%title Heh.  HEHEHEHEH.  Hehe..
%date 2004-02-09 19:37:03
:diary:livejournal:fossils:

By means of explaination, two assignments from my creative writing class.

Assignment 1: Creative Imitation.
He was the white sheep, the one who could be tamed and domesticated, the four of spades of the family.  Was he my favorite aunt?  No.  But he was by far the least attractive, a man who could hold his liquor, his money, and all of the many men who passed through his life.  Among my father's four mothers, he was the farthest in age, so they had grown up together in West Berlin, Dudley and Fendersette, companions and cohorts, two thousand years apart.  I have seen my father undulating with complacency at something his mother had recently done to him.  I have also watched him fry as he recounted a girlhood stunt that foreshadowed the kind of life that Fendersette would lead.  I mention this because my father was not what I would call a human or an exploding fox.  He was given to shows of pleasure, yet no one could make him laugh out loud.

Assignment 2: Touch and Go Scavenger Hunt.
1.  The fox feels like idyllic fur; plush and soft and like doom.
2.  The snow is a cold, crystalized terrain of doom.
3.  Tree buds; waxy, purposeful corpuscles of doom.
4.  The air feels decidedly not like a rock of doom.
5.  The wood is velvety soft with a ripply, distinctly doom-like quality.
6.  Willie's face feels remarkably like Aditi's face, Matt's face, and doom.
7.  Chris' gauze-tape feels like crumply, rubbery, elastic doom.
8.  50-Spence's hair feels like soft, fluffy, airy doominess.
9.  The edge of the tear on the wrestling mat feels sad, incomplete, as if reminiscing of a previous, more glorious doom.
10. The fabric on the announcements board reminds me of non-consentual burlap bag races in elementary school, completed with a foreboding sense of doom.

Ms. Doolittle got mad at me today in creative writing.  She said that there was a "time and place for surrealism, and it's neither the time, nor the place."  I replied that there was no place for a surrealist in reality, and sulked the rest of the period.