Samuel Mack
13 November 2008
ENG 111
Joe ‘Richard’ Griffin
At first, I had no fucking idea what to write. The options seemed to plentiful, but I was pretty much ready to just write a generic poem. Woo-hoo. But then the more I thought about it, I began to come up with more refined ideas. I finally decided on doing a collection of vignettes based on people from my dorm as dramatized characters.
I’ll go about asking approximately thirty people from my dorm existentialist-like/philosophical questions and then create a character based on the way they answer the questions. Of those thirty responses, I’ll probably use the ten that I can work with the most to create a character of them and make the collection of vignettes. The types of questions I’ll be asking are sometimes very pointed while other times open ended. Some examples are:1. What do you believe in? (by any standard)2. How do you think your roommate(s) would react if you happened to die tomorrow?3. How do you think you could change the world tomorrow?
4. Name the strongest emotion you would feel if you found out you or your best girl-friend was pregnant?5. What does your existence mean to you?
I’ll probably make the vignettes connect to a general theme I can tie them all together with once I have rounded up all the necessary responses. I’m also going to compile all of the responses and put them in a mock-journal typed format.
As for the genre, as I’ve mentioned about approximately five times already… I’m going to do a series of vignettes based on characters in my dorm. The style of the collection will probably change from vignette to vignette based on the character and the perspective of which the story is being told.
The purpose of my writing this collection is to give a glimpse into the somewhat fictionalized minds of teenagers from my dorm. The audience would probably be young adults or adults interested in the lives of young teenagers. I might include the actual interview questions and answers as well. I’m personally choosing this topic because I feel like teen fiction is often trite and unoriginal so I want to give my best attempt to try and doing something slightly innovative in the world of teen fiction. Woot if it works. But if it turns out to be the same general crap, then I guess I failed. Either way, I think I’m going to have fun with this one.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Fiona Apple -- Criminal
I'm planning on doing a rhetorical analysis of the music video "Criminal" by Fiona Apple. Paying special attention to the context of Apple's anorexia, and young age, I'll explore how these affected the overall product of the song, and the implications behind it.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Residence Halls Response
Although, I understand her delightful sentiments for the brochure, I feel that her reply is equally as misinforming. Most of her arguments are based around the fact that they don't meet up to her standards, yet they may follow other standards. The proximity of the classes is all a matter of perspective. I personally believe that a fifteen to twenty minute class is a rather close walk - And heaven forbid, healthy for the student. Close to me is defined within walking distance to the point where my feet don't become sore. This standard might deviate from person to person, but generally... 15 minutes away isn't a treacherous hike. The food standards, all a matter of opinion as well. If twenty people consider the food excellent, they can quote that their food is excellent because it has been stated. I happen to feel the food is pretty decent, and as a vegetarian, I think the food expands beyond "veggie burgers and potatoes" if you just move your ass a bit more. Alexander dining hall has some pretty tasty and delectable meals from all over the world, with plenty of vegan and vegetarian options, and I happen to trek the abysmally difficulty journey of ten minutes from East Quad to Western Campus at least twice a week. Yes, yes... The brochure does lead to some higher expectations than you may receive, but isn't the job of a brochure to advertise the product in the most appealing manner? They're not going to get close-ups of the men's showers' floors, and all of the other tasty goodies you can find in the dorms. You can personalize your room, or choose-to-match your roommate, and therefore, the advertising was correct. You do get security, as you mentioned. You do get (quote me) "excellent food". Lastly, all of the classes are within half an hour trek at an ever-so-brisk 4 mph pace. Generally, I feel the "Residence Halls" entry is a spiffy account of the ever-too-emotional freshman who expects the world to be golden-lined. Sadly, it's not. But if you look close enough, you might realize that it's not the mediocre hell-hole it's portrayed to be.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Ethnography Draft Deux.
Looking into the world of a dorm room becomes an interesting concept. Each room has a different story to tell. In some ways, ours remains orthodox to the stereotypical views of a college crib: the ringing of loud music, the home to many ‘weekend-celebrating’ folks of both genders, and the obvious lack of parental help. But in others variances, the culture remains unique to Collins 202.
