Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Writing about Your Own Personal Geography
Choose a spot that brings back a rush of sensory details—sights, sounds, smells, textures, and tastes. It doesn’t need to be an enormous natural wonder like the Grand Canyon. Try describing a private spot—a certain tree in your backyard, a basketball court, a relative’s dining room, the corner of a city lot, the interior of a closet, or a window seat that catches sunlight. As you think about the specifics of this place—its details and sensations—you’ll probably remember a dominant impression, a cluster of images, or a person connected to the place. These are all part of your internal landscape. Write a few short descriptive paragraphs with as many details as you can.
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The area that brings back a rush of sensory details in my internal landscape, is the beach that our family lake house is in, in Dune Acres, Indiana. It is a small private beach, that you can reach from a set of long steep stairs. As you walk down these narrow wood stairs, you can see a view of all Lake Michigan. The stair have railings only on one side, and the steps are very close together. At the top of the stairs you can see the grass that surrounds them on both sides. There are dunes and the grasses wave in the wind and glare brightly on sunny days. Upon walking down the steps, one can see kayaks, rafts, and fire pits that neighbors have left in the sand. The view is expansive and full of sky and water. On a nice summer day, the sky is blue with white fluffy clouds. The water shines brightly as it reflects the sun light. Upon stepping off the stairs your toes sink into the hot, grainy sand. Your feet squeak as you tread down the remainder of the dune into the beach. There are small pebbles that rest on the shoreline of the dark blue-green water. As the waves roll onto the shore they create a dark imprint, that appears to lighten as the waves roll back away. Typically the waves are gentle and create a breeze, along with a soft and gently background track. There are typically several other families on the beach, sitting under umbrellas, on towels, with coolers and chairs, and toys. You can hear children playing, and parents chatting and drinking. There is often laughter and excitement, although it can be a very serene and calming location. The smells of the water and the hot sand invade the nose as you lay under the beaming sun. The light is bright, clear and fresh. The wind gives the sense that you are getting a more pure form of oxygen in your lungs, which is almost cleansing. Often when eating lunch on the beach you can get little grains of sand in your teeth that taste salty, and plain, but will crunch in your teeth later. The beach always reminds me of lemonade and sandwiches, and there are always family and friends around celebrating and relaxing together. Overall, it is a beautiful setting, and one of my favorite places in the world.
ReplyDeleteI remember the first time arriving in Peru's international airport. I was excited to see the country that my entire family was from. Upon arriving in Peru I noticed my clothes had dampened, the humidity eating away at the fabric of my shorts and even my carry-on bag. When we entered the baggage claim, the atmosphere was that of a flea market on a sunny summer day. There was no air conditioning and I noticed this right away. It was odd to notice no air conditioning in the airport since it was almost midnight when we had arrived in Lima, Peru.
ReplyDeleteWhen leaving baggage claim, my mind filled with curiously on what I was going to see. Heading through a terminal crowded like sardines, I faced a crowd of about one hundred curious faces. They were the typical Peruvian person, short about 5'5" and dark like the color of premium roast coffee.
When I finally passed this crowd of people I exited the airport into the mayhem of taxis and cars. The only thing I could hear was the sound of honking and distant sounding Spanish that was being shouted across the airport. The smell in the air was a mixture of garbage and sweat. I did not like the smell at first but after waiting in the sticky humid weather for about half an hour or so, one adapted to the smell. It reminded me of when I went to Greeley, Colorado and I felt I was the only one who could smell the cow manure. It was the same feeling.
The Meadow-
ReplyDeleteThe meadow by my home is a large field of soft grass with a small swampy pond to one side that is hidden behind tall brown grass and weeds. A tree sits to the side of the pond and the land near it sloped slightly downward towards the rest of the open landscape. Even when it reaches triple digit temperatures, the ground beneath this tree always feels clean and cool. The soil is always soft and moist. It smells of rain and soil.
