Eye of the Story

The Evergreen State College

Category: Week 9 Journal (Page 2 of 4)

kate macmillan wk9

warm night in a sandy maze of crumbling metropolis alley and the sky is orange.

from balcony i take a view and auditory equivalent of view of rubble highrose alley which is alien to me other than universal streetlight glowing orange onto everything. a group of 10 or more boys or young men walk away from the sea down middle of alley street in a clump beating drums and answering my question of what is that sound which drew me to look at alley from balcony 10 or more minutes ago, or maybe it was a cigarette that drew me. i throw my butt over the balcony and it lands on the balcony one floor below, and on the street a motorcycle flows through and past the group of boys and the boys keep walking into the distance and disappear behind a building. piles of sand and brick glow red from the brakelight of a car waiting for someone. a covered woman crosses the street and walks in same direction as the boys, away from the sea. laying on my back the yellowed clouds cover the sky entirely except for patches of sky in the shape of clouds and i pretend they are switched. It is the first time i’ve seen clouds in weeks. at this hour there is not much traffic, the constant horns have stopped. my friend comes out onto the balcony and we kiss and touch. Soon the sky will grow green with early light. laying on the balcony alone now looking up i wonder why anyone wants to live in america, it doesn’t make sense to me anymore. only this does. a year later it feels like a dream.

Happy End of the Quarter! – Cydney Garbino

I’ll tell you one thing, I never know what to expect here at Evergreen. It’s different every time. Twists and turns, fuck ups, let downs, and the most joy and happiness I’ve ever had in my entire life. It’s so beautiful, being surrounded by such infinitely incredible creative human beings. You all hold a special place in my heart forever now. Oh no, now I’m getting all sappy… here’s a haiku:


Eye of the Story

You fucked my whole damned world up

Wouldn’t change a thing…


Good enough.

Namaste, you beautiful souls!

An email from Grandma


I got an email from my grandma the other week. I’ll copy/paste the first sentence here:

well  the  family  is  falling  apart  one  by  one,  has Lis  clled  you??

Then she went on to talk about my relatives who are dying of cancer and being sent back to jail or rehab or, although it seems physically impossible, both––before ending with this:

and  on and  on…  oh  yes my  car would n’t  start,  $650.00 later  and a cup  of the best  coffee  in town  at the    garage  it  is now  fine..Boe  and  I  both  think  I  got  had  by  the  price  but  it is done….and  as  I  said  they had  great  coffee…  Love  you  off  to church, I  better  pray  really hard…. Love  xxxx

So I started writing this:

The coffee at the mechanic was the best she’d ever had. Her son had said she’d been had on the price. Six-hundred and fifty dollars. But the coffee. It tasted like Spain and reminded her of eating grapes in Marbella with her daughter and her grandkids years ago, and the car was fixed, so even though she was in agreement with her son that she’d been had, it seemed somehow like a deal.

Whitman Craig: More Weird Dreams Yay!

Last night I dreamed that I woke up in a shack made of dark grey wood. Pale daylight came in through the cracks in the boards and I went outside to discover that I was in a forest glen covered in wet moss and surrounded by looming trees. Everything was still, in the way the morning after a terrible storm is still, and sheep stood scattered through the grassier parts of the glen. But why did each of them hold one leg close to their coats as though it were broken? My only neighbor in the neighbor in the neighborhood, in the only other shack around, came out and began to tend to a little brown sheep with a back leg at an odd angle. We may have exchanged words; I wasn’t listening.

Thanks Winter’s Bone… at least the dream felt the way I imagined Winter’s Bone to be. Maybe it’s all this creative literature that I have been exposed to over the quarter but my dreams have gotten more vivid and strange. Maybe they are anxiety Dreams but they have an odd way of comforting me in the morning.

I wish I could capture the mood of these dreams and distill them into the imagery that I want for my film. The script at least exists, the good and the bad parts, it has a life of it’s own that dictates how I develop it. But I am still at a loss about what images will pervade the back of my character’s thoughts and projected onto their surroundings. The script is really half a story, the yet-to-be images its ghostly other half. If only I could (Oh how I am getting carried away by fantasies) give these characters images that both unsubtle and comfort them the way these dreams affect me.

I think that the very brief clip I made of fleeting projected images has the quality of what I want, vibrant yet warped, unobtrusive and striking. These images just need content. And on that point I think I’m falling victim to thinking about product before process. They represent subjective view-points anyway, let them be disjointed.


week 9… celestine

It’s dark and windy today. The weather is exhilarating. People encourage me to speak more, to express myself with less reservations and hesitations. I’ve tried, I’ve tried, but I just can’t do it. I don’t think I was born capable. I have such a rigid barrier. I live inside my head. My favorite artists and musicians, I think, lived in their heads too. A lot of my favorites were/are shy and reserved (or so I’ve heard)…..


