1000 word essay

Over the break I went out to eat at a Mexican restaurant. On Friday, December 30^th, after work my dad, sister Lauren and I piled into my dad’s Kia and drove into the city. We picked up my mom at the hospital where she works in St.Paul and drove down a little ways to Boca Loca. I was dressed professionally because I had just had an appointment with a customer at my house. I had sold $90 worth of merchandise. We parked in the farthest space in the lot. The parking lot had a very odd layout; there were parking spaces all around the rim and in the center there were lamp posts each with two single parking spaces facing each other. We got out of the car and my sister told my parents that I ran like a dumbass. Naturally, this made me want to sprint to the restaurant door. My entire family, including myself, was laughing at me. See, when I run, I like to keep my ankles off of the pavement, solely using the balls of my feet to propel me forwards. This makes me look like I run in slow motion. Plus, I looked like a ninny with my pleather bag full of merchandise under my arm. I now realize that I must have resembled SpongeBob in the episode where he sells chocolate bars door-to-door. Luckily I don’t sell anything door-to-door. As we entered the restaurant I commented that every time I saw a giant SUV, I thought of the Gaupers. (The Gaupers are my dad’s sister and her family. They are complete Wisconsinites; Hunting, roasting, and boating.)They drove a giant-ass SUV that was completely ridiculous looking, but I suppose it was at least a shred practical considering they have 3 kids. We entered the restaurant and immediately saw lots of people standing around, waiting for tables. My sister asked my dad, “We do have reservations... right?” He told us that we did. Wow, would that have been a pain in the ass- waiting for a table to seat 9 on one of the restaurant’s busiest nights. My sissy and I joked around as we sat on the thinly cushioned single bench. We laughed and made fun of the bikers on the TV, and also of the people who would obnoxiously stand right in front of us to block our view of the TV. I remember one biker in particular was wearing red skinny jeans and a blue striped tank top. He reminded me of an American flag. Then the waitress led us to our table. One of the first things I noticed about our table was that it was up against a wall with a pane-less window ledge so that one could see their fellow diners on the other side of the wall. And sitting in the middle of this ledge was a dazzling sculpture of a cactus made out of stacked rectangles of glass. I was flattered and touched when my sister decided to sit right next to me instead of by our parents, who were on the other end and opposite side of the table. We all looked like we were trying to give each other the cold shoulder. In reality, I just needed my aunt and uncle to sit directly across from me so that I could give them a presentation for my work. Four bowls filled with salted tortilla chips were placed in front of us, one for each section of the table. There was salsa too, in a little wooden dish beside each bowl of chips. I assumed that it would be mild salsa, as restaurant salsa usually is. It was spicy enough to burn my tongue, but not so spicy that a sip of water couldn’t soothe it. My relatives arrived. First I saw my uncle John, a man of tall stature, and my aunt Heather, a large curvy blonde. Then I caught a glimpse of their two sons, both of whom look exactly like their father. I noticed that Sam had gotten braces. He also had long, girly eyelashes. Will, three years younger than Sam, was the spitting image of a hockey player: big hoodie, cool composure, indifference. ‘Where’s Margo?’ ‘She’s in the bathroom,’ my aunt and uncle conversed. After looking confusedly around for us, Margo had found us. She was the baby of the family, at least 4 years younger than Will. Her long curly hair was bright blonde at the bottom and dark from her roots to just beyond her shoulders. She used to adore me. I have no younger siblings, so she was filled that curiosity of mine of how it feels to be a role model. But as dinner progressed, I could tell that she wasn’t very interested in being super close to me anymore. She had grown up. She was an independent 7 year old woman, tracking how many units of carbs every item she consumed was worth on an app on her iphone that I could only guess was made for diabetics like herself. She did tell me that she started playing the saxophone, which sparked an urge inside of me to tell her that I had played the saxophone, that I took it up again, that I now played the baritone sax (Oooooo, the instrument that we generically joked was taller than she was. I wanted to impress her. By the end of the night, I had sold some more merchandise to my aunt and had my first churro (or maybe it was the second one I’ve ever had). Later on my family would make fun of their's. We’re not very socially accepting people. It’s not that we’re terrible people, we just bond with each other by making fun of others. We always would try to get out of family reunions and Thanksgiving at their house. This night, however wasn’t too bad. Except for the fact that my mom and one of my cousins got food poisoning and were sick the next day.

