tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007/605 2007-12-10T22:53:32Z Movable Type Enterprise 1.02 tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5910 2007-12-10T22:43:47Z 2007-12-10T22:53:32Z

Can it really be that time already? What can I say? It's been . . ....

Jennifer A Trautwig Can it really be that time already? What can I say? It's been . . . fun. No, not quite. . . well, okay kind of (if I'm honest with myself). I have enjoyed and hated blogging. There were times where I was incapable of writing a single unique thought but had to force myself to do it because a blog was due. That was cruddy. There was the time I fell way behind and felt like I'd never catch up. That was even worse. Then there were the times that I discovered something new about myself, some inner quality or strength that I didn't know I had, or someone said something inspirational and encouraging. Those were the times I loved blogging. To be honest, most times I felt like there was not enough time in the day to throw in a blog as well . . . but I did it and, although I may not want to hear the word blog for at least a month, I think I am the better for it. I think I understand others more and feel connected on a deeper level than would have been possible without the blogs. I think I understand myself more and am more able to tap into my consciousness. Blogging was essential to this course (I may have hated it at times, but it was important). Maybe it didn't have to be so rigorous at times. . . but it definately had to be there. I'm glad I had the experience of sharing my thoughts with my classmates and gaining insight into their's. It was invaluable. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5909 2007-12-07T15:32:11Z 2007-12-10T22:40:29Z

Well . . . it's coming. Kind of. Not really, but almost. I've had some movement especially in the realm of clarifying--okay, at least I think I have. I have some additional ideas that I was thinking of tying in,...

Jennifer A Trautwig Well . . . it's coming. Kind of. Not really, but almost. I've had some movement especially in the realm of clarifying--okay, at least I think I have. I have some additional ideas that I was thinking of tying in, but really don't know if it is worth it, or if it will just cause more confusion and change things up too much. I guess I am kind of at a plateau. I've made some structural changes, etc. but I really don't know how much more to add, take away, switch up, etc. I feel like it is fairly complete as is. . . but then I start to wonder if it should be longer or if it should be more in depth. Then I start wondering where I'm going to find the time to write it longer or the creativity to dig a little deeper. I don't know, I guess I am really looking forward to workshopping it once again in hopes that it won't be ripped to shreds, but instead will be praised and encouraged . . . and that someone can give me some advice on how best to move forward . . . tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5908 2007-12-06T23:22:53Z 2007-12-10T22:32:04Z

was depressing. Not only due to the subject matter but also to the fact that I feel like there is so much to get done, not enough time, and so I force a quick read and end up feeling left...

Jennifer A Trautwig was depressing. Not only due to the subject matter but also to the fact that I feel like there is so much to get done, not enough time, and so I force a quick read and end up feeling left on the short end of the stick. (I know, all I do is complain about my lack of time these days . . .sorry) Anyway, I did enjoy the book as much as is possible right now. I do wish I had more time to truly enjoy it and I plan on revisiting it over Christmas break . . or maybe next summer, just to be able to really enjoy it. The thing that kept grabbing my attention as I read was the whole idea of morality and how these people are created just to be used as spare parts. I started wondering what kind of society would allow for such a process and then I realized it's not that far of a stretch. Every day there are medical advances and technological leaps. Who's to say it can't happen here? It just takes a small degree of complacency on the part of the public for such a situation to insidiously gain footing. It's a scary world we live in, one can't help but wonder how much scarier it's possible for it to get. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5907 2007-11-27T22:16:43Z 2007-12-10T22:22:36Z

are kind of at a standstill. . . Life is way too crazy busy for me right now and I feel like I am mentally exhausted. I sit down and begin contemplating my story only to end up feeling like...

Jennifer A Trautwig are kind of at a standstill. . . Life is way too crazy busy for me right now and I feel like I am mentally exhausted. I sit down and begin contemplating my story only to end up feeling like I am trying to force the issue. Needless to say, that's not helping. I have begun trying to create greater clarity and switching up some sentence structure. Too much though at times and I end up feeling like I am not remaining true to the writer I am. I think my style tends to be more wordy with clauses and every time I try to simplify, I end up feeling like I'm dumbing a sentence down or something. . . I don't know. I'm not sure my creativity is flowing very well right now and there just doesn't seem to be the time to let it come naturally. . . :( tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5906 2007-11-27T21:54:59Z 2007-12-10T22:14:30Z

To be perfectly honest, I've never been particularly crazy about Keats . . . its funny how one's tastes change....

