In what could be called a manifesto on exactitude, Italo Calvino’s lecture articulates what he sees as an ideal attribute of writing: exactitude. It was difficult for me to reconcile Calvino’s obsession with exactitude and his general critique of language as not being truly able to accomplish its goals. Not only does language take many forms, but literature also serves many functions across societies and caters to a wide array of readers. Raymond Williams’ Culture supports the idea of readers being as important, if not more important, than the writing. “Culture” has had different meanings in different time periods, proving that it is important to cater to the socio-historical context specific to your readers.  I was not convinced that Calvino’s main points are as universalizing as he presents them.

Juxtaposed with the other readings of the week, the exactitude lecture made me think a lot about length. Calvino made a claim something along lines of him wishing to speak as little as possible such that his words are always precise. This intentional form of language is a cure to what Calvino identifies as the “language plague.” Length, though not always, is a quite intentional and an immediately noticeable aspect of writing. The poem by William Carlos Williams is several pages long, which adds rhythm, repetition, and a cyclical effect. This is an instance where, depending on the intentions of the author, the length of the poem could have been prioritized over the exactitude of the language.

Thinking about Walter Lipman’s “Journalism and the Higher Law” and Italo Calvino’s “Exactitude” prompted me to consider the extreme importance of word choice in nearly all mediums of expression, as well as my own personal word choice (which I am considering as I write this response). Lipman discusses word choice in relation to truth within journalism and government. Specifically, he explores how institutions may may choose certain words to show themselves in a good light, and in the process, the truth becomes buried. He writes, “the most immoral act [is] the immorality of the government, so the most destructive form of untruth is sophistry and propaganda by those whose profession it is to report the news” (Lipman, 10). 

When Calvino addresses word choice, he defines it more specifically as exactitude. Calvino presents the issue that “language is always being used in a loose, haphazard, careless manner” (Calvino, 68), and instead should “covey as precisely as possible the perceptible aspect of things” (Calvino, 91). I particularly enjoyed how Calvino pointed to the benefits of writing in the beginning of his speech (which I think actually would have been much more effective towards the end). He explains that writing is the most effective medium of conveying exactitude, since a writer can choose their words precisely, while a speaker is merely improvising and may not select the appropriate words on the spot. 

I thought these two authors, especially Calvino, connected very well to our writing assignment this week. As we were tasked to rewrite our pieces with more fitting and apt adjectives and descriptors, I became much more aware at how much specificity, conciseness, and clarity are essential in providing an accurate description of whatever a writer chooses to describe. This exactitude not only favorably demonstrates the writer’s skill, but also resonates better with their readers.

Revised

You almost always feel it before you see it. Sometimes it comes as a stringlike, pulling pain, snaking down your abdomen. Sometimes the soiled underwear dampens your inner thighs. On lucky days, you feel a rolling weight slide down a skin inside your skin.

You hesitate to call it blood because it carries unnamed tissues and formless things. Those gooey, semitransparent blobs of not-flesh and not-liquid, tangled with dark, cherry-colored spots. The dark spots stretch into a galaxy against the backdrop of vermillion smudge.

It cannot be blood because blood flows. You’ve seen blood climb up a needle, dripping out of a cut; but you’ve only seen this thing stuck on a tampon or a pad. On the heavy days, when your legs shudder from the icy toilet porcelain, your palm is warmed by moisture emanating from a weighty load. The entire cotton stick is soaked into a body-temperature, crimson popsicle. It fills the bathroom stall with a salty, rusting air. You wonder whether it is in the atmosphere now, and whether you carry that atmosphere around you. On other days it is more two dimensional. You discover a dry, long, maroon mark stretched against the white sanitary napkin. Blood crumbs adhere to the microscopic synthetic fibers.

Some days it doesn’t cross your mind. You sit through classes, oblivious to the red trail it leaves on the chair. Then when you are walking to lunch someone taps lightly on the shoulder. You turn around to eyes widened in politeness. They lightly whisper: “Hey, there’s something on your, umm, jeans.”

Rewritten

There are many kinds of periods.

There is the kind that fills up an entire extra-long, extra fluffy, extra expensive sanitary napkin and still spills over into the air.