The deer often lay here to keep cool and to rest. It feels isolated though beyond the grassy lands of the meadow there are individual houses spaced far apart. Each of these houses looks different and seems to tell a unique story. They look down upon the meadow envious of the freedom and peace that is set within its bounds.
Under the tree you are alone. It is as if no one can see you or hear you unless you call upon them. Cars drive down the street that meets the meadows rocky edge. They cannot see you. When the sun begins to set and the bugs begin to buzz there is nothing quite as peaceful. There are only the sounds of the far off cars and my puppy sniffing softly at the green blades of grass beneath her. I can feel the dampness of the earth below me and feel the cool air moving in with the night. The meadow feels cool and brisk under the evening sky and a breeze begins to flow through the trees.
Every summer my mother, my father and I go to Lake Dillon for a week or two and stay in a condo on the lake. I find it very relaxing up in the mountains by the lake and feel as if I am at peace. My favorite spot is this flat sanded area where one can find thousands of flat rocks to skip on the water. My mother, my father and I have been going to that spot for years and just sit or lay down and enjoy the fresh air and the sound of the wind blowing over the lake. The freshness of the water is very evident as well and there just seems to be the perfect temperature of around 68 or 70 degrees. I have gone to the spot by myself before just in order to relax and think. There is a bike path that runs around the entire lake and runs right by what my family and I call "the flat rock place." The sounds of bikers can be heard from the spot along with an occasional dog or two running down the path with its owner. The spot overlooks the lake and the numerous sailboats on the lake being propelled by the freshness of the breeze. We can also see the condo we are staying in from the spot and multiple other housing units around the lake. The lake is surrounded by mountains and therefore, really gives the sense of seclusion and freedom at the same time. Along with relaxing my family and I throw flat rocks on the lake and see who can get the most number of skips. Lake Dillon is probably my favorite place in Colorado and I plan on visiting it and "the flat rock place" every year to come.
ReplyDeleteWhile I was a student at the Interlochen Arts Academy (Traverse City, MI), one of my favorite places to clear mind was upon the benches of Green Lake. Virtually everything around the lake was green; sonorous oak trees, fragant plants, and subtle hints of seaweed grazing the sand beneath your feet. Contrary to the lake's name, the sparkling blue water seemed to always bring a relaxation and longevity to one's breath, which for some, could only be paralleled by the sound of a caressing whisper.
ReplyDeleteI always found myself able to suddenly not care about my daily matters, the sound of the water is really what I remember.
The thought of the "backyard" of my condo on Lake Dillon in Colorado brings so many sensations to mind that I can practically feel them as I'm sitting here in class. Out the door, down three flights of concrete stairs, turn the corner and hop the gate, here I am in the crisp, cool fresh air being caressed by the smooth gentle breeze of the lake. I feel the tingle as goosebumps cover my skin; it's chilly by the lake no matter what time of year. The sun radiates down onto my face, warming my core slowly. As I breathe in, I notice that distinct mountain smell. The one that never fails to give me deja vu. The pungent scent of pine fills my nostrils then down to my lungs and overwhelms me with tranquility. As I look up, I see the rolling hills near and the giant intimidating peaks in the distance. The sun reflects not only the clear glassy water, but also the snow on the tip top of the highest, farthest peak. I can hear the waves as background noise as the crunch of the gravel beneath my feat tries to drown it out. Birds are chirping as if they're singing to me, telling me that this is the most vivid memory I will ever grasp. Everything is so jagged and pointy, from the pine needles to the points of the peaks, the splinters in the dock to the tips of the sailboats, but somehow it all seems so gentle and smooth. I want to run a hundred miles, breathing deeply and always looking forward. I want to swim a hundred strokes, shivering in the cold water, but being warmed by my carefree thoughts. The animals surrounding me are abundant, but rarely seen, although I can feel their presence. This place isn't just a place, it is my weakness.
