I got back from a visit to Pittsburgh about three hours ago. To get there from DC, get on the beltway, 495, and take 270N toward Baltimore to 70N to 76, PA Turnpike. If you are me, you get off in Monroeville. It's, I think, eight bucks and a quarter to ride the turnpike. I don't know why they charge you. I don't know who does the charging. The government? Who is the government? But, that's not the point, and I don't actually care that I am being charged. I guess if I did I would take Route 30 instead. It runs right through Breezewood. I could, but don't, take the beltway to 270 to 70 to 30. I did once. It's actually a better drive, I think. The road's cut into the mountains' sides. It's terrifying and beautiful, which is really why I avoid it. I always think about the free fall when I'm in my 92 Toyota climbing up the side of anything, especially Mountains. Especially 30. When I look out the window, I feel like I could fall. It's irrational, which I hate. So, I avoid it altogether. I avoided it today, on the way back. Same trip, in reverse; I will spare you the repeat directions.
I came here today thinking about other people. Thinking about you.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Friday, May 23, 2008
Life really does get in the way of writing!
I think the day in class that we talked about life getting in the way of writing is SUCH a true statement. Although we've been done for almost a month now I am just now finding some time to contribute to the blog. I moved to Shadyside with my boyfriend and headed right back to work after graduation. I will officially be a staff member of PITT some time by the end of the Summer or in the Fall. I am right now working on finishing a screenplay as well as a book of short stories inspired by my original photography. I hope that things are going well with the rest of you! Good luck with not letting life get in the way of writing!
Monday, May 5, 2008
Writers' group
I know Sean already posted about a group, but I promised a coworker I'd put the word out about a group she's forming (which I plan on joining). If anyone else is interested, I can give you details (once they are worked out). Email me at meganbranning@yahoo.com if you think you'd be into it.
Just to give you some general info, this would be a group of serious writers who want to get published. There may be some people joining who have already been published. It will probably be a mix of short stories and novels of various genres.
Just to give you some general info, this would be a group of serious writers who want to get published. There may be some people joining who have already been published. It will probably be a mix of short stories and novels of various genres.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Thoughts for today
So I was online this morning, doing my usual surfing, and I came across my horoscope (Virgo) on my myyahoo page. Now, I dont normally pay attention to this crap, but today's fortune is quite apropos.
Change is inevitable in your life, but it is not always welcome. A new job, a new home, a new relationship or even just a new shiny gadget will affect your life in a much more complicated way than you were expecting. It is essential that you don't overreact to any discomfort you are feeling about this transition. Give yourself time to get used to things, and do not jump to the conclusion that you have made a huge mistake. There is no going back -- the only way is forward.
I dont think I am the only one this is applicable to, so hopefully it helps.
On my writing, I haven't opened a new word.doc in a while; its like a big scary monster to me right now. I know thats totally lame, but whats a girl to do? I will return to it by the end of the week. I'm going to make myself. I promise. I actually have it as an event set in my phone.
Well, I'm heading back out into the world on my quest for fortune and fame... or some version of that. I hope you all are doing well. I miss our class.
Love, Schawnne
Change is inevitable in your life, but it is not always welcome. A new job, a new home, a new relationship or even just a new shiny gadget will affect your life in a much more complicated way than you were expecting. It is essential that you don't overreact to any discomfort you are feeling about this transition. Give yourself time to get used to things, and do not jump to the conclusion that you have made a huge mistake. There is no going back -- the only way is forward.
I dont think I am the only one this is applicable to, so hopefully it helps.
On my writing, I haven't opened a new word.doc in a while; its like a big scary monster to me right now. I know thats totally lame, but whats a girl to do? I will return to it by the end of the week. I'm going to make myself. I promise. I actually have it as an event set in my phone.
Well, I'm heading back out into the world on my quest for fortune and fame... or some version of that. I hope you all are doing well. I miss our class.
Love, Schawnne
Friday, April 25, 2008
A Bit of News...
Hey all, for anybody who hasn't graduated and will be sticking around at least another semester (like me), and would be interested, I have a workshop writing group called The Ink Slingers and I'm looking for people who would like to join. Normally we meet Thursday nights at 830 during the semester and each week one or two people have their pieces workshopped. If you're interested email me - seh50@pitt.edu - This group really comes in handy if you're working on a piece that you need some extra help on before you hand it in to your professor, or if you just want an honest, no nonsense evaluation of your writing. Let me know if anyone is interested.
