Maria Bernardo
Paper #1: “Rhetoric and the Rhetorical Situation”
February 2, 2007
2007: A Rhetorical Odyssey
English 230-020: Advanced Composition
Dr. Kevin Mahoney
2007: A Rhetorical Odyssey
The sun is down and the evening quiet, my soul is not at rest. Over and over I replay the images that I have been subjected to in the past weeks, like some Clockwork nightmare haunting me in my waking moments; it is hard to believe that I have made it out. I used to love basking in the sunlight, book open in my lap as I sat next to a window or, on a warm day out on my deck sipping coffee and expanding my knowledge. Then a dark cloud with no silver lining was cast over my happier days of reading. The dark cloud and the burning droplets of acid rain it spewed down upon my once sunny day, “A User’s Guide to Rhetoric.” I was brought to tears as my windows were boarded shut, seeing as though I could not read this book with any outside distractions. There were no distractions to be had though, in the wake of the firestorm brought by this bastard book, my sunshine and roses turned to brown grass and dust. The overbearing shadow of P-Dog, standing over me, myself, the fire-hydrant, and P-Dog with leg lifted peeing down nonsensical affirmations that I could not understand, seeing as though I could only plead one-sidedly.
I began my painstaking journey through John Ramage’s “A User’s Guide to Rhetoric” on Wednesday January 17th, already two weeks ago. It is hard to believe on my voyage home, from which I had set sail off of a devastated beach, that a mere two weeks
Bernardo 2
ago my journey had just began, seeing as though it has felt like decades of eternal unanswered questions and pure hatred for the one called Ramage. As you can tell from my blog postings over the past two weeks, I fell into a seemingly endless whirlpool of question and fear. The only thing that got me through was the knowledge that I was not alone. It seems that I was not the only one. I am not the only survivor! I met the other survivors, and spoke with them, discussed with great pain and some breakdowns, the cruel burden of carrying “A User’s Guide to Rhetoric” in our book bags as we climbed the Everest of Barnes & Noble rejects.
Now in the aftermath of this nuclear abomination, my peers, my comrades and I are left to sift through the ashes of the world we once knew. A cloud of dust covers what was once a playground of knowledge, and left behind is the cold shell that represents the pain and horror of the past two weeks. When I first found myself in the company of the other survivors all we could do was recap our journey, starting at the beginning, Chapter One. I was running through a dense forest, I didn’t know where to, but I was scared, and the sweat was stinging my eyes. I hopped over broken branches and tripped over stones, left bloody and broken I began to weep, “What does it all mean?” I wondered. Sitting in the thick undergrowth I held myself, rocking back and forth, when it seemed all of the trees began to rumble and shake with laughter. They were laughing at me! “Silly fool,” they said, “You won’t make it out of here alive! You should just turn around and sell the book back while you can still get a full refund!” I began to panic, I did not know which way was up, I threw up a little in my mouth. Then the words like vines started creeping towards me, locking onto my ankles and trying to pull me into the ground.
Bernardo 3
“The law is considerably more ‘methodical’ than rhetoric and has in place procedures that operate almost like algorithms to resolve routine legal issues with little or no intervention by human agents.” (Ramage, 22) “No!” I screamed despairingly, “Please, no.” I thought, this is the end, and then I remembered my father’s words. “Maria, stop being such a goddamn baby and get your work done! I’m not paying for you to fail out of school.”
