abilities and confidence. However, only one of you will be moving on to the finals in our competition.” The obligatory pause permeates the room. Only the muffed voices of Channel 5’s #1 news anchor team interrupts the tension through the door. “And the contestant moving on to the finals is…Signore Frumpkins!” The crowd goes wild; I snatch Mr. Frumpkins away and hoist him up on my shoulder, taking a victory lap around the room. Cameron stuffs her face into the beanbag.

            The TV clicks off.

            I stop and look at Cameron’s wide eyes. “It’s ok, I’ll go,” I say, tossing Mr. Frumpkins back to her. I’m already at the door when our father starts shouting one of his usual tirades. Who would be my opponent tonight? The formidable Jack Daniels? The ever scrappy Captain Morgan? Or perhaps the foreign heavyweight, Comrade Smirnoff? I bounce in place, warming up.

            I am Johnny Hendricks, relatively unknown but hopeful title contender. The crowd roars as I enter the ring.

Response to "Television" by Lydia Davis

The most immediate appeal of Davis’ work is her ability to relate. Take the opening two lines, “We have all these favorite shows coming on every evening. They say it will be exciting and it always is.” With these two sentences, anyone who watches television with any amount of regularity thinks, “Yep, that’s true.” The literary hook is set, not only for capturing the audience’s interest by appealing to the common man, but also for Davis’ commentary on the average person’s television addiction. Key phrases such as “all these favorite shows,” “every evening,” and “it always is,” hint at the obsessive nature of many television-viewers. Every show they watch is a favorite, every night is an opportunity to indulge, and it is always an enthralling experience. Davis’ use of absolutes effectively, yet subtly conveys our culture’s media infatuation.

Another aspect of this piece that grabbed my attention was Davis’ use of chunking. The work itself is divided into three main portions, and these portions are further divided into smaller chunks of text. I thought this beautifully mirrored the kind of stop and go nature of television itself; between changing the channels and commercials, one rarely enjoys a smooth, continuous viewing experience. In addition to complementing the meaning of the work as a whole, I thought Davis’ choice of structure helped the story’s already snappy pace. Each subsequent clause may or may not be related to the one before it, but the intrigue of tempo was paramount to continuity of thought in this particular case. I admire Davis’ use of timing to keep her piece fresh and interesting, and I would hope to employ similar techniques for works of my own. Her subtle approach to commentating on the mindless nature of hours upon hours of watching the television was also artfully done. If I were to ever write some form of social commentary, I would definitely keep this work in mind as a good reference.

The Hours are Ours [Revised]

The hours are hours, my dear, and nothing more.

While they tick away in their monotonous drone,

I can think of nothing else than the tired, old

Hallways of lemon-scented retirement homes.

Their parade plods in a circle, repeating their tones

On walls, radios, and Rolex shackles, invited to our homes.

But let’s break from this desolation,

Let’s be free of the reign of regulation and the tyranny of time.

Let’s walk down the moonlit streets, humming that song

That you can’t get out of your head, tapping our mingled fingers,

Symphony.

I’ll count the stars with you, even if we only get to 192,

And treat you to all the frozen yogurt you can eat.

While we’re in the mood, let’s go down by the corner

And pay the man a dollar as he closes his eyes, singing the blues.

We’ll watch the sun rise a thousand times, and a thousand times more

Watch it set. Not to number the days, but to see the ways

That the pinks and blues collect in hues that weave across the sky,

Tapestry.

I’ll make you exotic sandwiches and pretend they’re all the rage in France.

We’ll venture out to who knows where, and be angry when we find our way back.

The decrepit remains of a measured life fall by the wayside

As we stride on to our lives lived in full, beautifully unbounded.

The hours are ours, my dear, and nothing more.

Echoing Places

It’s 9 ‘til 3, and you can reach out

And let the heartache roll past your fingertips.

The tears aren’t there, but you wish they were.

Everything terrible and beautiful scratches at the

Glass, wanting to seep beneath your windowpane,

Your hand is on the latch

Waiting to turn, to let in the night air

In like a flood, like a torrent in which

You so desperately want to drown.

Green eyes behind the rim of a glass, perfume and blue jeans.

The music begins, as your heartbeats approach.

The air is pulsating, throbbing

And it surrounds you, permeates you in every way imaginable.

You can rub it between your palms,

Under your tongue, between your lips,

Past every rosy corpse of words you never said.

In 13 jets, you suck it in between your teeth

And let it evaporate the very edges of moistened gums.

You can’t being to fathom, but then

You don’t really want to

Step, turn, release, step turn,

If only she would stop smiling, you could see straight.

The dark is luminescent against the shadows along the walls, dancing.

Each hair on the back of your neck stands in turn,

Attesting to the flittering phantom of half-time in your head,

And still, your hand remains on the latch.

Too tired to sleep, too aware to think, you’re

Caught up in these moments, a net of

Yesterdays and faces; Motions and glances.

You are not alone

You tell yourself in the echoing places,

You are not alone.

The Driftwood Wanderer

I sat on the beach

Convincing myself,

I’m finished with poetry.

For once in my life,

Honestly and candidly,

I speak my mind to the tide

            I hate her,

I said,

            She ravished my heart and watched as it bled.

I pause to listen, my soul exposed;

                        A crash,

                                    A wave,

                                                Wordless empathy.    

The blood flow slowed, but it never stopped,

In it, I may drown,

I don’t know, I’m crazy, I’m caught

In her sea and see-nots,

I can’t break her down, she’s a tower.

The wind whispers her name,

Cruelly reminding me of this,

This very spot where we first met,

Soaked now with tidal mist

And tears, fresh and warm.

            Damn it, I said I wouldn’t cry.

                        Breathe,

Just breathe.

I lay my head down,

Flecked with sand and painful thoughts,

My heart pounding

To the immutable rhythm of the waves.

I alone on this broken shoreline.

Brothers, I think with a grin,

We are brothers, you and I.

I clutch the sand beneath my fingers

In a gritty, crunching embrace.

The crumbled remains of a once sturdy life.

           

Time slips away

                        On the breeze of the night,

                                    Gazing at horizonless skies.

My upturned cheek betrays the lines

Streaked across their sides,

And a two-fold glint

Reflects the stars,

In a sea of unseen joys.

                                   

I’ll always say that grin washed upon my face

From the ocean that night,

Like a lonely driftwood wanderer.

And I don’t know if it’s what they say,

But I’m saying it now:

            There is healing in the tide,

                        The waves,

                                    The waves that never cease to break.

Ergo Sum

In the breath of this moment,

I have only time enough to breathe.

Like the ghost of a vapor,

Shipwrecked on the shores

Of the ephemeral sea.

This instant, this second,

This volatile sense of existence,

Is all I have to shelter me

From what was and is and what could be.

Yet for its fleeting,

It spans the unthinkable, yawning chasm,

Of innumerable frames of this;

And somehow links our destinies

In a barrage of comings and goings.

Its unseen tendrils hold us back

From that ledge of Hamlet’s sleep.

That edge of every thought and sight;

The privilege to which we all have a right.

In and out, my moments go,

To and from my lungs;

Apart from this, I only know,

Hic diem est 
Ergo sum.