Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Pitch #9: Stop and Smell the Meanings

I know I am going out of order with my posted pitches, but as I reviewed my writing folder, I found this exercise and realized I had no memory of writing it. It is from the same class as the last two pitches, but I believe the idea behind this exercise was looking at multiple meanings of a word. (at least I think so?)
If you would like, let me know what you think :)
Written 3/2/2010 for my Engl 285 class.

Butterfly

He called her butterfly. She had begun to wonder exactly what he meant by it. Was it the fact that she was social, attending parties, visiting friends on the weekends, and seldom talking to her parents on the telephone? That was her assumption when she ran into him at the club. They had embraced, exchanged small talk, and he left with that word hanging in the air. Taking it as a compliment, she had smiled and waved, but as she considered it again, she could not remember the look on his face, let alone the intended meaning.
He did constantly criticize her for living her life without direction; drifting from one job to another, from residence to residence. Was it because she drifted like a leaf on the wind? He was always so consistent. The sturdy trunk of an old tree. Metaphorically, he wasn’t going anywhere soon, and she was the one who broke up with him.
She was blonde. Blonde, the buttery hair color that is like the summer bird -the butterfly-, only pretty in the sunlight. Only brave in the sunlight. Brightest in the sunlight. He criticized her for her blondeness too. Blondes are flitty, they never make up their minds, their common sense is questionable…wait, was he describing blondes or women?
Butterflies were considered thieving witches in north-western Europe. His family is English…did he see her as a thieving witch? Their relationship was brief, harsh words were exchanged, and the breakup led to that uncomfortable “elephant in the room” feeling whenever they ran into each other at parties, but that feeling had faded over the years. Those words were nothing they meant to say, and everything they never planned to. She considered the two of them civil, if nothing else.
Maybe she was too frail, inside or out. The butterfly was the spirit of the dead, a soul, a breath. She hoped he was not suggesting she looked dead. She had a pale complexion, but not anything compared to Edward Cullen and his vampire coven. She was healthy looking.
Perhaps it was the inside. He said once that he saw her social behavior as a way to cover up the deadness of her soul, the inner lackluster. Did he believe she was just a breath of her former self? Or on her last breath? Or did he hope she was on her last breath?
She did not understand.
It was just the opposite. It was his way of wishing her a long life, instead of saying he wanted her life to be over. She wasn’t a wisp of herself, but rather a bright soul, flickering in the darkness she surrounded herself with. The butterfly was his way of saying she brightened his day like summer sunshine, but she never stayed long enough to warm him.
He was saying he was a butterfly too, in a different way. He hoped another butterfly would grow between them someday. He was healed and waiting for her to alight and rest.

~Brittanie V.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

A Swing at the Sublime


Written 1/19/2010, here is another Pitch from my ENGL 285 Creative Writing Class. The goal for this one was to venture into the sublime. As this was largely a workshop class, the writers were encouraged to constantly challenge themselves. So, I challenged myself by forcing myself to write poetry. So, here it is. Enjoy.
The picture is from a gallery of photos from Duvall, WA, my hometown.

Pitch #3: A Swing at the Sublime

Down the hill, through the misty valley,
A green latticed cage appears, reflecting headlights,
Standing between the world of movie-theaters, high school, and college busy,
The Ivory Tower that manufactures thinkers, the purchased thoughts wasted with thoughtless drinks,
And then the alternate, waiting world of horse breath, water-hauling, whistle calls, and true-life wisdom,
Past pain of broken bodies and men and hearts inspires fear, stirring and mingling and feeding inexplicable joy and the fierce protection of innocence by the old dog and his herd.
The inapplicable peels off, revealing the soft belly-fur of barn-cat and shepherd-dog.

~ Brittanie V.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Collage Me

Inspired by a friend who recently created his own blog, I am updating mine (an embarrassing long time after I said I would...).
I feel that it is best to put up some stuff I wrote/pondered on during my Writers on Writing class last winter (English 285). It was an experimental class, so many of the writing assignments are unconventional.
I will start with one of my first assignments (called Pitches). It is a progressive piece, so the numbered parts are the 'brainstorming' for the final arranged paragraph at the end.

Pitch 2: Collage Me

1) The older I get, the more I realize how selfish I am. When I was younger, it manifested itself with actions that said. ‘I want that toy’ or ‘I want you to give attention to me, not my sister’, but now that I am older it has transformed into ‘give me your time: I want to claim irreplaceable moments of your life.’

2) Humans are inherently selfish and greedy, particularly when it comes to what they haven’t got. The interesting thing is, few realize it until they have reached “old age”.

