The Art of Fact Essays

"Portrait of Hemingway"

So, as it turns out, I actually really dislike everything about Hemingway. I've known this for a while, and it is the kind in which I am stubbornly stuck. I will not stop hating who he was and what he did, and I will never enjoy his writing, not because he was a misogynist, but because I just don't like it.

The assignment technically said "Why you liked," but as I didn't particularly like this piece, I can't abide by that rule. I didn't learn much other than that the person who had the book before I did doesn't understand how to highlight with a straight line, nor when lines are appropriate to highlight in the first place.

And the way it began didn't make much sense, because it was taken out of a larger piece, but was still seemingly out of context. I don't much care for feeling like I'm not getting the whole picture. The style was too clipped for me, and nothing that was being said seemed either important or interesting.

I'm also not sure where this author somehow got this dialogue, or this scene. Reading the intro didn't help on that account, and I am left very confused by what feels a  fictional account of a man I care nothing for, with a very boring scene chosen to write about. I am not sure what the idea was behind writing this, other than as is said in the intro, because it was very much so dull. A chore to get through, some people might say.

Others might call me too harsh, but if by the end of the piece, I was never interested in anything I was reading, I'm not sure how anyone expected me to get through the first page. It seems to equate to someone telling me about every lunch they had for a week: overly detailed for something so dull. The into said that people found it devastating because they wanted to believe that he was a good person, but it's just devastatingly boring. I don't need confirmation that Hemingway was a horrible person. It's just common knowledge, at least as far as I'm concerned.

"Lady Olga"

This piece was much more engaging and witty. It didn't pretend to be anything other than what it was, and wrote in clear, concise writing. The person it spoke about was interesting as well, which held the majority of the story. It's a life that we don't hear much about. I genuinely enjoyed the piece, although it was written like any newspaper piece might be, as I've noticed a lot with profiles. It lead me to wonder why people do that, and don't, instead, try to make it at least a little different.

It takes more skill than one might think to write out the average newspaper article, but no one appreciates that because they're just so darn dull to read. The word choices are all just so neutral most of the time that it gives you no sense of emotion or danger or enticement, and this is written in the same way. Miss Barnell is what carries the entirety of the thing, with her stories and her uniqueness.

The removed narrative may help her to shine through, but I also wonder if there is a good middle ground.

My Face

[Inspired by "My Face" by Robert Benchley.]

Some mornings, when I'm drawing in my eyebrows, my nose seems to take up most of my face. It is those times when I take the time to cover it up and look and imagine what I might be with a different one. I know that I'm too fickle with my own appearance to actually change it, nor would I be able to justify the money. I'm stuck with it, but that doesn't mean I'm happy with it. 

I was told that the nose determines the facial attractiveness of a person. 

 

But that's okay, because I don't always hate it. Some days I wake up and the line of my jaw looks particularly pleasing in the yellowish light of my dorm room and the faint white sunlight peeking over the hills in the distance and held off by a pane of glass and blinds. I tilt my head a few times on those days and smile at myself before going about with my morning routine. 

Being a woman, and being a woman who sometimes bothers with makeup, but only after 9 AM, I spend a lot of time staring at my face. And sometimes only a few inches from the mirror as I try to make an arbitrary line on my eyelid as straight as I possibly can, and then match on both eyes. 

 

Makeup can be dangerous. As it turns out, there are rules. And there are things you need to keep buying every six months, lest you end up with an eye infection. When I first started wearing makeup, just a little bit of mascara, in high school, I ended up with pink eye because no one had told me about that rule. I remembered lying down on a pile of blankets in the living room, taking pain medication that would put me to sleep because although it wasn't oozing puss, my eye did feel like someone was scooping it out from the inside. 

I didn't know what caused it until much later, so I didn't put the blame anywhere, although whether it would be me for not knowing what to do with old mascara or the media for telling me that I needed it in the first place. 

But I don't know if it was something wrong with me, or some failure for advertisers to get on my brainwaves, but I never thought that I absolutely needed makeup. I believe that I have proven often enough that I don't feel it necessary to put on before leaving, particularly if I know I'm just going to get up, shove myself into some clothes like an overstuffed sausage, and head off to class without much time to contemplate whether that zit needs covered up or not. 

