Emotional Typography
I know as soon as we get to the airport that once we are in California I will want to be by myself in the hills. Though I haven't yet seen the yellow hills that roll up around us like huge haystacks, dotted here and there with black cattle. Yellow hills? They burn the hills seasonally, to trigger new growth. Black cattle? Where are the Jerseys, the Holsteins? Those are beef cows, not dairy cows.
My family is going to California to celebrate my cousin's Bar Mitzvah, and I am going to California to celebrate land. I haven't yet seen the hills, but I know what I am looking for when we are in the airport and it feels like an infirmary the towering-white-floating ceilings an empty cathedral hall an unfinished apse an artificial environment that belongs to no one, no one - and my father is fighting for our tickets six hours in a middle seat, us scattered around the plane, you don't even know how uncomfortable, for six hours? On the plane they come around offering me peanuts, warm, wet towels, plastic blankets, refreshing drinks-as if I am meant to feel numb.
I feel small and slightly blinded swaddled into these tall wheaty structures; it confuses me that they should surround us on all sides as we drive the highways, because I know only the flat, straight, tree-lined roads of the northeast. Once you are in those hills, there is nothing else but yellowness; it blocks your view to the outside. Round shapes molded of it, live oaks soaked with it. California feels like another life.
I become my landscape. A photograph my father took of me hiking in the hills: my face is embossed, dripping with the yellow light.
This is what is touchable. Life, or where life lives.
Life lives in life. (See: Gai...
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...seeing. Along the same lines, it doesn't matter1. I read about plants on a wooden-plastic signpost board and happily hopped among the rocks stopping to examine plants this might be yarrow, too bad it's all dried up and everything is the color of the ground. The sign also wrote about wild strawberries but having seen strawberries before I was certain I hadn't seen any and for that reason didn't write about them. (But I wished I could have.)
I did not see them but I knew about them. So I wrote based on what I knew.
Though that may not be true. I wrote because the words were too delectable. Bush-monkey. Snapdragon. Stickyglands. Yarrow.
I didn't know what I was seeing, therefore, I am unaccountable for falsehoods.
1It doesn't matter for these purposes, but it would matter if I wanted to use any of the plants, for medicinal purposes, and this fact plagues me.
In stories such as “The Cloak of Anarchy”, and “Footfall”(with Jerry Pournelle), he adeptly uses his writing skill and imagination to allow you to see into another place; he also shows no trepidation in including societal situations and political opinions which are even more thought provoking. The story begins with a description of the setting, which is a futuristic California . To be precise the San Diego, and Los Angeles areas. Long known for its expansive freeways, and exorbitant smog and pollution. The area is transformed to lush greenery: “Square in the middle of ...
When their journey began in 1846, the members of the Donner and Reed families had high hopes of reaching California, and they would settle at nothing less. Their dream of making a new life for themselves represented great determination. When their packed wagons rolled out of Springfield, Missouri, they thought of their future lives in California. The Reed family’s two-story wagon was actually called the “pioneer palace car”, because it was full of everything imaginable including an iron stove and cushioned seats and bunks for sleeping. They didn’t want to leave their materialistic way of life at home.
By noon they had begun to climb toward the gap in the mountains. Riding up through the lavender or soapweed, under the Animas peaks. The shadow of an eagle that had set forth from the line of riders below and they looked up to mark it where it rode in that brittle blue and faultless void. In the evening they came out to upon a mesa that overlooked all the country to the north... The crumpled butcher paper mountains lay in sharp shadowfold under the long blue dusk and in the middle distance the glazed bed of a dry lake lay shimmering like the mare imbrium. (168)
is also simple. Hemingway uses simple writing not for the ease of complexity but to give the
As a young child, I would visit my grandparents in Marin County often. My parents would pack my sister and me up in the car, and we would head north from San Francisco to the small town of Novato. The road to Novato took us through San Rafael, where I would always marvel at the one mile stretch of shopping mall that Highway 101 traversed. However, once we were into the hills of wine country and the shopping mall was a distant memory, so too became San Rafael. It wasn’t until I met Paul, my partner, that I learned the full story behind this fascinating town.
