Alexandra's BLOG

1) What began as merely a reflection upon a memory evolved into a multiple page essay. I was able to withdraw conceptual ideas from an event I thought of as just a past event, such as traits discovered from the occurance. I would categorize it more as a reflective paper, discovering facts that were unknown to me prior to the deep thought put into the assignment, and would disregard the title "essay" altogether. 

2) Drawing concrete ideas from my memory was a challenge for me, and I found that although I am able to write endless strings of conceptual ideas, it is crucial that I connect concrete and conceptual thoughts. It makes my writing stronger as a whole and is something I must remember to do as I progress as a writer. 

3) lf I were able to go back and make changes and/or additions to my paper, I would take the chance to make certain that I had completely drained myself of all knowledge, descriptiveness and wisdom into my work. Sometimes when taking a second look onto a piece that one has written, one perceives the writing in a completely different stature then taken when writing it. Once the process of writing the paper has long been rid of and one's work is seen just another completed essay, looking back on the final product is quite refreshing. After what seemed like endless hours of editing, double checking, and infinite thesaurus checks, it is rewarding to see that one's hard work has paid off in the end. Making changes is not something I would necessarily do, yet instead playing the role as my personal critique is a character I seek interest in playing. 

4) Reflecting back on a childhood memory, one that I see a framed picture from on the daily, filled me with such joy. Not only was it an event that never seises in bringing a grin to my face, yet diving deeper into the distinct details is something I've never done. Whenever reminiscing upon an event that took place, it is most commonly just a daydream in my free time or something brought up when reflecting with a friend or family member. However, really peeling apart my memory, strip by strip, gave myself a completely new perception of past events. It causes me feel deeper appreciation for experiences once enjoyed, allowing me to now bask in the happiness they once brought me. 

Conceptual Questions and points

1) Why was this dance recital so important to me?

-very first performance

-amount of preparation/practice/rehearsals put into producing final production seemed to be of vital importance at the time

-hadn't had such a large time commitment before

-huge audience; first real performance

-ballet was something I care(d) very much about, wanted to portray my passion to audience watching me

2) Why ballet?

-passion of mine from the age of three

- a hobby I was raised with

-seemed only normal to be an interest of mine

-adored every aspect of the art

-the exhilarating feeling it provided me with at such a young age was something causing my internal drive to continue and excel

3) Why was impressing teacher/working hard so important?

-motivation was crucial, both from peers and myself

-teachers view of me was constantly something i took into consideration, striving for her opinion of my dancing to be nothing but complimentary

Memory

Alexandra Douglass

 

It was my first ballet recital. It took place at the Stapleton Center in Kentfield, centered at the location of one of my favorite childhood places in the world. Surrounded by electric green grass almost always wearing a shrug of fresh dew and protected by an army of vast Redwood trees, it never failed in filling my body with the refreshed, serene feeling it embedded on myself. Walking up the steps in my periwinkle leotard and baby blue tutu, my freshly moistened ballet slippers caused me to slip as I approached backstage. Entering the traffic zone of behind the scenes and frantically attempting to put on my mother’s bright red lipstick without smearing it onto my pink tights provided me with a rush of excitement through the thick haze of chaos. Sitting on the side of the stage waiting to perform, I looked up and took note of the massive audience, consisting of almost every family member of mine. The ear-to-ear grins on each of their faces combined enough glee to make the whole world go round. Acting as contagious as the flu, I found I had to pinch my ballet slipper-covered toes in order to keep from smiling so profusely. Sitting between Julia Harrison and Kemmer Ericks, one would’ve thought there were ants in our leotards due to how we were unable to sit still. The longer the wait the more torturous it grew, becoming almost unbearable. Beethoven’s Symphony Number 5 seemed to have been chiming since last Christmas, entering slowly into one ear and being flossed agonizingly out the other. I felt as miniscule beads of sweat caused my cherry pink blush to scuttle down my neck. The piano chords, violin harmonies and percussion pounds came to a halt, and as the stage went dark, the only sound to be heard was the pitter patter of the older ballerina’s toe shoes as they pranced off stage. It was now, finally, my turn to perform. Swiftly rising and adjoining with my class to enter the stage, my mind went blank. Reaching my spot in the front left corner, my heart began racing faster than the performers pirouettes. In a split second, the blinding white light boomed and Mozart’s Sonata commenced. Demi pliet, releve; grande pliet, releve; the routine practiced, rehersed, and drilled to memorization was finally being taken to the stage, put to work. The next two minutes and 13 seconds seemed to frolic by in the manner of a dream. The audience vanished, and the only things felt were touches my slippers made when touching the floor and the affect the music had on me. The way it caused me to sway and float, allowing all of my gawkiness to be rid of. My classmates seemed to have disintegrated into the stage, leaving me alone to perform the piece I had practiced in my room countless times while supposedly sound asleep. After what seemed like an eternity, the music slowly wrapped up, and the last note was played. As I stood there, with arms in second position and ready to curtsy, the racing sensation in my heart rekindled. The crowd reappeared, and I was once again faced with the plentiful faces looking down on me. As I made my bow and joined hands with my fellow dancers, the smile plastered on my face seemed to be permanent. The glimpse of Miss Tessa’s beaming face enlightened to me that I had done it; the fear pestering me for the last two weeks had been overcome, the obstacle standing as the constant roadblock had been overridden; I was a officially a ballerina.