There is the kind that comes in slow drips, bright red or maroon.

The worst kind is the ones that you don’t see. It drags down your insides, twists your abdomen like a laundry machine, but never shows itself. What is it afraid of? Why does it hide to torture you in the darkness of your body? A worthy enemy shows its face. The mask of no shape cannot be penetrated. 

When you were younger you had tried to understand it. As if staring at the gooey, jelly like things you could decipher what part of the body it is, whether it is a waste or a wound.

When you couldn’t figure it out, the tissues and blood stare back at you with a disgusting blank face. You toss it into the trash.

But now you’re old. Now you spend more time with its more invisible kind. You feel the back pain deeper inside your spine, and so you learn to pop ibuprofen with hot water. You learn to stretch and maybe jog and put it on the calendar. You are productive. You stop asking why or how or what. You just put it on your calendar. Another thing. Another event.

It’s been so long since you looked or thought about it. But when they say the word “feminism” you feel a sharp pain cut through your abdomen.

Notes:

During revision, it was challenging to hold back the urge to add in infinitely more details, metaphors, more ways to say the same thing. I had to go over the text a third time, after walking away a bit, to make sure the text still makes sense as a contained piece of writing. In other words, editing blended into writing; and it is difficult to read what one is writing.

Rewriting was completely different. I was a bit dreary of the object so I chose to write with a stronger voice of my own, and was less concerned about conveying its objective qualities. Rather, it is rewritten from an experiential perspective.

Italo Calvino’s text, Mr. Palomar, was poignant in the strangest of ways. Calvino’s titular character is characterized as a “nervous man who lives in a frenzied and congested world.” He deals with the so-called frenzy and congestion by greatly limiting the world that he encounters. Although the world passes by him as normal, Palomar opts for a more refined existence. According to the narrator, this more refined existence is generally characterized by a limiting of socialization and sensation. In short, Palomar seems comfortable with the idea of just existing with himself.

His relationship with the idea of exactitude is also quite peculiar. He craves a profound existence and searches for it by scouring everything around him for meaning. He seems to have this crushing need to see the world exactly as it is. Truth is simply not enough for Palomar. As Kathleen said in her own response, he desires exactitude in “behavior and understanding.” She notes that this makes him a rather dull, tiring man. These are points that I absolutely agree with. I feel that his analysis is, at times, misplaced. He ignores his own shortcomings and his own mistakes in his conquest for truth while mocking others’ follies.

Despite his claimed commitment to exactitude, I’m not so sure that his current way of life is compatible with that notion. He goes over all he sees with a fine-toothed comb and loses the exactitude of reality in the process. Palomar focuses so much on the movement of the waves and, as much as he desires to see an end to their crashing, he’s ignoring everything that is going on outside of his own head. The waves are not the sole focal point of reality for the majority of people, it seems, so Palomar’s view of the world seems very narrow. Although he seems like he kind of person who would argue that his reality is, in fact, truthful because it is his reality, he forgoes a more functional truth while pursuing a more ultimate exactitude of life.

Italo Calvino’s creative work “Mr. Palomar” is interesting in that he creates a character who values exactitude not specifically of language but more so in behavior and understanding, and in doing so becomes an utterly exhausting individual who, in his conquest for profundity, completely loses touch with reality. In this way Calvino both sharpens his description of exactitude while poking fun at those who apply it incorrectly. Mr. Palomar is fascinating in that his pretension is so patently obvious and he is utterly oblivious to it. His striving for exactitude is underscored by his continuous notion that his specific account of things, his accurate perception of them, is imperative on a universal scale. He must witness the moon, the wave, the breast — else how could they possibly go on? Mr. Palomar bears a seeming allegiance to something greater urging him to exactly identify a single wave. Calvino characterizes Mr. Palomar as a “nervous man who lives in a frenzied and congested world,” who “tends to reduce his relations with the outside world,” and “tries to keep his sensations under control as much as possible.” His life views are projected upon his observation of the water, as “the indentations in the brow of the wave must be considered.” Calvino pokes fun at the irony of the situation — effectively communicating that this is not the kind of exactitude he meant — by noting that “if it were not for [Mr. Palomar’s] impatience to reach a complete, definitive conclusion of his visual operation, looking for waves could be a very restful exercise for him.” Such misplaced exactitude is futile, Calvino conveys, as rather than perceiving “the true substance of the world beyond sensory and mental habits,” Mr. Palomar “feels a slight dizziness, but it goes no further than that.” 

