Reading Response Shelley/Wenderoth

According to Shelley, Wenderoth simply went beyond reason and applied imagination to his personification of Wendy. When I read the book "Letters to Wendy's" I was bombarded with thoughts that had never crossed my mind, and Shelley writes that "[imagination is] mind acting upon those thoughts so as to colour them with it's own light". As reason has it, Wendoroth and I have both seen the neon lit sign of Dave Thomas's grandaughter and know that it stands for biggies, food, and 99 cent baked potatoes. But that is where our perception of the sign ends, unless by come chance we have the same imagination. Seeing as I've never dreamed of licking Wendy's asshole that scenario is null and void. Wenderoth colors the sign with his own experience and desires, and me my own. It is like when Shelley wrote "man is an instrument over which a series of external and internal impressions are driven, like the wind over an Aeolian lyre". The instrument, man, is physically the same, yet the sounds that come out of it and perceptions of what goes into it are drastically different.

Black Bears

Black Bears

I carry a cigarette burn
From the ride to Vermont one night
The driver flicked it back
And it became trapped in my dress

We were looking for a black bear
We saw one, huge, man eating,
And made out of wood at the “Welcome” center

One time I thought I saw one
But it was just a boy in costume
And he was running and growling through the yard
While his parents sat on the steps laughing

Sometimes I want to smother myself in honey
And lie down under a bird feeder
Or maybe leave the garbage on the porch

Assignment 1

George,
How’s Martha? To quell her fears about my giving out granola bars on playgrounds, people were beginning to think that I was rather two-dimensional so I had to step out of the box. What a gossip. As you know yourself George, I cannot tell a lie.
But I can tell you I was speaking with Aunt Jemima about your dollar bill audition and it is in God we trust that you will get the part. Remember that George. In God we trust. Tri-corner hats and white wigs beckon to the role of founding father, be it for hot breakfast mush or a nations currency.
Speaking of this trusting in God, I wanted to talk to you about something. I often think of your new “Pledge of Allegiance”. It is with heavy heart that I write this to you: as a Quaker man, I will always be under God, not just one nation. Granted it’s with no thanks to Him that I am forever destined to stare at oats. How absurd. My life is absurd.
Fuck, George. I’m having an existential crisis.
-Mr. Quaker Oats