Freewrite (6/2/19) This is indulgent.

What is glamorous? What is glamour?
A glamour or glimmer.
In fantastical worlds, a glamour could obscure from what is truly there. What the reality a situation really is.
Glamorous.
Certain arts are glamorous. Others, I dare say, are not. A musician has moments of glamour. Performances are glamorous. The run time is set. The crowd is locked at least for the first song and it is up to the musician to keep them locked with that first song. Song lists have never seemed so important.
Visual artists sketch and doodle. Some of these may blossom into larger, more intricate works, but the beginnings are often just as beautiful. An image takes no time for an audience to take in, judge, like or dislike. There is a split second time commitment. A split second judgment.
Writing has no such luxury. There are time and care taken both by the writer as well as the reader. To judge a book one must dedicate at least some hours. This is typically a sufficiant time to pass judgment. For many, this is too long. Not when an image, a song, a movie, a Netflix, fulfills a much more satiable human urge for fulfillment. Then the urge is fulfilled and nothing is fixed or learned or better.
The film has the power to change people’s lives, as does visual art, and music. But the sad lack of audience participation lessons the depth at which these mediums touch the deeper workings of the human experience.
If there is no human experience, then what are we doing?
Living in our own world in our own heads. Believing we have the right of it. That we share anything? But in truth, there is nothing to share. Nothing to connect between the dots and claims of existence.
What can be said about art if not that it connects people for a multitude of reasons? Why are the lessons of Shakespeare as relevant now as they were when written? Why do Bob Dylan’s protest songs still touch a cord today? Speak to the issues humanity faces on racial inequality as, justice, just as MLK Jr. also did.

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Congratulations (Freewrite)

The crowd milled about. Every footfall, every “congratulations” broken between the lips of loved ones, echoed in the gymnasium.
Rosie weaved through her congratulated classmates, searching for her parents. Amanda had found her mother at the edge of the walkway as the row of students walked out. Now everyone had returned to the gym, a clip rain starting outside. Everyone smiled and cameras flashed, but many wondered if this rain would be the next to flood their city. Then she saw them.
“Congratulations, honey!” Mom and Dad came rushing toward her.

Mom was first to wrap her daughter in a hug. “Oh, we are so proud of you,” she said.

“Grandmama, Grandpapa is too, and all our family, as far back as Fransisco Guidolio.”
“Thank’s, mom,” said Rosie, with a little smile.

Fox 8 by George Saunders, The Guardian, Oct 2017

Fox 8 is one of the saddest stories I think I’ve ever read. It paints a really tragic picture about the loss of habitat and why foxes are so seldom seen, but also a lot of other stuff.

It’s written in the epistolary form, which is to say, in the form of a letter to humans from a fox. His name is Fox 8.

I’m typically not interested in stories that use a lot of weird spelling as dialect, but seeing that this is a story written by a fox, I forgive all it’s misspellings, mainly because Fox 8 asks that the reader to disregard his spelling because he is the only fox to know Yuman language.

When the rest of his den finds out he knows Yuman, he is asked to read a sign. While he doesn’t know what FoxViewCommons is, readers will automatically fear the worse–and for good reason. Soon the developers come in and destroy the foxes habitat and many of the foxes die.

It is up to Fox 8 to save his den–but not everything goes the way we hope–which is perhaps the point of the piece. Part magical thought piece and part eco-fiction, this piece had me on the edge of tears multiple times and makes me so sad at seeing animals scrounging for scraps near urbanized areas.

A wonderful tale that we could all learn from. (B)