Link to Hamlet Class Soliloquy Video

LITERARY FICTION AND EMPATHY

Reading literary fiction can improve your ability to empathize with others because these works force you to view things from the eyes of the characters in them.  It is much easier to relate to people when their characters are heavily developed.  Because of the openness of literature much less time is needed to develop fictional characters than real life people.  People who are biased towards one specific way of thinking may reconsider their positions if their favorite character is swayed the other way.  Sometimes all it takes is a well written explanation of the idea to convince people.

Hamlet is a character-driven play, making it a great example of this.  Because of the situation Hamlet is in, he is very easy for most people to empathize with.  His character is also relatable, mostly due to his soliloquies.  His open display of emotion (intense anger, sadness) helps connect the character to the audience more.

VOCABULARY #6

abase - cause to feel shame; hurt the pride of
Example:  I will enjoy abasing you in front of your peers, just when you feel most secure.

abdicate - to cast off; to give up power (as in government)
Example:  The king's choices were abdication or death; he chose the first.

abomination - an action that is vicious or vile; an person or thing that arouses disgust or abhorrence
Example:  It was only after releasing my art to the world that I realized what an abomination it truly was.

brusque - marked by rude or peremptory shortness
Example:  The brusque secretary angered me like no one else had all week.

saboteur - someone who commits sabotage or deliberately causes wrecks; a member of a clandestine subversive organization who tries to help a potential invader
Example:  The saboteur surveyed the oil refinery as he planned his attack.

debauchery - a wild gathering involving excessive drinking and promiscuity
Example:  I am in need of some Boardwalk Empire style debauchery.

proliferate - cause to grow or increase rapidly; grow rapidly
Example:  She stared at the ringing phone, hesitant to answer it, knowing that it would either proliferate her career or destroy it entirely.

anachronism - an artifact that belongs to another time; a person who seems to be displaced in time; who belongs to another age; something located at a time when it could not have existed or occurred
Example:  His car was an anachronism; it seemed to have come straight from the 1920s yet looked brand new.

nomenclature - a system of words used to name things in a particular discipline
Example:  I couldn't care less about your nomenclature- I'll stick with slang.

expurgate - edit by omitting or modifying parts considered indelicate
Example:  The editor tried to expurgate the journalist's article, but did not accomplish much.

bellicose - having or showing a ready disposition to fight
Example:  The skinny figure stood in the doorway, all bones and no muscle, but I saw in his bellicose eyes that he would not hesitate to break my neck.

gauche - lacking social polish
Example:  She assumed she was much more gauche than she actually was, and was embarrassed over the littlest things.

rapacious - excessively greedy and grasping
Example:  The rapacious businessman using a tragedy to make a profit made me sick.

paradox - a statement that contradicts itself
Example:  Existence is a paradox in itself.

conundrum - a difficult problem
Example:  I threw my textbook out the window after the conundrum wiggled around in my brain for over an hour.

anomaly - a person who is unusual; deviation from the normal or common order or form or rule
Example:  The anomalous test score prompted the teacher to investigate a student for cheating, even though the cause of the high score was studying.

ephemeral - lasting a very short time; anything short-lived
Example:  The night was ephemeral- and we knew that when the sun rose the police would hunt us down.

rancorous - showing deep-seated resentment
Example:  I will not apologize to you for my rancorous behavior; you deserve it.

churlish - having a bad disposition; surly; rude and boorish
Example:  The churlish man under his purple shirt and black sunglasses smiled like a smug little bitch as he deprived me of my supposed "rights."

precipitous - characterized by precipices; extremely steep; done with very great haste and without due deliberation
Example:  The precipitous novel received mixed reviews- some called it rushed, others called it an amazing achievement.