 

 

Extra Credit

1) I read the collaboration story based on a civilization believing only on lies. The context was intriguing, however the amount of grammatical errors caused me to lose interest quickly. Lines such as "We are hiding in the cafeteria, with a glance of my eye I caught glimpse of the Enemy," and beginning a sentence with "Serving one purpose; to annihilate all and any trace of truth," downplayed the stature of the writing tremendously. The sentence "There are only so few of with the same mentality that we must resort to the worst of company to find those with similar views," had an intended meaning, the attempt was feeble and resulted in a vague and messy sentence. 

2) As we hid in the cafeteria, a black swoosh shot through my side vision; the Enemy had been spotted. Instead of just abruptly beginning the sentence with "Serving one purpose...," I would instead write, "The Enemy good for one deed and one only; annihilating all and any trace of the truth." Also, I found the last sentence to be awful. "As my last breath slowly escaped my lips, so did my very last thought: a strange image of Tyler, dancing the can-can whilst being chased down by a rogue ice cream truck." The theme throughout the story is mysterious, dark, and gives off the impression that the narrator is constantly running from something. Including a sentence like the last one once again downplayed the literature, causing the reader not to take the writing as seriously as it should be taken. 

3) I agree with the moral. If I could re-write it, mine would look something like this. 

The people of the Thratt cult see their "world" through the eyes on their peers, not able to create a personal outlook. Under the constant rule of anyone but themselves, they live a life staying strictly in the lane of the norm. This reflects, in some ways, of the dominance modern teachers have on their students. What they say, we believe, wit the occasional questions asked. The wisdom our professors provide us with is not necessarily lies however, unlike what the Regime is embedding in the brain of their students, and instead their intention is nothing but positive. However, it is crucial to have a say in all aspects of your life, no matter how taboo some situations may seem. Whether it is defending your argument in class or discussing your unexpected grade with a teacher, it is vital to stay true to oneself.  

Questions for Tobias Wolff

1) We were informed of what triggered your desire to become a writer, however what pushed you to stay with the profession? Have you ever grown tired of your job and/or felt too much pressure to write extraordinary literature as a job, not just a hobby? 

2) Were any of the stories written about yourself? If not, did you thread various similarities of yourself and your mannerisms into any of the stories? 

3) Your writing conveys such unique detail and has this continual affect of luring one in; how is it that you can write like this? What are your inspirations? 

4) Are you able to sit down and simply start writing, or are your pieces of work pre-meditated and well thought out prior to putting pen to paper? 

