emlocke

Category: Writing

  • Caught Looking – or – Why I Blog

    One snowy afternoon during winter term, I had the day off from my internship and I had sloshed through the slush for lunch. I was sitting in a corner by the window, eating by myself, letting a heating vent blow air directly up my jeans. I half read my book and half watched other people trickle in and sprinkle themselves here and there like delicate budding blossoms, some in tiny clusters, but many all alone, clinging politely to the ends of each table.

    At one point, a girl approached the table next to mine, ready to perch her tray on the corner. I glanced up from my book and our eyes met in one of those accidental ‘caught-you-looking’ moments. She was caught off guard, just for a second, but her tray slipped and her silverware clattered to the floor.

    She collected it all and moved on with her lunch before I could get up and help, but what I really wanted to do was catch her eye again and say a silent ‘sorry’ because I knew that both of us there alone in the dining hall, autonomous eaters and harmless people watchers, and we caught each other looking. I wanted her to understand that I understood what a surprise it was to meet someone else’s eyes in a room where all the solo eaters are trying not to meet each others’ eyes. I almost wanted to say, “Sorry I made you drop your silverware,” but I didn’t know if she would have understood that kind of apology.

    But maybe she would have understood. Maybe she would have looked me in the eyes and grinned and said, “Oh, don’t worry about it.” I didn’t risk it.

    But I think that’s why I blog. Because there is always a chance that someone is going to look, to risk getting caught, and read something that makes sense. I keep writing because I hope that something I say that nobody else understands will be crystal clear to a reader out there on the internet. Somebody will read and think, “I know what you mean” and just for a second, it will be like we’re eating at the same table.

    If I can affirm one thing for one person in my lifetime as a blogger, I will feel that I have accomplished something. I’m keeping a lookout.

  • On My Epiphanies, Which Are Angel-Free

    My British Literature of the Sixties professor, whom Kate and I likened to a weekender sailboat with his accent and merry smile and collarless dress shirts with the sleeves pushed up, gave us two choices for our final exam. We could have the typical self-scheduled short answer and quote identification test, or write a take-home exam where we chose a quote or passage from each of the major works that we had read and write a short analysis about how the selection was important in relation to the course, the author, or the work itself.

    The class chose the quotation option unanimously. My choice was based on the fact that I know an opportunity to be a little creative when I see one. I also know that whenever I have to sit in a room and stare at a typed page of questions and names, I panic and spend the exam session listening to what must be a very tiny man playing Chopin in my head, and he’s not very good. Not only does my grade plummet on the spot, but it’s so boring to just sit there and kill time while everyone else writes the test.

    Still, the project was a little dangerous for me. Though it wasn’t expressed this way in the assignment, my instinct was to pinpoint the all-encompassing quotes that defined the course, the author, the written work, and the era as a whole. Intellectually, I knew that wasn’t just unnecessary, it was impossible and so not the point. But I still found myself trying to channel de Beauvoir and Brecht as if I was to become the prophet who would retroactively elucidate a decade, even though doing so would, in many ways, break from the axiom of the sixties all together.

    But it’s a habit to want to give everything a profound and invariable meaning. I’m always trying to define something, the day, the details, the passing moment. It’s why my writing comes in fits and starts. I’m waiting for that illuminating moment, with the break in the clouds and the rays of brilliant sunlight (no angels though, for some reason), when everything snaps into focus. Sometimes I just want to tell maybe-you-had-to-be-there stories and whine aboutcaffeine withdrawal. Is that all right? Is it okay if I don’t have an epiphany on the essence of me or my life or the world every day?

    Before all could be said and done, the Brit Lit final broke me. I had to get it out of the way so I could move on to assignments that required continuous pages of formal and coherent thought, rather than freeform paragraphs, which should have been theraputic to write. I went down the hall to Kate’s room to borrow a book and became teary while she looked for it on her shelf. In a flash, she had her arms around me and was smoothing my hair, saying, “The sailboat wouldn’t want us to be worrying about this! He’d say, ‘don’t worry girls!’ in his British accent!”

    I got an A. I made some connections that stretched the limits between critical and creative, but it was enough, and that’s all it had to be. I demonstrated that I was engaged and had an open mind and that I had learned something in the course, and I got an A, on the exam and for the course.

    So, for whatever it will be worth in my last semester, I asked the sailboat to be my advisor. I went to his office to have the form signed, and I’m not even making it up, through the window behind him, I could see a break in the snow clouds and the rays of sunlight and he handed the form back to me with a merry smile and said, “Have a nice afternoon, Emily” and maybe you had to be there and maybe you didn’t, but it felt a little like an epiphany.

  • Wordsmithette

    In class on Monday, we talked about the Harvard concordance to the works of Shakespeare, which counts and catalogues all the words so you can see how frequently certain words are used in certain plays and in what context. The internet must make a resource like this a lot more fun to use.