The not-so-white walls of Collins 202 evoke a sense of maturity for room and the tenants alike. The purity and innocence of the early years have been erased through the marks, cuts, and blemishes left over by stupid mistakes. Luminous white paint on the cubical-like chambers has become tarnished as the experiences have piled on. Although the aesthetic pleasure of the room has probably faded with the years, the homeliness still remains strong.
Three lightly stained pine desks lie in row, exposing memories and personalities of the owners to the world. From a rosary gingerly hanging over a cross on one desk, juxtaposed to the stein reading “Max” on another, the room’s culture clearly deviates from area to area, depending on the owner. Upon further examination of desk nestled in the corner (with the rosary), a myriad of textbooks ranging from comparative religion to mass communication can be found. And remnants of times long passed: Photos. Chubby faced, red-haired baby pictures and an abstraction of the owner perhaps reflect the past, but also connect with the room‘s current state. The clothing found on one of the pictures can be found splayed across the floor in a true messy boy-ish fashion: a green polo with a tiger graphed on the right breast, and a pair of chocolate corduroy pants.
Opposite of the desks, the bunk beds display the true messy nature of owners. Sheets and covers splayed across the bed and pillows tossed in every direction in an ocean of browns, whites, and blacks. And in this pile, I lay sprawled across the fluffy mess, blasting Ben Folds. Allowing the dissonant piano chords to ring through the room as the pounding of the computer keyboard strums off-beat to this paper.
The messy corner that I strive in while studying just seems to be a jumbled mess of loud music, deodorant, Christian symbols, and opened bags of stale food. The unkempt array of pure boy-hood could never be a haven for most. But to me it’s the most comfortable home I’ve ever been in.
Comfort derived even from tension between the varying views of the tenants, even self-conflict from this very writer. The Christian symbols reflect a sign of religion, martyrdom of Christ, but when encompassing the atmosphere of the room, they mean something different. To the atheist--interested in the words and rhythms of the world around him--they are observed as art. Ornate beads and metal crafted by a skilled Italian worker. To the non-denominational Christian - prone to playing his guitar, and keeping most of personal life in a distant chamber of his mind - they are viewed as a celebrated religious figure of an established sect of Catholicism, unfamiliar to him. To the recently confirmed Catholic writer, pounding away on his computer‘s keyboard, they represent endless confusion and awe. The close proximity to the jumbled mess perhaps best signifies the culture of the room. Where religious views are as varied as the shapes of the popcorn nestled in the bag of SmartFood next to me (but not quite as cheesy and delicious).
You can generally judge one’s culture by the home they live in, but does pluralism of cultures creates one cohesive culture in this instance of our dorm? I believe so. Max, one of my roommates, brought along the aspects of his home culture. A negative rainbow of color, or the absence thereof can be seen leaking out of his drawers. Shirts, pants, and underwear all various shades of blacks and grays with graphics of various cartoon characters and symbolic designs flood the floors and corner he’s staying in. The blob of clothing, objects, and toiletries rivals that of my other roommate Evan.
Evan’s laundry perhaps is a bit more organized than Max’s or mine, yet it doesn’t go any further than that. While the drawers and neatly packed with clothing, the floor around his desk and bedding reveal a caddywhompus of books, bagged foods, and ‘pleasantly’ fragranted sneakers. Though this disorganized nature may seem to separate the roommates from each other, it only melds the idea that three types of disorganized beings have their cultures melded together from the common trait.
Hard tones of Mindless Self Indulgence, the ballads of Ben Folds, and the gentle tones of Death Cab For Cutie don’t necessarily always coincide. And where clothing labels vary as much as Calvin Klein to Plugg, the culture of Collins 202 can be distinctly described as the home to three boys, from very different backgrounds, trying to make the home the best it can be in our own little melting-pot-within-melting-pot. Sharing cultures through our messy habits, mixed foods, and habitats, we have created a new type of home-away-from-home and sketch an image of a culture unique to Collins 202.
The not-so-white walls of Collins 202 evoke a sense of maturity for room and the tenants alike. The purity and innocence of the early years have been erased through the marks, cuts, and blemishes left over by stupid mistakes. Luminous white paint on the cubical-like chambers has become tarnished as the experiences have piled on. Although the aesthetic pleasure of the room has probably faded with the years, the homeliness still remains strong.