That was what I needed, the kindest, most gentle words my father has ever spoken to me gave me the strength to move on. Armed only with my orange highlighter, the machete of this jungle book, I freed myself from the grip of the tangled words and sentences. Slicing away conjunctions like and, or, and but as I slowly made my way through. My highlighter, I held in front of me like a Saber, I heaved it heavily, slashing sentences to pieces. “Whatever was meant by those who wrote the words originally is exactly what they should mean today.” (Ramage, 23) It fell before me and shriveled. Just then “…by those who wrote…” started thrashing about like a worm with it’s tail cut off, so I took my highlighter in both hands and stabbed right through the middle like a samurai defeating his enemy. I bent down on one knee, and smelled the ground, like a wolf, I was part of this jungle now. I began to run again, but this time, I knew where I was going, I had to find my way out. I cut through the brush very slowly and carefully, afraid that I might fall again and that would surely be the end of me. I could barely see the way it was in the gloom of this forest, but night was quickly approaching. It was getting colder, I was hungry, I had to stop and set up camp for the night. What terrifying night terrors waited in the shadows, lurking behind trees and under rocks? I set up a fire
Bernardo 4
and warmed myself by it; I pulled out my flask of Southern Comfort, for the only comfort my sorry heart could feel. Then my stomach rumbled, so I went through my knapsack and found my slow cooker. Seeing as though there was no Burger King in site, slow-food was the only way. I set the slow cooker over my fire and watched it heat up the pork ‘n beans I had brought along. Ripping off a chunk of Italian bread from the loaf I looked above at the umbrella of tree leaves.
“The production of fast food is, in short, the culinary version of motion.” (Ramage, 31) I heard it whispering in the wind, it was just my imagination I thought. “The production of slow food, meanwhile, is quintessentially and act.” (Ramage, 31) I panicked. Was I hearing things? Was the forest mocking me again? “Who said that?! Is anyone out there?” I looked all around me, I seemed to be alone. All alone in the darkness, the whispering wind the only voice around me, I looked around the camp, checked inside my tent, nothing. I was imagining things. Insanity would be my own downfall; I had to find my way out. Then out of the darkness, a low, growling sinister laugh, followed by “Each meal, or ‘case’ as it were is an expression of the local conditions, ‘the circumstances’ as it were, as well as being like all meals of the same name.” (Ramage, 31) I doused my fire, took my bread, flask and pork ‘n beans into my tent and zipped it up tight, I ate and fell into a restless sleep.
The bombs woke me up. I heard explosions all around me “And yet arguably the most important function served by rhetoric is the work it does in service of identity formation. Who we are, who we wish to be, and the amount of control we have over either of those tow matters depends significantly on our rhetorical skill.” (Ramage, 33)
Bernardo 5
the bombs screamed as they devastated the forest around me. I left my camp as it was, risking nothing, not even picking up my trusted highlighter as I ran as far away as I could from the ringing explosions. I found a stream somewhere in the forest, I began to follow it. Surely it would take me to civilization, a civilization that you did not need an entire Webster’s dictionary to communicate with. As I followed the stream I felt the ground rumble around me, I knew I was being followed, by something huge. Frightened I turned
to find myself face-to-face with the one they call “P-dog” a maniacal giant. Its tongue was forked and hung out of its mouth like a wild fishing lure. Its fur was matted and mangy, and it had fangs as thick as boulders, and as long as branches. And God, don’t get me started on that breath, for Christ’s sake, like gargle or something.
I’m not going to lie, I was scared shitless. I tried to reason with it, pleading, and arguing one-sidedly, “Hey listen, I know we could work something out. If you don’t eat me, I’ll buy you a beer, would you like that? Um, yeah, there’s no bars around here though, soooo…well I’m sure you know your way around here pretty well right? Hows about you show me how to get out of here, and I’ll take you to a really great bar I know of, it’s got outdoor seating right next to a fire-hydrant, you’d love it!” But it was apparent that P-dog had nothing to say to me had nothing to say to me, it just stared, head tilted to the side and tail thrashing. Finally P-dog let out a terrible roar that nearly made me pee a little. I picked up a rock and threw it, as hard as I could, in between P-dogs glowing red eyes. That only made it mad. I didn’t know what to do, so I jumped in the stream and began swimming as fast as I could away from this giant. I could hear its footsteps running along the bank, snapping saplings in half like a Kit-Kat bar. I went
Bernardo 6
under the water in an effort to get the giant away from me, and it worked. P-dog sat dumbly on the bank for a few moments, then caught sight of a squirrel and went chasing it into the heart of the forest.