ReplyDeleteDuring a harsh, winter rain in my old house in the tiny town of Livermore, California our brown wooden plank fence fell into our neighbors yard. Our neighbors, were like family to me and with the fence down I caught a glimpse of the beauty of their backyard. They had a large garden full of vegetables and sunflowers, they had a rose garden with every color rose in full bloom. They had a deck and a pool and a large grassy area. They backyard seemed much more mature than ours. Our backyard had a basketball court, and and deck and a pool and some grass, yet the beauty of their backyard stood out more. I do not know if it was the people that cared so much for their home or if it was just the plants themselves. However, I remember the scent of the roses and the overwhelming rain that filled my nose. The air was moist. Everything was soaked. The clouds still were covering the sky so that no sunshine was able to peek through. Even though it was gloomy the fence is what brought us together. Most of that brown wooden fence was broken, so through the next few days we got new pieces of matching wood and painted it all with clear coating giving the wood shine. As we resembled the wall to my neighbors beautiful backyard, we made a door. A door that would allow me to go into the most beautiful backyard in my eyes anytime of the day. That door, or as we called it the secret door, looked like all the rest of the fence. It was brown, it was wood, and it shined in the sun, but it was four planks of wood that seemed different. There was a smell to it, it smelled more like the glossy paint then any other part of the fence because we didn't want to get splinters. On one of the panels there were two hinges which allowed for the door to open, and on the other side there was a silver shiny lock that would allow entry from one yard to the next. I was so excited and anxious for the fence to be complete. I remember the day the secret gate was complete the sun was shining, the air was warm, and everyone was happy. I feel like through the secret gate both backyards beauty was unleashed and there would be nothing else like it. This door was a door that I would intimately know as my childhood years progressed.
ReplyDeleteIt was my favorite place to go after a full day of school, which in those days back in middle school, were usually very trying. Hidden away from everyone else in the dark, stone guest bedroom in our house was a large rectangular window, situated near the floor with dusty panes of glass filling in a wrought iron frame. I would go in and sit on the windowsill, and snuggle up next to the glass. It was like being in a very tiny, thin room. The windowsill was wide enough for me to sit on it comfortably, and was made out of a rough, dark wood different from the lighter, tropical woods that made up our termite-infested floors. One wall was the window, the other was the thick canvas curtain that sheltered me from everybody else. On the other side of the ledge, across from where I sat, was a pile of my half-filled sketchbooks.
ReplyDeleteThe view from the window was entirely unremarkable; I had a decent view of the gardening shed, the side of the house and the wall that ran around out property, all made out of dismal grey volcanic rock. The stones were probably local, but still from this angle, I couldn’t see the volcano looming over the city in the distance. I could see, poking over the wall, the bright leafy tops of trees, and the roofs of neighboring, cheerfully painted concrete houses. There was never any sunlight streaming from the window; it faced north, towards a patch of sky that the sun never passed though, leaving the guest room dark, cave-like, and unwelcoming in an ironic sort of way.
The air was always thick with humidity, thicker in the summer during the rainy season, but at least during those few blissful months, it wasn’t as stiflingly hot as it usually was. The room, even when I was blocking it out with my canvas curtain, smelled powerfully of rich, tropical Mexican dirt from the garden, of rot that was slowly starting to take our floors out from under us, and distantly, a faint smell of caramel from used dishes I had left lying around, licked clean but still smelling like chocoflan, my family’s favorite dessert.
The little telivision on the counter is showing some sort of nature program on the habits of fish. I'm not really paying attention to it but instead listening to my cousin and aunt discuss it. I'm sitting in their kitchen at the island that has the garbage disposal built in. The light that is coming through the window can't decide if it wants to be sunny or gloomy. It's somewhere between bright and dark. I feel like that's always how it is in Chicago. There I can see the various magazines on the counter in which my aunt has marked some places she thinks we might want to eat or things to do while we're in town. She is so funny with her brow furrowed as she talks to my cousin about the fish, like she's confused but thinks it's a funny conversation at the same time. As it always is in this kitchen. The chickens on the decorative tiles have been there since i can remember, as well as the little TV. The two stoves are there, off to the side where my aunt always cooks the turkey and side dishes for Thanksgiving. I can always see this room full of people on Thanksgiving, family but not close family. That's why I like just being here before they get here. It's nice to catch up and sit there and take in my aunt's house and thier family. I know the smell in here, kind of like a lingering smell of good cooking, even though I don't think my aunt really ever cooks. I don't know what else it could be, but whenever I'm there I notice it.