Object: My Driver’s License

First Revised Version:

The piece of plastic is as thin as a filament, and yet it tells all. A minute, rectangular sheet with a rounded outline near where vertices used to be resembles a phone, but perhaps the phone takes after the license. The words are miniscule, but they always say the same thing: Month Month Day Day Year First Name Last Name Month Month Day Day Year, but the way they say it holds significance: sometimes, it builds up in a crescendo by the middle of the phrase and gradually breaks itself down, as if it had recognized its own self importance but then realized the err in its ways only halfway through. In other places it camouflages behind what one would dare call a signature, in text so teeny you weren’t even sure it was text, but it was, lurking. The transition from an ocean blue with Lady Liberty peeking over the horizon, thoughts of yes you do belong here, surrounded by squiggles that could be microscopic cells in another universe, to green nonexistence: crisscrossed faint lines trapped in bars where, yes, if you hadn’t noticed the intimidating blue writing and the timid red letters below it at the apex of the license, you would be shocked to find that this person calls New York his home, and that he is under 21. It’s astonishing they don’t try to hide the phrase drivers license just to make sure that you know what this is. Then back to blue, but richer this time: an image of Liberty and Justice in striped dresses of sky blue and sun yellow and scarves that are the opposite color, tied around their waist, with a red robe draped over each of them. Scales in the hand of one and a crown at the feet of the other, while between the two an eagle sits perched on a globe, on the entire world mind you, above a picture of the rising sun, emitting concentric rays as it climbs above a mountain, as a ship sails down the Hudson River, looking for a place to expand to. The only words they dare say are self-important, those that are engraved in plastic are the day you were born and the day you can buy alcohol and the day you cut up this card and your ID number that means nothing to you, but something to someone, somewhere, right? And your signature: of all the salient words on this document like your name and your address and what sex you were assigned at birth and what color someone saw when they gazed into your eyes, these were above the rest, somehow.  The contradictions run rampant when the phrase USA and Not for Federal Purposes are written, juxtaposed with barely any breathing space between them, and where your month and year of birth somehow is not significant anymore when shadowing the day you are now an adult.  

The TSA agent takes one look at the black and white portrait, and asks if he could do an extended search.

Rewritten Version:

Lady Liberty peeks out from the delicate, handwoven blue tapestry that surrounds the intimidating, darker shade of blue words yelling New York State in your face, and the more reserved black and red ones calming stating this was a driver’s license and that he is under 21. USA hides in the uppermost right corner of the plastic, perhaps because paradoxically it is immediately overshadowed by the phrase Not for Federal Purposes to its right. A miniature signature followed by minute, ornamented words that mean nothing to you is followed by a dull gold line and a blue dotted one as you make your way downward to green nothingness. Or that’s what it appears like at first, but bars streaking diagonally rightward are filled with criss crossed waves that bob in and out as they move forward, subtly filling the space you once thought to be empty. Just in case you forgot, words whispering this boy is from New York State and he is under 21 are thrown in there too. Everything you need to know is here: the ID number that means nothing, the date of birth and the day this card gets cut up that must mean something, as they are bolded and etched into the card, and the color someone would see if they took the time to stare into his eyes. And who could forget the fade to white before you hit the black and white portrait of this boy. He looks at you as if he was told not to smile, as if he knows this is the first thing that the TSA officer at LaGuardia Airport will see when he asks for his ID. A nanoscopic line follows, could these be words? The phrase Day Day Month Month Year First Name Last Name Day Day Month Month Year lurks behind what one dares call a signature, but yet this scribble seems important: it is engraved after all, and not many things on this card are: not his name underneath, his address neither, and yet the days he could buy a lottery ticket and when he could buy alcohol are. And lest you think you understand what they deem important, his date and year of birth are not bolded again, even if they were once, but appear to wish to be anywhere but on the bottom left, desperately hoping no one would see its faint gray ink. The spotlight then falls on the same black and white portrait, cutting out a piece of Justice as she holds a scale in one hand, dressed in a striped yellow dress with a blue robe belt, mirroring Liberty, who proudly steps on a crown with her sandals. They both wear a delicate red robe over everything else, and surround a painting of the ascending sun over a mountaintop, illuminating the voyage of a ship barrelling down the Hudson River, looking only for a place to expand into. An eagle sits perched upon a globe, upon the entire world, proudly spreading its wings. And yet his picture is on top of this image, with our beloved phrase that, instead of lurking, rises and falls and curls and shrinks before vanishing. His picture is the only thing that they see.

