Final Project– Hunting of the Snark
This is the link to my final project. It’s a film type thing of Lewis Carrol’s famous nonsense poem The Hunting of the Snark.
In this form, it’s actually not much more than a glorified slide show, but Enjoy!
(Thanks so much for letting me take/audit this class)

http://mith.umd.edu/arguing/admin/items/show/19

So, Jonathan is protesting ads for the metro. Why would that be, I wonder?
In Maryland, the Metro is our method of public transportation, rather like the Subway in New York or the Underground in London. As a Marylander, then , i must assume that this startling evidence means Jonathan is against our Metro. So is his father. Jonathan included this text in his Omeka file, so he is happy with his parents, a dutiful a n loyal son to his father. By this we can infer that he is, in fact, protesting the Metro fro his father’s sake. What kind of people dislike public transportation? or possible small, underground trains? Well, obviously, those with some stock in private, above-ground transportation.
This text obviously indicates that Jonathan’s father own some sort of scenic, slow, above-ground, private transportation company. Perhaps a horse and carriage business. Jonathan and his family, then, are protesting the Metro, and probably buses, cars, and bicycles, in the hope that they will eventually go away and the age of the horse-drawn chariot will reign again. Good luck!!

P.S., please do not think that I am trying to say that protesting the metro ads makes you old-fashioned. That was kind of how it sounded on re-reading and is not at all what I mean.

http://mith.umd.edu/arguing/admin/items/show/37

Look at all those video game remote-things!
Obviously, Emil is some kind of mad, game-playing fanatic. But, you would say, he can’t hold all the controllers at once, maybe there are other people who play with him. Ahh, i reply, he can’t hold them all in the form in which we see him in class. But have you ever seen Emil at home? I haven’t.
Form the evidence of these multiple game controllers, we must assume that Emil sprouts eleven extra pairs of hands. Well, maybe only 10 and 1/2, it looks like you only need one hand for that first one.
Why, you ask, why does Emil sprout 10 and 1/5 extra pairs of hands (that’s 21 hands by the way, plus the two he already has)? Or, perhaps if you’re more interested in the technical side, how? The first I cannot answer, maybe you can look at his other objects and find out. The second, however, I have some idea about. I order to use all those appendages to help him with his video games (ah, you realize, that show he gets such good scores), they must all face the front. That’s as best as I can do from the evidence. Maybe you should ask him.
Finally, how does he get all the remotes to play with his many, many hands? Why are they so different? Well, obviously he can;t just walk into a game store and ask for twelve remotes. Besides, think of how much that would cost. My theory is this, he scouts around at garage sales, second-hand stores, and other places where people are prone to get rid of the things which they don’t want anymore. He picks up remotes where he can find them. That’s why some are so old.
I conclude with this, don’t ever challenge Emil to a gaming competition, you never know what he has up his sleeves.

Miranda Gindling as born [link to baby picture: crying and squirming] small, pink, and wrinkly on June 28th, 1995.
[picture of paper with many little squiggly shapes made when I was about two (note, this may have to be fake because it’s the kind of thing we throw away)]
She began to write before she could speak, although obviously not in English.
She attended happy little Quaker schools [link to FCS name and picture with happy blue man] where they said “conflict” instead of “fight.” She learned to write there, but not in cursive.
[pictures side-by-side: 4th or 5th grade writing notebook closed with decorated cover, then notebook open to pages of writing]
She also conceived a love of cats [link to picture of crazy-looking cat lady with many, many cats]
Now in high school, she is home-schooled and attends classes at the University of Maryland [link to angry terp picture], and is applying to the University of Cambridge in England [link to picture of queen with tea and scones], and she is planning to be in Denmark {link to YouTube of opening of the movie Terrible Happy, dubbed from Danish, with dark, dreary swamps and over voice telling a story about a two-headed cow crawling out of a swamp]
[one of my drawings of a fluffy, big-eared alien]