    I knew there had to be a recreational concordance tool out there somewhere, so language lovers like me could enter a URL or copy/paste text and count words and draw thoughtful conclusions. There is, and it’s called Turbo Lingo. How appropriate. So I plugged in the URL for my August 2005 archive page, and the results were…pretty inconclusive. In the month of August, I wrote the word beauty four times, the word universe twice, and crush-of-the-minute once. I also used my own name once. And, ‘chocolate.’

  • I Still Remember

    New York City means a lot to me. For most of my childhood, between day trips to Broadway or the Met, it was a far-off place, a special occasion, and a million things I could never touch or see or do. The city had never felt so close as it did on September 11th, 2001. These days it seems more possible. People I know live there. I could live there. The millions of things are closer to my reach and across the border from home, or a few hours drive from school, they are more tangible. But there is still the sense that is it so much greater and deeper, in more ways than population or square footage, than I can comprehend.

    It is many homes and one home. Many businesses and one business. Many neighborhoods and one neighborhood. Many destinations and one destination. It is a hum through every district, a collective sigh, a chain reaction of laughter or shouting bouncing back and forth across an island. It is strength in numbers.

    It is gray pavement painted with taxicabs, neon signs, graffiti murals and storefronts all illuminated by the sun’s glare off skyscraper windows and a traffic light on each corner. It is a drive across the Brooklyn Bridge at every time of day or a walk along the Hudson or through Central Park during any season. It is one tree growing in Brooklyn and many, many trees, growing along sidewalks, defying urban concrete with roots and leaves all over the city, year after year. It is the evolution of the unofficial capital of the United States and a beacon to those who seek it around the world.

    Today, during the Weissman Center presentation, “New York Stories,” between clips of footage from PBS‘s 14+ hour documentary on the history of New York, the blue screen projected with the pause symbol and the word “STILL” in the upper-left hand corner. In the moments between full color and black and white images of the city, past and present, this silent background spoke volumes. I am still shocked, still scared, still wounded. I still remember. I still believe in New York.

  • Flood

    I’ve had a headache since yesterday. It feels like caffeine withdrawal, but it’s centered in my sinuses. It aches with an almost audible twinge between my eyes like I’ve been watching too much TV. I have been. Watching New Orleans fill like a bathtub. Watching parking lots fill up with people, hot and thirsty and tired, just exhausted. Watching a doctor’s eyes fill with determination as he reports on the pitiful state of his crippled hospital. Watching a grandmother’s eyes filled with betrayal, gasping, “We’re Americans.” My headache flares every time I fight back tears. My eyes flood and spill over.

  • Disturb My Universe

    Organizing my bookcase is a comfort thing. Sometimes I switch up the categories: by genre, by author, by period, by connection to my life. Today I even set some books free, passing them on to my brother’s girlfriend. But Beloved (both copies,) always stays on the top shelf, one signed by Toni Morrison, a treasured gift from Chelsea, and one highlighted to the binding. Tucking the pair in between my RHS graduation cap and The Great Gatsby, I remembered the paper I wrote on Beloved for Children’s Literature in the fall, inspired by a line from The Chocolate War and an article by Madeline L’Engle. This is what Beloved meant to me:

    Emily L. White
    Professor A. Pearce
    Literature for Children
    11 November 2004

    “Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?” – Both Sides of Beloved

    In high school, Toni Morrison’s Beloved struck me deeply and in a way that no other book had before. The contrast between the dark content and the artistic poetry of Morrison’s writing mesmerized me. Her beautiful characters and the intensity of their stories thrilled me. As Madeline L’Engle would say, Beloved in a “both/and” novel; it is both frightening and poetic, violent and passionate, disturbing and tender, physical and emotional (L’Engle 217). The story’s beauty is not connected to peace, warmth, or even happy endings. It sobered me, but I found the beauty in its furious passion and realistic truth.

    Sethe is a character who disturbs her own universe again and again. She shakes up every world she enters; enchanting men on the plantation, escaping slavery, and finally shocking Cincinnati when she kills her baby daughter to protect her from life on a southern plantation. By the time the reader is introduced to her, Sethe seems to have resigned herself to a life where nothing but loss and loneliness can be counted on. But she has maintained her fire through it all, remaining a beautiful character for her undying courage. Though Sethe’s spark seems latent at first, Morrison’s language and writing style awakens the reader, and by the second chapter, Sethe has come alive again, ignited by Paul D.’s presence. I found beauty in the electric poetry of Morrison’s writing and Sethe’s raw emotion. Alongside the pain, fear and death, I found so much life in her story. L’Engle writes, “To be alive hurts. It is dangerous,” but it is real and that is where the story’s magnificence lies.

