Example Sentences

 

So, I am looking up the word “juxtaposition” to include a real definition as I set up this website. And Dictionary.com has an expanded view that offers multiple Example Sentences.

Oh my, what fun!

• It is a magical fusion, an unexpected juxtaposition that creates an otherworldly moment.
• The ironic juxtaposition of pleasure, cruelty, and a rusting tractor adds a distinctive local flourish.
• It's the juxtaposition of the nearby meadow flowers or turquoise lake that sets off the mountains' grandeur.
• Juxtaposition of widely divergent musical styles and idioms is nothing new.
• And the juxtaposition of soul and country makes it particularly memorable.
• There's a lot of people pushing and yelling, and it's a strange juxtaposition between the art of acting and the art of fashion.
• The installation concludes with an astonishing juxtaposition.
• It's a juxtaposition that accurately reflects his personality.
• Juxtaposition will take care of the seemingly non-creative bent of machine intelligence.
• Linear time disappears in favor of a poetic meditation upon the object, and within it, a curious juxtaposition of imagery.
• But it's the juxtaposition of these things that it's got going for it.

Really?

Of course, even if my concern is heartfelt and artless, what can I really do with someone else's rocks? I can't control other people,or their actions. Sometimes good advice is irritating. A good example can even provoke undesired behavior out of pure contentiousness.

Other people's rocks distract me from toting my own. Hmn?

Just Relax

 I wish I had written this marvelous poem. I return to it often when I feel stressed or confused. Many of the specifics do NOT apply to my life, but they fit. Enjoy.

Relax by Ellen Bass

Bad things are going to happen.

Your tomatoes will grow a fungus

and your cat will get run over.

Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream

melting in the car and throw

your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.

Your husband will sleep

with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling

out of her blouse. Or your wife

will remember she’s a lesbian

and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat—

the one you never really liked—will contract a disease

that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth

every four hours. Your parents will die.

No matter how many vitamins you take,

how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,

your hair and your memory. If your daughter

doesn’t plug her heart

into every live socket she passes,

you’ll come home to find your son has emptied

the refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,

and called the used appliance store for a pick up—drug money.

There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.

When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine

and climbs half way down. But there’s also a tiger below.

And two mice—one white, one black—scurry out

and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point

she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.

She looks up, down, at the mice.

Then she eats the strawberry.

So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse

in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,

slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel

and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.

Oh taste how sweet and tart

the red juice is, how the tiny seeds

crunch between your teeth.

 

Being New

No one knew me when I arrived in Heidelberg last August. I had no history; I had no pre-conceptions. I had no friends; I had no enemies. It was OK if I didn't know where something was or who someone was, because everything was new.

I'm not forgetful or clueless; I'm new.

No one knew the overweight me or the angry temperamental me. No one knew my weaknesses, my regrets, or my disappointments. No one knew my politics, my religion, my family history. Of course, no one knew my strengths or my successes either. No one knew what a good teacher I have been or what a good friend I am. Or that I love Rossetti and Bessie Smith. Or that I sometimes dream of Siena. I have made friends who have helped me make a place for myself here, and I have also rediscovered a new appreciation for loved ones left behind. Here and there, I thank all the friends and students who encouraged me this last year. I once saw an abstract painting of a woman who appeared to have no skin between her and the world. Symbolically, would being so completely in touch be excruciating or ecstatic?

Just reminiscing.

Originally 5 May 2012.