I came up for air gasping and coughing, I struggled to keep my head above the murky water. I treaded water seeing where my options led, the stream forked off in two. To one side was a raging rapid bubbling and gurgling, “Before there’s an agent or a rhetorical act, there’s a scene, a particular time and place and a context, that gives rise to both.” (Ramage, 96) The other side was smooth and calm, and seemed to be saying “Follow me to safety,” in its wake. I swam to the calm side and climbed upon the shore, feeling invigorated from the cold water and the chase that nearly ended my life. I followed the stream for hours, and the sun, high in the afternoon sky peaked through the branches, like a laser show of speckled warmth. I walked further and the light grew stronger, I knew I would soon be home. Then out of nowhere I hear soft speaking, but it wasn’t the incoherent babble of the trees and stream, it was something I could actually understand. I broke into a swift jog and the speaking got louder, I was able to make some of it out. “…it seems as though this is the last of our Ramage headache! We can only hope.” one voice said, “It’s a trap, Ramage isn't going to let up with his relentless testing of our collective patience!” another rambled insanely. I heard someone scream, “My face is melting!” I was running now, towards the voices, towards civilization, towards my fellow survivors that had some how made it through.
I came to a clearing which led to a once beautiful beach, which now lay in ruins in the aftermath of the firestorm. Sitting around some burning debris, something that looked
Bernardo 7
a lot like books burning, many over-priced books with flames licking and dancing on top of them, were the survivors. I fell onto my knees in the sand and began to cry tears of joy. I gathered the sand around me and hugged it, but stopped abruptly seeing as though I got sand in my bra and after not showering for 2 weeks in the forest I was quite uncomfortable. I was greeted with cheers and smiles, the other survivors hugging me and saying “I can’t believe we made it. We are alive, poor Johnny went blind, but goddamnit we are alive!” There was a small group, about three people, sitting about a quarter-mile up the desolate beach arguing and shaking. “Who are they?” I asked one of the survivors. “Oh, them, they are the enjoyers.” She did not have to say anymore, I could see it in here eyes as a single tear trickled down her face. Then ahead in the horizon I saw the gleaming masts of the S.S. Mahoney coming to save us from the wreckage of “A User’s Guide to Rhetoric.”
Paper #1: “Rhetoric and the Rhetorical Situation”
February 2, 2007
2007: A Rhetorical Odyssey
English 230-020: Advanced Composition
Dr. Kevin Mahoney
2007: A Rhetorical Odyssey
The sun is down and the evening quiet, my soul is not at rest. Over and over I replay the images that I have been subjected to in the past weeks, like some Clockwork nightmare haunting me in my waking moments; it is hard to believe that I have made it out. I used to love basking in the sunlight, book open in my lap as I sat next to a window or, on a warm day out on my deck sipping coffee and expanding my knowledge. Then a dark cloud with no silver lining was cast over my happier days of reading. The dark cloud and the burning droplets of acid rain it spewed down upon my once sunny day, “A User’s Guide to Rhetoric.” I was brought to tears as my windows were boarded shut, seeing as though I could not read this book with any outside distractions. There were no distractions to be had though, in the wake of the firestorm brought by this bastard book, my sunshine and roses turned to brown grass and dust. The overbearing shadow of P-Dog, standing over me, myself, the fire-hydrant, and P-Dog with leg lifted peeing down nonsensical affirmations that I could not understand, seeing as though I could only plead one-sidedly.
I began my painstaking journey through John Ramage’s “A User’s Guide to Rhetoric” on Wednesday January 17th, already two weeks ago. It is hard to believe on my voyage home, from which I had set sail off of a devastated beach, that a mere two weeks
Bernardo 2
ago my journey had just began, seeing as though it has felt like decades of eternal unanswered questions and pure hatred for the one called Ramage. As you can tell from my blog postings over the past two weeks, I fell into a seemingly endless whirlpool of question and fear. The only thing that got me through was the knowledge that I was not alone. It seems that I was not the only one. I am not the only survivor! I met the other survivors, and spoke with them, discussed with great pain and some breakdowns, the cruel burden of carrying “A User’s Guide to Rhetoric” in our book bags as we climbed the Everest of Barnes & Noble rejects.