PHONAR ASSIGNMENT

  Based on Michael David Murphy's "Lit Like Oz." 

http://www.unphotographable.com/archives/2007/06/lit_like_oz.html

Great Clerks Scene

CANTERBURY OUTLINE

• The Sea Captain's Tale (Shipmanne's Tale)
• About a merchant and his wife, and a young monk (Dan John)
• Merchant gave private loan of 100 francs to Dan John 
• He then pays the merchant's wife the francs in exchange for sex
• The merchant finds out about this at the end but is not too angry
• Dan John is about 30 years old
• Light, humorous tone
• Casual mood
• Simple plot told in a very lengthy way
• The monk character is paying for sex, which clearly goes against "monk code"
• This shows Chaucer's contrasting attitude, and his connection to the everyday person, acknowledging that even "holy" people are flawed
• Dan John leaves the next morning, and no one knows he paid "wife" for sex
• The wife is not given a name at all, nor is the merchant
• In this way it's possible that Dan John could be considered the protagonist, depending on perspective
• Dan John confesses to the merchant that he slept with his wife
• The merchant is probably the main character/protagonist
• He is in the middle of it- the monk Dan John, who he's friendly with, slept with his wife
• Other main characters are the wife and monk

Anxious & Angry

This is the only podcast I listen to, because it's the only one that always keeps my interest.  Listen.

http://www.stitcher.com/podcast/anxious-and-angry

CHARACTER STUDY NARRATIVE

Eighty percent of these people are assholes.  They're pretentious and condescending- the exact kind of people I want nothing to do with.  The other twenty percent make up for it though; there are some great people here.  I've made a few friends, but no one very close.  I was in a relationship that was going pretty well for a couple of months, but it just didn't work out.  I eventually disappointed her one too many times, just like I do with everyone else.  I also pissed off one of those friends, who left me with the gift of a black eye the last time I saw him.  Three months into freshman year, I sat at my desk most of the day, studying for this class or that one while listening to an endless stream of records.

I was lonely then, even though I had some friends to hang out with.  I just had no interest in hanging out with them, and kept giving excuses until they stopped asking me to go places.  After that I kept up a friendly façade; I smiled and laughed at stupid jokes and made meaningless small talk with the people I knew, but didn't want to hang out with.  I went on this way, studying and working a part time job at Taco Bell, for a few months.  I didn't go out with friends, or go to parties.  I studied and then knocked myself out with heavy sleeping aids.

I assumed I was doing well in all of my classes- this studying really seemed to be helping me on the tests.  That was until November, when the professor of my business class told me I was failing.  I got that sinking feeling in my stomach, realizing I hadn't been keeping up with the tests and work in many classes.  This guy was nice enough to warn me, because the class was small.  Others, I knew, didn't give a shit.  I couldn't blame them, with classes of more than a couple hundred students.  I studied even harder then, pumping out the work that I needed to scrape by.  Before I knew it, the semester was at its end.  I did well enough on my business final to pass my business class, just barely.  I failed calculus, but passed everything else.  Oh well.  Failure is the best form of learning.

And then the semester was over, and winter was in full effect.  My family wanted me to come home and visit, but I was reluctant to.  I don't know why, and I can't explain it to you.  It was just the way I felt; I wanted freedom and individuality.  I didn't want to spend any more time in my shitty high school bed underneath my parents' roof.  I felt guilty about not wanting to go though, because I do care about my family.  I was certain that they must think me a terrible person.

I'd rather be alone than make other people feel bad, and that's what I tend to do when I'm around positive people.  I have a noxious personality; I'm far too pessimistic.  Oh well.  They've dealt with my negativity for the rest of my life, so I figure if I just show up, smile, and make small talk with them for a few days it would make them feel a lot better.  It would also make me feel a little less shitty when I made excuses for their next few invitations.  They haven't seen me in about four months, and they asked me to come back for Christmas.  They did nothing to guilt me into it.  I was just a naturally guilty person.  So about a week into December I told them I would spend some time with them over the holidays, and that seemed to make them happy.  I still couldn't force myself to see this visit as anything other than a chore, but I promised myself that I would hide this feeling from my parents and younger siblings.