It took me a really long time to pick an object I felt comfortable enough with to say that this was part of my story, and when I first picked my license it seemed like a boring choice: what was so interesting about describing a document that was all words? But I spent a long time staring at it and seeing everything else that I honestly had not noticed before, and I felt like the only way I could describe this piece was through a structure that told various stories about myself and bureaucracy and a little but of history as well. I think I leaned too much into a narrative structure when I first wrote my description and went for a more methodical way of navigating the license the second time around. The images that I try to invoke are, of course, about the text and the design, which the uncommon descriptors greatly helped with, but I think there is benefit in going beyond a surface level description of the words. I tried to be as intensely detailed as I read from Mr. Palomar, and this allowed me to also manufacture tension in both cases. Both pieces are meant to be intensely charged, even if they are just about a boring drivers license, and I think I managed to get that point across.

Revised First Description:

The talking stick bears a dimension that is roughly the stretch of a matured individual’s arm, the willowy cylinder of its physique culminating in a swollen sphere at its head akin to a clamped fist contesting towards the sky when raised. Yet, when elevated, it commands more potent attention to itself than what it is parallel to. From the outstretched fist being perceived to the talking stick. Must we change the construction of an object meant to command respect so that communication regains its utility?  As I confront this tool intentioned to designate control, instead a feeling of defenselessness devastates me. A feebleness forged in the face of a failure to uphold equitable dialogue in its humblest form, from inside ourselves and our own limbs rather than within an instrument constructed by the hand it is meant to replace the occupation of.

Its body is dressed in minuscule beads, each of which on its own could be cleared off a table in the manner of dust, but when arranged together demand recognition. The dyes of each bead, largely unseen to the eye when isolated, become both clear and vibrant in their harmony while the significances meant to be embodied by each shade emerge. Further, the unity of these beads is stabilized by a core fragment of wood. In considering this form, the structure of human society is shouted to mind, with the lone technique of perceiving meaning and understanding in one individual necessitating seeing the entire crowd while perceiving that of the entire crowd demanding bringing together all characters along our shared roots.

In ultimately realizing the outsized globe capping the head of the stick, the most arduous aspect of nourishing communication is spoken: although the core wood of our collective roots and the myriad of beads and colors of our divergent opinions must constitute the build of conversation, a leading spearhead seems to still be obligatory to finalize the object’s true form. Yet, the talking stick resists the scepter in that it is not itself unless it is spread from hand to hand, permitting influence to be held by and instilled in all and any who grasp it.

Perhaps this device need not then be condemned for its substitution of the up-stretched arm, but rather should be realized as an impermanent, yet crucial tool with the resolve to retrain our sense of how that which it mimics should be utilized most constructively in communication.

Re-written Description:

The talking stick could be said to resemble the raised hand, calling for attention, or perhaps the elevated scepter, silently commanding authority, yet it is neither, so what makes it itself? Further, what constructs the purpose of “talking” in this object – what transforms the humble fragment of wood at its core, an object which is constantly existing around us yet often unnoticed, into a tool?

It is in essence a device of allowance, a stick which intends to permit conversation to unfold in a fruitful, equitable method. The natural wood is thus dressed in a particular manner to command this effect, just as the fleshy body of a person can suddenly give off the effect of authority imaginably through the adornment of a crisp suit. Beads so small that they are almost indistinguishable making up segments of unified, vibrant colors are what the talking stick wears to work each day, topped with a dark, globular mass of a hat. This human-made arrangement on the naturally born form of wood seems to speak to its societal purpose, to what we see that we can impress upon the natural world so that our human world can function.