3) “I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.” ~Jane Austen

Final (Arbitrary) Arrangement:
Humans are inherently selfish and greedy, particularly when it comes to what they haven’t got. The interesting thing is, few realize it until they have reached “old age”.
The older I get, the more I realize how selfish I am. When I was younger, it manifested itself with actions that said, ‘I want that toy’ or ‘I want you to give attention to me, not my sister’, but now that I am older it has transformed into ‘give me your time: I want to claim irreplaceable moments of your life.’ I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.

~Brittanie V.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Updates, Excuses, and Chocolate Chip Cookies

Well I certainly have not been updating consistently, but I am fairly certain this was the longest dry spell this blog will go through. I have several pieces of writing (mostly poems) that I will be posting here in the upcoming weeks, and I am finally brushing off the writing rust and hopping back into the game (of course this happens after I decide to forsake my English Major dreams and decide to pursue Psychology). Since my December updates, life really got hectic, emotions got hectic, and things kind of turned themselves on their heads for a few months. Taking the time to calm down, heal, and prepare to pursue life wholeheartedly again took time right out of writing and posting here. I guess the easiest way to put it is, I lost sight of my romance with life. It is so easy to be caught up with little things, little demands, little implications and allow them to plant doubt, stress, and a sense of overwhelming clutter. Over the past several months, I still loved, but I forgot to romance. That's the fun part of love, the warm feelings inside, and the richness you feel it brings to your life. I suppose I'm not old enough to be able to handle life yet without a sense of fun somewhere in there.
In any case, I am now ready to go, and give this blog some much needed attention :)
~Brittanie V.

Thursday, December 31, 2009

Mildred Pierce and The ‘Good Woman’

Alright, a little note before you read. This is a research paper I write for my History of the American Film Class (HSTAA 365) during fall quarter. Quite different from my usual creative writing updates, but with my busy schedule, and two writing intensive courses, most of my writing time has been spent on school papers. So, here is what I have been up to. It was my best paper for the class. If you would like me to send you the document with all of the footnotes and sources, just let me know.

Mildred Pierce and The ‘Good Woman’