 

My face is ever changing enough that I feel as though no one would notice a day without mascara, although that's likely not true. To other people, my face probably stays the same. They don't devote the same amount of time watching the expressions that it makes in the mirror, looking at all flaws from just half a foot away. 

 

Looking so close at your own flaws has got to have adverse effects on your self esteem. Three percent of women would never let their significant other see them without makeup on, and that figure apparently means just...forever. It isn't as though makeup hides who you are as a person. Your face still looks the same underneath, but to the 33% of women who have gotten up before the person they are dating to put on makeup secretly, perhaps the line isn't as fine. 

 

Hell, I do bother to color in my blonde eyebrows most morning, and yes, I do feel naked without them colored in, to an extent, but I still like my face the way it is. Even if it never looks the same from day to day.

Seeing: Response

"It's all the matter of keeping my eyes open. Nature is like one of those line drawings of a tree that are puzzles for children: Can you find hidden in the leaves a duck, a house, a boy, a bucket, a zebra, and a boot? Specialists can find the most incredibly well-hidden things."

I like what this section is saying, about looking for hidden things and looking harder for the things. It resonates with the rest of the piece, regarding the rest of the essay and parts of it about blind people, because seeing, for them, was work. It took effort, like a person who was deaf and then gets a cochlear implant. It takes effort to hear for the first time as an adult, as it does when you see for the first time. But, at the same time, it can work for people who have always seen. It can be work to actually see the world around you and not just let it go past you without really looking. People who can see take it for granted.

"When I was six or seven years old, growing up in Pittsburgh, I used to take a precious penny of my own and hide it for someone else to find."

The beginning of the piece indicates wanting to hide something and have it found, and although it goes on to talk about seeing, it seems to end up being more about finding. Finding through seeing, and finding the beauty in things that you wouldn't have looked at more than once. A penny isn't something that most people would find wonder in, but to a child, it's great, because they don't know what money is worth to people who need to deal with it.

"I used to be able to see flying insects in the air. I'd look ahead and see, not the row of hemlocks across the road, but the air in front of it."

I love the way that she talks about her as a child focusing on the small things and looking not at the distance, but at something as insignificant as the air, and the small lives that affect people. I think that it adds to the effect the piece has to include this sentiment, and it's phrased beautifully.

"'Well, that's how things do look,' Joan answered. 'Everything looks flat with dark patches.'"

Even though it's dialogue from someone, this line stopped me in reading the story, because I felt that I had to sit and try and see it that way. I tried to stare at something and see it in two dimensions, but it didn't work. I love the addition of the way that Joan saw things after her sight was given to her through surgery.

"Why didn't someone hand those newly sighted people paints and brushes from the start, when they still didn't know what anything was? Then maybe we could all see color-patches too, the world unraveled from reason, Eden before Adam gave names. The scales would drop from my eyes; I'd see trees like men walking; I'd run down the road against all orders, hallooing and leaping."

There's a sense of jealousy here, that she didn't get to experience that altered sense of sight, look at things in the same way, and I think it's how I felt while I was reading about certain things in the essay. She's after something that's different from the rest of what the world sees, perhaps something special, and that altered sight might give that to her. It's a surreal image that she plants in your head, but it's still not enough to get you there.

Three Essays From Short Takes

["Disclaimer," "Moon Snail," and "The Khan Men of Agra."]

Although, on the surface, each of these stories seems to be about something different, not related in any particular way other than the book that binds them together, but they're all written in a specific style that I admire. They all focus on on moment in time, describing it, talking about this one time in their life. They elaborate, and then they extend it to mean something else. Every one of these stories seem like they're just going to be a simple narrative about a past event, and then grow bigger and bigger. For example, in "The Khan Men of Agra," she says, "I like to think it was a sweet kind of victory for us both," referring to her opening up and trusting another human being, and the reward that she got out of it, as well as what he got out of showing someone the truth of his city. She's implying a sort of wonder that you can only get out of opening up and letting another human lead you blindly.

And in "Disclaimer," although he is more overtly making a point throughout the entirety of the piece, he is still defining a moment in time. He's also defining a feeling, a sense of immortality and timelessness. But at the same time, that's not all he's talking about. He's looking back on a time in his life, but also inflating it to mean something else, to expand on the notion to show that people in books are inevitably about people that we know, that even when we're writing fiction, we write about people that we know. "Write what you know," they say, but J.K. Rowling never went to wizarding school. But inevitably, whether we know it or not, everything comes from something that we know, and that is inevitably what he is trying to point out.