Sean
Sean
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Whatevs
So, I just finished my last paper evar and I'm feeling a bit strange. I've been writing film papers for the past week, sitting in front of my computer out on my porch, trying to enjoy the beautiful weather whilst still getting my shit done. To be honest, it's been harder than it should have. I've been finished with school since thursday, and after writing stories that I considered pretty important to me, and to my future in writing, it was hard to return to seemingly meaningless essays (although, truth be told, I did get to write about Three Kings and Fight Club). In the end I had one of the best film papers I've ever written, along with one of the worst. Funny how that works sometimes. You put all you time and energy into one thing and ignore the other. Ok, so now I'm sitting in my house with my roommates, wearing a black cowboy hat and brandishing a plastic sword, in celebration of my conquest over college (for those of you who have been to my house, you know this is nothing out of the ordinary) and I feel like posting something. In there near future there will be fiction in place of ramblings...but tonight is not that night. Cheers guys and gals. Hope to see you all soon.
What what
I had two papers due on Wednesday, my only finals-week finals.
I was really incredibly stressed out about them until thursday, when Brandon made me realize it was my last class, too. I realized I had two 5-page papers to write, then I could graduate and be done. I chipped away at them over the weekend, going to the library with the grandest of intentions, writing a paragraph, and watching music videos for an hour and a half before deciding my eyes needed a rest from the computer screen and it was too nice out to be in the library. Wednesday I got up, having a very rough, wrinkled bit of single spaced text in my backpack-one of my drafts. I worked out, chilled, listened to music, talked on the phone, looked over the draft. Finally, around 5:30, I headed to the computer lab in Posvar. I made the changes and emailed the 17 pages (it was a multi part paper) to the professor, attaching attachments and clicking 'send' without the slightest hesitation. Then I printed my Samurai and Western Film paper draft and headed outside to look it over. It had gotten incredibly dark out, something was rolling in quick. Deciding against the plaza, I headed inside the cathedral, and got the idea to go up to the honors college. It really helps me read attentively if there is a view, or at least things to look at, around me, as crazy as that may seem (must fit into our talks about different levels of perception and engagement, not sure exactly how--visual learner?). So I got up to the 35th floor, and watched the storm. Up by the North side, the buildings were fogged up, and I could barely see the hills beyond them. Other than that, though, things were relatively dry. I was hoping to see clouds blowing in like battleships, the rain starting as if with a snap of fingers. But I just kept reading my inane BS regurgitaions of the theories behind Tom Cruise and Forest Whitaker's characters' displays of loyalty in The Last Samurai and Ghost Dog, respectively. Every time I looked up, it looked the same--cloudy downtown, clear here. Then I looked down and the streets were wet. Then they were visibly wet, reflecting lights of cars. Then I got up, washed out my coffee mug, and waited for the elevator, sick of the blind masseur and the dually-reinforced theme of revenge (Zatoichi). By the time I got down to the ground floor, made the changes and printed the paper and got outside, the sun was making a comeback. I was walking to the Old Engineering Hall, then, not really in any state of mind, just walking up there. I was next to the Soldiers and Sailors, there, when mindfulness kinda came back to me. It was one of those grey/sunny days I used to love as a kid. I was walking along, not hot, not cold. Everything was moist, almost steamy. Nobody was really around on those streets, at 6 pm. But everything was damn green. The trees were flowering and smelling sweet. And I was turning in my last paper ever. Somehow the significance of this act hadn't really occurred to me until that moment. Inside the door of the OEH, an ROTC guy was sitting in his brown shirt and shorts, incredibly slouched over. I ran up the stairs to the 7th floor. In a file drawer in front of Keiko Mcdonald's door was a folder with the assignment sheet in it, and someone had dropped their paper in it. I skimmed the first page, left mine, reassured, and headed out. Rather than a weight off my shoulders, I felt like this was the final spike in a railroad from Eastern Pennsylvania to West I had just hammered in. I didn't feel tired, just at ease. Gonna see my family and my woman, gonna get all dressed up and get my little credence card (degree), and then that Eastbound train's a leavin. Whoo whoo!
