READ READ!!! Blair can makes sentences!!
This was my "Personal Statement" or "Admissions Essay" for Furman. I kind of liked it and thought I'd post it here.
Below it is a document called "The Fetus and the Fork". This was an essay assignment that I was given in my application for the Herman Lay Schollarship. I was assigned to write a narrative using three of the four words "Balloon, opposition, fork, subway". I think you'll enjoy it. Give me your thoughts.
1. Personal Statement
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Pieces of Me: A Brief Autobiography
Imagine for a moment that you are sitting on an old-fashioned, but comfortable, sofa. It is a mildly tacky shade of peach with roses and oak leaves emblazoned all over the fabric in colors that make you think of prunes and old women’s false teeth. Across the room is a large wooden desk that is barely visible under a cloak of sticky notes, photographs, magazine clippings, haphazard pieces of homework, antique grammar textbooks, a lonely goldfish, well marked rough drafts, and bright bouquets of pencils in lime green jars. Presiding over it all is an archaic brass lamp that hovers above the pandemonium on the desk with a distinguished air of wisdom gained by years of faithful service. It is hooded by a parrot-green shade and hums sleepily in the quiet of the room. Now look past the slouching piles of paper, the goldfish, and the leaning tower of tea cups; find the little girl in the midst of it all. Picture her clacking away at her keyboard with a look of concentrated determination. Soft yellow light from Sir Lamp of the Parrot-Green Shade washes her face and illuminates her eyes. Sitting comfortably in her frumpy brown chair with her right foot tucked tightly underneath her, she cocks her head to the side and begins to bite her bottom lip, searching for the right words.
You have entered, for a moment, into the life of a busy high school student. The girl in the middle of the tumultuous desk scene is me, and this is where I have spent the majority of my quickly fading high school years. I look around the top of my desk and the comfortable clutter makes me almost smug with a warm sense of ownership. All of the items on this desk tell a story. They weave together a panoramic view of my life from past and present. Everything here tells a little bit about me. At my elbow is a stack of paper that is quickly advancing towards a height of eight inches. It is the “Manuscript Mountain”, and in it can be found the many novels, stories, and poems that I have forged. Above my head are photographs of friends and family. There I am hanging from a ridiculously tiny rope on the side of a rock face. There are my pictures from the medical mission to Peru. That tarantula climbing up my neck in the depths of the Peruvian jungle looks hungry! What amazing memories I have gathered over the years.
On top of my often-grumpy and ill tempered printer are several Norton Anthologies of Literature and Poetry as well as a copy of Strunk and White which is a little worse for wear. All of these I have read, cover to cover, for pleasure. My friends get a good chuckle out of my reading preferences, but there is no shame in Strunk and White!
Other things that dawdle in the dusty crannies and recesses of my desk include a pair of worn out ballet shoes full of holes, a beautiful karate certificate, several bright posters promoting hours of entertainment at the Holly Theater where many a time I have “trod the boards”, and a well worn Bible.
As you can see, I have collected somewhat of a giant scrapbook of my life in this corner of the house. I hope that from your imaginary perch on the tacky peach sofa you have observed all of these pieces of me with interest, or at least amusement, and learned a little bit more about the person that I am.
2. The Fetus and the Fork
It was eight o’clock in the hollow belly of the subway. A train had just screamed by, full of blank faces and flickering electric light. It sucked all of the sound out of the tunnel and left behind it a thick, sticky silence. In the silence I watched a solitary red balloon bumping with lazy longing against the ceiling of the subway tunnel. It said not a word, but I imagined that if it had found the courage to speak it would have told me many things about a longing to be free.
“I am a balloon in the womb of a subway, but I was not made to stay here. I was made to fly in the light of the outside world!” the balloon would declare as it bumped and wobbled and pushed against the cement walls in a weak effort to escape. I noted that the balloon was all alone. A little girl sat beside me, smelling of peanut butter and Lysol, but she did not claim the little red balloon.
“No one wants you,” I said to the balloon, “Why should you be allowed to go into the outside world? Why are you even allowed to live here?” Oh, how pretty the balloon looked as it bobbed its head at me in sadness because I did not understand. “Why are you here?” I asked again with mounting frustration.
The balloon only shrugged, “I did not choose to be here in the belly of the subway, but now that I am, I yearn to emerge into the light of the outside world.” Again the balloon pushed all of its fragile body against the ceiling for freedom! No one wanted the balloon. No one needed the balloon. No one knew about the balloon... except for me. For all rights and purposes the balloon belonged to me. It had come to me, after all. I was suddenly overcome by the burden of ownership, and I hated the balloon for throwing itself into my life. Shoving my hands into the deepest pockets of my coat in anger, I was surprised when my fingertips met cold steel. I grasped the metal and pulled it out to see what it was. It was a fork that I had stolen from the cafeteria. Quietly, with the stealth of a cat, an idea began to creep around my mind. “It is my balloon anyway…” It was my choice whether the balloon should live to see the world outside the belly of the subway. Moving suddenly, and deftly, I punched my fork through the balloon. When the abortion was complete only the dimpled shreds of slightly damp rubber and the forlorn remnants of a limp ribbon lay at my feet. I was completely justified, of course! It was my balloon. It was my choice.
