 Friday, January 04, 2008
 That's weird that you mentioned that story yesterday, Jessica. Well, not too weird because it's news. But let me tell you why it's at least a little strange...
I just started reading this book called An Arsonists's Guide To Writers' Homes in New England. Now before anyone gets worried about my mental health, let me say that it is a work of fiction by Brock Clarke (author of Ordinary White Boy). So far, it's quite good. It's about this dude who burned down the Emily Dickinson house in Amherst, killed two people (accidentally? I don't know yet), went to jail for ten years, got out, married, and had a couple kids before the "real trouble started". That's where I am now. Chapter Two. It only seems like a lot of stuff was packed into Chapter One because it was. That's all. But it worked. I like Clarke's voice. He seems to have biting shades of Chuck Palahniuk (arthor of Fight Club, Haunted, and more).
So the weirdness was that you wrote about true-to-life deviant vandals at Frost's house while I was reading about an imaginary dude burning down Dickinson's.
Fire and ice. Heh. Word.
|
|
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
-from "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost
Well, apparently Mr. Frost wasn't the only one who took a road less traveled.
According to a story on CNN, teens broke into the poet's house. (Don't worry, he wasn't harmed. He wasn't even there, because, well, he's been dead since 1963.) The vandals had a crazy house party, and they destroyed everything in the historic landmark.
How could they do that? Don't they have any respect for the four-time Pulitzer Prize winner? I know I do. I don't care much for poetry. (With the exception of Shel Silverstein, because he's awesome. I mean, seriously. I dare you to read The Giving Tree without shedding a tear. Go on, I can wait.) But even I quote from "The Road Not Taken." It's such a meaningful, thought-provoking, insightful ... excuse me, I'm getting a little ver clempt. (That means "choked up," bubbala.)
I'm sure if you haven't heard of "The Road Not Taken," you've read--and quoted, maybe without even realizing--other poems by Frost. How about "Nothing Gold Can Stay"? You totally have. And if not, tell your teachers you should be reading some Frost. At best you'll get some brownie points for wanting to learn more about poetry and a great American poet, and you'll enrich your brain. At worst ... well, no. There's no "at worst."
But back to the matter at hand, how could those vandals do such a thing? Maybe we should give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they didn't know it was Frost's house. But still ... I say it's unforgivable!
And when the vandals get caught--which they will--it will be, ahem, poetic justice.
|
|
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
By Dustin Wahl
It was getting dark. The swamp was full of dead plants and smelled like someone forgot to take a shower. An old man with wild hair and a face smeared with dirt waded through the waters. He had a .20 gauge attached to his back, and he was looking for something to shoot.
Through the rotting weeds came the extremely elusive rubber ducky! The old hunter sneered a horrible murderous grin. He cocked his rifle. But then, something strange happened. The ducky started to drift, against the current. The hunter was astonished as it slowly swam away. He quickly gathered his senses and followed.
The hunter, with the mind of a killer, shot at it four or five times. He missed but kept chasing the duck. Finally, he cornered the rubber ducky. "I'll hang your hide on the clothesline!" he shouted "or a coat hanger. Ha!"
"You can't do that," said the ducky. "I'm plastic!" But, either way, he was cornered.
The hunter took aim. Just as he was ready to fire, the ducky spoke up again. "I don't know how I got here. I think I fell out of the window, but I just want to go back home. I hate it here. My little friend loved me and I loved him, but I don't know how to get back to him."
By this time the hunter was crying his eyes out because of the sad story. Truth be told, the little rubber ducky knew exactly where he was. He made up the sob story at the spur of the moment. He was trying to sneak past the crying hunter, when the hunter, between tears, asked the duck, "How is it that you can talk?"
 "What?!" exclaimed the ducky. "You've never heard a rubber ducky talk? Well, I guess I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Mr. Bubbles. I was just going to take another bubble bath, when I fell out of the window. I was carried by a small stream of water to a sewer in the ground. That carried me to a huge river, which carried me here. Any questions?"
By this time the hunter was ready to wake up from a dream. But he noticed something about Mr. Bubbles. He was kind of a different duck. That was when the hunter fainted.
If you've ever seen a rubber ducky swim on its own, well, it's a sight to see. That Mr. Bubbles was moving. He had evaded the old hunter, but there wasn't any time to celebrate. This duck had a mission. You see, Mr. Bubbles wasn’t normal. He got senses about things. Big things. And that day he had the strangest, most bizarre sense of all: the president was apparently going to be crushed by a falling piano. I know it sounds weird, but Mr. Bubbles was never, ever wrong.
* * *
The next day Mr. Bubbles was sitting in the office of the president's secretary, waiting for some loon screaming about taxes to leave. He finally got removed by the security and Mr. Bubbles hopped up on the desk. You might be wondering how Mr. Bubbles got past the secret service. All I know is, rubber duckies have willpower. And they have guts, which could be why two security guards were tied up in a janitor's closet. Anyway, there sat Mr. Bubbles, trying to explain to the stunned secretary how the president was going to be hit by a falling piano in a matter of minutes. When the secretary finally gathered her wits, she called security. As soon as she said the word "security," Mr. Bubbles was gone.