I was really incredibly stressed out about them until thursday, when Brandon made me realize it was my last class, too. I realized I had two 5-page papers to write, then I could graduate and be done. I chipped away at them over the weekend, going to the library with the grandest of intentions, writing a paragraph, and watching music videos for an hour and a half before deciding my eyes needed a rest from the computer screen and it was too nice out to be in the library. Wednesday I got up, having a very rough, wrinkled bit of single spaced text in my backpack-one of my drafts. I worked out, chilled, listened to music, talked on the phone, looked over the draft. Finally, around 5:30, I headed to the computer lab in Posvar. I made the changes and emailed the 17 pages (it was a multi part paper) to the professor, attaching attachments and clicking 'send' without the slightest hesitation. Then I printed my Samurai and Western Film paper draft and headed outside to look it over. It had gotten incredibly dark out, something was rolling in quick. Deciding against the plaza, I headed inside the cathedral, and got the idea to go up to the honors college. It really helps me read attentively if there is a view, or at least things to look at, around me, as crazy as that may seem (must fit into our talks about different levels of perception and engagement, not sure exactly how--visual learner?). So I got up to the 35th floor, and watched the storm. Up by the North side, the buildings were fogged up, and I could barely see the hills beyond them. Other than that, though, things were relatively dry. I was hoping to see clouds blowing in like battleships, the rain starting as if with a snap of fingers. But I just kept reading my inane BS regurgitaions of the theories behind Tom Cruise and Forest Whitaker's characters' displays of loyalty in The Last Samurai and Ghost Dog, respectively. Every time I looked up, it looked the same--cloudy downtown, clear here. Then I looked down and the streets were wet. Then they were visibly wet, reflecting lights of cars. Then I got up, washed out my coffee mug, and waited for the elevator, sick of the blind masseur and the dually-reinforced theme of revenge (Zatoichi). By the time I got down to the ground floor, made the changes and printed the paper and got outside, the sun was making a comeback. I was walking to the Old Engineering Hall, then, not really in any state of mind, just walking up there. I was next to the Soldiers and Sailors, there, when mindfulness kinda came back to me. It was one of those grey/sunny days I used to love as a kid. I was walking along, not hot, not cold. Everything was moist, almost steamy. Nobody was really around on those streets, at 6 pm. But everything was damn green. The trees were flowering and smelling sweet. And I was turning in my last paper ever. Somehow the significance of this act hadn't really occurred to me until that moment. Inside the door of the OEH, an ROTC guy was sitting in his brown shirt and shorts, incredibly slouched over. I ran up the stairs to the 7th floor. In a file drawer in front of Keiko Mcdonald's door was a folder with the assignment sheet in it, and someone had dropped their paper in it. I skimmed the first page, left mine, reassured, and headed out. Rather than a weight off my shoulders, I felt like this was the final spike in a railroad from Eastern Pennsylvania to West I had just hammered in. I didn't feel tired, just at ease. Gonna see my family and my woman, gonna get all dressed up and get my little credence card (degree), and then that Eastbound train's a leavin. Whoo whoo!
Be Very Fine
a little exercise we did in class that i'm hoping to turn into a whole story
Thursday night the daughter drove to the hospital in the old neighborhood. The gush of wind as she walked through the doors served to both rid her of any contaminates and also to whip her hair about her face, the raspy tendrils sticking to the corners of her mouth. She stopped in the lobby face to face with her sister, a mirror image of herself.
“You finally came. He’s on his way out,” said the sister.
“What room’s he in?” asked the daughter.
“333,” replied her twin.
She breezed past her sister in a blur of hair and perfume, leaving her twin to shed tears in the lobby alone. She stepped into the empty elevator and pounded the door close button until the steel mouth of the doors shut her in. She rifled through her purse and took out the black and pink box of Camel No. 9’s. She had the cigarette between her crimson lips and the flame of her lighter sparked before she realized she was in a hospital. She replaced the cigarette in line with the others just as she stepped out onto the third floor.