Three lightly stained pine desks lie in row, exposing memories and personalities of the owners to the world. From a rosary gingerly hanging over a cross on one desk, juxtaposed to the stein reading “Max” on another, the room’s culture clearly deviates from area to area, depending on the owner. Upon further examination of desk nestled in the corner (with the rosary), a myriad of textbooks ranging from comparative religion to mass communication can be found. And remnants of times long passed: Photos. Chubby faced, red-haired baby pictures and an abstraction of the owner perhaps reflect the past, but also connect with the room‘s current state. The clothing found on one of the pictures can be found splayed across the floor in a true messy boy-ish fashion: a green polo with a tiger graphed on the right breast, and a pair of chocolate corduroy pants.
Opposite of the desks, the bunk beds display the true messy nature of owners. Sheets and covers splayed across the bed and pillows tossed in every direction in an ocean of browns, whites, and blacks. And in this pile, I lay sprawled across the fluffy mess, blasting Ben Folds. Allowing the dissonant piano chords to ring through the room as the pounding of the computer keyboard strums off-beat to this paper.
The messy corner that I strive in while studying just seems to be a jumbled mess of loud music, deodorant, Christian symbols, and opened bags of stale food. The unkempt array of pure boy-hood could never be a haven for most. But to me it’s the most comfortable home I’ve ever been in.
Comfort derived even from tension between the varying views of the tenants, even self-conflict from this very writer. The Christian symbols reflect a sign of religion, martyrdom of Christ, but when encompassing the atmosphere of the room, they mean something different. To the atheist--interested in the words and rhythms of the world around him--they are observed as art. Ornate beads and metal crafted by a skilled Italian worker. To the non-denominational Christian - prone to playing his guitar, and keeping most of personal life in a distant chamber of his mind - they are viewed as a celebrated religious figure of an established sect of Catholicism, unfamiliar to him. To the recently confirmed Catholic writer, pounding away on his computer‘s keyboard, they represent endless confusion and awe. The close proximity to the jumbled mess perhaps best signifies the culture of the room. Where religious views are as varied as the shapes of the popcorn nestled in the bag of SmartFood next to me (but not quite as cheesy and delicious).
You can generally judge one’s culture by the home they live in, but does pluralism of cultures creates one cohesive culture in this instance of our dorm? I believe so. Max, one of my roommates, brought along the aspects of his home culture. A negative rainbow of color, or the absence thereof can be seen leaking out of his drawers. Shirts, pants, and underwear all various shades of blacks and grays with graphics of various cartoon characters and symbolic designs flood the floors and corner he’s staying in. The blob of clothing, objects, and toiletries rivals that of my other roommate Evan.
Evan’s laundry perhaps is a bit more organized than Max’s or mine, yet it doesn’t go any further than that. While the drawers and neatly packed with clothing, the floor around his desk and bedding reveal a caddywhompus of books, bagged foods, and ‘pleasantly’ fragranted sneakers. Though this disorganized nature may seem to separate the roommates from each other, it only melds the idea that three types of disorganized beings have their cultures melded together from the common trait.
Hard tones of Mindless Self Indulgence, the ballads of Ben Folds, and the gentle tones of Death Cab For Cutie don’t necessarily always coincide. And where clothing labels vary as much as Calvin Klein to Plugg, the culture of Collins 202 can be distinctly described as the home to three boys, from very different backgrounds, trying to make the home the best it can be in our own little melting-pot-within-melting-pot. Sharing cultures through our messy habits, mixed foods, and habitats, we have created a new type of home-away-from-home and sketch an image of a culture unique to Collins 202.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Ethnography Draft 1. yey.
Looking into the world of a dorm room becomes an interesting concept. Each room has a different story. Ours remains orthodox to the stereotypical views of a college crib in some ways: the ringing of loud music, the home to many ‘weekend-celebrating’ folks of both genders, and the obvious lack of parental help. But in others variances, the culture remains unique to Collins 202.
The not-so-white walls of Collins 202 evoke a sense of maturity for room and the tenants alike. The purity and innocence of the early years have been erased through the marks, cuts, and blemishes left over by stupid mistakes. Luminous white paint on the cubical-like chambers became tarnished as the experiences piled on. Although the aesthetic pleasure of the room has probably faded with the years, the homeliness still remains strong.
