Template...song of the self?

"I am large, I contain multitudes." ~ Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

In a general use of the term, "identity" can be used to describe "an individual's comprehension of him or herself as a discrete, separate entity."

Human beings, it seems, like to view themselves as unique individuals. Like Whitman, a person may admit his "identity" contains "multitudes;" that is, a single person simultaneously plays many parts or roles. (For example, consider the "about me" section to the right: I identify myself as a student, mother, instructor, writer, kick-boxer, caffeine-addict,and runner). Perhaps it is the very fact that a person can "contain multiple" roles that causes her to believe her identity is unique. This feeling of uniqueness is supported by one's physical appearence. One need only to observe the millions of genetic varitions to see that each person's physical body encases a separate identity. What happens, though, when the physical body is removed? When a person is forced to represent herself in two dimensional, digital format?

Peanut butter and honey

Better known as: subject and predicate. Also known as: noun and verb, person/place/thing and action/state of being. Together, noun and verb create a sentence. Apart - nothing but fragments. Like peanut butter and honey, cocoa and mini-marshmallows, subjects and predicates work best when paired up!

Why the random thoughts on these grammar terms? I'm simply doing my homework, which is to define a key term in grammar...but I am to be creative... What more can I say?

What is a blog, anyway?

Blogs, Wikis, hyperlinks, hypertext...so many crazy techno-terms for online writing, publishing, and creating. Sometimes I wonder why the language used for technology can't be a little more standard and a little less weird! More specifically, I've been thinking lately about the term "blog." I've read enough blogs created by others to understand it's a kind of online journal or diary. But where did the term "blog" originate; what does it really mean?

According to Wikipedia, the word "blog" stands for "web log," a website where the writer offers commentary on a prescribed subject or maintains a personal diary. I guess I haven't really "assigned" a specific topic to my blog, other than it being a place where I can empty thoughts, dabble in creative language, and (hopefully) communicate with other writers about writing.

My next task will be to scout out other blogs...see what's going on in the cyberworld of diary writing, and discover the effects of making one's private thoughts public knowlege.

Candy corn

In the stores I see everything that reminds me of fall, of the start of another school year...spiral bound notebooks; pocket folders in primary colors; packages of pencils, their ends still squared-off, unsharpened. Even my children, not yet school-aged, sense excitement and anticipation in these overly filled store shelves. My boys grasp at pads of colored construction paper, binders decorated with Spiderman or Ninja turtles, and boxes of crayons. I, too, cannot resist, and buy them each a 64-count box of Crayolas, the type with the plastic sharpener tucked into the cardboard, and even as these small cubes, these brightly-colored packages filled with my own memories of childhood rest in the bottom of our shopping cart, I swear I can smell warm wax and feel those smooth wrappers with labels declaring "burnt umber" or "violet" between my fingers.

So thrilling is this small purchase, I scan the shelves for other signs the season is changing. I pass over the notebooks, the binders, the folders, the stacks and reams of lined paper, drawing paper, and doodle pads. There is one item in particular I want to find. And though it makes no logical sense this item would be tucked among the erasers, the white-out pens, and highlighter markers, my eyes probe the school supplies all the same. Just as I imagined the smell of those boxed crayons, my tongue now anticipates a sweetness, a taste so thick with sugar my teeth almost ache. I long for the one food from my childhood that tastes of fall, of the beginning of school and the end of summer's lucious oaks and maples. Candy corn.

Tone-gawa

So I've been thinking...last time I logged in I talked about the blog as my "room." Now I'm not so sure that metaphor works. I think I truly do need a physical space, a domain to call my own. While it it nice to have this netherworld, mysteriously-floaty virtual space in which I can keep a journal, a log, a running display of my rambling thoughts, this blog is not a sanctuary. I guess that's what a room or space ultimately means to me. I remember when I lived in Gunma-ken (in Japan), how I had this perfect space. Along the bank of the Tone River, which ran through the city's downtown, there were these great sakura trees which would bend right over the water, and the sound of the water was loud enough, I could just sit there and hear nothing else. No cars or motorcycles or busses from the nearby Interstate. No yaki-imo vender playing his yaki-imo song from the back of his truck. No schoolboys on bicycles shouting and laughing. Just me, my river, a tree, and a journal. I could write there for hours.

Thinking back, I can't remember even what I would write. Maybe some poems, maybe I was just keeping a journal. But I can see that place; I can even smell it - the ramen shop just there on the other side of the bridge, the smell of the water on the grass. I guess I miss having a place that is all mine.

A Room of One's Own

So we all know that famous line, right? By V.Woolf...what a woman needs to gain fame and stature as a writer...five hundred pounds a year and a room of her own...

For the time being, this blog is my "room." I mean, yes, I do have an office, a literal space in which I can write. But this space is cluttered with textbooks, tax forms, the overflow of my sons' toys from the next-door family room, etc. This space truly is a "storage room," rather than a place that inspires creativity, free thinking, artisic energy.

I like the idea of this blog being a "room." Just floating out there somewhere in the netherworld of cyperspace. It is ethereal and uncluttered. And thoguh not private, it is still mine.

What is a "room?" Especially when it concerns the workings of my mind...