ReplyDeleteI will always remember the hot, humid air and the smell of gasoline surrounding me at Mergellina, the port at the bay of Naples. Every summer, my family and I spend a week on the beautiful, romantic island of Capri. In order to get to the island you must take an aliscafo. I can hear the loud chatter of the Italian women, I can see sweat dripping from a woman's face as she fans herself with her boarding ticket. I enter the cooled, air conditioned boat and take a seat. The ride over is bumpy; waves are splashing against the window next to me. The smell of sea salt fills my senses. We arrive on the island, greeted by chaos. I depart the boat, again the potent smell of oil and gasoline fill my senses. I walk down to the water and dig my feet in the warm, coarse sand. I collect crushed shells, tiny rocks, and broken glass. I'm starving! I walk to the nearest cafe..mmm the coffee smells rich. I order a caprese panini, my absolute favorite. I can taste the red, ripe tomatoes, creamy buffalo mozzarella, tasteful basil, and thick, fresh bread. I know I am in Italy. Women on the beach sunbathe with their bathing suit tops off; they are so free, there is nothing between their bare flesh and the warm sun. She has several rings on her hand. All gold. They glitter in the Capri sun. She is drinking a bottle of san pelligrino, rehydrating herself from the dominant rays of the sun. Her skin is golden; she is perfectly bronzed. You can see the sea crystals in her dark black hair that rests against her back. She speaks beautifully, her words sound like a song. I take the funicolare up to the piazza. The pink bougainvillea flowers catch my eye. The trees are waving in the wind.
ReplyDeleteThe smell of fresh clothes hangs on the railing, first shirts, then sweaters, next the dresses, and finally the pants. Everything color coated and it rightful place. White walls with textured patterns are covered by the vast amount of clothes with carpet that lay the floor of a creamy color. Sitting in my walk in closet it is a place to hide, cry, and think. No one knows I’m there or for what reason. It is a place I grown to love, it is a place I can go to when I want to be alone, and it is a place for me to relax and escape the world from its chaos and dismay. I can still hear the sounds of the family doing what they always do, but the comfort of seeing nothing but the inside of my closet; it hides all of the pressure of school, family, and life. It is a place to escape and enjoy when I want to be alone. It gives me time to find myself when I feel like I’m in such a rush. To sit and relax it slows me down from this chaotic place I call life.
ReplyDeleteOver this past winter, the mountains have become a spot very close to me. Vail and Beaver Creek have seemed to become my second home. The landscape is beautiful. Up on the top of the mountain and looking out to the distance, I see what is breathtaking. It is something indescribable to those who haven’t been there. It’s incredible to see what seems like the whole world. The other mountain peaks, filled with snow, the fir trees guiding the paths of the ski runs, the big blue sky open for the sun to come through and shine upon the pure white snow. It’s a place that can be described as heaven on earth.
ReplyDeleteThe very top of Beaver Creek will always rush memories back into my head. Of course the picture described above is one that comes to mind first and will never go away. However, the memories of the people are there as well. Sure, there are tons of people. The crazy bright colors and patterns of the snowboarders, doing their tricks in the air, and the sleek ski lines of the gentle skiers. However, all these distractions and strangers mean nothing to me. This mountain brings the memory of my closest friends. This is where my 4 friends first taught me to ski. Thinking of this mountain will always bring their faces to my mind. Their jokes and comments pop into my head as I tried so hard to make it down the mountain without falling. Despite the various skill levels of us all, we were in it together. Going down without leaving anyone behind. Stopping for lunch at our favorite little picnic spot right in the trees. This spot is in the middle of the mountain. Right by and in the fir trees, waiting for us to sit there, take some time off, and enjoy the mountain. The fluffy white snow serves as our seat and the wilderness as our host. Being there in that moment is the best feeling ever. You can relax and just take in earth’s natural beauty. It is something truly special, irreplaceable, and indescribable.
