Version 1

As I stand in the diminutive rectangular prism, showered by water from the sprayer directly overhead, I tear myself away from pondering the questions of today and tomorrow and, for the first time, actually take the time to see.

In front of and below my eyes, the metallic snake sprouts from the wall, an oval of dulled chrome, distorting my reflection to the point of unrecognizability. From there, the silvered snake creeps skyward, to a point mere inches above my head, where it forms a handle, a white dulled by hourly use for several years. The handle enlarges and comes to a head, as it were, poked under the chin with dozens of holes, from which the water sprays. The rain from this oblong cloud cascades down atop me and streams to my feet, where it briefly pauses, as if to say goodbye, before it slides down, into the bowels of the building, through the city, and into the Lake.

This box that encapsulates me, the box where I find clarity, is barely broad enough for my elbows, let alone a single splayed arm. Below me, the floor. Mostly white, with some stains of a questionable light brown. The drain, a reflection of the head above, another metallic sieve through which the water cascades. A lone hair or two rest on its edge, perhaps mine, perhaps some past occupant’s. To my back, front, and left, the walls. Walls of tiles of a white I do not recognize. I hope that, when I was five or six, the tiles shone with the brilliance of the white marble they were meant to emulate. However, today, discolored by thousands of gallons of water and thousands of hours of cleaning, the white is unrecognizably flat, the same color as the grayed grout that binds this box together. To my right, the ivory curtain hangs, folds, and billows like a wave of cream, frozen in time. Above me, the ceiling. The singular source of light comes streaming from the center, a sun in a sepia photograph, in the center of the taupe sky.

I close my eyes, stick my head under the water, and return to my pondering.

Version 2 

Awoken from stasis by the sound of a handle twisting, I find myself propelled into the chrome tube by pressure I provided last week. I’ve taken this journey a billion times, a single minuscule particle working with those around me to accomplish the task. I snake toward the sky before quickly being ejected from the mouth of the tube. To me, the cavern I shoot through is gaping, but when I turn back and admire my provenance, I recognize it as but one of dozens of such origins, littered across the surface of an oval high above me.

I crash headlong into the skin of he who turned the handle, and stream down until I reach the splotched floor. I flow towards the metallic grate in the center, and hesitate for one last moment on its edge, peering up and taking in my surroundings. Far above, a sun shines from set deep within a milky white ceiling. Looming on three sides are pearly tiles and grayed grout stretching upwards into oblivion. On the fourth, I get a fleeting glimpse of the outside world under a rippling facade, stretching forever upwards until it, too, meets the sepia sky above.

Process Notes

This was my second go at this assignment, as you’ll know if you saw the old one. I chose to write about the shower, because it is where I do some of my best thinking, including about the issue I’ll be tackling this quarter, and including the moment of inspiration that led me to write about the shower itself, as it turns out. I wrote it out in the order I did for a couple conscious reasons. The first paragraph follows the path of the water from the moment it enters the shower to the moment it leaves the shower in order to add vibrancy to the scene. This is necessary because nobody really experiences a shower without the water, so I figured it was necessary to add its presence. The second paragraph forms the shower itself, hopefully exhibiting the baseline experience of the dormitory shower: a slightly gross, whitish small rectangular prism. By describing the four walls, the floor, and the ceiling, I try to emphasize both what an occupant sees (the gross off-white color) and what an occupant feels (confinement).

In my second version, I address the idea that water is necessary for the existence of the shower as we experience by examining the shower from the perspective of a water molecule.

I’ve been thinking about the difference between feeling and thinking. What role does literature and writing play in evoking these different mindsets? I think its interesting to think of these binaries, of thinking versus feeling, of reason versus imagination. When we evoke the imagination, perhaps it evokes a feeling rather than a thinking, and perhaps all thinking really stems from feeling. Or genuine thinking, believable thinking, has to be felt.