Jennifer A Trautwig To be perfectly honest, I've never been particularly crazy about Keats . . . its funny how one's tastes change. I'm not saying that I love Keats now . . . but I definately have a greater appreciation for him. The last time I looked at a Keats' poem was probably in high school and I didn't get it or care to try getting it. Looking at it now, perhaps because of this class, I get it. I get that he is experimenting with levels of intentionality and I actually appreciate it and enjoy it. I like the idea of considering the poem as a reader and enjoying the words but then going a step further and considering the figurines themselves. The idea that they are existing on the urn, frozen in the moment is a compelling one. Their existence is perfect except they don't really exist. The poem allows for greater creativity as it beckons the reader to step inside the urn, into a totally different experience. If I had the time, I think I could spend the day just contemplating the histories of the various figures. . . tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5479 2007-11-20T20:50:02Z 2007-11-21T21:18:28Z

Simply put . . . I am sticking with my short story Over the Rainbow I haven't been able to put much thought into it. Well, that's not quite right. I like to say I'm stewing. It's all happening beneath...

Jennifer A Trautwig Over the Rainbow I haven't been able to put much thought into it. Well, that's not quite right. I like to say I'm stewing. It's all happening beneath the surface. I am taking into account all of the suggestions and comments made by the class--working on those that I thought had merit and will continue to consider some of the others . . . I feel like some might change my core story a bit too much though . . . Motivating question. . . hmmm. . . I guess I am most interested in the whole concept of reality . . . what is it? Can we create our own reality? Who's to say that one persons alternate reality is really insanity . . . perhaps some people are better off left to their created reality . . . The whole issue of color/monochrome is very important to my story but I'm not sure I want that to be the main focus. I mean, clearly, it is a huge part of my story but I'd like my story to mean so much more than that. In the end I think I'd like the focus to be not on this fear but rather on the morality of curing the insane (if that makes any sense). After all, who is to say which reality is best for someone trapped between two worlds . . . I guess we'll see where it goes. . . ]]> tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5576 2007-11-13T23:49:16Z 2007-11-26T23:52:12Z

It looks like I may be getting a leave replacement position. I’ve been subbing in a high school for the last week and it looks like the teacher will not be back this year. What a spectacular opportunity for me...

Jennifer A Trautwig It looks like I may be getting a leave replacement position. I’ve been subbing in a high school for the last week and it looks like the teacher will not be back this year. What a spectacular opportunity for me . . . I love it. But I’m beginning to wonder about the psyche of the average high school senior—Do they really hate absolutely everything? I swear . . . I do something good, they complain. I do something bad, they complain. There is truly no way of pleasing them . . . so I begin to wonder: Do I just give up trying? I know the logical answer is no . . . but . . . For my own sanity do I stop trying to reach every kid? Do I stop trying to involve them in conversation? I walk around feeling like they surely hate me . . . only to hear from other teachers “Oh, I hear things are going great!” Um . . . they are? Oh, thank goodness! I think part of the problem is that I still feel like a bit of an imposter . . . like I’m not really an English teacher. It’s kind of like becoming an adult and not feeling comfortable in your own skin. I keep wondering when my “Teacher clothes” will feel like old, comfy sweats. Fearing that I will one day realize that they may never be comfy . . . what then? tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5305 2007-11-12T00:31:49Z 2007-11-12T00:47:44Z

was interesting. I'd like to have something more impressive to say there. . . but somehow interesting is the best I can come up with . . ....

Jennifer A Trautwig was interesting. I'd like to have something more impressive to say there. . . but somehow interesting is the best I can come up with . . . there. That he existed . . . survived . . . endured. Maybe then his story would seem real . . . his pain would be real . . . he would be real. I feel for him. I really do. I just wish I felt more. Damn expectations. . . ]]> tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5286 2007-11-11T18:47:15Z 2007-11-11T19:05:10Z

Here is my new and improved review--...