They shudder up and down as the host throws itself flat out on the mattress, as it has persisted in doing every single night despite the protesting creak of the springs. The host’s parents bends and kisses it with a smack on both cheeks, coos “nighty-night,” and finally shuts the door. Almost instantly the host is asleep, the shackles fall, and they are free.
“Why?” The one on the right shoulder shakes his dark head, casually letting a few strands of hair fall into his eyes, “Every night. Why?”
“It’s an expression of Love,” the one of the left flutters her long lashes, “she adores him.” She draws the word out between her heart-shaped lips: ah-dooo-ahs.
The one on the right rolls his eyes, accompanying them in great, exaggerated circles with his head. The same lock of hair falls, unintentionally of course, into exactly the same place. He stretches expansively, reaching on arm to the right, “couldn’t give us a light, could you, daah-ling?”
With one movement of her delicate, manicured hand she flicks the tiny cigarette away, at the same time embarking on a fit of very genteel coughing. “Graham,” (gra-ha-aaam), “why do you persist in that filthy habit? You’re only killing yourself.”
“Teacup Devils don’t die, Selma. Just like teeny, tiny angels.”
At this remark, she pulls her shoulders and neck up as high as they will go, even rocking slightly forward onto her tiptoes
“Look at you, darling,” Graham continues, forcing the sweetness into his voice, “you’re… glowing. Do you really mean you can’t spare one little spark to make your long-suffering co-worker not quite so miserable?” He smiles, a biting smile with only half of his mouth turned up.
“Yeah,” she gives a light giggle, “I’m Good, honey, not Nice.”
“Come on,” he isn’t giving up on this fight so easily, “you’re always telling him to be nice,” Graham jerks a thumb at the sleeping host, whose shoulders, out of habit, both he and Selma are still resting on.
“Well, we don’t always act on our own advice to him,” she smiles winningly straight at him, the first time they have made eye contact at all this night, “do we, Graham?”
“What are you implying, darling?” He is gently amused, but his eyes are still fastened on the cigarette lying beside Selma’s foot, “You’ll never catch me being decent when nobody’s looking.”
Selma abandons her sweet, wide-eyes smile and laughs with genuine amusement, “You’re constantly telling him to go and get laid, and, you must correct me sweetie, but I don’t remember you doing that anytime recently.”
Looking down at his feet, or the shoulder between them, he blushes bright red, but as he lifts his head to glare at her his eyes catch the cigarette still resting just barely out of his reach and he forces his face into what is at least an approximation of a smile. “Ha-ha-ha,” his laugh comes out even colder than usual, “got me there. In fact,” he pauses for a minute, grinning his odd, half-smile again, “When was the last time you saw me do anything really bad?” His eyes flick to her face, and he goes on, cautiously, “In fact, you might say that my only sin really is…” he looks down at the cigarette.
“Honestly,” she laughs yet again, this time a little uncertainly, “you’re not going to convince me to let you smoke because you’re such a good person, are you?”
He sighs, and rolls his eyes again, “Oh, I suppose not,” he sits down, peering around the neck at her, “Please.”
“Graham!” She picks up the tiny, white tube and throws it as hard as she can away from her. “No.”
Graham watches it roll across the polished wood floor several feet from the bed. He grimaces, defeated, and turns away from Selma to stare at the wall. But in a few moments he turns back, and, just like every other night, they begin to talk.

Hallo!

My name is Miranda Gindling. I guess you all already know each other.

I am not in the Digital Cultures and Creativity program, in fact I’m a little unclear as to whether I’m really a UMD student. I am a home-schooled, high school senior and doing concurrent enrollment classes at the University. To make this even more confusing, I am not necessarily in this class, because we haven’t yet received word from on high about whether I’m allowed.

Anyhow, my passion is writing (stories, novels, very bad poetry), and this semester I am taking many, many English classes .  This fall, I am going to be applying to colleges (you’re all, done with this part, Is it really that bad??). My top choice is Cambridge, in England.

Now for the interesting stuff: I have two cats, the one with social skills and the other one. The first is named Pearl, seven years old, soft, white, beautiful, delightful… and stupid. Not that I’m saying she can’t get along. She’d be the one with a successful career, three broken marriages to rich New Yorkers, a few vacation homes. The fact that she has never quite understood the concept of corners does nothing to hamper her charm, her pretty voice, her propensity for cuddling. The older one, Carmel (without the “a”), is immensely fat, in such a way that when he lays down his legs disappear into the mass of blubber that is his stomach and torso.He’s not mean, exactly ( I mean, he’s always very sweet to me), he just has a curious habit of peeing on my dad’s clothes, suitcases, and, one very memorable time, his pillow.

My picture, although it is small and a little difficult to see, is the graveyard scene from the Fogler Theare’s production of Hamlet a few years ago. This goes with a wonderful story about the two characters in the pic. After the show’s run was over, the director noticed a peculiar thing, and hastened to inform his entire cast of it via email: the skull used for Yurik (“alas poor…”) seemed to have gone missing. A few days later he received a response from Graham Hamilton, who had played Hamlet, which read as follows, “Yurik and I are in love, and cannot bear to be separated. I have taken him with me to California. I am teaching him to surf.”