So when trying to write with exactness, I think it is important to evoke a feeling rather than a thinking. This is something that I struggle with in writing, because I think, as Italo Calvino writes, that exactitude comes from three key parts: well-defined/well-designed; evokes “clear, sharp, memorable images” (p. 68); and precise language. Evoking clear and memorable images requires a degree of feeling, being well-designed to evoke imagination. It requires an attention to detail that would resonate with the memory and reimagination of a stranger, or your audience (if they be strangers). I think this is a critical role of writers trying to evoke a sentiment in their audience, especially a sentiment of ignition and galvanization.

This effort is seen very clearly in the collection of definitions from Counter-Desecration. I had no idea what azhigwa meant, I didn’t even know it was a word, and the definition for it is not literal. Instead, it is a collection of precise evocations of the meaning of the word, a collection of sharp images that allow me to feel the essence of the word, rather than reason its definition. Some of the definition doesn’t even make literal sense, the “breathe time” and to “thread one’s hands through the atmospheric filaments,” but it makes sense as a feeling because of the image and imagination the words evoke. It makes me want to feel azhigwa. It makes me want to do something.

In Walter Lippmann’s Liberty and the News, as he describes the press “snooping at keyholes” I pondered Sartre’s concept of “The Look,” which here places reporters in a position of transcendence, agency, and the rest of us in a position of immanence, passively having meaning projected upon us. However, humans do not tend to thrive in positions of immanence and so Lippmann allows for us to gain some much-needed transcendence by “looking back through the keyhole” and impressing meaning on the reporters themselves.

As Allison brought up, reporters and institutions practice a “destructive form of untruth,” producing sophistry and propaganda to position themselves in a “good light” and as Lippmann notes, abiding by confirmation bias. In response, I agree with Lippmann’s call for language training to be necessitated for reporters. However, in continuing to give readers the agency to “look back at” reporters, I would consider the education that “makes men masters of their vocabulary” a central interest of liberty for all people, and that this type of schooling can “transform the dispute into debate” chiefly when both reporters and non-reporters can take part in it. Lippmann points out that “it is difficult to decide just what reporting is,” so how can readers examine the press without any emphasized language training themselves.

Language education is severely lacking in the modern world, which speaks to the type of shared ignorance Lippmann notes from which we all suffer. This piece largely led me to the conclusion that once language training is emphasized in a way that allows people to understand the power of words and means of liberty within them, free speech will not be plagued by “a mere contest of opinion” but will allow for a more accessible, equitable, and open form of communication in both reporting and public debate.

Revision:

On window sill yellowed by time, a grotesque imitation sits on a stark plastic cylinder. Five small dinner plates stacked on each other, tethered by a three-foot extension cord. In its lonesome, atop this plastic podium a fuchsia flamingo made of neon worms waits. The first leg stands strong as straw in its toxic blue bath. The other bent, avoiding the electricity. Her symmetrical body balloons over from its lime roots. They removed her wings and his tail. Streamlined, featherless, flightless. From this a neck stems to support a head drooping in frozen melancholy. Her beak is black as silence. Two checkerboard palm trees loom over her while wearing their cheap shamrock toupees. Blinding fluorescence sets the stage for this one-dimensional standoff by shouting Corona.  

If one prefers a cooler climate, they need not go far. Just three feet to the left the mighty Colorado Rockies challenge the bird. From here one can see the peak of an ancient mountain watches over. The whole world might be visible from all the way up there. Snow caps glow white as if to match the invisible clouds. What is beneath these invisible clouds? No one will ever know. The ancient mountain is dominated by a Coors Light logo larger than any valley or canyon that may have been. A radioactive curly-cew “Coors “ whimsically rests above a bold an even more oppressive white “LIGHT”. 

In tandem, these signs cause an agony my eyes can endure no longer. My gaze falls on the only other object present: white styrofoam clam shell. I release its clasp to find not a pearl, but a week old egg roll. 