Jennifer A Trautwig Here is my new and improved review-- A Memory Artist: An Artist Paints His Childhood Home From Memory highlights an artist who seems to have accomplished just that. Franco Magnani is a self-taught artist whose subject matter is drawn from the depths of his memory. Through the meticulous arrangement of his paintings juxtaposed with photographs of the nearly exact composition, but decades later, A Memory Artist attempts to explore the issue of reliability on the part of the human memory by effectively demonstrating its strengths and weaknesses. The online exhibit is broken down into seven easily navigable sections: Introduction, Memories of Home, Crossroads, Constructing Memories, Time and Memory, Pontito Today and About the Artist, as well as two links to commentary and memory terms of significance. By navigating the links in the path outlined, the average art enthusiast experiences a wonderful presentation of the artist’s passionate subject: a quaint village named Pontito, in remote northwestern Italy. The attention to detail as seen through the careful rendition of each cobblestone, coupled with the vivid color and awareness of the interplay between light and shadow, combine to create images of pristine beauty with an almost religious aura. Working ones way through the website, the observer begins to develop a basic understanding of and appreciation for the power of human memory. Careful consideration and comparison of Magnani’s paintings with the juxtaposed photograph from 1987 reveals that although there are slight distortions in all of his paintings, perhaps due to the natural decay of memory traces, there are three categories into which his paintings fall: images of memories that he portrayed with near perfection, such as the painting of the church which contains the exact number of steps leading up to the door; images that represent a compilation of several different views or moments that are blended together to form a single, cohesive experience, such as the painting depicting the path he would walk from the grocery store to his house; and images of idyllic memories that are sharpened in their composition, for example the painting depicting the path to the mountains which was reminiscent of walks with his father. In this last case, the mountains are depicted as closer and larger than in real life, thereby expressing their significance to the artist. Although the website makes it clear that memory has its weaknesses, the overall impression is that the strengths of memory outweigh any failings. It is this impression that creates a sense that the target audience is primarily the average art enthusiast and not someone who is more interested in the intricacies of memory. For the more cognitively curious, the interest in the exhibit lies a little bit deeper and requires a greater degree of effort in order to truly appreciate Magnani’s efforts. It is only after perusing the memory terms link that one is able to attempt to look at the images with a cognitively critical eye. With terms such as sharpened, blending and decay of memory traces firmly in tow, and a quick reading of the “Introduction” and “About the artist” links, one is finally able to begin tackling the concept of reliability in remembering. But here too, the website falls short as it merely glosses over the events and mitigating circumstances leading up to Magnani’s burst of genius. Representing Magnani’s work as characteristic of the power of memory fails to give credit to Magnani himself. The exhibit focuses on the beauty and awe of the paintings he creates without digging deeper to bring to light the unique events preceding their creation. Although the website is visually captivating and thought provoking on the issue of the power of memory, it falls short on the subject of reliability, and in this case reliability is highly dependent on understanding the man behind the paintings. These paintings are representative of one man’s memory and, although they may offer some insight into the general understanding of memory, they are unique to Magnani himself. The subject of each painting is the unspoiled Pontito and the surrounding countryside of Magnani’s youth, a place he left for good in 1958. However, it wasn’t until 1966, following an unnamed illness, that Magnani began to give voice to his memory in the form of paintings. The exhibit fails to discuss the reasons for this sudden desire of Magnani to paint his past. By merely hinting at an “unnamed illness” and not digging deeper, the website alludes to a sense that there is nothing remarkable in Magnani’s past that could lead to this genius thereby creating a false sense that everyone is capable of similar bursts of genius under the right circumstances. The website seems to present the idea that this is simply a favorite past time for Magnani, even going so far as to fail to reveal the fact that prior to 1966, Magnani had never painted. Where did this astonishing ability to paint and recreate his past come from? Oliver Sacks, noted neurologist and author, contends that the “unnamed illness,” alluded to by the website, may in fact be Temporal Lobe epilepsy, a condition that has often been linked to a variety of transcendent experiences. He further asserts that Magnani’s painting is more than just a simple past time. It is almost a compulsion. He believes that Magnani is so obsessed with Pontito that he thinks of little else, resulting in "a sort of half existence in the present." Sacks digs deeper into the shadows where the exhibit is lacking by creating an outline of the events leading up to the time period when Magnani’s creations began. He brings to light the devastation of the death of Magnani’s father followed shortly by the invasion of the Nazi’s in World War II. These traumatic events ensure that the sanctuary and innocence of Magnani’s childhood were forever destroyed and hint at Magnani’s fascination with recreating his lost paradise. An additional section highlighting some of these more intriguing tidbits, links to other artists who are experiencing similar phenomena such as Stephen Wiltshire—the “human camera”, or the simple suggestion of a supplementary reading of Oliver Sacks’ An Anthropologist on Mars, * would do wonders for expanding the value of the online exhibit. The basic information offered by the website is interesting but more information would prove more thought provoking and informative to all. Overall the website is a spectacular source of images and basic information on the subject of human memory. It is a great first step but it falls short on truly educating the viewer by glossing over the details of Franco Magnani’s life and trivializing this incredible phenomenon that has swallowed him whole. Sacks, Oliver. An Anthropologist On Mars: Seven Paradoxical Tales. Knopf. February 7, 1995. ]]> tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5575 2007-11-09T23:44:38Z 2007-11-26T23:48:48Z

I’ve recently updated my email account. Apparently Hotmail and Msn are now Hotmail Live and Msn Live. I’m not quite sure what that does for either one—except to change the look of each of the pages, but it has made...