They called me again on December twenty-first to make plans, and I told them I'd come over and spend a few days with them.  I wasn't looking forward to the ten hour drive south, but I tried to make myself sound excited.  I knew it didn't work, but hoped they would understand that I had never been one to get very excited.  Even as I told myself this after hanging up, I knew it wasn't true.  My mom, though she would refuse to show it, would without a doubt take this personally.  But at least I was going.  I knew that my younger brother and sister were much more affectionate and devoted to my parents than I was, but they didn't acknowledge it.  Again, thinking this, I reminded myself: I am a terrible son.

I started to drive south in my "new" car towards my parents' house.  It was an old Toyota but it got me from place to place and drove surprisingly well.  I paid four thousand dollars for it, and immediately felt anxious after I did so.  This car is ten years old and used.  What if it breaks down?  I might as well have stuffed my money in the trash.  But it didn't.  It was a good car.  I'd rather have a car like this than a brand new, hugely expensive model.  No leases, no bullshit.  I had never been a fan of bullshit.

It didn't feel like I had left town until I reached the tree line after driving some forty miles.  That's not to say there weren't plenty of trees before, but now I was in a forest.  On both sides of highway, all that could be seen was a thick green beauty.  And as I drove on and on the trees thinned out.  The ones that stood were smaller than the towering giants I had seen twenty miles back.  These were a dirtier shade of green, as if their leaves were coated in dust.  The stumps here were more plentiful than the giants I had seen before.  Five miles after that, there were no trees.  And then I continued driving, and passed through another forest.  It was smaller, but contained much more life.  It was obvious that it had been undisturbed by humans for quite some time.  I liked that, and disliked it at the same time.  I'd rather be lost in the middle of a forest than sit in that goddamn dorm room listening to records and pretending I care about things.

This tree was neither thick nor small- perhaps with a diameter three quarters the size of a telephone pole's.  What is this?  Why is it growing from the concrete?  Of course, it wasn't growing from the concrete.  It was on the side of the road, the bottom portion bent from growing alongside the concrete.  I pulled to the side of the road when I was able to, two miles ahead of the tree.  I pulled out my phone and began to write/speak my story idea.  I switched between furious typing and voice recognition software that worked surprisingly better than expected.  The story went something like this:

"I had hit the pole hard enough to kill my car's ten year old engine, but not hard enough to give myself anything more than a small cut on the side of my face.  My car's back half in the road, front half wrapped around the tree, I got out, sat on the hood, and smoked a cigarette.  I was very angry.  Maybe too angry.  I don't get angry very often, but when I do, I get extremely angry.  I could not move my car out of the road, and so I just sat there on the hood and stared at the corner I had passed, expecting a motorist to fly around it at any moment and kill the both of us.  I got off the hood of my car after maybe three minutes and walked down to the creak that was about one hundred feet away from the tree.

I did not see the car rounding the corner, nor did I see it slam into the back of my car and send both of the vehicles off the road.  I did not see the man in the front seat smash his head through his windshield, and I did not see his car roll over.  I heard it though.  It was like a bullet whizzed past my head; I jumped and instinctively ran towards my car.  I knew what had happened even before I saw the wreckage.

Half of the man's face was hanging off of his skull.  The other half was plastered to the concrete on the very edge of the road.  How the hell did that happen? I thought after I spat the remaining chunks of vomit onto the forest ground.  I panicked then, but at the same time thought about how I could write an article about this, maybe get a decent magazine to publish it.  I shouldn't be thinking this, I thought as I continued to think about it.  The themes of my writing were always very dark and disturbing.  Plenty of people have been seriously concerned by what I write about.  It was just what I was drawn to; writing about serial killers does not make you a serial killer.   
Of course I wouldn't write a story about this.  I just couldn't process what was happening.  I was dazed and-"

I stopped mid sentence, staring at my phone.  A wannabe writer writing about a writer being placed in a terrible situation.  How original.  I pressed the button on the side of my phone and slid it back into my pocket.  That story would require some work.  I enjoyed the part where the guy's face fell off though, and decided while writing it that I would be keeping at least those lines.