Rewrite:

In today’s fast paced, ever changing world, it can seem difficult to do what’s important while also appreciating the world that surrounds us. Luckily, it is not hard to watch TV while enjoying nature (in the modern sense of the word). One must simply walk down the hall and plop down on the couch. This seat has the best view of the television. Not only that, but if it is possible to look a little to the left, even if it is just for commercials, one can marvel at a blindingly tropical oasis. A flamingo rigidly relaxes within its actively stagnant pool. Around her, frozen trees sway in the wind as l the glow of the sun radiates warmth from beneath the water. 

Before returning to your regularly scheduled program, let us travel to a little cooler climate. By shifting attention just a little more to the left, one can gaze upon the vastly fluorescent Colorado Rockies as they shine up above. From atop this peak, it is possible to see everything. Below, the crimson river of Coors carves into the mountainside. And further below, the Light plateaus cut into the horizon. And if shellfish is what you prefer, look beneath the plateaus. Underneath swims a lonely styrofoam clam who has been waiting to be shucked for a week. If you are lucky, there might just be a surprise there. 

For millennia human beings had to go outside to see experience these things but no longer is that the case. Now it can be viewed in all of its neon glory. 

Process Notes:

The initial revision was tough because I noticed I had written many words to describe how the objects physically look, while neglecting to consider the feelings the elicit. I tried to use words throughout that would convey the emotions I felt when relooking at my objects as well as using more descriptive visual details. Even after revisions, I am still finding it very difficult to try to create vivid imagery. The rewrite I tried to experiment more and try to think outside of the box by abstracting descriptions of what I was seeing. After comparing my revision and my rewrite, I realize that the latter is far more vague than I would have liked and does not create much imagery unless the reader has been to this setting or seen similar signs. This could be because when rewriting, I was considering how my objects relate to my main social issue much more and was trying to get a clearer point across, but in doing so, the scene became much too vague. 

I think the way Calvino describes exactitude is what comes to mind when looking at literary arts. Word choice must be of the utmost importance in order to completely capture the feeling of a situation. That is, using precise words to capture the details and nuances of an experience, which is far more often easier said than done. I was struck by how Calvino could so clearly capture experiences in his writings. “The forest on the super highway” completely expanded on in instance a family is going through, distinguishing each character from the others by using unique language for each individual. On the other hand, Calvino’s Mr. Palomar seemed to capture every essence of what one character was feeling throughout many experiences. In each of these works he uses incredibly accurate analogies to describe not only a situation, but the feelings provoked by it. It seems that poems often must utilize the most precision because the words are so few. Each must be carefully chosen for not only its definition or its social/emotional connotations, but its “fit” in the poem as well. This week’s “The Crimson Cyclamen” by William Carlos Williams was an excellent example of how the precision Leopardi implicated. Williams uses words not typically associated with the scene he describes, but in doing this he evokes a feeling in the reader and memorable imagery. 

Thinking about the social aspects of this week, I think both what Lipmann and Calvino may have become more relevant. The persuasive techniques Lipmann describes seem to be used even more today. He may be surprised to see just how petty and distrusted journalism has become. Calvino believes imprecision is caused by over-exposure, as he describes with his analogy about images. Today, people process more words than ever before, which may mean our language is less precise than ever before. 

To me, these readings address two very different, although perhaps complementary topics that require distinction. In my 10th grade chemistry class, we spent a while discussing the difference between accuracy and precision. Of the two major texts we read, Lippman addresses accuracy and Calvino addresses precision (as is the first word of his lecture). While these terms are often conflated, they have notably distinct meanings here. Calvino’s lecture delves into description of the world around us, largely the natural world, and, in his word, “exactitude.” The first thing to note is that he abstains from addressing the accuracy of description, rather addressing the precision of description of the world around us, using the ancient Egyptian word Maat to exemplify what precision means. Maat represented a mythical feather that was weighed against souls. What is interesting to me in Calvino’s use of Maat in this context is that it does not exactly line up with his use of “exactitude” later on. The line in this lecture that most intrigued me is his quote of Hofmannsthal, “Depth must be hidden. Where? on the surface” (p. 93), especially as it related to precision and Maat. The idea that there is information hidden on the surface requires precision. For example, in a purely technical sense, the more information is embedded in a small area, the more precise the instrument required to extract that information. However, on the topic of Maat, the relation is less clear. There is no depth hidden on the surface of that mythical feather, so it appears there are two slightly different meanings of precision and exactitude at play here: the amount of information carried (such as the Maat and to a certain extent Hofmannsthal’s theory) and the precision of information conveyed.