Paragraph 1:

Wherever I looked the surface was smooth, undisturbed, and after a time I lost interest. The floods of clothing were brought in, rack after rack, invading the room like a small army. One by one the clothing was removed from its hanger, in turn being draped over a mannequin or squeezed onto a model. Editors, photographers, designers, assistants filed in, immediately observing and critiquing what stood before their eyes. Fabrics were sliced, skirts were hemmed, hats were thrust off joining the growing pile of the unfits. This process went on at the speed of Vogue being sold out, and the room was emptied in what seemed to be the blink of an eye. Finished with one fitting and off to the next; if only there was a runway leading to an escape from this hell.

Paragraph 2:

Wherever I looked the surface was smooth, undisturbed, and after a time I lost interest. The criss-crossed pattern of the coarse wool consisting of shades ranging of every tint of purple; deep mahogany wound with delicate shades of plum. A pencil skirt made to fit only a hipless wonder, designed to hang lightly just below a miniscule waist and fall slightly above the knees. The deep coffee stitching stood profound and bold, doing its job of bounding not only the pieces of fabric but also uniting the lure of the skirt. The silk, pale violet lining hugged the owner, allowing each step to be made with fluid poise and dignity. At the hip stood three gold buttons, however not a harsh gold like that of a Buddha doll but instead projecting a luscious golden aura, holding an appearance causing all viewers to melt with envy. These buttons were placed three in a row, fastened with thread resembling a deep red wine. Standing bold and daring, the buttons what caused this piece to be voted a “must-have,” “skirt of the year,” and spotted on celebrities of all ages. All thanks to me, who dug this, once piece of futile cloth thrown aside at one of the millions of fittings, from the depths of the hallows; inviting it back to the atmosphere of success. Pairing the number with embroidered chocolate tights, elegant yet classy deep mauve pumps, a soothing cocoa skin hugging turtle neck along with a simple clutch blanketed in auburn, golden and ginger jewels, my task had been completed once again. I had subconsciously pieced together an outfit; thought of personally as just another ensemble, but to the rest of the world, fashion magazine cover worthy. And yet this went with no recognition, no appreciation, no gratitude shown whatsoever. If only one could change identities as rapidly one does clothing…

Attack of the Accessories

Pg. 23, Our Story Begins by Tobias Wolff

Wherever I looked the surface was smooth, undisturbed, and after a time I lost interest. This feeling was one that followed me rather closely, acting almost as a constant shadow, trailing stalkerishly. Cotton dresses, cashmere pencil skirts, silk blouses with satin and gold embroidered buttons; the endless trail of items waiting to be judged, to be accepted, to be worn. The high waisted toile skirt sent by Oscar de la Renta and the silk exotically decorated scarf Coach offered were objects seen as novelties to some, and yet my once mystical vision of fashion has been slightly altered. Since I strutted out of my mother’s wombs thirty-three years ago, fashion has been my life, my passion, my obsession. Playing baseball after school or collecting trading cards never sparked my interest, and instead my appeal wafted in the direction of staying up until the break of dawn reading the latest edition of Vogue under the sheets. Taking notes and creating a massive “inspiration” scrapbook of pieces, accessories, and styles that immensely drew my attention was what took up majority of my time, other than designing the school’s marching band uniforms and attempting avidly to spice up my dull khaki pants, white polo, and sapphire blue sweater vest which made up my school uniform. Almost three centuries later, 278 pairs of shoes later, 1,893 fashion magazines later, 247 bottles of Ralph Lauren’s Polo cologne later, I stand as the Chief Fashion Editor of Vogue magazine. A job once viewed as an heir to a throne, holding the physique of mere royalty, was now a duty, a chore, an obligation. With every stiletto critiqued and each cork wedged pump assessed, the compulsion I was bound to ate away at me uncontrollably. If I am approached by one more snobby stick thin model complaining about her size double 0 waist, one more in-your-face photographer insisting on including me in the shot to include diversity, one more obnoxious designer desperately in need of an “absolutely fabulous” tote and heel combo for the magazine cover…I may consider burning a Vogue.