Three lightly stained pine desks lie in row, exposing memories and personalities of the owners to the world. From a rosary gingerly hanging over a cross on one desk, juxtaposed to the stein reading “Max” on another, the room’s culture clearly varies from area to area, depending on the owner. Upon further examination of desk nestled in the corner (with the rosary), a myriad of textbooks ranging from comparative religion to mass communication can be found. And remnants of times long passed: Photos. Chubby faced, red-haired baby pictures and an abstraction of the owner perhaps reflect the past, but also connect with the room‘s current state. The clothing found on one of the pictures can be found splayed across the floor in a true messy boy-ish fashion: a green polo with a tiger graphed on the right breast, and a pair of chocolate corduroy pants.
Opposite of the desks, the bunkbeds display the true messy nature of owners. Sheets and covers splayed across the bed and pillows tossed in every direction in an ocean of browns, whites, and blacks. And in this pile, I lay sprawled across the fluffy mess, blasting Ben Folds. Allowing the dissonant piano chords to ring through the room as the pounding of the computer keyboard strums off-beat to this paper.
The messy corner that I strive in while studying just seems to be a jumbled mess of loud music, deodorant, Christian symbols, and opened bags of stale food. The unkempt array of pure boy-hood could never be a haven for most. But to me it’s the most comfortable home I’ve ever been in.
Comfort derived even from tension between the varying views of the tenants, even self-conflict from this very writer. The Christian symbols reflect a sign of religion, martyrdom of Christ, but when encompassing the atmosphere of the room, they mean something different. To the atheist -interested in the words and rhythms of the world around him - they are observed as art. Ornate beads and metal crafted by a skilled Italian worker. To the non-denominational Christian - prone to playing his guitar, and keeping most of personal life in a distant chamber of his mind - they are viewed as a celebrated religious figure of an established sect of Catholicism, unfamiliar to him. To the recently confirmed Catholic writer, pounding away on his computer‘s keyboard, they represent endless confusion and awe. The close proximity to the jumbled mess perhaps best signifies the culture of the room. Where religious views are as varied as the shapes of the popcorn nestled in the bag of SmartFood next to me (but not quite as cheesy and delicious).
You can generally judge one’s culture by the home they live in, but does pluralism of cultures creates one cohesive culture in this instance of our dorm? I believe so. Although the hard tones of Mindless Self Indulgence, the ballads of Ben Folds, and the gentle tones of Death Cab For Cutie don’t necessarily always coincide. And where clothing labels vary as much as Calvin Klein to Plugg, the culture of Collins 202 can be distinctly described as the home to three boys, from very different backgrounds, trying to make the home the best it can be in our own little melting-pot-within-melting-pot.
The not-so-white walls of Collins 202 evoke a sense of maturity for room and the tenants alike. The purity and innocence of the early years have been erased through the marks, cuts, and blemishes left over by stupid mistakes. Luminous white paint on the cubical-like chambers became tarnished as the experiences piled on. Although the aesthetic pleasure of the room has probably faded with the years, the homeliness still remains strong.
Three lightly stained pine desks lie in row, exposing memories and personalities of the owners to the world. From a rosary gingerly hanging over a cross on one desk, juxtaposed to the stein reading “Max” on another, the room’s culture clearly varies from area to area, depending on the owner. Upon further examination of desk nestled in the corner (with the rosary), a myriad of textbooks ranging from comparative religion to mass communication can be found. And remnants of times long passed: Photos. Chubby faced, red-haired baby pictures and an abstraction of the owner perhaps reflect the past, but also connect with the room‘s current state. The clothing found on one of the pictures can be found splayed across the floor in a true messy boy-ish fashion: a green polo with a tiger graphed on the right breast, and a pair of chocolate corduroy pants.
Opposite of the desks, the bunkbeds display the true messy nature of owners. Sheets and covers splayed across the bed and pillows tossed in every direction in an ocean of browns, whites, and blacks. And in this pile, I lay sprawled across the fluffy mess, blasting Ben Folds. Allowing the dissonant piano chords to ring through the room as the pounding of the computer keyboard strums off-beat to this paper.
The messy corner that I strive in while studying just seems to be a jumbled mess of loud music, deodorant, Christian symbols, and opened bags of stale food. The unkempt array of pure boy-hood could never be a haven for most. But to me it’s the most comfortable home I’ve ever been in.