The stench of antiseptic and shit assaulted her and she prayed for the smell of burning tobacco and menthol. She followed the signs and walked down the right corridor towards room 333. She could hear him coughing from down the hall, the hacking choke of him drowning in mucus followed by the gasping wheeze as his chest muscles became exhausted. With a final resolution and the warmest smile she could manage she stepped through the door.
It was worse than she could have imagined. He lay in bed, his top half propped up as his head sagged to the side, blurry eyes fixed on the door. His gown was open enough to reveal the crisscrossing scars, like a treasure map of stitches on his chest. Tubes and wires flowed from his body making him look like a brittle marionette. She stepped towards the bed and put her hand in his spindly fingers, his disease ravaged body too weak to squeeze back. His head lifted immediately, swinging his gaze towards her face.
“I’m here, dad,” she said trying to sound consoling.
She knew that she was there to watch him die. She looked into his eyes for something of the father she used to know. The medication and breathing tubes made this impossible. The only sound in the room was the slight blip from the heart monitor, ticking off the last moments of his life.
“I love you, dad,” she said as a final farewell.
Her father raised himself up from the pillow, leaned towards his daughter. She moved in close enough to hear. With his dying breath he spit in her face. The heart monitor crashed. Doctors and nurses flooded into the room, screaming words and phrases she did not understand. She had always been good at fading into the background and took this opportunity to do so.
They didn’t seem to notice she was in the room as they tried tirelessly to resuscitate him. When it was all over she looked on as the still warm spittle dribbled down her cheek. The doctor noticed her now that he had unplugged the machinery attached to her father’s body.
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing more we could do to save him. It was just his time. Now you need to stay strong, for the rest of your family,” said the doctor as he handed her a tissue. She took it. Let them think it was tears that ran down her face. She walked out of the room and down the hall, lighting a cigarette on the way.
Thursday night the daughter drove to the hospital in the old neighborhood. The gush of wind as she walked through the doors served to both rid her of any contaminates and also to whip her hair about her face, the raspy tendrils sticking to the corners of her mouth. She stopped in the lobby face to face with her sister, a mirror image of herself.
“You finally came. He’s on his way out,” said the sister.
“What room’s he in?” asked the daughter.
“333,” replied her twin.
She breezed past her sister in a blur of hair and perfume, leaving her twin to shed tears in the lobby alone. She stepped into the empty elevator and pounded the door close button until the steel mouth of the doors shut her in. She rifled through her purse and took out the black and pink box of Camel No. 9’s. She had the cigarette between her crimson lips and the flame of her lighter sparked before she realized she was in a hospital. She replaced the cigarette in line with the others just as she stepped out onto the third floor.
The stench of antiseptic and shit assaulted her and she prayed for the smell of burning tobacco and menthol. She followed the signs and walked down the right corridor towards room 333. She could hear him coughing from down the hall, the hacking choke of him drowning in mucus followed by the gasping wheeze as his chest muscles became exhausted. With a final resolution and the warmest smile she could manage she stepped through the door.
It was worse than she could have imagined. He lay in bed, his top half propped up as his head sagged to the side, blurry eyes fixed on the door. His gown was open enough to reveal the crisscrossing scars, like a treasure map of stitches on his chest. Tubes and wires flowed from his body making him look like a brittle marionette. She stepped towards the bed and put her hand in his spindly fingers, his disease ravaged body too weak to squeeze back. His head lifted immediately, swinging his gaze towards her face.
“I’m here, dad,” she said trying to sound consoling.
She knew that she was there to watch him die. She looked into his eyes for something of the father she used to know. The medication and breathing tubes made this impossible. The only sound in the room was the slight blip from the heart monitor, ticking off the last moments of his life.
“I love you, dad,” she said as a final farewell.
Her father raised himself up from the pillow, leaned towards his daughter. She moved in close enough to hear. With his dying breath he spit in her face. The heart monitor crashed. Doctors and nurses flooded into the room, screaming words and phrases she did not understand. She had always been good at fading into the background and took this opportunity to do so.
They didn’t seem to notice she was in the room as they tried tirelessly to resuscitate him. When it was all over she looked on as the still warm spittle dribbled down her cheek. The doctor noticed her now that he had unplugged the machinery attached to her father’s body.