Below it is a document called "The Fetus and the Fork". This was an essay assignment that I was given in my application for the Herman Lay Schollarship. I was assigned to write a narrative using three of the four words "Balloon, opposition, fork, subway". I think you'll enjoy it. Give me your thoughts.
1. Personal Statement
--
Pieces of Me: A Brief Autobiography
Imagine for a moment that you are sitting on an old-fashioned, but comfortable, sofa. It is a mildly tacky shade of peach with roses and oak leaves emblazoned all over the fabric in colors that make you think of prunes and old women’s false teeth. Across the room is a large wooden desk that is barely visible under a cloak of sticky notes, photographs, magazine clippings, haphazard pieces of homework, antique grammar textbooks, a lonely goldfish, well marked rough drafts, and bright bouquets of pencils in lime green jars. Presiding over it all is an archaic brass lamp that hovers above the pandemonium on the desk with a distinguished air of wisdom gained by years of faithful service. It is hooded by a parrot-green shade and hums sleepily in the quiet of the room. Now look past the slouching piles of paper, the goldfish, and the leaning tower of tea cups; find the little girl in the midst of it all. Picture her clacking away at her keyboard with a look of concentrated determination. Soft yellow light from Sir Lamp of the Parrot-Green Shade washes her face and illuminates her eyes. Sitting comfortably in her frumpy brown chair with her right foot tucked tightly underneath her, she cocks her head to the side and begins to bite her bottom lip, searching for the right words.
You have entered, for a moment, into the life of a busy high school student. The girl in the middle of the tumultuous desk scene is me, and this is where I have spent the majority of my quickly fading high school years. I look around the top of my desk and the comfortable clutter makes me almost smug with a warm sense of ownership. All of the items on this desk tell a story. They weave together a panoramic view of my life from past and present. Everything here tells a little bit about me. At my elbow is a stack of paper that is quickly advancing towards a height of eight inches. It is the “Manuscript Mountain”, and in it can be found the many novels, stories, and poems that I have forged. Above my head are photographs of friends and family. There I am hanging from a ridiculously tiny rope on the side of a rock face. There are my pictures from the medical mission to Peru. That tarantula climbing up my neck in the depths of the Peruvian jungle looks hungry! What amazing memories I have gathered over the years.
On top of my often-grumpy and ill tempered printer are several Norton Anthologies of Literature and Poetry as well as a copy of Strunk and White which is a little worse for wear. All of these I have read, cover to cover, for pleasure. My friends get a good chuckle out of my reading preferences, but there is no shame in Strunk and White!
Other things that dawdle in the dusty crannies and recesses of my desk include a pair of worn out ballet shoes full of holes, a beautiful karate certificate, several bright posters promoting hours of entertainment at the Holly Theater where many a time I have “trod the boards”, and a well worn Bible.
As you can see, I have collected somewhat of a giant scrapbook of my life in this corner of the house. I hope that from your imaginary perch on the tacky peach sofa you have observed all of these pieces of me with interest, or at least amusement, and learned a little bit more about the person that I am.
2. The Fetus and the Fork
It was eight o’clock in the hollow belly of the subway. A train had just screamed by, full of blank faces and flickering electric light. It sucked all of the sound out of the tunnel and left behind it a thick, sticky silence. In the silence I watched a solitary red balloon bumping with lazy longing against the ceiling of the subway tunnel. It said not a word, but I imagined that if it had found the courage to speak it would have told me many things about a longing to be free.
“I am a balloon in the womb of a subway, but I was not made to stay here. I was made to fly in the light of the outside world!” the balloon would declare as it bumped and wobbled and pushed against the cement walls in a weak effort to escape. I noted that the balloon was all alone. A little girl sat beside me, smelling of peanut butter and Lysol, but she did not claim the little red balloon.
“No one wants you,” I said to the balloon, “Why should you be allowed to go into the outside world? Why are you even allowed to live here?” Oh, how pretty the balloon looked as it bobbed its head at me in sadness because I did not understand. “Why are you here?” I asked again with mounting frustration.
The balloon only shrugged, “I did not choose to be here in the belly of the subway, but now that I am, I yearn to emerge into the light of the outside world.” Again the balloon pushed all of its fragile body against the ceiling for freedom! No one wanted the balloon. No one needed the balloon. No one knew about the balloon... except for me. For all rights and purposes the balloon belonged to me. It had come to me, after all. I was suddenly overcome by the burden of ownership, and I hated the balloon for throwing itself into my life. Shoving my hands into the deepest pockets of my coat in anger, I was surprised when my fingertips met cold steel. I grasped the metal and pulled it out to see what it was. It was a fork that I had stolen from the cafeteria. Quietly, with the stealth of a cat, an idea began to creep around my mind. “It is my balloon anyway…” It was my choice whether the balloon should live to see the world outside the belly of the subway. Moving suddenly, and deftly, I punched my fork through the balloon. When the abortion was complete only the dimpled shreds of slightly damp rubber and the forlorn remnants of a limp ribbon lay at my feet. I was completely justified, of course! It was my balloon. It was my choice.