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. 

Liar Liar pants on Fire

To lie- “to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive; to create a false or misleading impression.” As stated by the Merriam Webster’s dictionary, this is how lying is perceived by many. I agree with this definition, however with scattered additions. A lie’s meaning can differ depending on the intent being placed into the mistruth being told. When spoken merely out of the best interest of one’s peers, I feel as though what some call a “white lie” does not fall under the category of a mental crime. However when one deliberately chooses to violate the truth and blatantly make a statement disregarding honesty completely, a situation of this stature is what truly goes against all human values. As prone to it as I may pretend to be, giving in to lies and allowing myself to believe out of downright fear is what I find myself doing quite frequently. Whether it is as simple as convincing myself that the shaky result received on a pop quiz will in no way affect my final grade, or on a more vital level of promising myself that no matter how steep of a decline my grandfather’s health is racing down he will be okay, my mindset revolves around constant positivity, factual or faux. Confrontation is my weakest asset, meaning that speaking to please is what my first reaction continually is. When faced with situations ranging from having a thrilled friend approaches me raving about her new jeans that I find not as flattering as they may appear to her, to assuring my parents that I had no visitors over while babysitting, explanations intended to delight are what invade my brain initially. This has been my largest flaw for longer than I can ponder on, and continues to hold the honor of the biggest obstacle I attempt daily at overcoming. As I stated earlier, I feel as though lies are defined through the purpose in which they are told, yet I’ve found that the confrontation issue I struggle with succeeds in revolving around positivity, however untrue my responses may be. Unlike a blatant lie, my intent to please is wholesomely out of fear of causing disappointment, never to inflict mental pain on others. However, a lie is a lie, and whether it is genuinely helping one or ravishingly damaging another, a half truth is indeed a whole lie. 

Investigate- The Aztecs Method of Human Sacrifice

While researching the Aztecs and their ways of life, an area of study that jumped from the page was the section regarding human sacrifice. Not only did this method of spiritual duties carry great importance, but the story behind it is what truly makes it significant. According to the Aztecs, the sun was central to all of life, fighting constantly for human survival. Throughout these battles, it tended to lose energy and was frequently in conflict with approaching eternal darkness. In order to replenish its energy and in turn postpone the result of endless darkness, the only antidote was the gift of life, along with human blood. Due to the fact that the Gods had distributed their blood in order to create humankind, the proper and respectful thing to do was for the Aztec people to volunteer themselves as sacrifice. This led to a significant discovery, causing the Aztecs to take away from the ritual improved techniques. They then adopted the warfare mannerism that instead of killing the enemy, they must capture the prisoner. 

After reading about this process the Aztec so adimately valued, I did further research on the topic. According to Wikipedia.com, this method of repayment to the Sun was extremely controversial, and was not supported by all. It informed me that human sacrifice was the highest level of "panoply" of offerings the Aztecs chose to present to the gods. The sacrifice of animals occurred on a much more regular basis, which pleased many in terms of presenting a humane way of making ammends. As a slight diversion of human sacrifice, many would offer smaller amounts of their blood along with parts of their body. This included ears, tons, lips, calves, etc., and was considered "a private and a personal act of penitence to the gods."  

With both sets of information planted in my brain, I now have an improved outlook on the topic. My understanding of the matter was solid yet slightly vague based off of the information taken straight from the book, however once researching it further I now feel as though I have a more well rounded comprehension. Hearing about the case from two separate sources makes a significant difference, and I found the topic extremely interesting. I look forward to completing deeper research on the topic. 

Separate source used: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_sacrifice_in_Aztec_culture

Menlo/Cat's Cradle collaboration

Life at Menlo through the eyes of Jonah would be a perception not viewed by many. The quirks and idiosyncrasies not commonly highlighted would be of primary importance, and the sequence of events would be categorized by complete randomization. Instead of switching from class to class, a transition from English to Modern World History would be referred to as a change of worlds. The extreme variations between environments would be of vital significance, and there may even be a possible alter-ego skipping from subject to subject as well. If the Menlo Knights community revolved around a core of mere lies, the personalities, attitudes, and mannerisms would vary indisputably. With the roots of an environment consisting of fibs, the result cannot help but grow into a fraud. If everything, everyone, and everywhere were already a lie, why not continue the popular trend? Staying true to oneself would seem to be completely uncanny, resulting in a land made of building blocks, stacking lie upon lie. In the voice of Jonah, the peculiarities of Menlo School would be our only hope in saving the world from eternal doom. If the lies, stereotypes and dishonesty continued, everyone, including their altar egos, would vanish.