The way this plays out in writing perhaps makes this make more sense when exemplified: a well-placed adjective can be either. A word like vermilion embodies the latter form of precision, specifying exactly what shade of red an object is. A word like “presidential,” for instance, can embody the former, conveying lots of information, but only if used correctly and precisely.

First Observation Attempt:

More than a bubble—which it is often compared to—Mansueto has the shape of a hard boiled egg, sliced in half hot-dog (as opposed to hamburger) style. The egg-shaped dome walls are glass, and held up by long, curved metal pipes that create a sort of checkerboard structure. That is, the pipes span the dome both vertically and horizontally, and each vertically-running pipe crosses a horizontally-running one around every six feet or so, creating little square checkerboard-esque squares where one can see through the glass to campus outside. There are also ten—to my knowledge, completely useless—thicker metal poles. They present more as pillars but I would emphatically argue they are not, as they perform no pillar function. These poles stick up from the light wood floor and are probably 15 feet tall. Almost everything that is not a metal pole or clear glass is the same light wood. There are dining-room-table sized tables that seat four people in chairs made of the same wood and are usually taken by those who arrive early to the dome. Most people settle for the four long wooden tables that seat around 15 people on each side of them. These tables have a slight wall coming up in the middle of them. Between every two chairs the wall has an outlet and a little grey switch to turn on and off a light that illuminates the 5 feet allotted to each pair of chairs between respective outlet-lightswitch square. The wooden chairs have 4 metal legs—the metal is the same silvery color as the poles—that hold up the wooden body of each chair, which is shaped sort of like a bending tongue, with the curvature of new york subway seats. Most chairs have jackets draped over them and backpacks leaning on the metal legs. Nearly every chair is full at 3 PM on a Saturday. People really have terrible posture. They all slouch over their computers, which have notebooks and water bottles and coffee cups from Ex Lib on either side of them. Almost everyone has headphones in their ears, rendering useless the ambient noise machines that fill Mansueto with a machine-like buzz. 

Second Attempt, replacing vague words with exacting ones:

Some playfully characterize Mansueto as a bubble. Its shape is closer to that of a hard boiled egg sliced in half from top-to-bottom, rather than side-to-side, thus maximizing the length of each half. The walls are glass and held up by curving metal pipes that cross each other in a checkerboard pattern. That is, the pipes span the dome both vertically and horizontally. Each vertically-running pipe crosses a horizontally-running one around every six feet or so, shaping square quadrants where one can see through the glass to the intersection of 57th Street and University outside. There are also ten—to my knowledge, completely useless—thicker metal poles, each with a diameter of around 2 feet. They pose as pillars but hold nothing up; protruding from the light wooden floor until they reach a height of  15 feet, they cease to grow and connect to nothing above them. Almost everything that is not a metal pole or clear glass is the same beige wood. There are dining-room-table sized tables that seat four people in chairs made of this wood. These tables are usually taken by those who arrive earliest to the dome. Most people settle for the four long, thin wooden tables that seat around 15 people on each side of them. These tables have a slight wall rising from their middle, forming a barrier between you and the mansueto-dweller studying across from you. Between every two chairs the barrier provides a rectangular outlet on either side. The outlet also includes a grey switch to turn on and off a light that illuminates the 5 feet allotted to each pair of chairs. The wooden chairs have 4 metal legs—the metal is the same silvery color as the poles and “pillars”. These legs hold up the wooden body of each chair, a slab of wood bending like a tongue with curvature similar to New York subway seats. Most chairs have jackets draped over them and backpacks resting on their metal legs. Nearly every chair is full at 3 PM on a Saturday. People have terrible posture. They slouch over their computers, which have notebooks and water bottles and coffee cups from Ex Lib on either side of them. Almost everyone has headphones in their ears, rendering useless the ambient noise machines that fill mansueto with a machine-like buzz. Outside people bundled in coats look down and hurry somewhere, and the mansueto-dwellers, headphones in, slough over their screens, deeply focussed on the work before them.