Now in the aftermath of this nuclear abomination, my peers, my comrades and I are left to sift through the ashes of the world we once knew. A cloud of dust covers what was once a playground of knowledge, and left behind is the cold shell that represents the pain and horror of the past two weeks. When I first found myself in the company of the other survivors all we could do was recap our journey, starting at the beginning, Chapter One. I was running through a dense forest, I didn’t know where to, but I was scared, and the sweat was stinging my eyes. I hopped over broken branches and tripped over stones, left bloody and broken I began to weep, “What does it all mean?” I wondered. Sitting in the thick undergrowth I held myself, rocking back and forth, when it seemed all of the trees began to rumble and shake with laughter. They were laughing at me! “Silly fool,” they said, “You won’t make it out of here alive! You should just turn around and sell the book back while you can still get a full refund!” I began to panic, I did not know which way was up, I threw up a little in my mouth. Then the words like vines started creeping towards me, locking onto my ankles and trying to pull me into the ground.
Bernardo 3
“The law is considerably more ‘methodical’ than rhetoric and has in place procedures that operate almost like algorithms to resolve routine legal issues with little or no intervention by human agents.” (Ramage, 22) “No!” I screamed despairingly, “Please, no.” I thought, this is the end, and then I remembered my father’s words. “Maria, stop being such a goddamn baby and get your work done! I’m not paying for you to fail out of school.”
That was what I needed, the kindest, most gentle words my father has ever spoken to me gave me the strength to move on. Armed only with my orange highlighter, the machete of this jungle book, I freed myself from the grip of the tangled words and sentences. Slicing away conjunctions like and, or, and but as I slowly made my way through. My highlighter, I held in front of me like a Saber, I heaved it heavily, slashing sentences to pieces. “Whatever was meant by those who wrote the words originally is exactly what they should mean today.” (Ramage, 23) It fell before me and shriveled. Just then “…by those who wrote…” started thrashing about like a worm with it’s tail cut off, so I took my highlighter in both hands and stabbed right through the middle like a samurai defeating his enemy. I bent down on one knee, and smelled the ground, like a wolf, I was part of this jungle now. I began to run again, but this time, I knew where I was going, I had to find my way out. I cut through the brush very slowly and carefully, afraid that I might fall again and that would surely be the end of me. I could barely see the way it was in the gloom of this forest, but night was quickly approaching. It was getting colder, I was hungry, I had to stop and set up camp for the night. What terrifying night terrors waited in the shadows, lurking behind trees and under rocks? I set up a fire
Bernardo 4
and warmed myself by it; I pulled out my flask of Southern Comfort, for the only comfort my sorry heart could feel. Then my stomach rumbled, so I went through my knapsack and found my slow cooker. Seeing as though there was no Burger King in site, slow-food was the only way. I set the slow cooker over my fire and watched it heat up the pork ‘n beans I had brought along. Ripping off a chunk of Italian bread from the loaf I looked above at the umbrella of tree leaves.
“The production of fast food is, in short, the culinary version of motion.” (Ramage, 31) I heard it whispering in the wind, it was just my imagination I thought. “The production of slow food, meanwhile, is quintessentially and act.” (Ramage, 31) I panicked. Was I hearing things? Was the forest mocking me again? “Who said that?! Is anyone out there?” I looked all around me, I seemed to be alone. All alone in the darkness, the whispering wind the only voice around me, I looked around the camp, checked inside my tent, nothing. I was imagining things. Insanity would be my own downfall; I had to find my way out. Then out of the darkness, a low, growling sinister laugh, followed by “Each meal, or ‘case’ as it were is an expression of the local conditions, ‘the circumstances’ as it were, as well as being like all meals of the same name.” (Ramage, 31) I doused my fire, took my bread, flask and pork ‘n beans into my tent and zipped it up tight, I ate and fell into a restless sleep.