You know that feeling that comes during an early morning rain, when everything in this world is lined up perfectly?

She thinks too much. Her mind-chatter is endless, overwhelming, disorienting. She walks, she wanders. What is reality, she wonders, when shadows are undefined and sunlight is blinding? What is reality when your friends don’t quite know your name? What is reality when life is nothing but a dream? 

He can see reality in brief glimpses. 

Whenever I feel anxious-stressed-unhappy-trapped-confused-depressed, I need to go into the forest. The forest never fails to give me a new perspective. The forest gives me a glimpse of serenity. In the forest it’s just me and these ancient trees, strong but still swaying in the breeze. 

There’s a guy, I know him sort-of, we’ve shared a few short sentences. He is the most regal person I’ve ever met. He holds his head high, he only speaks when he needs to (never when he’s asked). I only see him in this one context. I see him as a secondary character, a single-faceted human being. He wears dark and pretentious clothes.

I see people walking through tall trees, looking puny and inconsequential. 

Week 9 Journal Entry

Forgive me for posting this a day late. I’ve kept a journal with me all quarter but I can never remember to type things up on Sunday evening.

I just wanted to thank everyone who came up to help me read my script last Friday. I was fine sitting in front of the class until I had to get up and speak. It was my decision to stand, though. Maybe things would have gone better if I had just stayed in my seat, ha. You guys did a great job with the reading and I really appreciated the support.

I’d also like to thank everyone who handed me feedback. Thank you so much for all your kind words and support! I was worried my rushed delivery of the plot would have made it harder for people to feel engaged with my project, but that didn’t seem to be the case at all.

Finally I’d like to give everyone who presented last week a virtual high-five. There are some seriously talented individuals in this class. Thank you for sharing your work with all of us!

My profile on here links to my Facebook. I’d just like to throw that out there in case anyone would like to keep in touch after this quarter, or if any of you artists would like to collaborate/network/share resources in the future.

Best of luck to everyone presenting this week! I can’t wait to see what you’ve been working on.

Journal Entry – Choir Concert

I can’t remember my first choir concert, but my parents can, and they love to bring it up. I was 2 years old, in pre-primary school. I went to a Montessori school that was big on music (choir especially), and they had us singing as soon as we began attending. Every year, there would be a few big concerts in the church down the street from the school, and even though our school was very small, there were several different choirs broken up largely by grade level.

The pre-primary kids (ages 2-3, after which they transferred to primary) usually sang about three short songs, and every kid was supposed to have a buddy from the elementary school. It was always a super cute thing, and because of the age, something usually happened that wasn’t supposed to happen. Most of the time, it was really funny and adorable, like when a little boy one year stood up in the middle of a song and yelled out into the crowd “Hi Mommy!” before being pulled back down by his buddy.

I’ve talked before about my crying issues (read my journal entry from a couple of weeks ago, Camping Trip, if you want to get an idea. It’s funny, I promise), and this concert was no different.

Also, at this time, I had several objects that I was very attached to, that helped to comfort me (though at the concert, they didn’t seem to do anything). The first was what my parents refer to as my “piece of garbage”, though it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. It was just a piece of wrapper from a diaper package or something similar. It wasn’t like I didn’t have tons of toys and stuffed animals, but that was what I loved. My babysitter had actually tied a ribbon to it to make it look nicer. The other things were two tubes of Vaseline of different sizes, which I called “mommy cream” and “baby cream”. I would carry these everywhere with me.

So at the concert, during pre-primary choir’s turn, all the kids filed in one by one and sat down on the stage. Then there was me, in the arms of my teacher, Deirdre, screaming and crying while she was walking me on stage, with my piece of garbage and one tube of Vaseline in one hand and the other tube in my other hand. Throughout the entire performance, I never stopped screaming, and I never sang.

And that was my first choir concert.

(Just so you know, even though it doesn’t seem like it from the story, I loved choir, and I still do. I was in it continuously through all my school years, and I’m hoping to be involved with it in some form or another as the years go by. This is just one (hopefully) funny story, and it does not in any way represent my actual feelings about being in choir, or choir in general.)

Cheryl Harai 3/1/16 Don’t give me insulin if I pass out


 I’m diabetic, don’t give me insulin if I pass out

I wasn’t feeling very well this morning, no real surprise. Some mornings my blood sugar is low when I wake up. Lately, I haven’t been able to eat enough to keep my levels up. I take very little insulin since the surgery. I sometimes resort to candy to correct the lows.  I was out with a friend and got dizzy, sat down and I guess I passed out.  