    As an author, Toni Morrison was challenged about Beloved and its controversial plot. But critics who understood the story’s significance would agree with L’Engle’s belief that “a story has its own life” (220). Morrison’s story is frightening, but readers can find value in her writing’s vibrant truth and intensity. She gives Beloved and its characters life beyond the disturbing themes and events.

    Most of my classmates revealed that they were more disturbed than touched by the book. Beloved repelled them with some of the same intense elements that attracted me. Most were especially bothered when Sethe murdered her own child. Morrison’s passion had ignited enough of a passion in me that I took it upon myself to disturb the class further; I defended Sethe as a character and argued the value of the story. I never advocated infant homicide, but I proposed that Sethe’s actions were inspired by fear and love so powerful that I felt them myself as I read. To me, her emotions were so deeply sincere and honest that they deserved a reader’s respect.

    Even I was shocked, at first, to find that I could appreciate the beauty within Sethe’s character, but I could not deny her courage, and I challenged my classmates to see that side of Beloved. And the novel truly has two sides. It is the emotion, passion and truth that make it both frightening and beautiful, disturbing readers’ universes with its intensity.

  • Something Feels Peculiar

    Something feels peculiar. A New England orchard-esque honeysuckle breeze is coming through my open window, accompanied by the sound of fireworks rumbling in the neighborhood. I can’t put my finger on it but – oh! Could it be? That breeze isn’t just New England-esque, it’s an authentic zephyr from the Brewster farm down the road. And best of all, the fireworks are a local celebration of Independence Day (being back in the US has given me a booster shot of nationalism). Finally coming home is starting to feel less peculiar.

    Blogging feels a little unusual, too. Burnout comes from having too much too say and none of the right words. Have I just run out of words? It feels like my vocabulary is strung on a jangling charm bracelet instead of strung into cohesive sentences. It’s cute, it’s flirty, it’s charming, but it’s not at all a practical accessory. The tip of my tongue is weighed down with words that just won’t hop out and I’m shuffling along on thesaurus.com to get by. Note to self: Stop concerning yourself with which words look best together. Write for the aesthetics of the mind.

    Driving on the right side (the correct side) of the road felt far too peculiar at first. Mom had to remind me twice not to veer toward the left curb in the parking lot, and after that I left Will drive me to and from the mall until my internal road compass (I think it’s kept in one of those inner ear channels responsible for equilibrium) righted itself. It was stuck on the left from driving our rented Corolla on the South Island for Spring Break.

    Quote of the day: “Without you here, there is less to say” – Colin Hay

  • Becoming the Pen Name

    What people don’t know is, I’ve been living a double life. There’s the Emily you see around town, pretending to look for a job, drinking coffee and smell-testing whatever shampoo is on sale at CVS. That’s the Emily who reads short stories in her bikini on the deck and always has emergency change in the car and recycles catalogues. Normal, logical things.

    The other Emily, believe it or not, won the “Best Crossover Fiction” category for her Dawson’s Creek meets Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman fan fiction series in 1999. In fact, if you google my full name, skeleton-in-the-closet fan fiction comes up even before my more celebrated url’s. I can only imagine what a google-iterate potential employer might think about those results. Which is why this time, five years later, I used a pen name.

    Oh, did I not mention that that’s the point of this story? Oh right, secret’s out, I wrote another fan fiction. “Gilmore Girls: Lorelai discovers cold cereal. Luke comes over. Someone drinks coffee. A fluffy, pocket-sized L&L story that takes place eventually after Raincoats and Recipes. It’s sweet like Cool Whip.” It’s been a long, dry summer of re-runs, and I am so anticipating the getting-together of Gilmore Girl’s Luke and Lorelai, that I wrote a story and it was so cute, if I do say so myself, that I posted it for all. And I’m not ashamed. After all, no reason to hide such high quality writing, no matter what the genre.

    Quote of the day: “Promise me this, you will never understand me. Promise me this, you will always, always hold me, like you’re holding me now .” – Pancho’s Lament

    Newsflash Update – September 18th, 2004
    Fan fiction Emily (that’s not my pen name) strikes again. And I have reviews! Like, “lovely, lovely.”

  • How to Fail Your Driving Test

    I renewed my driver’s license on Friday. The new Connecticut licenses are sparkly and my picture is surprisingly accurate, even on the alluring “Man, what a cute driver-girl” side. But never mind that, since I’m ‘Under 21 until February 10th, 2005’ and my whole license is oriented vertically for immediate identification. The thick red stripe wasn’t distinct enough? Didn’t they notice, no one has to card me to know that I’m under 21! They did let me walk away with my old license though, a keepsake.

    I think going in for the new one was even better than the first time back in junior year. It was completely anxiety free, but I still felt all that excitement because it brought back the positive memories of a virgin driver. Like lucking out with a great photo, putting that card in my wallet for the first time, listening to Nelly Furtado in my 1988 Honda Accord on the way to school, the RHS parking lot dynamic, rolling the windows all the way down after school, melting Gap lipshines on the dashboard and sticking Everyday Kolor in the windows. We took ourselves so seriously in our cars back then.