"Moon Snail" is less about a moment, and more a focus on the one being that is the point of fascination in the piece, the moon snail. It supplements itself with information that was researched and descriptions of imagination and what the snail looks like. But by the time she ends the story, she hasn't said anything explicitly, but there is a suggestion of a bigger idea. She's set out to disprove this idea that something that's small can't be beautiful, and ends with an almost grotesque image of snails and their viscera. The entire time, she discusses the idea of a painting of the snail, because painters bring beauty to things that we don't think of as beautiful in our day to day lives.

And that's what these stories are doing. They bring beauty and grandeur to small moments and small things that go unnoticed, that fade away in the memory or fall to the sides of peripherals. It's bringing to life the idea that you can bring joy and life to things by focusing on the small things. They focus on the small to bring meaning to the whole picture, rather than just experiencing life and trying to take it as a whole. Because sometimes the beauty is in the small things.

In Which There is Physical Description

She's shorter than I am, perhaps about five foot six inches, although she doesn't like to wear shoes and oftentimes goes around in her bare feet. She maintains her hair short, above her shoulders but below her chin, and it looks golden brown in the light of the sun, but flatter under dull florescent. I don't think it's her real hair color, but who am I to judge? It's soft, too, when you touch it, which I haven't, but I know people who have. When she looks at you, her eyes are blue, with hints of green around her pupils. There's always a hint of teasing, or joy. You wouldn't want to see her crying. When she's drowned out that sense of wonder, you know that something is horribly wrong. And she always smells inexplicably of pastries, although I've yet to see her baking or spending inordinate amounts of time in bakeries or coffee shops.

When she speaks, she has people entranced. The words that she says don't matter as much in light of the beauty that is her voice. She doesn't say good things; rather, she's cruel and vicious. She doesn't know when to stop, or where he boundaries are. She's mean. But it doesn't matter, because people fall for the tone of her voice, like she's an angel and these are merely her battle hymns. She doesn't like people, but people like her. She could rule a kingdom with an iron fist, and she could bring it down without much thought to herself. She'd just keep on the way she always has, oblivious and self-absorbed.

I'm A Hateful Being

I hate introductions. Particularly when they're significant in length. A few pages, I can handle reading that. I'm sure it was riveting to the middle aged man who wrote it, but sometimes his opinion is just...entirely too boring, too conceited for me to deal with. I'd rather just read the rest of the book, please.

I hate tortellini. It doesn't matter what the filling is, what sauce you try to disguise it in. I hate it. The texture, the taste, the shape of it is entirely unpleasant because all I can think of is tasting it on the way back up, combined with cherry, anti-nausea medicine that I'd choked down only minutes prior.

I hate my stepfather. I hate the things he says. 

I hate when people smoke while they're walking. I hate smoking in general, but it's especially rude when you're walking in front of other people, not caring what toxins you're making them breathe in or if they have a severe reaction to accidentally breathing it in. I've had to duck off to the side and throw up because I wasn't expecting someone to be smoking on the pathway.

I hate em dashes. I'd prefer real punctuation. 

I hate acephobia. I hate it the most from the LGBTQA+ community, and I hate it the most when people don't realize that they're being horrible about it. I hate being told that I'll "find the right person" that I "must be boring" or that I "must have been sexually abused as a child". I hate it when people claim that acephobia doesn't exist while hating on asexual people.

I hate that so many people think that women's bodies are public forum. I hate that people assume the motives of women and girls because of how they dress or act. I hate that I am expected to take up less space or cower in a man's presence and I hate that I am supposed to smile because my anger, my hated, makes me ugly in their eyes. I hate that I can't go through my life without being subjected to the whims of men, but men can go through their lives without thinking about a woman's existence as a person.

I hate that I'm so hateful.

Gidget

When we first got my dog, my brother and I were terrified of her. There is no mistaking now that she is anything but vicious, her paws aching with arthritis and sores, and she spends most of her time lying in her dog bed and being picked on my the bigger, younger dogs of the house. She's just a small, plump, old pug, but when she was a puppy, she had boundless energy.