Jennifer A Trautwig I’ve recently updated my email account. Apparently Hotmail and Msn are now Hotmail Live and Msn Live. I’m not quite sure what that does for either one—except to change the look of each of the pages, but it has made my life one step closer to hell. I never knew how dependent I was upon my email account; checking it to see who wrote—even if it was just some junk mail . . . Now days and days go by without my being able to check at all. Apparently my update did not go as planned . . . or my Mac is not communicating properly with Msn . . . I’m not sure, but somehow this doesn’t seem to have made my life one iota easier. I bought my Mac because it was supposed to be better and more dynamic, allowing me to do so many more things . . . I have to admit I love it but I don’t get it. It looks so sleek but no matter how much I practice, it remains almost alien. I’m beginning to wonder if it is beyond my technical abilities. Maybe I am too dinosaur-like, too out-dated to get its lingo. Life is supposed to be easier when you upgrade technologically . . . somehow I find my life 10 times more complicated . . . I’m beginning to get desperate. Any chance there’s a Mac fairy out there that can come wave a magic wand over me and my laptop to ensure our compatibility? Oh fairy . . . come out, come out, wherever you are. . . tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5574 2007-11-07T23:41:16Z 2007-11-26T23:43:50Z

I was driving home the other day and suddenly found myself singing along to a song that was totally alien to me. Or at least I thought it was totally alien . . ....

Jennifer A Trautwig I was driving home the other day and suddenly found myself singing along to a song that was totally alien to me. Or at least I thought it was totally alien . . . I was singing loudly and seemed to know the lyrics. I sang “don’t you know that you are a shooting star, don’t you know?” But as I realized that I ‘knew’ the lyrics I began to think that maybe I was mistaken. I didn’t consciously recognize the song, so how could I know the lyrics? So, I began to sing what I thought must surely be the correct lyrics: “Don’t you know that you are a superstar, don’t you know?” Needless to say, I was wrong. It was a song by And my original lyrics were correct. It started me thinking about music and its impact on our subconscious. There are songs that I hear today that take me back to a specific moment or experience. They envelope me in emotion and sensation as if I was flung back in time. The power of music amazes me. There’s “I touch you once, I touch you twice. I won’t let go at any price”—I used to hate how my brother would poke my arm and then grab me in time to the music. OMC’s “How Bizarre” became a topic of conflict for my cousin and I—she swore it said “Quelle bijon.” When asked what “Quelle bijon” meant, she’d give me a blank stare and just continue singing . . . only louder. Then there’s the opening song to Miami Vice . . .the way the drums pounded made me vibrate as I huddled in my bed—my dad loved blasting that song. Music seems to connect with every fiber . . . at times when I feel like I have no memories I try to think of a song from around the time I am interested in recalling . . . It almost always brings to mind something. It’s kind of like that with food too . . . it’s amazing how intense our senses can be. Oliver Sacks has a new book Musicphalia . . . I’m definitely looking it up when I get a spare moment. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5163 2007-11-06T18:23:32Z 2007-11-06T19:31:07Z

This is what I wrote in class . . . only a bit expanded upon. As unbelievable as some of the things I've written about may be, they are all true . . . they could easily be lies, in...