I put way too much of myself in that small two minute scribble, but I always did that.  I started by scribbling down an idea with myself as the main character and went from there, giving the character his or her own characteristics until he or she became an entirely different entity than me.  So that part about the disturbed subject matter was me.  It was something that I had always done.  Sometimes I couldn't even show anyone what I'd written because I knew they'd think I was crazy.  People never understood that writing was an outlet for me- a way to express myself and imagine terrible things that I hoped never to experience in reality.  Sometimes I intentionally wrote the most obscene and morbid stories I possibly could, just to see how fucked up I could make it.  Then I'd chuckle, save it on my computer, not tell anyone about it, and forget it existed for months.  Depressing, degrading, and detestable themes helped me make sense of a depressing, degrading, detestable world.

I drove on then, imagining what else I could do with the story- where else I could take it.  Then I thought, This story sounds fine now, but I'll run into a dead end and give up on it like the others.  I tried to push this thought out of my head but couldn't, so I stopped thinking about the story and put some music on.

The next morning I woke up in that old, shitty high school bed.  I'd gotten home at eleven or so the previous night, talked to everyone for a small amount of time, and gone to sleep.  The bed was as terribly squeaky as I remembered it.  I do not want to be here, I realized.  I love these people, but I don't want to be here.  I got up and brushed my teeth.  They have never done anything to hurt me.  I have no right to not want to be here.  I took a shower.  Am I a bad person?  I ate breakfast.

I walked around the outside of the house that I had only lived in for about half a year.  I didn't like it then, and still didn't.  But the outside is beautiful, or at least that's what they've all told me.  I guess I had just never really paid attention to it.  It wasn't really our land that was beautiful, or the dead, empty field behind that land.  It was the hills.  On the other side of Highway One they sat, half dead, half alive.  No, a little more dead than alive, but still beautiful.  And I went inside for a coffee, making do with the bottom of the pot, now barely warm.  And I drank it.  And told myself I'd be up for whatever they wanted to do- that I'd force myself to leave the house with them if they wanted to do something.  And they all woke up, and came into the kitchen, and I smiled that fake smile that was ingrained into my head- the smile that everyone thought was real until I really smiled.  And they wanted to take me around Santa Maria, maybe see a movie.  And they asked me this.  And they asked me that.  And
then I went outside, smoked a cigarette, calmed down.  So many goddamn questions.  It bothered me.  I didn't want it to bother me but it did.  So I smoked the cigarette and went back inside and they were all disappointed in me.  My brother and sister didn't know that I smoked, I remembered.  Shit.  Oh well.
And then I answered the questions, one by one.  Then they ate, and so did I.

Pills for breakfast.  Cigarettes for lunch.  Coffee for dinner.

***

I saw three of my friends from high school the next day.  It was uncomfortable and just pointless.  They might as well not have been there.  Old memories poured through my head as I drove through that town that I had grown up in.  It was like a stopper from which a steady stream of sand seeped out until the stopper was removed and all the sand poured in at once.  Elementary school was awful; the bad memories overshadowed the good ones.  It was simply not a good experience.  I didn't want to remember all the bad shit, but as I drove past my old elementary school campus (which was now a high school that my sister attended) the thoughts clouded my brain.  A thick fog rolled through.

I met these friends, who had nearly forgotten me entirely, for lunch at Natural Café.  I picked around my food as always and rolled away.  I was in my car before I was in my car, and I was home before I was home.  Home, and I was thinking of northern California, for the first time.  This place did not exist if I was not in it, and I'd rather have it that way.  So I focused on home during lunch instead of my friends, who were only making small talk anyway.  I tried to make myself look invested in the conversation and failed to do so, as always.