    Of course, all that stuff was a million times sweeter for me because I was so devastated when I failed my driving test the first time. Hey, I needed some extra practice. I took myself a little too seriously and I needed to get a hold of my driving ego before I got that stamp of approval from the government! In honor of proving myself with three successful years as a licensed driver (well, except for pushing the car into chelsea’s tree on the first day of senior year and that one minor court incident), here is the article I wrote for ‘The Voice’ after the whole experience:

    How to Fail Your Driving Test

    On the day of my driver’s license test at the Danbury DMV, my greatest concern was the condition of my hair. I certainly did not want it to appear anything less than shiny, voluminous and strawberry blonde in my license picture! Little did I know how much I would have preferred the stereotypically unpleasant picture to no license at all, which is what I had in my wallet on the way home on that October afternoon.

    There were three major moments during my testing experience on October 19th, 2000, that hinted at my imminent fate. First, when I asked the clerk who took my forms if I would need them again that day, he joked that I would not, “Until you come back.” He though it was quite funny. I shrugged it off, oblivious to the possibility of my failure. Secondly, once I had completed the written portion of the test (I missed two—whoops) the police officer attempted to scare me by saying, “Well, you failed,” as he looked at my score. At this point, I grew somewhat nervous.

    Finally, while sitting in the DMV parking lot after executing a back-in parking job, I thought to myself, these exact words: “I, from this moment forward, am a licensed driver!”

    Not only did these coincidental events foreshadow the trauma to come, they made it all the more disappointing. Although the 12 minutes on the road are a blur in my memory, I know from my evaluation sheet that I failed because: A) When I was, “told to go left, [I] activated [my] right turn signal,” B) I used “no signal out of East Pembroke Road, and C) because the “operator [that was yours truly] approached junctions and made no effort to slow, stop, or check site line before proceeding.”

    Never mind that this government official, besides being rude, abrupt, and completely devoid of human emotion, misspelled “sight line.”

    In my defense…I was extremely nervous. In anticipating a right turn, after practicing routes during Driver’s Ed practice, I put on my right turn signal momentarily when the instructor spoke. At East Pembroke Road, I put on the correct turn signal, but the dramatic angle of the intersection caused the signal to automatically deactivate just before I turned. Finally, I was told during my final hours of Ridgefield High School’s Driver’s Ed that if I made any indication that I planned to stop my car at a place where there was no stop sign, I would fail the test. Therefore, when I approached these stop sign-less ‘junctions,’ I went against my driver’s instincts and maintained my speed to show that I wasn’t trying to stop. What else was I to do?

    “So,” the inspector said after he had described my mistakes in agonizing detail, “You’re going to have to come back.” All this while standing next to the cone I had tipped over on it’s edge while parking. I didn’t think it could get any worse, until I fainted right there on the pavement. No matter how nervous you are on the day of your test, eat something before you go.

    I made technical mistakes, but my errors before the test may have been even more destructive. First of all, I told far too many people that I was taking my test. I went so far as to carry a cellophane balloon from one of my friends through the halls the day before my appointment. This hurt my pride afterward, when I had to take the bus to school and break the news to everyone when they asked me excitedly, “Can I see your license?” Secondly, at 6 PM, the Danbury roads are busy and confusing enough for those who are familiar with them. An appointment at a less hectic time and a little touring and practice would have been in my best interest.

    But most importantly, I did not trust my instincts. The DMV officers want to see that you know the rules, but their top priority is that you are a safe, observant driver. Had I relaxed, listened to instructions, and followed my own instincts, I would not have had to wait another two months to achieve the rights to the road.

    Going back to the DMV on December 12th was a day to remember. This appointment took place at 2 PM – a much better time of day for mini-road trips in the greater Danbury area. I didn’t have to retake the written test, since I had passed it the first time. My road test lasted a long 25 minutes, but the inspector had checked off all the sections before we got in the car, and he skimmed a newspaper as we drove.

    So, when your time comes, relax, but take it seriously. Listen to that voice in your head – it’s your “inner-driver,” and it usually has your best interest in heart. Be a cautious driver. But most importantly, don’t let yourself think that your lifetime as a driver depends on this one drive. Even I got behind the wheel again.

    Quote of the day: “I looked above the other day, because I think that i’m good and ready for a change, and I live my life by the moon” – Nelly Furtado

    ***

    October 30, 2009

    Addendum:

    Responses to this entry are most welcome!  However, please note that comments submitted by readers since January 31, 2004 and in the future do not reflect the opinions of EmLocke. I do not endorse advice posted by readers, except where expressly stated otherwise.  I am not, nor have I ever been an employee of the Department of Motor Vehicles.