Comfort derived even from tension between the varying views of the tenants, even self-conflict from this very writer. The Christian symbols reflect a sign of religion, martyrdom of Christ, but when encompassing the atmosphere of the room, they mean something different. To the atheist -interested in the words and rhythms of the world around him - they are observed as art. Ornate beads and metal crafted by a skilled Italian worker. To the non-denominational Christian - prone to playing his guitar, and keeping most of personal life in a distant chamber of his mind - they are viewed as a celebrated religious figure of an established sect of Catholicism, unfamiliar to him. To the recently confirmed Catholic writer, pounding away on his computer‘s keyboard, they represent endless confusion and awe. The close proximity to the jumbled mess perhaps best signifies the culture of the room. Where religious views are as varied as the shapes of the popcorn nestled in the bag of SmartFood next to me (but not quite as cheesy and delicious).
You can generally judge one’s culture by the home they live in, but does pluralism of cultures creates one cohesive culture in this instance of our dorm? I believe so. Although the hard tones of Mindless Self Indulgence, the ballads of Ben Folds, and the gentle tones of Death Cab For Cutie don’t necessarily always coincide. And where clothing labels vary as much as Calvin Klein to Plugg, the culture of Collins 202 can be distinctly described as the home to three boys, from very different backgrounds, trying to make the home the best it can be in our own little melting-pot-within-melting-pot.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Collins 202
The not-so-white walls of Collins 202 evoke a sense of maturity for room and the tenants alike. The purity and innocence of the early years have been erased through the marks, cuts, and blemishes left over by stupid mistakes. Luminous white paint on the cubical-like chambers became tarnished as the experiences piled on. Although the aesthetic pleasure of the room has probably faded with the years, the homeliness still remains strong.
Three lightly stained pine desks lie in row, exposing memories and personalities of the owners to the world. From a rosary gingerly hanging over a cross on one desk, juxtaposed to the stein reading “Max” on another, the room’s culture clearly varies from area to area, depending on the owner. Upon further examination of desk nestled in the corner (with the rosary), a myriad of textbooks ranging from comparative religion to mass communication can be found. And remnants of times long passed: Photos. Chubby faced, red-haired baby pictures and an abstraction of the owner perhaps reflect the past, but connect with the room‘s current state. The clothing found on one of the pictures can be found splayed across the floor in a true messy boy-ish fashion: a green polo with a tiger graphed on the right breast, and a pair of chocolate corduroy pants.
Opposite of the desks, the bunkbeds display the true messy nature of owners. Sheets and covers splayed across the bed and pillows tossed in every direction in an ocean of browns, whites, and blacks. And in this pile, I lay sprawled across the fluffy mess, blasting Ben Folds. Allowing the dissonant piano chords to ring through the room as the pounding of the computer keyboard strums off-beat to this paper.
The messy corner that I strive in while studying just seems to be a jumbled mess of loud music, deodorant, Christian symbols, and opened bags of stale food. The unkempt array of pure boy-hood could never be a haven for most. But to me it’s the most comfortable home I’ve ever been in.
Three lightly stained pine desks lie in row, exposing memories and personalities of the owners to the world. From a rosary gingerly hanging over a cross on one desk, juxtaposed to the stein reading “Max” on another, the room’s culture clearly varies from area to area, depending on the owner. Upon further examination of desk nestled in the corner (with the rosary), a myriad of textbooks ranging from comparative religion to mass communication can be found. And remnants of times long passed: Photos. Chubby faced, red-haired baby pictures and an abstraction of the owner perhaps reflect the past, but connect with the room‘s current state. The clothing found on one of the pictures can be found splayed across the floor in a true messy boy-ish fashion: a green polo with a tiger graphed on the right breast, and a pair of chocolate corduroy pants.
Opposite of the desks, the bunkbeds display the true messy nature of owners. Sheets and covers splayed across the bed and pillows tossed in every direction in an ocean of browns, whites, and blacks. And in this pile, I lay sprawled across the fluffy mess, blasting Ben Folds. Allowing the dissonant piano chords to ring through the room as the pounding of the computer keyboard strums off-beat to this paper.