Outside, the president was trying to find a way to get away from all of the yelling reporters. In the process, he almost stepped on Mr. Bubbles. "Excuse me," shouted Mr. Bubbles over all the noise. "but, um, could I have an autograph?" The shocked president didn't say a word. Mr. Bubbles looked up. Sure enough, he could see a piano falling out of a three-story window. "Um, come here quick!" said the nervous ducky.
"What?!" the president shouted, unaware of anything that was going on around him.
"THERE'S A PIANO ABOUT TO FALL ON YOU!!" That finally got him to look up.
"AAGGGHHH!!!" Everyone seemed to see it at the same time. And everyone but the owner of the piano was happy because no one was injured, all thanks to Mr. Bubbles.
|
|
Well, here we are. 2008. Back to school, back to work, yada yada yada.
In the holiday issue of READ, we said that we would post student writing during the last week of December. Well, we tried, but were obviously unsuccessful. Sorry about that. We will resolve to do better in '08. Starting with our first student writing piece this afternoon!
Come on back.
Word.
|
|
Friday, December 21, 2007
The following blog entry was written by Meredith Matthews, the editor of Current Health magazine.
Spend Your Holidays in Persepolis
 Not Persepolis the place--an ancient city from the Persian Empire. I'm talking about Persepolis the movie, based on the graphic novels of the same name (it opens on December 25). The book's author, Marjane Satrapi, co-directed the film adaptation.
I was lucky enough to see an advance screening, along with a WORD alumnus, Sandhya. I hope I can put into words how terrific an experience it was!
You should know that I am a huge Persepolis fan. I've given the books to friends for birthdays and giddily got Satrapi’s autograph when she spoke at a local university last year. (Her French accent is so lovely!) I even own a copy of her picture book, Monsters Are Afraid of the Moon. (It's not as visceral or funny as the Persepolis books, but Satrapi's illustrations are just as pleasing.)
So I was worried about the big-screen version being a disappointment. I should have known better, though. As the co-director, Satrapi kept careful control; after all, Persepolis is her memoir, so naturally she'd want to make sure the film reflected her true self. In press notes handed out at the screening, she says that she received all kinds of pitches from Hollywood about adapting the book--including "a Beverly Hills, 90210–type TV show and a movie featuring Jennifer Lopez as my mother and Brad Pitt as my father." Yikes!
 There was nothing I didn't like in the film that actually got made--well, OK, Sandhya and I agreed it ran a little long, but that's to be expected. After all, Persepolis follows Satrapi from age 9 to age 24, during which she lived through a political revolution, an eight-year-long war, and journeyed from Iran to Austria and back before finally emigrating to France. Also, like the book, the first portion spends a good deal of time explaining Iran's recent political history and how it affected Satrapi's family. (I thought the movie did a good job of making this information understandable; when I first picked up the book, it took me a few re-reads to get everything clear.)
From the opening title sequence, with its gently cascading flowers and stars, the film was a truly wonderful visual experience. It is animated but not cartoony because the animation was done the old-fashioned way, not using computer-generated images like, say, the upcoming Alvin and the Chipmunks. Everything is in black-and-white, just like the books, except the present-day scenes. The graphics, which in the book are powerful for their simplicity, become even more dynamic when motion is added to them! (The war sequences and "Eye of the Tiger" scene in particular bring the story to life.)
One thing I didn't expect when I stepped into the screening room was just how much the addition of sound would bring to the narrative. When bombs crashed or punk bands blared, I felt the story in a way that I wasn't able to when I just held a two-dimensional image in my hands. And it was interesting to actually hear the characters speak. Granted, they spoke French, which I don't (thank goodness for subtitles). But since French is the language Satrapi's been fluent in ever since she studied at the Lycée Français in Tehran as a girl, it felt authentic to her experience. (An English-language version is apparently in the works, but I actually enjoyed seeing it in French.)
I was pleased that the movie didn't stray very far from the books. A few threads were condensed just for timing, I assume; for example, when a young Satrapi sees the aftermath of a bombing, she is horrified (and the audience along with her). But the film leaves out some backstory, so viewers don't realize that one of Satrapi's friends is among the victims. The cuts--like details about her ever-changing living arrangements in Vienna, or about her art-school project--didn't affect the story much at all, and I didn't really miss them.
Sandhya and I stayed through the closing credits and left the theater elated and inspired. I actually am hoping to see the movie again, it was so much fun, and well worth the price of a ticket. If you've never read the Persepolis books, you’ll want to after seeing this eye-opening and entertaining film. And if, like me, you're a Satrapi devotee, I think you will be very happy with the way her story comes across on the silver screen.
If you go to see Persepolis, check back in with WORD and let us know what you think. And have you read any of the other books that are being turned into movies? (The Golden Compass? I Am Legend? The Mist? The Water Horse?) How well do you think these stories survived the translation to film?
Editor's Note: Look for an excerpt of Persepolis in READ magazine this March!
|
|
|
|
|