The bombs woke me up. I heard explosions all around me “And yet arguably the most important function served by rhetoric is the work it does in service of identity formation. Who we are, who we wish to be, and the amount of control we have over either of those tow matters depends significantly on our rhetorical skill.” (Ramage, 33)
Bernardo 5
the bombs screamed as they devastated the forest around me. I left my camp as it was, risking nothing, not even picking up my trusted highlighter as I ran as far away as I could from the ringing explosions. I found a stream somewhere in the forest, I began to follow it. Surely it would take me to civilization, a civilization that you did not need an entire Webster’s dictionary to communicate with. As I followed the stream I felt the ground rumble around me, I knew I was being followed, by something huge. Frightened I turned
to find myself face-to-face with the one they call “P-dog” a maniacal giant. Its tongue was forked and hung out of its mouth like a wild fishing lure. Its fur was matted and mangy, and it had fangs as thick as boulders, and as long as branches. And God, don’t get me started on that breath, for Christ’s sake, like gargle or something.
I’m not going to lie, I was scared shitless. I tried to reason with it, pleading, and arguing one-sidedly, “Hey listen, I know we could work something out. If you don’t eat me, I’ll buy you a beer, would you like that? Um, yeah, there’s no bars around here though, soooo…well I’m sure you know your way around here pretty well right? Hows about you show me how to get out of here, and I’ll take you to a really great bar I know of, it’s got outdoor seating right next to a fire-hydrant, you’d love it!” But it was apparent that P-dog had nothing to say to me had nothing to say to me, it just stared, head tilted to the side and tail thrashing. Finally P-dog let out a terrible roar that nearly made me pee a little. I picked up a rock and threw it, as hard as I could, in between P-dogs glowing red eyes. That only made it mad. I didn’t know what to do, so I jumped in the stream and began swimming as fast as I could away from this giant. I could hear its footsteps running along the bank, snapping saplings in half like a Kit-Kat bar. I went
Bernardo 6
under the water in an effort to get the giant away from me, and it worked. P-dog sat dumbly on the bank for a few moments, then caught sight of a squirrel and went chasing it into the heart of the forest.
I came up for air gasping and coughing, I struggled to keep my head above the murky water. I treaded water seeing where my options led, the stream forked off in two. To one side was a raging rapid bubbling and gurgling, “Before there’s an agent or a rhetorical act, there’s a scene, a particular time and place and a context, that gives rise to both.” (Ramage, 96) The other side was smooth and calm, and seemed to be saying “Follow me to safety,” in its wake. I swam to the calm side and climbed upon the shore, feeling invigorated from the cold water and the chase that nearly ended my life. I followed the stream for hours, and the sun, high in the afternoon sky peaked through the branches, like a laser show of speckled warmth. I walked further and the light grew stronger, I knew I would soon be home. Then out of nowhere I hear soft speaking, but it wasn’t the incoherent babble of the trees and stream, it was something I could actually understand. I broke into a swift jog and the speaking got louder, I was able to make some of it out. “…it seems as though this is the last of our Ramage headache! We can only hope.” one voice said, “It’s a trap, Ramage isn't going to let up with his relentless testing of our collective patience!” another rambled insanely. I heard someone scream, “My face is melting!” I was running now, towards the voices, towards civilization, towards my fellow survivors that had some how made it through.
I came to a clearing which led to a once beautiful beach, which now lay in ruins in the aftermath of the firestorm. Sitting around some burning debris, something that looked
Bernardo 7
a lot like books burning, many over-priced books with flames licking and dancing on top of them, were the survivors. I fell onto my knees in the sand and began to cry tears of joy. I gathered the sand around me and hugged it, but stopped abruptly seeing as though I got sand in my bra and after not showering for 2 weeks in the forest I was quite uncomfortable. I was greeted with cheers and smiles, the other survivors hugging me and saying “I can’t believe we made it. We are alive, poor Johnny went blind, but goddamnit we are alive!” There was a small group, about three people, sitting about a quarter-mile up the desolate beach arguing and shaking. “Who are they?” I asked one of the survivors. “Oh, them, they are the enjoyers.” She did not have to say anymore, I could see it in here eyes as a single tear trickled down her face. Then ahead in the horizon I saw the gleaming masts of the S.S. Mahoney coming to save us from the wreckage of “A User’s Guide to Rhetoric.”
2 comments:
a highlighter machete? haha, nice...funny and creative. I think I am one of the three "enjoyers" at the other end of the beach...is that something to cry over?
sometimes you worry me, maria...
you've got one foot on the other side
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