The bulbous sphere at the head of the stick is what foremost grips my attention, acting as the core of the object’s meaning even in the face of the wood being the core and origination of the object’s physical form. Its dark and heavy mass fills me with a mixture of admiration and fear, in imagining the hand that grips it lifted towards the sky this orb would shout for enlightened conversation, but if that same hand were to throw it down, it could become a weapon.

Although the hand which seizes this object could alter its reality, on its own it seems to aim towards the upward motion of non-violent, tolerant interaction.  I say this in considering its base, a cylinder adorned with the aforementioned beads.  Each bead is small and ordinarily unseen on its own, as our own voices are when we do not bring them into conversation with others. Following that, although the similarities in the beads’ structure allows them to form a clear image when arranged together, it also allows their differences to appear, with divergent colors meant to represent distinctive values adorning the finalized talking stick.

Thus, in considering this object as a whole, it seems to be structured in a way that represents its purpose of promoting productive conversation. A foundation of strength in unity being instantiated in recognizing both our differences and similarities when we come together can be uncovered in the arrangement of the beads, which uplifts the mass of leadership at its crown, pleading for it to remain uplifted and non-violent in its use and exchange.

Process Notes:

When I first glanced at the directions of this assignment, I was confused and under the false assumption that my perspective of my chosen object would not be drastically altered over such a process. While I did come into this in alignment with the shared belief and “vertigo” mentioned in Exactitude that the “possible variants and alternatives” in relation to an argument give me a certain anxiety about what I choose to include and leave out in conversations and descriptions, I had not fully considered the importance of how emphasizing certain parts of an object above others can truly transform essential opinion. After reading Mr. Palomar, I decided to put into practice the act of closing my eyes and looking at the object anew various times throughout my writing, and, in doing so, I noticed a dramatic shift across my revision and re-writing.

Chiefly, I noticed that I without hesitation approached the analysis of the object from opposite standpoints than I had started with in my final re-written description. In considering my object of choice, a talking stick – speaking to my desired goal of discussing how we can better educate ourselves on healthy communication, I first analyzed it from the bottom of the stick up and from analyzing the outside decoration and how it clings to the internal structure, yet in my re-write I transitioned to describing it from its head to its tail and its internal wood to the external decoration that dresses it. The transformation of order in how I addressed these same relationships allowed me to discover potential functions and feelings that the object could produce that I had not originally been aware of.

Following that, I also noticed that in my re-write instead of focusing more so on the similarities between my object and alike others to define it, I began focusing on the dissimilarities between my object and those akin to it which make it uniquely what it is. This reminded me of the discussion concerning Musil in Exactitude in which he is said to have considered how particular ideas or solutions can be brought together to form a general idea or solution. By acknowledging how parts of my object relate to particular shared aspects of other known objects, I could at first give a general understanding of what I was discussing, but in the rewrite I found the importance of pointing out differences from known particular concepts in defining my object so that it could be seen as distinctive.

Lastly, I was in admiration of the way in which William Carlos Williams breathed life into the “inanimate” crimson cyclamen in this week’s reading and felt as though it was easier for me to connect with this object when its description shared qualities that I can or do bear myself as a person. Thus, I attempted to give human-like character and occupation to my object to gain a deeper personal insight into its workings, but I found it difficult to assign meaning to something that cannot speak for itself.  However, in taking a class on The Myth of Reality this term, I have learned the importance of understanding that each of our own realities is based on biased perspective and experience and although not necessarily universal is still a reality; when I embraced this concept and the notion that my description is true, “real,” and “exact” even in the face of it perhaps not coinciding with some universal definition, the anxiety I had experienced throughout this assignment seemed to fade.

WEEK 2 WRITING ASSIGNMENT: The act of description.

For this assignment I chose to write about a table. At first I wrote about the specific table I was sitting at, but for my second try I decided to write more generally about a table. I was inspired mostly by the readings which were definitions of certain words, particularly those from Counter-Desecration. They managed to describe the word while also describing the essence of the word, something I tried to do with my original description and then my second description.