Culminating Poem

ghost faced, rooms I paced,
hyper breath, close to death,
sweating, shaking, oh no,
what have I done? where should I go?
Only so much time, until
my soul is burnt in torturous hell
but I'm
forgiven
forever
though I am a sinner
Love has saved me


Explanation: As the poem turns in a positive direction, the lines are shorter. I also used alliteration with "forgiven" and "forever". The Poem has kind of an open end, the last line not really rhyming with anything. I guess this could possibly symbolize how we humans are all unsure of faith and where we will end up.

3 activities involving End Stop, Enjambment, and Caesura

Activity A: Mr. Cheng's Poem
Is there a tune more happy than a daughter’s windchime laugh? 
A silence more crushing than her rolling tear? 
Is there a breeze more cooling than a son’s slumbered sigh? 
A thought more awesome than the question that he asks?  
And is there a truer joy when I am the clown?  
Shame when I accuse and rage?  
Peace when I pull up the sheet?  
Pride when I strike the flint? 
I made these kids and I make these kids.  
And they make me.

Activity B:
Members of the Westboro Baptist Church of
Topeka, Kan. appeared with
signs bearing messages like
“America is Doomed” and “God Hates Fags.” The
intentional infliction of
emotional distress involving
the Catholic clergy are not
moral, But the verbal attacks that
severely wounded the father of
the fallen homosexual Marine cannot be
restricted even if it is upsetting or
arouses contempt?


Link to article: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/03/us/03scotus.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=rallying%20at%20homosexual%20funerals&st=cse


Activity C: Extended Freewrite, then poem
My mind wanders all over the silken moon, thinking of nothing of importance, yet of complete importance of in the eyes of my Lord? I hope so though the muffin baskets never came from the couple sitting on the loveseat in the lamp light as I lay in my imaginary hospital, a combined psych ward and surgery recovery unit to stitch my heart back together. Next tomorrow I will remain here, waiting until this magical spirit saves my soul, until I feel and I fly and adoration is mutual. When I feel love for this being whom I honestly do not know, but I've heard loves me and will save and protect me.

Silken moon and
spirits, my Lord, save
my heart, stitch my
soul, so that when I feel
imaginary, I fly through the
recovery

10 ways of looking at driving

I
The two girls drove over the rolling grassy hills and into
the tiny town with its friendly sweet people
away from their pasts
II
He raises his middle finger and flashes his brights at the
troubled old lady, driving slowly and carefully down
the highway
III
The man and the woman
sit in the dark, cold, cab
ashamed of what they have done
IV
She hurries
in her beat up minivan
not bothering to flip the turn signal on
careening left and right in a dizzying
freaky unreality
V
Rolling slowly
we follow the hearse
passengers, awkward and silent
the deep blackened clouds letting through
small beams of golden sunlight
and tears almost subside
VI
Those crazy kids
they race and speed
acceleration nation
they know the risks,
they've heard the warnings
and one is left alone
one is left, staring at
the blood stained shattered windshield
the eerily silent and motionless bodies
of those she loved the most
VII
Tired, stomach sick,
I turn into her driveway.
She gets in and closes the door lightly.
I force the clutch into reverse
and head towards high school
VIII
Heads throbbing,
Tired of arguing,
the road trip continues on.
IX
In the arcade room
the farthest corner
holds the racing simulation
children alone
sit and stare
at the dark screen,
imagining
X
The tiny girl
whose dream is
of a bright pink ride-on hummer
under the Christmas tree
Even though she's old enough to drive
a real car

Show, Don't Tell

She smiles
and looks up at the clouds,
the sunset,
orange and gold, pink and blue, reflecting off of clouds,
in the smooth cool white sand
she lays,
with the cool foamy, tickling water
swishing up over her feet and ankles
shells lay in her hands,
smooth and swirled,
unclenched, simply cuddling against her palms,
sleeping
protected

e.e. cummings inspired poem

                         

Modernist-imagery inspired poem

With steps that lead up to glass doors, covered in cracks and scratches, you enter the solid brick hallway of Edina High School with its white ceilings and gray-flecked floors and walk into class, sit down in your assigned seat and listen, listen, listen.