Jennifer A Trautwig Lying could be true and the average reader wouldn't necessarily be able to tell the difference. It doesn't make me like her anymore. . . or feel any more sympathetic . . . it's just that sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. . . ]]> It is nearly impossible to write an autobiographical lie . . . my life is too fantistic to need lies. But I'll try. I could say that I was found hatched from an egg and carried home, that that is how I became a member of my family. Perhaps that would be enough of a lie . . . but the truth is, I may as well have been. My family and I exist on two separate planes and I like to think that I am the normal one. My brother is a drug addict/career criminal who is obsessed with his inability to produce sperm. My grandparents live in the wonderful state of denial (they can't stand one another). They are moving to Kentucky. I guess the weather is nicer there . . . or maybe there is something in the air that makes people like one another? My father is an alcoholic transvestite who has recently become more comfortable without rum and women's clothing . . . I swear he's a born-again normal person these days. When I was 8 my dog ate my guinea pig, so my mom took him out in the woods and shot him with my father's gun. My mother is currently working on her third marriage (her second ended in suicide--her husband's, not hers . . . though some in my family wonder if she helped him along). She's also a new mother to twins born May 1, 2007. After my parents split (when I was 12), she helped a boyfriend, who neighbors suspected of killing his wife, escape from prison. To look at her today, you'd never suspect she has a shady past . . . talk about constructing memory! She never discusses the past and I wonder what her husband knows of it . . . probably nothing. I like to think she is a different person than she was 20 years ago. I guess that's possible. My dad certainly is. So is my brother. I attribute my survival to the guidance of a few good teachers . . . Are these lies? Perhaps, perhaps not . . . but I've only begun to get started. Me, well I'm sticking with my hatching and continuing to pick shells out of my hair. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5162 2007-11-06T18:10:26Z 2007-11-06T18:22:08Z

I couldn't decide whether I was enjoying the experience or whether it was something akin to a dentist visit--a necessary evil that results in some semblance of a positive....

Jennifer A Trautwig I couldn't decide whether I was enjoying the experience or whether it was something akin to a dentist visit--a necessary evil that results in some semblance of a positive. Lying . . . who cares?]]> tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5159 2007-11-06T17:41:08Z 2007-11-06T18:06:08Z

Have you ever had the joy of running with a dog? Okay . . . maybe joy is a bit silly sounding. . . Let me see if I can come up with a better word . . ....

Jennifer A Trautwig Have you ever had the joy of running with a dog? Okay . . . maybe joy is a bit silly sounding. . . Let me see if I can come up with a better word . . . Amazing sounds a bit silly as well. . . freeing. . . maybe silly too . . . I guess there is no perfect word for describing the experience of running with my dog. To be honest, I was never really much of a dog person. I never liked the licking and slobbering. They always seem so needy and clingy. That's why I've stuck with cats. They're so much more independent and low-maintenance. Then one day I noticed a guy with his dog at my daughter's soccer game. (If you've read any of my other consciousness blogs you may remember when I had a transcending experience with the grass and the wind and the beauty of the Autumn day--okay, transcending sounds a bit over the top, but my point is, same game.) So anyway, that day I was in a particularly perceptive mode I suppose and I saw this man standing on the sidelines with his dog. The dog sat beside him the whole time, calm and well-behaved. The only time the dog really moved was when the man spoke to it or a particular girl ran by--perhaps this was his girl, part of the dog's pack. When those two things occurred, the dog's tail would wag excitedly and it seemed to have a happy look on its face (perhaps I was seeing what I thought would be there and dogs don't really have happy looks--I don't know, but it seemed to fit) Anyway, I turned to my husband and said "Let's get a dog." Now, mind you, I'm fairly impulsive when it comes to pets, but I had been considering it ever since my stalking experience--I figured running with a dog would be safer. Amazingly, for some reason my husband took me seriously and a week later, we adopted Layla from a shelter. Has she been the angel I hoped for when I watched that Lab sit next to its owner? Not quite, but she has been a joy all the same. And the best part? Running with her. Okay, it's a bonus that she makes me run faster but it's more than that. It's the look in her eyes when we are running along, her nose sniffing the breeze, tail wagging vigorously; a look up at me, mid-sprint, that says, "Isn't this the best thing ever?" Running with a dog is a daily dose of the feeling of taking your child to Disney World for the first time. It's seeing the world through their eyes, experiencing every smell, feeling, sound, etc. as if for the first time. I don't know if dogs have "souls" but they definately think, feel and experience the world in a way which I wish I could at times. They take joy in the simplist things (think toddler and cardboard box) and soak in every experience to the fullest. Watching Layla run or sitting with her head out the car window, I can't help but feel more alive . . . and wish that I could experience the simple things in life just as richly. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/007//605.5095 2007-11-05T04:36:39Z 2007-11-05T04:38:11Z

Here is my workshop piece. I hope the link works, Download file. It is a short story entitled Over the Rainbow. Enjoy!...

Jennifer A Trautwig Download file. It is a short story entitled Over the Rainbow. Enjoy!]]>