ORIGINAL:
A table. It is round, it is made of wood, it is a medium chestnut brown. It stands on four legs which sprout from a stem a foot off the ground, and the stem continues for one and a half more feet to give the table a height of 30 inches. I sit comfortably with both legs under the table, or one leg folded on my lap and the other on the floor, or legs crossed, or legs crisscross apple-sauce on the chair. I can also rest my feet on any of the legs sprouting from the bottom.

The table has a diameter of 38 inches. Five people, maybe six, can sit comfortably with a laptop or with food in front of them, although we often squeeze as many as eight people at this table. The round table has a ridge at its edge where the wood has been knocked and scrapped at random moments, where spilled coffee and milk has crusted and stained, where palms have discolored the soft round resting place. Across the surface of the table are scattered crumbs, spilled salt, books and water bottles. A stain of spilled coffee rests across from me, completely dry now. The edges are dark and raised, and the deep brown fades into the lighter wood. The table is shinier there. Various dents and chips scatter the surface. There are many, from years to metal and hands and glass accidentally scraping down. Who knows what else.

This table is where we convene to eat, to debate, to relax, to catch up. The table is where we come together, each of us in our own personal space with a comfortable barrier between us, but we connect through words and comfort and proximity. We connect through sharing the barrier, understanding the distance that does not diminish the connectedness.

REVISION:
This table. It is circular, made of wood, a light mahogany brown. It stands on four legs which sprout from a stem a foot off the ground, and the stem continues for one and a half more feet to give the table a height of 30 inches. I sit at ease with both legs under the table, or one leg folded on my lap and the other on the floor, or legs crossed, or legs crisscross apple-sauce on the chair. I can also rest my feet on any of the legs sprouting from the bottom.

This table has a diameter of 38 inches. Five people, maybe six, can sit in content with a laptop or with a plate of food in front of them, although we often squeeze as many as eight people at this table. The round table has a ridge at its edge where the wood has been knocked and scraped at random moments, where spilled coffee and milk has crusted and stained, where palms have discolored the worn round resting place. Across the surface of the table are scattered crumbs, spilled salt, books and water bottles. A stain of spilled coffee rests across from me, crusted dry now. The edges are dark and raised, and the deep brown fades into the lighter wood. The table is shinier there. Various dents and chips scatter the surface. There are many, from years of metal and fingernail and glass accidents. Who knows what else.

This table is where we convene to eat, debate, relax, and catch up. This table is where we come together, each of us in our own personal space with a comfortable barrier between us, but we connect through conversation in proximity or chewing in proximity. We share the barrier, as our platform.

VERSION 2:
A table is a physical manifestation of function and convergence. It is a solid object at which multiple people can sit, or just one who may be joined by others, or just one who needs a resting place. It is often used as a platform, a surface for people to do work or eat or converse. A table is typically at the center of a room, or near a window, depending on its usage. It is considered necessary in classrooms, in dining rooms, in places of comfortable sedentary activity. It is often accompanied by chairs. The chairs should fit under the surface of the table, so that people can sit on the chair and use to surface of the table for their task. People often sit at tables so they can put things on the table, but sometimes that tables serves just as a meeting place.

You can sit across from one another at a table, leaning forward on the surface so your attention is focused on the other person. A table provides a tangible platform for intangible connection, through conversation or food or closeness or eye contact. You can sit next to each other at a table. Perhaps your legs gently touch under the surface or you brush shoulders. Perhaps you crumple up to fit into your personal box at the table. You share the space of the table with the other, intentionally or not.

We often feel flickers of annoyance at singles who hog a table, especially in a crowded room. Probably because we feel flickers of hesitation to share intimate space with strangers. Funny how we flick annoyance at those who flick discomfort in us of our own accord.