Last Rendition:

Mansueto is modern, bright, and open. The simplicity and craftsmanship of its makeup highlight beauty stemming from things other than Mansueto’s own architecture. In theory, the glass bubble provides perfect protection from Chicago elements allowing its inhabitants to appreciate the buzzing of hyde park outside. Yet, most anyone who enters mansueto understands that it is not a place one goes when they want to look outward. Even within mansueto itself, despite the inherent openness of its design which allows students to see almost everyone around them, studiers look at their laptops with a laser-sharp focus. This flow state creates a sort of energy abounding within Mansueto; I study there because it makes me feel a solidarity with the hundred people grinding around me, and it pressures me to continue focussing, even when I’d rather look outside. 

Process Notes:

I found it quite difficult to describe Mansueto with exactitude. Franky, it was quite a relief to be able to look at Mansueto through a different lens in the third rendition, as I really struggled with the first two. I think part of what made the assignment so difficult was the abundance of things to describe about Mansueto, as well as my own limited architectural vocabulary. I really appreciated how Calvino’s voice and inner monologue entered his own detailed descriptions, and I tried to allow that to influence my third iteration more. My third iteration was also inspired by the fact that, during my own “looking up” in Mansueto as I tried to describe it, I stuck out like a sore thumb because everyone else was focusing so intently on the work below them. This is part of why I wanted to write about Mansueto. Although I only hinted at it in my descriptions, I think it is an interesting parallel for the intellectual bubble surrounding elite institutions, which is what I think I’d like to explore throughout the quarter. I found it difficult to not write more abstractly about ideas, or even about people (rather than objects) during this exercise, and it made me realize that I have a sort of gap in my ability to use exacting language because I’ve mostly had to use it to express ideas. 

I found myself entranced by the definition of the word azhigwa in Counter-Desecration, which I ended up looking for a “standardized” definition afterwards, which I found to be “now, at this time”. The image of focusing on the now in nature is a very poignant one and one that I think Calvino would be satisfied with, both with the imagery and length of the definition. Calvino states that the problem with language is that it either will have “a certain amount of noise that alters the essence of the information” (Calvino, 91), or “it always says something less than the sum of what can be experienced” (Calvino, 91) Yet, because this was a word I had seen for the first time, there was no prior experience to compare to, and it highlighted just how powerful our choice of words are in the images that they invoke, something that both Calvino and Lippman address, albeit from different perspectives. Lippman decries the use of catch-all words like socialism that mean anything the writer wants it to mean: “If those words are meaningless lumps charged with emotion, instead of the messengers of fact, all sense of evidence breaks down” (Lippman, 85) Instead of sticking to a specific definition and set of images, vague words allow writers to manipulate readers into believing anything could be an example of anything else, and therefore can push their own personal agenda in the news, something we would want an objective point of view from. Adding on to Chloe’s point, as we see the definition of culture evolve as time passes, it can vary with ideology as well (as I suppose a definition of azhigwa from an organization focusing on traveling would not be the same as this one). Lippman does show concern regarding this, but the question of what the exact definition of a word would be still remains at large. It seems unsatisfying to find that the objective definition of a certain word is that of the majority, so I am left pondering what a good solution to this problem would be.