the Plunge

Self Reflection

1.) I'd like to think that I hit MLA as best as I could

2.) The title "the Plunge" just kinda jumped out at me once I scored it over again, trying to work it out into what would become my final draft. What with the jumping and all... it sounded serious and a great way to get across just how I felt about my situation within my group.

3.) I could improve the essay by doing a lot of things, I'm not the best writer in the world. I had to re-write a lot of things from how it started and add some sentences here and there, but there is a lot more to this essay that I would love to put down when I have the time.

4.) Honestly, I don't want for my struggle to come across to the reader- but the warmth I felt when I finally confided in someone whom I thought would reject me instantly, but instead returned with open arms of affection. I don't know if anyone else but me got that, but I really hope so.

5.) Again, lots of things are wrong with this draft. I'm afraid that I don't possess the capacity as a writer to put the entirety of the story that is to text. I should have explained more, I should have gone in deeper with my struggle.

6.) If I went into what we did over the Beach Retreat a little more, I think that readers would have understood a little bit more of what exactly we did (and how fun of a time we had). Instead of summarizing them, I really should have divulged more.

7.) As I said before, I'd like to think that the significance was pretty easy to see at the end. Tacked on, maybe a little, but still significant.

8.) I'll admit that I should have given more back story in my final draft. Some things just didn't come across like I'd expected them to before the deadline was upon me, but others came out really nicely. The opening paragraphs are my favourite part of the whole story.

9.) I jumped from my introduction to my body paragraphs with "When most people talk to God...", and my professor commented on that. While I like it, and some others may as well, I'll admit that it's not smooth, or at least not as smooth as it should be.

So here's my final draft of my narrative. Not much has changed, I'll admit, but I'd like to think that some any questions that need answering (at least some of them anyway) will be taken care of in my response. Please enjoy.

***

Luke Gilbert
Professor Thomas
Composition 1
09/12/12

the Plunge

There was only one word going through my head at the time.

And that word was "jump"

Standing on the twelfth floor balcony of a luxurious ocean-side hotel, splattering myself over the pavement far below me should have been the last thing on my mind. I had never done anything like this before, never ventured out and certainly never hung myself out to dry like I had those past four days. It seemed so simple, the logic so clean, at that moment in time that I actually considered getting onto the railing that separated me from my great plummet and following through with it.

When most people talk to God, they get a variety of answers. I know a guy, a great guy, who swears up and down that God told him to be a Youth Minister. Devoted Christian his entire life, he’d be really good at it. I know another who has overcome great trials and impossible struggle through the strength of her faith, been baptized two years. I knew, and still know, that it isn't a numbers game when it comes to how long you've been a member of your community-- the quality of those years spent always trumps the quantity. What you feel like you’re compelled to do when your God asks you to.

Me? I'd been attending my church for 2 years at the time coming from a non-religious family, having never spent more than two nights away from home, still trying to wrap my head around the concept of recreational church attendance and finding significance in it. In those two years, I'd come to love and appreciate a community that I included myself in wholeheartedly. In many ways, I felt an acceptance that was absent in my life before then, so much so that I didn't particularly mind the differences in religion. I felt so accepted at the time that I was willing to go on a four-day trip to the beach in frigid December to participate in our annual Winter Beach Retreat. The only problem being that, as a non-religious person, I had an understandable sense of not belonging on a purely religious excursion.

However, despite that, I battled intensely with my own beliefs, trying to emulate all the wise words of Pastor Jackson while hiding my conflict from rest of my church and remain a positive atmosphere within the group. Nevertheless, I felt pretty low.

But you have to understand, I had heard amazing things about the Beach Retreat. Another good friend of mine had become a Christian the year before at the same event along with several others. And everyone described it as a moment of such clarity, an epiphany that was impossible to ignore. It sounded perfect to a skeptic who wanted nothing more than redemption, someone for whom all else had failed. So I resigned to myself that if it, that magic moment I had been searching for, was ever going to happen that it would happen there. On a cold sandy beach, that was where my rebirth was to take place.

And I did witness amazing things over the course of the trip. Eight people were baptized out there, in the freezing salty ocean, as a testament to their faith and devotion to their God. I was jealous of that closeness, that sense of connection they must have had with God. A classmate of mine, whom I had a hand in coaxing towards our community, was one of the first baptized; I thought to myself, "Why not me?"

So amidst the longest, coldest, wettest days of my life, I redoubled my efforts to become a Christian.

Where I had been attempting to connect with my peers on a spiritual level already and for quite some time, I bolstered those attempts like never before. I led small student groups where I could, but otherwise I just sat back and absorbed everything I could. However as time passed and questions went unanswered still, I was felt dejected. All around me, people were getting saved and baptized left and right. Heart wrenching testimonies and tears of joy flooded from all directions-- and there I was in the middle of it all, I just couldn't get it. I felt ignored, betrayed, and above all I felt forgotten.