Draft 1:

My Granny’s pearls are soft, just like she yearned for me to be. There are no edges. The necklace exists as a collective of little white balls with all the meaning in the world and, yet, I could never quite comprehend them. When I scrutinize them closely, they’re not exactly white. Not exactly. The oh-so-familiar sheen casts back the irregularities of my face. It’s the eyebrows that she begged to have waxed, the acne that cleansers and serums couldn’t fix, and the pale pallor of an indoors-y lifestyle that stare at me, not the elegant, hand-picked gems that make this piece so precious. In truth, it is almost as if they lose their dearness when admired. The perfect glaze isn’t marred by any reflection, any passer-by when left alone in her jewelry box. As lovely as it would be to just let them stay there, to allow them to exist in a world where nobody or nothing can hurt them, that would defeat the purpose of having a necklace like this one, wouldn’t it?

The clasp is gold. It’s 18 karat gold, specifically. Much like the stones that it holds together, it has a way of throwing back into the world everything that it encounters. Its tiny claw has been replaced time and time again, but it doesn’t show. It really has weathered every storm. Through war, marriage, children, college, life, it has been bent and broken, but never beyond repair. Much like its owner, it serves as the “glue” of the system. It pulls everything together, despite the pressure of dozens of pieces, without complaint; when outside influences push and tug, it stays strong and forces the collective to which it belongs to do so, as well.

When the pearls are worn, the whole world stops. My Granny has exited the room and Joyce has glided in. They rest delicately around her neck, only dipping slightly in the hollows of her collarbones. The ethereal ivory quite nearly blends into her skin. “Tasteful,” is what they’re called, supposedly, but I’m not so sure about that. By themselves, they represent southern womanhood. They are southern womanhood, or at least a part of it. On her, though, they’re a calling card. When she wears that necklace, everyone knows that she is la jefa, as my mother would call her. She’s the one in charge. They’re Batman’s mask and James Bond’s suit. They serve as a form of armor, one that’s just subtle enough to be acceptable. She is untouchable in those. Now, I’ve learned that I am, too.

When she gave them to me, I felt the weight in my hand. They were light, sure, but there was a certain heft there that I didn’t quite know how to understand. It wasn’t the first time that I’d felt them. A few months before, they hung around my own neck while I presented research at my first symposium. This time, though, they were no longer borrowed armor. They were mine. She presented me with care instructions: clean them, but not too often, take them to a reputable jeweler if there are any clasp issues, and wear them when you need to own a room. These perfect, little roundnesses were a major responsibility and that part weighed on me more than their physical form ever could.

When I consider them in my own drawer, in my own jewelry box, I am brought back to my younger days. My face no longer ruins their smooth surfaces, but instead adds to them a certain sense of belonging. I’ve learned that I can own a room with or without them and that, much like the clasp, I can be the glue for my own life. They rarely see the light of day, but when they do, it is marvelous. I was never the elegant gem that my grandmother wanted, nor was I the model southern woman that the other women in my life expected. However, those pearls remind me of where I come from. With them or without them, I am la jefa. Joyce is with me, and that’s all I need to know.

Draft 2:

The clasp is gold, 18 karat specifically (my grandmother was a strong believer in investments). For me, at least, its length is the first factor that flags its value; I’ve never seen a cheap, nor new, necklace with a clasp like that. I stare at it and it stares back at me. There’s something about my reflection in the polished metal that is knowing. Jewelry like this is for a time of need. Maybe it knows what I need, after all. I’m impressed by the job that it has done over the past few decades. It holds the milky little stones together effortlessly, never complaining despite the fact that those pearls are heavy. It doesn’t really get enough attention. Everyone sees the pearls and what they represent, the statement that they make about elegance, class, and their respective places in Southern womanhood. It is, after all, a pearl necklace. Tiffany. It was a gift. My grandpa didn’t buy it for the clasp. That’s all I notice, though. I own a priceless piece of finery and all I notice is the freaking clasp. But is that so wrong?

Without that clasp, my grandma’s prized jewels would be nothing but a pile of beads. It takes charge of the collective of pretty little gems and makes it something. It makes it do something. The shiny gold pieces of this oft-ignored thing (I know no other word) work in tandem. Its inner workings are stunning. The claw’s arc-like path as it pivots on its pin mesmerizes me, even as I will its movement in the first place. Despite the pulls and pushes of daily life, of children and husbands and runaway hamsters, it has held strong and forces the preciousness that it holds to do so, too.