The following two days went the same as the first, but on the fourth something changed.  I had been moping around and I knew that I wasn't putting on a happy enough face for my family.  On that fourth day, I drove east (alone).  I wasn't going anywhere in particular, just driving.  That was when I remembered what I liked about central California- the landscape, the earth- it was beautiful.  I suddenly had an urge to drive southeast until I saw the endless orange groves that I used to see on my way to Los Angeles.  I wanted to drive through Ojai; I wanted to try to find a quiet place like that, with beautiful oranges and rolling hills.  I didn't drive there, but decided that I might before going back north.  At any rate, this reminded me of something I needed to be reminded of- that I very much like central California.  Or the idea of it, that is.  Did a place like that exist?  A nice big patch of property where I could grow oranges and live for the rest of my life?  I don't think so.  Because even though I love this idea, I know that it is very unlikely.  All it is is a fantasy.  Some people dream of mansions, and I dreamed of this.  I also dreamed of living in a perpetually foggy place, in a dark, gothic old house, or maybe some lonely house off of a sinister forest road.  All of these fantasies were appealing to me, but the fact is that there aren't any places that have all of the things I hoped for- wherever I ended up living, I'd be giving up another experience I could have had in another place.  So instead, I didn't actually try to bring any of these fantasies to life.  What would be the point of that?  Then they wouldn't be fantasies.

I don't want to know my future, or even think about it.  I just want to exist, and see where I end up.  That is how I have lived my life.  I am in control of my own person.  Nothing has me permanently tied down.  I don't have to do anything but exist.  That's comforting.  It makes me feel productive when I know I'm not. 

I'd always found it strange, the way those drives made me feel.  A cigarette and a thirty minute lone drive had always given me a better perspective.  I remember when I was in high school, I'd drive these twisty roads when I was pissed off about something.  I'd smoke a cigarette and listen to whatever music I was into at the time while I drove and when I finally got home, I usually felt at least a little bit better.  My car was my therapist now.  The human one who my parents generously gave me money to see was just an expensive, legal drug dealer.  That's okay, each has its use.  The car is more to my liking; it does not have a mouth.

***

I exist.  For the next two days at this old house, I make sure I treat my family politely and with as much happiness as I can muster.  They seemed to like it.  I'm glad.  I did not drive back to the university, not yet.  Instead I continued further south, following roads I chose towards areas that looked interesting.  I was disappointed every time because each destination was not, in fact, interesting.  Well, the places themselves were interesting, I was just uninterested.  I stole some oranges from a farmer's orange grove and ate them at the top of a nearby hill.  I pulled over and sat on the hood of my car, staring at the horizon.  The oranges weren't ripe at all.  It was winter, I reminded myself.  I tossed the one I had peeled and taken a bite out of into the bushes and got back on the road.  I drove back north, stopping at a cheap motel for the night.  I couldn't bear stopping back at my parents' house; they thought I had already gone back to the university.

The next day I woke up slowly, took a shower, and drove.  I drove until I had to stop, and then drove some more.

I was back at the university before I knew it.  It was uglier than I remembered even after just a few days, but I'd be too hungover in the morning to notice.  The plan was to go to my dorm room and drink a large amount of the hardest liquor my roommate had.  Driving really takes it out of you.  I found some old Tequila, and took a few (six) shots, and passed out on my shitty cot-like bed.  It wasn't actually that shitty- just small and uncomfortable.  I was too tired to care, and when I woke up the next morning, it was one o'clock in the afternoon.  I had gotten back last night pretty late, but I couldn't remember the exact time.  I was pretty sure that I had gotten a decent amount of sleep, but who could say for sure?  I always woke up tired anyway.

Second semester began two weeks later.  All I did before that was work part time at a fast food restaurant and twiddle my thumbs.

Second semester felt both better and worse than the first at the same time.  I was more comfortable with the campus, but the college freshman excitement had died.  Completely gone.  But it didn't matter, because I didn't think much about school anymore anyway.

I sat and existed like I never could before.  I learned to let insults slide off of my skin like a bead of water on a wetsuit, and I gradually became more and more independent.  I continued to wait for something to happen, one month, two months, before promising myself that if nothing happened by the end of second semester, I'd make something happen.

The semester ended on the same note as it began, but I had passed all of my classes and gotten some much needed credit.  As promised, I decided to do something with myself.  I sat myself down in front of my computer, with the intention of working for at least two hours before taking a break.

I began to write.
About twenty percent of these people are assholes; the rest I just don't like.