On the third night of our retreat, I snuck out of bed and tiptoed out onto the balcony (for fear of my assigned room mates or counsellors hearing me) for some fresh air. I couldn't sleep, and all I really wanted to do was feel sorry for myself. I did what anyone else would do in my situation, I prayed. Prayed for answers, I prayed for a sign, I prayed for something that I couldn't denounce or rationalize in any other way than the absolute path to righteousness.

And I got "jump."

Not as in "up and down", as in "from the railing"

Needless to say, I didn't. Nor would I, though I did contemplate it for a moment. I went home sad and bitter from my experience at the Retreat. Though, who could I tell the truth to? What would they think? That I was crazy? Suicidal? How could I possibly explain that one, I wasn't a Christian, and two that I was told to jump off of a hotel balcony by a voice inside my head that I thought was God? It turned me off of my church for a long time afterwords. I started bringing other people with me to avoid long drives home where I felt like a hypocrite and a monster.

It would take me a whole year to even be able to discuss my struggle with anyone. A dear friend(ironically, the one who started my church regime three years earlier) insisted that I go to our pastor . However, after much deliberation, I divulged him in the entire truth. I was met with open arms and noncircumstantial acceptance.

He sat me down and told me about how much he had seen me grow since I had first walked through the doors, not just in age but in depth. He admired my integrity and told me that, despite whatever hangups I was experiencing, he was still proud of me and whom I had become. We talked for a long time, me asking questions and him answering them the best he could, before concluding in a prayer.

And I realized, after having just recounted a severe crisis of would-be faith, that my struggle has been a long one: three years and counting with this event serving as the most drastic. In that time, I have evolved from an extroverted attention-seeker (in all the wrong ways) to a tolerant, though agnostic, person- feeling bad for trying to change myself for a group that loved me anyway. While I continue to grow every day, hopefully towards the right direction, I know now that I am a part of something greater than myself, hopefully something that one day I will come to understand as a whole.

the Plunge

I didn't post this in time to make the grade (I'm really sorry about that, Professor) but I won't deny my partner the opportunity to get his grade. So here's my rough draft, unedited. Enjoy, it's kinda personal...

***

There was only one word going through my head at the time.

And that word was "jump"

Standing on the twelfth floor balcony of a luxurious ocean-side hotel, splattering myself over the pavement far below me should have been the last thing on my mind. I had never done anything like this before, never ventured out and certainly never hung myself out to dry like I had those past four days. It seemed so simple, the logic so clean, at that moment in time that I actually considered getting onto the railing that separated me from my great plummet and following through with it.

When most people talk to God, they get a variety of answers. I know a guy, a great guy, who swears up and down that God told him to be a Youth Minister. Devoted Christian his entire life. I know another who has overcome great trials and impossible struggle through the strength of her faith, been baptized two years. I knew, and still know, that it isn't a numbers game when it comes to how long you've been a member of your community-- the quality of those years spent always trumps the quantity.

Me? I'd been attending my church for 2 years at the time coming from a non-religious family, having never spent more than two nights away from home, still trying to wrap my head around the whole thing. In those two years, I'd come to love and appreciate a community that I included myself in wholeheartedly. So much so that I was willing to go on a four-day trip to the beach in frigid December to participate in our annual Winter Beach Retreat. The only problem being that, as a non-religious person, I had an understandable sense of not belonging.

However, despite that, I battled intensely with my own beliefs, trying to emulate all the wise words of Pastor Jackson while hiding my conflict from rest of my church and remain a positive atmosphere within the group. Nevertheless, I felt pretty low. 

But you have to understand, I had heard amazing things about the Beach Retreat. Another good friend of mine had become a Christian the year before at the same event along with several others. And everyone described it as a moment of such clarity, an epiphane that was impossible to ignore. It sounded perfect to a skeptic who wanted nothing more than redemption, someone for whom all else had failed. So I resigned to myself that if it, that magic moment I had been searching for, was ever going to happen that it would happen there. On a cold sandy beach, that was where my rebirth was to take place.

And I did witness amazing things over the course of the trip. Eight people were baptized out there, in the freezing salty ocean, as a testament to their faith and devotion to their God. I was jealous of that closeness, that sense of connection they must have had with God. A classmate of mine, whom I had a hand in coaxing towards our community, was one of the first baptized; I thought to myself, "Why not me?"

So amidst the longest, coldest, wettest days of my life, I redoubled my efforts to become a Christian.

Where I had been attempting to connect with my peers on a spiritual level already and for quite some time, I bolstered those attempts like never before. I led small student groups where I could, but otherwise I just sat back and absorbed everything I could. However as time passed and questions went unanswered still, I was felt dejected. All around me, people were getting saved and baptized left and right. Heartwrenching testimonies and tears of joy flooded from all directions-- and there I was in the middle of it all, looking like I was trying to do Calculus in my head.