Around my own neck, these shiny bits are armor. No amount of patronizing can conquer my admittedly-weak psyche when those stones graze my collarbones, dipping only slightly in the hollow there. She always told me that, with my mouth and those pearls, I could do anything. I forget that sometimes, but this gift reminds me.

When I put them on, I feel the weight of her expectation. The pressure of it all and the guilt that accompanies it is overwhelming. However, much like the clasp that I see so often, I just have to handle it. My grandma always wanted me to be a pretty little gem like the ivory stones at my throat, but maybe I’m the clasp after all.

Process Notes:

Writing in this style was definitely not easy. I struggled to focus on the process of observation in and of itself instead of using it as a method of storytelling. Time and time again, I found myself frustrated with my mind’s inability to focus on the pearls themselves instead of what they represented. In the end, I didn’t really succeed in producing a work of pure observation, but I still think that there’s something valuable that I gleaned from the experience and I wouldn’t have settled on these works if I hadn’t thought that there was a certain degree of observational narrative present.

The first task posed an interesting challenge to my writing style. I use certain types of language to convey the uncertainty that plagues my storytelling journey and, in general, life. I often interweave moments of vague language with moments of exacting language. However, I also notice that doing this sometimes leads to a certain degree of monotony in my creative diction. The exercise that was assigned interrupted my process in a really valuable way. It forced me to break out of my normal ways of writing and to try something that I may not have otherwise considered.

The second task, that of rewriting without reflection, allowed me to consider a new perspective. My first draft was very much so focused on an approach characterized by a big picture zooming into a smaller picture. I tried to look at the necklace as a whole and then analyze each of its individual parts. In the second draft, I explored an approach that was characterized by focusing on the relationship between an individual part and the whole. Although I generally prefer the way that the first approach turned out, I can see a lot of value in my second approach and feel that it would serve my writing well to consider these different perspectives.

First description

The camera of my cell phone is comprised of three circles, with a circle for a flashlight in the right side. The black space between the circles are smudged with vague fingerprints that glisten when you tilt the cell phone under the light. Inside the circle to the left, you could see the lens underneath the transparent layer of plastic. The circle in the middle has layers of circles underneath, and the lens, slightly smaller than the other two lenses, is shrouded within the layers. The circle to the right looks similar to the circle to the left, except that the lens and the surrounding circle is slightly larger.

Revision

The camera of my cell phone is comprised of three circles, with a circle for a flashlight in the right side. The black space between the circles are smudged with transparent, grey fingerprints that glisten when you tilt the cell phone under the light. Each circle resembles a human eye, with the lens as the iris and the outer circle as the white of an eye. Among the three eyes, the eye in the middle has the smallest iris. The circle in the middle has layers of circles underneath, and the lens, slightly smaller than the other two lenses, is shrouded within the layers. The circle to the right looks similar to the circle to the left, except that the lens and the surrounding circle is slightly larger. Each lens glints with the light reflected from the fluorescent lamp.

Re-revision

It is placed inside a rounded hole which is sunken in, exposing the black surface unprotected by the pink, plastic cover. The dark color makes the dust and fingerprints resting on the surface more visible. Looking closely, it is comprised of three circles, and there is a bright yellow circle for a flashlight in the right side. The black space between the circles are smudged with transparent, grey fingerprints that glisten when you tilt it under the light. Each circle resembles a human eye, with the lens as the iris and the outer circle as the white of an eye. Among the three eyes, the eye in the middle has the smallest iris. The circle in the middle has layers of circles underneath, and the lens, slightly smaller than the other two lenses, is shrouded within the layers. The circle to the right looks similar to the circle to the left, except that the lens and the surrounding circle is slightly larger. When placed under a fluorescent lamp, each lens glints with the light reflected from it. Under natural light, however, it remains dim.

Process notes

Although the object is related to the issue I want to tackle (the use of digital media to sexually harass women) I instantly regretted my decision to describe the camera of my cell phone. Looking at the camera, I felt as if I did not have any words to describe the camera but “circles.” Since I am not acquainted with technical terms of a smartphone or a camera, or the kinds of materials that constitute them(I’m still not sure what my cell phone cover is made of) it was hard to find exact words to describe the camera. However, revising for the third time, I think I at least succeeded in making progress.