In the 1940’s, film noir was used to communicate a growing pessimism, paranoia, selfishness, and duplicity#. These emotions were spurred largely by the return of World War II veterans, who experienced the confusion and redefinition of gender roles within culture as a result of women’s presence in the work force. When women refused to give up their jobs when the men returned, society saw them as bad women, bad wives, and bad mothers. This attitude is especially emphasized in the 1945 film, Mildred Pierce, where each woman’s ambitions prevent her from achieving happiness or the American ideal of the family unit, and exposes the underlying fear men had in reaction to women’s newfound ambition.
At the time the United States entered the second World War, the “good woman” was also the good wife and the good mother. The “good woman’s” place was in the kitchen and around the home. Her duty was to her husband and to her children. As the war began and the men were sent overseas, the role of “good women” expanded to incorporate ‘good patriot’ as well. Women entered the work force to support their country, their men overseas, and their children. When the men returned, the “good woman” was expected to leave her job and return to the home. “From a humanitarian point of view, too many women should not stay in the labour force,” said Frederick C. Crawford, of the National Association of Manufacturers, “The home is the Basic American Unit.”# From Crawford’s point of view, America as a whole would benefit with the woman leaving the labor force at the end of the war, because the man could resume his role as the ‘worker’ and the woman could resume her role as housewife.
With the 1940’s definition of the “good woman”, Mildred Pierce stands as an example of several women who do not fit the term “good woman”. It can be argued, in fact, that there are no good women in the film, but only an expectation, an ideal, or a deserted role. “Noir thrillers are concerned to some degree with the problems represented by women who seek satisfaction and self-definition outside the traditional contexts of marriage and family.”# This problem is clearly present in the life of each woman in Mildred Pierce. There is Ida, a working woman who comes alongside Mildred, and mentors her as she enters the work force. She has been a bold business woman for so long, she appears to have lost her femininity. “When men talk to me, they talk to me like a brother,” she says in a conversation with Mildred, “to them I’m just one of the guys.”# The tone with which she says those words suggests that she wishes it were otherwise, but Ida is portrayed as being ‘too far gone’ to salvage her femininity.
While opposite to Ida’s masculinity, Veda’s obsession with her femininity and severe hatred for any ‘duty’ makes Veda just as much a “bad woman” as Ida, if not more so. Veda detested her mother for starting out as a housewife, and detests her even more when Mildred becomes a working woman. Veda seeks to be a part of high society so she can avoid the basic tasks categorized as “women’s work”. In her search for high society wealth (though her mother’s business provided plenty of wealth on its own), Veda becomes a dark, heartless gold-digger, contrasting the lighthearted gold-diggers of the 1930’s. Where the 1930’s gold-digger sought out wealthy men to provide and to love them, Veda, the noir gold-digger, acts as the ‘femme fatale’ of Mildred Pierce. “There is an emphatic strain of male sexual paranoia that runs through the 1940’s ’tough’ thrillers: the idea that women can be gently converted from self-seeking ambitions to other-directed love is framed as a fantasy that is less easily realizable than in the 1930’s.”# She feigns love for, marries, and blackmails Theodore Forester, a wealthy young man from a high society name. She claims to carry his child so he would feel morally obligated to give her the ten thousand dollars she demanded when she divorced him. She then pursues Monte Beragon, another high society name. Though he depends on Mildred to support his high society lifestyle, Monte exposes Veda to the life she wants. She uses her sexuality to lure Monte away from his wife (Mildred), and believes (incorrectly) that he would marry her and she could have the life she wanted. When Monte refuses to marry her, Veda shoots him, ending her perceived chance of happiness and family, and ultimately landing her in prison.
The only woman who is suggested to return to being a “good woman” is Mildred Pierce herself. She is discontented with her role as “good woman” during her marriage to Bert Pierce, saying “I felt like I was born in a kitchen”#, but she appears to fulfill her role as good mother by doting on her children, and as good wife by preparing meals for her husband. She converts to “bad woman” by first divorcing her husband, removing man from the family unit. She next enters the work force, essentially replacing the man by taking the role of ‘provider’ and ‘breadwinner’, instead of doing what a “good woman” was expected to do when faced with a divorce: find another husband. She is revealed to have been a “bad mother” all along, as Veda grows up spoiled and manipulative due to Mildred constantly indulging her. Mildred does not simply join the workforce, but goes so far as to start a successful business of her own, another masculine maneuver. “She has two wishes - to be a successful business-woman…and to have an exclusive relationship with her daughter; Veda. Each wish is based around the exclusion of men.”# Ultimately, Mildred fails in both. Her business flags and is torn out from under her because of Monte (a man she marries in hopes of winning Veda’s affection), and she never attains the relationship she seeks with Veda.
With all of Mildred’s masculine elements stripped away by Monte and Veda, she is free to ‘retry’ her role as a “good woman”, as suggested by the last scene. She reunites with Bert Pierce, and appears to be returning to the life she had been living at the start of her story.
The final shots of the film highlight her return to convention…Mildred walks past the building’s cleaning women, who are on their knees scrubbing the floor. This emphatic image of servile ‘woman’s work’ represents the negation both of Mildred’s defiant dream and of the expanded horizons which the war had seemed to offer women.#
With the final image of the “servile ‘woman’s work’” in Mildred Pierce, the film shows the woman’s role as almost slave-like, and Mildred’s story as a warning for ambitious women everywhere. Women with work ambitions like Mildred Pierce and Ida, or hatred of the woman’s role as servant, like vicious Veda, are, in the words of Krutnik, “Represent[ing] conflicting currents within male identity.”# Men felt that their identity was questioned when they returned from the violence of war to find their women, not in the kitchens as expected, but in the work place (an established ‘man’s place’) and reluctant to return to their previous role as ‘housewife’.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Albert Beirstadt’s Puget Sound on the Pacific Coast