The messy corner that I strive in while studying just seems to be a jumbled mess of loud music, deodorant, Christian symbols, and opened bags of stale food. The unkempt array of pure boy-hood could never be a haven for most. But to me it’s the most comfortable home I’ve ever been in.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Journal Entry
Monday, August 25, 2008
Mr. Joseph Griffin,
Writing creates a caddywhompus of emotions for me: From disdain to contentment. Historically speaking, I began my elementary through high school career as being a rather avid writer. It wouldn’t be unusual for me to take time out of my usually active day to write something, whether it be poetry, or stories, or just notes to friends. It seemed that writing was the one form of outlet of emotions that you can trust. You can tell the paper anything, and it doesn’t bite you in the ass (unless of course that paper were to be seen by others’ eyes). You can reflect any thoughts or ideas, and no negative commentary is received. It seemed like the perfect listener. And then I arrived at high school.
My parents had decided for me that Honors English would be the best course of action for me in order to further my abilities in English and Reading - perhaps one of the most fulfilling and devastating experiences I’ve known thus far. The passion to write was siphoned from me when the dreaded task of two-column note-taking began. While reading novels, we were required to take notes for Honors English, and plenty of notes at that. I distinctly remember having to complete 32 pages minimum of notes for Great Expectations, and feeling a more delightful alternative was to spoon out my eyes. The analytical aspect of writing wasn’t the issue, it was the quantity of rather useless note-taking. Rather than making the assignment justifiably more reasonable, by basing the grade on the quality of notes, it fell onto the quantity my freshman year. Luckily, that grading system started to fall into place as the years went on.
Essays weren’t perhaps as miserable as notes, but were still quite abysmal. Essays in Honors English were preferred to present the facts, and analysis of the literature we read. Practical, yes… But it allowed much of the creative writing I was so used to fall into a state of decline. The essays became bland and mechanical, seeming as if I were the computer creating these repetitive tablets of ink. This trend sadly, didn’t change.
The decline in my creative juices lead to the downfall of my passion in writing, which perhaps influenced my 3 on the AP exam. I felt by the time I got to the exam, that all forms of life in me had been sucked out and spewed all over four years of superfluous writings, and timed tests, etc. etc. My goal for this class is to perhaps get some of those juices going again, and to enjoy writing once more.
Writing still takes a part in my life, as I write poetry from time to time, but the memories of thinking of writing as a way to truly express myself in a scholarly manner, is long gone.
-Samuel Mack
Mr. Joseph Griffin,
Writing creates a caddywhompus of emotions for me: From disdain to contentment. Historically speaking, I began my elementary through high school career as being a rather avid writer. It wouldn’t be unusual for me to take time out of my usually active day to write something, whether it be poetry, or stories, or just notes to friends. It seemed that writing was the one form of outlet of emotions that you can trust. You can tell the paper anything, and it doesn’t bite you in the ass (unless of course that paper were to be seen by others’ eyes). You can reflect any thoughts or ideas, and no negative commentary is received. It seemed like the perfect listener. And then I arrived at high school.
My parents had decided for me that Honors English would be the best course of action for me in order to further my abilities in English and Reading - perhaps one of the most fulfilling and devastating experiences I’ve known thus far. The passion to write was siphoned from me when the dreaded task of two-column note-taking began. While reading novels, we were required to take notes for Honors English, and plenty of notes at that. I distinctly remember having to complete 32 pages minimum of notes for Great Expectations, and feeling a more delightful alternative was to spoon out my eyes. The analytical aspect of writing wasn’t the issue, it was the quantity of rather useless note-taking. Rather than making the assignment justifiably more reasonable, by basing the grade on the quality of notes, it fell onto the quantity my freshman year. Luckily, that grading system started to fall into place as the years went on.
Essays weren’t perhaps as miserable as notes, but were still quite abysmal. Essays in Honors English were preferred to present the facts, and analysis of the literature we read. Practical, yes… But it allowed much of the creative writing I was so used to fall into a state of decline. The essays became bland and mechanical, seeming as if I were the computer creating these repetitive tablets of ink. This trend sadly, didn’t change.
The decline in my creative juices lead to the downfall of my passion in writing, which perhaps influenced my 3 on the AP exam. I felt by the time I got to the exam, that all forms of life in me had been sucked out and spewed all over four years of superfluous writings, and timed tests, etc. etc. My goal for this class is to perhaps get some of those juices going again, and to enjoy writing once more.
Writing still takes a part in my life, as I write poetry from time to time, but the memories of thinking of writing as a way to truly express myself in a scholarly manner, is long gone.
-Samuel Mack
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