She told me that she panicked and rummaged through my bag. Seeing the insulin, she was sure that it would fix my problem. So she loaded up the syringe and gave me a good dose of it.  She had no idea what she was doing.  Later she would tell me that she saw on TV that people pass out from diabetes and if they do they need insulin. She thought that she was doing the right thing, and she almost killed me.

When I didn’t wake up immediately, she called 911.  When they arrived, she told them what she had done.  The EMT’s checked my blood sugar and it was 14. It should have been around 100.  They quickly put in an IV and started the glucose water.  A few hours later, I woke, in the hospital.  It took a couple of days for my levels to reestablish themselves.

I had a long talk with my friend, so did my doctor. She had relied on TV and movies to learn about my illness and emergency treatment.  She didn’t understand that it is more common for a diabetic to pass out from low blood sugar, where the treatment is to eat some sugar and then some carbs, then it is to pass out from high blood sugar. And if your blood sugar is high enough to make you pass out, there is lots of warning signs. Giving a big dose, unmeasured of insulin to anyone, is an almost sure way to kill them.   I think the doctor finally got through to her when he told her that.  She was told to always call 911 and don’t try to treat, unless you are directed to by a doctor. And never inject someone with anything unless you are sure you know what you are doing.  

I also have allergies and carry epinephrine in my bag for emergencies. That also has the potential to kill me.

It could have ended so much worse. I’m glad she finally understands that.

Michelle Grinstead Week 9 Journal: The Settling of Dust

Everyone has favorite everyday moments, or aesthetics that happen. I have been thinking a lot about the positive in each day, because I have been struggling to see it. Writing has lost it’s appeal, but so has reading and other types of creating I enjoy. Everything starts to feel like work.


This happens every once in awhile, but winter quarter at Evergreen definitely makes these moments more frequent. It is week nine now, and I know that the break is just around the corner. Just a few more days for me to get through, but there are moments that aren’t work.


This morning as I was thinking about the fact that I have to present this coming week, and that I need to write one last journal, and do one last eval, I just sat up and saw the rain beating against my window and frowned.


Now flash forward about two hours and I am sitting on a couch typing this and drinking coffee and there is sunshine at my back. I can feel the heat from the sun warming my tattoo, and see the dust particles floating in the air. The shadows across my arms of the tree branches behind me, and I remember this moment.


I remember watching speckles of shadow wave in a calm wind with bright sunlight streaming, and I feel calm. Everything I need to do stills in my mind. Even if just for a moment, my day has gotten better. I sit up and start writing again, and I know this is just for a moment, but sometimes I just need that one moment. The one spec of everyday to make each moment float like the dust in the light, like little creatures drifting in the air, peaceful.

For me this is it, writing one last sentence for one last journal, and knowing all I have to do is get through one more week of work.

And the dust settles.

rachel hatfield – untitled

disclaimer: i don’t write poetry



The easel is my sailing mast

My canvas is the sail

My long brush is the harpoon

I’m praying for the whale


The Story

There are days

I wish I’d never met you,

never taste the metal of your words,

the bitter tang of your mood.

There are days

I want to cut off my hand,

knowing that I cannot let go,

yet finding no other way

to rid myself of the ache.

There are days

when words typed 
on a blank screen seem

to bridge

the massive space between us.

There are days

when it feels

like I’m 
pushing every letter

the pores in my skin

to get to you.

There are days

I would give all I have

to find out how this story ends,

because this

is the one

I’m not writing.


amateur experiment with villanelle sonnet structure: untitled


a long walk home, another day gone by

my shoulders hunched and joy still far away

one more week down at Johnson Junior High

a dark form on the pavement caught my eye

her shining feathers spread in disarray

upon the burning pavement of July

a bird with broken wings looked to the sky

and gave a warbling chirp that seemed to say

she longed to spread those broken wings and fly

her breast rose and fell with each belabored sigh

and i, afraid to hurt her, kept away

tried again to walk home, but couldn’t pass her by

I sat curbside beside her, sad and shy

and finally her face did turn my way

her breathing slowed, light fading from her eye

she stilled and with a soft and final cry

she died, a common European jay

i looked again toward the sun and bright, blue sky

and heard in ringing silence her goodbye


The Doctor

Mother is proud

Eight years later,

a hundred thousand dollars invested in

stents and drugs and scalpels.


Long nights working the assembly line for her for

Long weekends at the country club for me.


Another mother,

face pressed hard against the glass.

Her daughter,

the operating table,

hand so small— like a

dime in my palm.




third drink, maybe fourth

twentieth cigarette I’m grinding out with

nervous fingers

thirty minutes since

you called and told me where to

meet you

second dress I tried on

five inch heels pinching my feet

keeping me aware of


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The Evergreen State College
Olympia, Washington

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