On the third night of our retreat, I snuck out of bed and tiptoed out onto the balcony (for fear of my assigned room mates or counsellors hearing me) for some fresh air. I couldn't sleep, and all I really wanted to do was feel sorry for myself. I did what anyone else would do in my situation, I prayed. Prayed for answers, I prayed for a sign, I prayed for something that I couldn't denounce or misclassify.

And I got "jump."

Needless to say, I didn't. Nor would I, though I did contemplate it for a moment. I went home sad and bitter from my experience at the Retreat. Though, who could I tell the truth to? What would they think? That I was crazy? Suicidal? How could I possibly explain that one, I wasn't a Christian, and two that I was told to jump off of a hotel balcony by a voice inside my head that I thought was God? It turned me off of my church for a long time afterwords, I started bringing other people with me to avoid long drives home where I felt like a hypocrite and a monster.

It would take me a whole year to even be able to discuss my struggle with anyone other than a dear friend of mine (ironically, the one who started my church regime three years earlier), and even then I was reluctant to discuss any of it with my pastor. However, after much deliberation, I divulged him in the entire truth. I was met with open arms and noncircumstantial acceptance. 

He sat me down and told me about how much he had seen me grow since I had first walked through the doors, not just in age but in depth. He admired my integrity and told me that, despite whatever hangups I was experiencing, he was still proud of me and whom I had become. We talked for a long time, me asking questions and him answering them the best he could, before concluding in a prayer.

And I realized, after having just recounted a severe crisis of would-be faith, that my struggle has been a long one: three years and counting with this event serving as the most drastic. In that time, I have evolved from an extroverted attention-seeker (in all the wrong ways) to a tolerant, though agnostic, person whom earnestly wants the best for everyone around him- feeling bad for trying to change myself for a group that loved me anyway. 

The Literary Navigator

Alright, so as part two of my "Get These Posts Done Before Class Tomorrow" special event, I'm also going to post my basic free write from class last Friday.

---

When I was a kid, I lived in Arizona.

There was this guy who lived under the overpass (the name of the street I cannot recall, unfortunately). Everyone called him the Navigator, my mother and I (non-locals) included. He had few possessions, being homeless, and tended to keep to himself. However, people were very kind to him and often gave him money. He had an umbrella to keep off the sun (hot) and the rain (rare), and plastic wrap to keep off the (sometimes) harsh winds. He and his dog lived simple lives, of which I had yet to notice.

My Mom asked me one day, my first time actually going over his home, what I thought about him.

I was eight, sheltered and spoiled, and while I don't remember my exact response I'm sure it was something snotty and ungrateful (as most eight year olds are.)

My Mother kindly, though sternly, informed me of his entire life story. He was a professor who had lost everything in a horrible divorce. Not a drunk, nor a junkie as I had (no doubt) presumed. He was a good man, my mother told me, and deserved my respect regardless of social status or earthly possessions. In a dual lesson, my Mother taught me respect and tolerance through the unlikely source that was the Navigator.

---

Soooo... yeah, that's my free write. Comments? Concerns? Feel free, its part of the assignment :P

the Canary Coloured Caravan of Death!! (I was expecting a horror movie...)

As many of you have been assigned (we share the same class...) to read Literary Modules for homework over the week, I have as well. While I read three of the six(?) articles chosen, I would like to share my thoughts and interest regarding chapter five of "Fun House" (or as I prefer to call it by its actual and admittedly much more awesome title) the Canary Coloured Caravan of Death.

The author frames her childhood coping with her father's untimely death through the work of a graphic novel, as well as chronicles the development of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It sounds depressing and, at root, it kind've is in topic as a whole. However, the way that the author's descriptions of family members' actions blends in with the artful rendition of their characters in a way that keeps it from seeming as such. The mother gets remarried (I'm led to believe, correct me if I'm wrong as some of the pages are missing) and the author copes with the lack of her father by expressing "latent hostilities" through odd compulsions that mostly show up in either the bathtub or her diary.

The text is crafted in the way reminiscent of more mainstream graphic novels, and as such some liberties with the actual text can be taken to further shape the story. In one panel the author mumbles something under her breath, and instead of actual tiny words there are simple scribblings in the word bubble to signify that it was meant that it was incoherent and not important.

I feel that the author chose to write this story as a sort of blending between her two great "artistic passions" that she mentions in CCCoD (still cool, even abbreviated) that flow through every member of her home; her talents being drawing and writing- which she does fervently in her youth.

All in all, I think that its an interesting take on a memoir though I am no less glad that I read it.

CANARY CARAVAN, AWAAAAAAAY!!!