She would chase us up the stairs of the condo, leaping with her little legs over the gaps in the stairs. That was something else we were afraid of: those gaps. We thought we'd fall through and die, that Gidget would slip through and her teeny legs would snap in two. Because we were children, these were just the kinds of things that we spent our time worrying about. It wasn't as though we knew any better. We thought that was all there was to fear; nothing scarier than that played a role in our lives.

We feared puppy bites at our ankles instead of starving to death, something that our own relatives had dealt with. We feared unrealistic plunges into the basement, but we didn't think about being kidnapped, because we were optimistic and young.

Eventually, that real fear grew into a game of fear, a joke because how could we have been afraid of something so small and harmless? We started pretending to be afraid of her, but it wasn't real anymore. We would dangle our feet between the gaps in the stairs, pretending that it made us brave when we knew that it didn't. And my puppy grew older and fatter with time, two surgeries, and a broken leg. We looked back at her and thought of how silly we were to be worried about her jaws when there was so much more out there to be afraid of.

I Remember

(I kinda wrote a scene, but here it is anyway.)

I remember the burnt down farmhouse in the field behind my mother's house that my brother and I would climb out to. It's captivating, and it's crumbling. All of its majesty is in the past, in its broken, brown bricks and in the root memory of plants growing between the cracks. The wind hits often when we wander out, casting a howling in our ears and the strong scent of burning in our noses, so fresh it's ad if it's happening now. The floor is now all grass and weeds, littered with bones--from what, we don't know. They just are. Pieces break and crumble in our hands like sand between our fingers, plants bend and break and crack beneath our heels. Sometimes, if the wind hits just right, we get a bit of grainy brick dust in our mouths, and it tastes like something old that we don't understand. Perhaps we're drawn to it, my brother and I, because it's like us; all that force trying to knock it down and it still has one wall standing. No one bothers to ask how it got that way, and no one cares, because we can make up our own past if we want to.

Scene Add-On: Casper

"In the winter, my mom's van (named Casper for its coloring) made the loudest noises that it ever did. It stuttered and whined and echoed around the garage before it was too filled with clutter to fit the vehicle. I don't think that we ever really liked that thing; my mom regretted needing a mini-van, and it filled the garage and entryway of the house with the terrible smell of rotten eggs. But it was the way that I got to school and from my father's house in the afternoon after I walked home.

That van was always a mess, but in the wintertime it was even worse. The cold air of Ohio made the metal creak and groan even when it was completely safe, and my stepfather worked on it at least once every two months, or so it seems in retrospect. I liked to close my eyes and listen to it when I was having a particularly fantastical day. I daydreamed a lot, got called the weird one in the family, but I liked to get lost in my mind.

My mind could turn the engine noises and hissing exhaust pipe into something different if I just subjected myself to the back of my eyelids. I pretended that I was somewhere else to escape where I really was. As long as I couldn't see the dank garage and dirty silver paint of the van, I could be anywhere, from a spaceship to a rickety, old boat. I made up elaborate situations to go along with these sounds, to supplement this fictional reality that I had created.

But then I would always hear the sound of my mother beckoning me into the house and I would leave that world behind."

 It was often that imagination that saved me, in the end, from some of the horrors I would rather not have faced. Everyone has a sob story; I am no different. I don't really think that anyone wanted to focus on their family's shortcomings. Mine was simply this: my two younger half sisters were loved more than my brother and I were. I know that was how our stepfather felt, and it was how our mother acted.  It was just something that we learned to live with.

Even though she probably loved us all the same, I think that the reminder of who we were and the past mistakes that we'd come from were often too much for her. I stayed out of her way; I took to my room, to my journals, to my solitude of the mind, where I could just relax and let be. It was so much easier to focus on someone else's problems, particularly if they were fictional and I knew that they would win in the end.

It can be funny, though, the want to reflect only on our best moments, but finding ourselves drawn only towards the worst. Pain can plague you, twist the figments of your imagination into twisted caricatures of themselves.

And those worst moments aren't always as bad as they'd seemed. I had it better than some people; we actually had a vehicle, even if it was clunky and obnoxious. But pain doesn't work relatively, does it? There's no way to compare it like a sandwich at elementary lunch, no way or exchanging your problem's for someone else's.