Written for Fictionalizing Autobiography
September 17th, 2009

Salt water filled his mouth as he was pummeled by the waves. Just when he surfaced, choking and sputtering, a new wave would come and dunk him once again. He somersaulted, thrown about by the currents. Up became down, down was sideways. Every time he thought he had righted himself, he would surface unexpectedly, or brush the ocean floor with his elbow. His friends called from their dinghy, trying to get to him while also navigating the waves. They reached out for him and missed. “Idiots!” yelled the navigator, “grab him!”
Three men reached out a second time, missed, then reached again, finally grabbing him by the arm and yanking him up the side of the boat. Just as he plopped on the bottom, the hard planks pressing into his shoulders, the men around him let out a shout and braced themselves. “Here comes a big one!” The navigator yelled, his deep voice drowning out the crashing waves. Just as the words left his mouth, a large wave swept over the boat, soaking the men and nearly dragging a second victim into the water.
Water sloshed in the bottom of the boat, soaking the passengers’ feet even as waves sprayed them from above. The rescued man coughed, trying to sit up and regain his bearings as the boat jerked. He yelled with the other men as the waves jostled them. The boat bucked and shuddered, throwing him against the side of the boat and nearly sending him overboard once more. The navigator watched his crew with a sharp eye, prepared to perform a second rescue should another man fall prey to the waves.
“C’mon men! All together!” He yelled. He balanced himself and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Almost to shore!”
The men heaved together, planting their oars in unison in an attempt to hoist themselves over the last barrier of waves and onto the shore. They paused, braced themselves for another wave, then regained their positions and planted their oars once more. They heaved as the waves crested, the hull of the boat bursting through the top of the wave and riding it down to the wet sand. The men let out shouts of relief and victory, waving their oars in the air as they climbed out, onto the wet ground of the Washington coast.
Two boatloads of men stood on shore already, unaware of the drama that had taken place on the water. They hoisted their boats up against the wall of stones a safe distance from the tides. From where they stood, the storm had passed. They were in the eye of the storm, with brilliant blue skies and bright rays of sunshine pouring down on them.
The men from the third boat joined them, hoisting up their boat and putting it safely against the wall of stones with the others. As they did so the first few drops fell from the sky, signaling the approaching storm sweeping off of the mainland.
“Is there cover nearby?” One man asked, looking up at the dark clouds above them.
“There’s a shelter on the hill,” said the navigator with a wave of his hand. “Take the supplies up.”
As several men hurried to do his bidding, the navigator stood on the shore, the wet sand hard beneath his booted feet. He propped his fists on his hips, surveying the choppy ocean. It had shown itself a worthy opponent, nearly claiming two of his men. A strong northern wind threw itself against him. He felt somewhat victorious, leading his men safely through the waves, but had an even stronger sense of insignificance. Instead of feeling in control of the ocean, oddly enough, he felt humbled and exposed. The small window of sunshine on the narrow strip of shoreline revealed high, snowcapped mountains. The forest hedging the shoreline was dark, rich with the scent of pine, rotting leaves, and storm water. The navigator breathed deeply, the scent of the forest mingling with the scent of the ocean. The familiar clashed with the unfamiliar, but neither scent communicated comfort. One obstacle fed directly into another. Just as one wave announced the arrival of a second, and a third, so the challenges of the ocean fed into the challenges of the mainland.
He turned away from the ocean slowly, reluctantly. He followed his men across the wet sand and up the muddy little trail, hoisting up a crate of supplies as the sparse warning drops thickened and it began to pour.



~Brittanie V.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Imaginary Cities

Written for Fictionalizing Autobiography
September 8th, 2009

From the perspective of the mountain, the port looked like a dark, squished jellyfish stranded on the beach. Long, wavering docks and boardwalks dangled over the water like tentacles while the top domed out toward the foothills.
A deteriorating stone wall from the late eighteenth century clearly defined the current city limits, as few structures dared to venture outside of the wall. There was one rupture located near the valley where several new buildings had popped up, but it appeared from the mountain to be more like a wound than progress.
The majority of the buildings within the walls looked bloated from constant add-ons. Many of them spilled into the streets, frustrating any attempt city engineers may have made for a simple grid structure. For some peculiar reason few buildings had more than a second story, but a survey of the surrounding landscape explained why.
There were very few trees in the valley. It was narrow, so the winds often picked up, making life for most saplings too hard to bear. The few who dared were gnarled and hunched over, like ancient men and women frozen in time. There were taller trees on the mountain, but a sheer rock face made them unattainable. Up high they stood, the port city’s ideals, a wooden acropolis of the gods.
The wealth that was required to import wood from a neighboring town had left the city long ago. All of the people knew it, and every visitor could sense it. The wind whispered it, taunting the people of the port as they made their clay bricks and poured cement for their crooked streets.
There was once a large river that irrigated the valley. It emptied into a large estuary just outside of the city limits, and steam boats and cargo ferries would haul trade and wealth through the valley to locations all over the country. At the time, the port city thrived. Government considered knocking down parts of the old wall so they could expand into the foothills, while they built more boardwalks and strengthened their docking system so larger vessels could bring in cargo.
The scar of the river could still be seen through the valley, but it was now reduced to a seasonal trickle. A large dam had been built some years ago upriver, and at the time the death of the river was unforeseen. The port city clung onto their steamboats with the possessiveness of a toddler, denying the death of their trade and squandering the city money on pointless civic projects. The only success visible was the half-finished railroad project that crawled up the valley. At the birth of that particular brainchild, the money, like the river, was almost entirely dried up. So the city crawled on its hands and knees, oozing out of the ruptured wall, up the narrow valley, in hopes of rekindling trade and transport. The railroad led the way just barely, the longest finger of the city’s desperate hand.

~Brittanie V.