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing more we could do to save him. It was just his time. Now you need to stay strong, for the rest of your family,” said the doctor as he handed her a tissue. She took it. Let them think it was tears that ran down her face. She walked out of the room and down the hall, lighting a cigarette on the way.
One week later
So it's been a week since our last class. I'm surprised no one else has posted yet.
It feels odd to be finished with school for the second time. I already went through graduating and finding a job back in 2003. Now I'm in the position of 'graduating' and already having a job, and it's making me antsy. Nothing has changed. I don't have to job-hunt, I don't have to move.
There isn't much else to say on the subject. I hope others will post too, and that we can continue staying in touch and talking about writing, giving each other feedback, etc.
It feels odd to be finished with school for the second time. I already went through graduating and finding a job back in 2003. Now I'm in the position of 'graduating' and already having a job, and it's making me antsy. Nothing has changed. I don't have to job-hunt, I don't have to move.
There isn't much else to say on the subject. I hope others will post too, and that we can continue staying in touch and talking about writing, giving each other feedback, etc.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Candy Cigarettes
I seem to find myself in the Rite Aid, looking for things that aren't available, pretty often. I've gone in more than once in search of a Charleston CHew-these are amazing, esp. frozen. They only have them, I've come to find out, at CVS. My girlfriend told me (from Florida) that she bought a pack of cigs and was smoking them, and feeling guilty (she quit a while ago). So I was sending her a letter along with some small trinkets and a loaf of bread I baked, and I thought, how perfect it would be to send her a pack of candy cigarettes.
I had a feeling they wouldn't be at Rite Aid, but there I was, cruising up and down aisles. Sometimes I go just to walk around, look at all the fructose-woven gruel I could buy. It always seems to be late at night, and the employees must think I'm pocketing stuff-- coming in, wandering around the empty store for a while, and leaving without making a purchase.
Anyway, I went to CVS, then, in search of the candy cigarettes, already in doubt.
The Newsstand place next to Primanti's? NOpe.
Google informed me that there were a few candy shops in "Pittsburgh" --(the suburbs). I found an article supporting the argument that candy cigarettes invariably encourage children to smoke. Huh? And then I found a site where I could order a "carton" of candy cigarettes for like 16 dollars or something. There was a link--buy by the pack. I clicked it. A pack was 79 cents or so. I went to check out. I had to fill out all my information before they would tell me the shipping charge. The shipping was $7.93. At that point, I gave up. I just wanted some goddamn candy cigarettes.
Instead, I got an empty Camel box, and put an endearing note and a bag of tea in it. I'm sure she'll like it, think it's cute. But I've had to scale down some of my past endeavors, too, and I'm always tempted to tell her "well, I was tryin to..." I guess I'm a bit of a perfectionist, so I find myself weighing the worth of sending a lesser sign of my intentions. I just wanted to send you some goddamn candy cigarettes, baby, but apparently there's a great shortage in the land.
I had a feeling they wouldn't be at Rite Aid, but there I was, cruising up and down aisles. Sometimes I go just to walk around, look at all the fructose-woven gruel I could buy. It always seems to be late at night, and the employees must think I'm pocketing stuff-- coming in, wandering around the empty store for a while, and leaving without making a purchase.
Anyway, I went to CVS, then, in search of the candy cigarettes, already in doubt.
The Newsstand place next to Primanti's? NOpe.
Google informed me that there were a few candy shops in "Pittsburgh" --(the suburbs). I found an article supporting the argument that candy cigarettes invariably encourage children to smoke. Huh? And then I found a site where I could order a "carton" of candy cigarettes for like 16 dollars or something. There was a link--buy by the pack. I clicked it. A pack was 79 cents or so. I went to check out. I had to fill out all my information before they would tell me the shipping charge. The shipping was $7.93. At that point, I gave up. I just wanted some goddamn candy cigarettes.
Instead, I got an empty Camel box, and put an endearing note and a bag of tea in it. I'm sure she'll like it, think it's cute. But I've had to scale down some of my past endeavors, too, and I'm always tempted to tell her "well, I was tryin to..." I guess I'm a bit of a perfectionist, so I find myself weighing the worth of sending a lesser sign of my intentions. I just wanted to send you some goddamn candy cigarettes, baby, but apparently there's a great shortage in the land.
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