To make the test fair I will use the same amount of water and the leaf
Topography is the features of land in an area. Those features can include rivers, mountains, lakes, hills, forrests, etc. A White Heron is overflowing with references to the topography of Maine, and more specifically the coast of Maine. The first sentence of Jewett’s A White Heron gives the reader a preview into the appreciation Jewett has for her home state of Maine, “The woods were already filled with shadows one June evening, just before eight o’clock, though a bright sunset still glimmered faintly among the trunks of the trees” (413). While this description isn’t specific to Maine on the surface, it is specific to Jewett’s interpretation of the woods at sunset in Maine, and the beauty of color writing is that each reader will imagine their own sunset based on their own woods in their own region. Jewett was just beginning and her description of the land around her, and as the story progresses the d...
When I found myself on my Feet, I looked about me, and must confess I never beheld a more entertaining Prospect. The Country round appeared like a continued Garden, and the inclosed Fields, which were generally Forty Foot square, resembled so many Beds of flowers. These Fields were intermingled with Woods of half a Stang, and the tallest Trees, as I could judge, appeared to be seven Foot high. I viewed the Town on my left Hand, which looked like the painted Scene of a City in a Theatre.
"College costs and the CPI." Arkansas Business 9 Sept. 2013: 7. General OneFile. Web. 7 Nov. 2013.
“There's something wonderful about seeing the landscape of East Los Angeles, yet knowing full well what's coming down the pike,” CT quotes Erickson’s statement to Variety.
When you love the Desert Southwest, sometime, somewhere, you will stumble into the writings of Ed Abbey. Like me, Ed was not born there; he discovered his love of the place while riding a boxcar through it on a trip across the US; I discovered mine on a trip through myself. His writings helped lead me home, for that is what the desert southwest is to me: home. I don’t live there for one simple reason, i.e., I have not yet been able to put myself in the financial situation I need to be in. For now, I visit when I can, mostly during my long vacations at Christmas.
In "This is a Photograph of Me," inspite of the easy assurances of the speaker that we will see her picture, it is clear as the poem develops and the speaker reveals her true identity as a dead person that the clarity she seems to promise never emerges. The challenges in establishing a sense of identity are portrayed in the speaker's description of what the viewer will see as they look at the photo to begin with:
Emotions play a significant part in our daily lives, especially to our overall wellbeing whenever we share these experiences with other people. The ability to express and interpret emotions is an important skill that everyone can improve on that would greatly benefit their interpersonal communication. Our expressions accompany our emotions; they serve as windows that allow other people to know what we are feeling inside. There are several factors that influence how we communicate our feelings.
Rolling hills lay before me that undulate until they crash into golden purple mountains. Oh how they are covered in spectacular fauna, ever blooming foliage, and trees that are heavy with pungent fruit. Green. It is always so green here at my house. Here is where the air lays heavy and cool on my skin, as does the striking rays of the sun upon my cheeks.
This area of the world is so foreign to my Oklahoma life; it infuses me with awe, and with an eerie feeling of being strongly enclosed by huge mountains, and the mass of tall trees. However, when my foot first steps onto the dusty trail it feels crazily magical. The clean, crisp air, the new smell of evergreen trees and freshly fallen rain is mixed with fragrances I can only guess at. It is like the world has just taken a steroid of enchantment! I take it all in, and embrace this new place before it leaves like a dream and reality robs the moment. As I turn and look at my family, I was caught by my reflection in their impressions. The hair raising mischief in the car was forgotten and now it was time to be caught up in this newness of life. It was as if the whole world around us had changed and everyone was ready to engulf themselves in it. The trickling of water somewhere in the distance and the faint noise of animals all brought the mountains to