The first thing that popped up into my memory while reading this prompt was Cape Cod in Florida. This place brings a lot of sensory details in thought because its a place my family and I would go and relax on our boat when I was younger. When I think back on this situation I taste the sea breeze and oreo cookies that we ate while sitting in the sun. I also smell the tropical sunscreen my mom put on all of us children. My favorite part of this place is that it reminds me of the time my family used to spend together when I was younger. Also, I picture my brothers battling out in the inner tube behind the boat as we coast down Cape Cod.
ReplyDeleteI can also feel the heat on my face and back and then the following days sun burn after a whole day in the sun. When thinking back on this place I think its very interesting that I can picture specific times and images and smell the salt water and even feel the breeze on my back. One of the most memorable times when thinking about this place is the music "When a man loves a women" playing out of our boat speakers while my mom and I sunbathed on the front of the boat.
This place will always be in my memories and I don't think i'll ever forget the times I used to spend there .
Since I was two years old, my family and I would pack up our bathing suits and tennis rackets and head up the coast to our beach house every summer weekend. The house is in a gated area right by the beach filled with numerous homes that all have similar looks and even landscaping. Because the house is in a gated area, my parents were always comfortable letting my brother and cousins and I run free. 50 yards away from the back door is the Pacific Ocean. 25 yards away from there is the pool, hot tub and tennis court. 75 yards away from the pool are the train track, where we spent hours upon hours individually placing old pennies on the tracks and anxiously waiting for the trains to squash the coins and spit them out in the rocks close by. As much as I’ve loved those tracks and the skinny dirt trail to the beach and the warm pool after freezing in the salty ocean, my favorite place is the meadow.
ReplyDeleteThis huge, open area of thick, green grass served as the soccer, football, kickball field for my brothers and cousins and I. Everyday, we would head to the beach after a big breakfast, play in the ocean-surf, kayak, paddleboard, swim, skim board- until lunch. The crew would head up to the house for sandwiches or hotdogs then make our way to the meadow. Popsicles in hand, the oldest ones would select their teammates and set the rules of the game. The manmade stream in the middle of the meadow was always used as a sideline or safe zone. Whether we were playing tag, three flags up, or just throwing the frisbee around, the meadow has always been a place for my competitive family’s sporting events every weekend.
Yet, as I got older, I especially loved the meadow for its wide-open space. Late at night, after my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins were asleep, I would sneak down the spiral staircase and tiptoe past my brothers passed out in front of the tv. The second I opened the back door, a loud echoing of the local frogs and crickets would greet my ears. Unlike home in Los Angeles, the stars at the beach illuminated the night. I would walk up to the meadow, shoeless and phone less. The wooden beaches at the top of the stream were ideal for stargazing. I would lye down and patiently await shooting stars, meanwhile reflecting on the weekend’s activities and adventures. If the shooting stars were sparse, I would sit up and stare at the four oilrigs far off in the distance. The rigs twinkle and glow multiple colors in the night, beautiful and inspiring. Because the meadow sits 50 yards away from the ocean, I particularly recall the constant sound of crashing waves in the distance.
As I got older, the meadow became a place where I could figure out my simple daily dilemmas and even life questions. It was quickly an intimate place for me to escape to. When I finally took boyfriends and friends to the meadow, I realized that this open space wasn’t as significant to them as it was to me. Of course I would never consider describing why I am attached to this place, because my reasons were somewhat ooing and gooey. Yet, I knew that when my friends or boyfriends and I were spending time at the meadow, the others just wanted to steal the shooting stars for wishes. They weren’t and (as I figured out) couldn’t possibly suck up the atmosphere of the meadow that I have always been grateful for.