So Very

Vocabulary is how we discriminate meaning. By this, I believe that we cannot communicate ideas for which we have no words. "So" and "Very" scream "I don't think clearly enough to find the word which expresses my ideas."
     So hard or diligently, enthusiastically, arduously, indefatigably, fervently, zealously. Shades of meaning.
     I ran a readability analysis on Donald Trump's acceptance speech. It scored very high on readability at 77.9%. Depending on the chosen scale, the grade level was from 3.2 to 7.9. No wonder so many non-college voters chose him; they could understand him. His sentences are actually often longer than one might expect because he believes in "and so," anathema to English teachers everywhere, but firmly ingrained in unrehearsed oral language. "And so" and the consequent run-ons engendered keep the speaker in control of speech. Other transitions usually emerge in written language because it is reflective, not in the moment. As an English teacher, I could always recognize first draft writing from its "and so's."
     I also completed a stylistic analysis of the diction and syntax of Donald Trump's acceptance speech and it was revelatory. The surface conciliatory tone was embedded firmly in its syntax. This was a "we"speech, not so much an "I" speech. Many of the "I" sentences come appropriately in the various commendations to specific family, friends, and supporters. At a syntactical level, Trump focused on the unity for which we all hoped.
     Unfortunately the best sentence in the speech was probably the only sentence read from the teleprompter: "We will seek common ground, not hostility; partnership, not conflict." Yes, that is a semicolon, not an "and so." It may be stretching the rhetorical device to label it antanagoge (places a criticism and a compliment together to lessen the impact, as in "The car is not pretty but it runs great."), but I will give his speech writer that. 
     The off-teleprompter sentences are casual and superficial, simple and imprecise -- "I mean that very sincerely." "I have gotten to know our country so well." "It is going to be a beautiful thing." "We have a great economic plan." "We will have great relationships." "We expect to have great, great relationships." "We are going to dream of things for our country, and beautiful things, and successful things once again." "It is going to happen." "This was tough. This political stuff is nasty, and it is tough." "They're tough and they're smart and they're sharp."
     The imprecise diction of this passage is befuddling. A student had to negotiate using the word very. Find the precise word. Think, then use your words. So can only be used as a conjunction, not as an adverb. No, Hell No, to the following -- "very, very hard," "very, very special," "a very, very historic victory," "so long," "so well," and "really very proud." "Thing" is Taboo.
     Intensifiers also disguise imprecise language and muddled, lazy thinking. Not "tremendously talented," but rather "accomplished," "adept," "proficient," or "ingenious." No to "tremendous potential." No to "truly great" and "learned so much." No to "really fantastic."
     Adults are not teenagers on Twitter. Adults do not get to use the word "unbelievable" and pretend it means believable.
     Yes, Donald, you would have hated my class, but you should have been there. If you had learned what I am sure someone tried to teach you, you would have respected this country enough to have honored us with careful thought.
     And from your own words -- "Boy, oh, boy, oh, boy. It's about time you did this right. My god."
     My god.

Imposter Syndrome

I was an impostor. A poseur. A fraud.

Impostor Syndrome is the secret feeling that you’re a phony, way out of your depth, soon to be exposed to everyone, the masquerade over. More prevalent among women, it is common among successful, high-achievers. Though one may appear confident on the outside, doubt and fear hide inside -- I’m not really smart enough for this job, I’m not really fit enough to work out in this gym, I’m not really pretty enough to shop at Balliet’s. I’m not really enough ENOUGH to be who I appear to be. I’m in the wrong place. I’m not worthy to be here. I’m a fraud and soon everyone will know it.

Characteristics include being unable to take credit for accomplishments or to accept recognition for success, which sufferers may dismiss as simply luck, good timing, or perseverance. So-called impostors feel that they have fooled everyone and that they are not as smart or capable as everyone thinks. This, of course, is inaccurate.

Taking realistic and accurate assessments of your performance is key to moving past the impostor syndrome. Such assessments, however, are difficult. With each success, take time to jot down the specific actions that led to success as well as what experience and qualities underlies your success at completing each action. If we want to maintain and repeat our success at weight loss, we must learn to recognize ourselves as worthy and remember how and why we succeeded.

Overcoming Impostor Syndrome*

1. Break the silence. Shame keeps a lot of people from admitting their fraudulent feelings. Knowing there’s a name for your feelings can be tremendously freeing.
2. Separate feelings from fact. There are times you’ll feel inadequate. It happens to everyone from time to time. Realize that just because you may feel that way, doesn’t mean you are.
3. Recognize when you should feel fraudulent. If you’re one of the first to do something, even something like get a lapband, it’s only natural you’d sometimes feel like you don’t totally fit in. Instead of taking your self-doubt as a sign of your ineptness, recognize that it might be a normal response to being an outsider.
4. Accentuate the positive. Perfectionism can indicate a healthy drive to excel, but the trick is to not obsess over always being perfect. Do a great job when it matters most. Don’t persevere over routine tasks. Forgive yourself when the inevitable mistake happens.
5. Develop a new response to failure and mistake making. Henry Ford once said, “Failure is only the opportunity to begin again more intelligently.” Instead of beating yourself up for being human for blowing the big project, glean the learning value from the mistake and move on.
6. Right the rules. If you’ve been operating under misguided rules like, “I should always know the answer,” or “Never ask for help,” start asserting your rights. Recognize that you have just as much right as the next person to be wrong, have an off-day, or ask for assistance.
7. Develop a new script. Your Impostor script is that automatic mental tape that starts playing in situations that trigger your Impostor feelings. Instead of thinking, “Wait till they find out I have no idea what I’m doing,” try thinking, “I may not know all the answers but I’m smart enough to find them out.”
8. Visualize success. Spend time picturing yourself fitting into your dream dress size or successfully completing a marathon. It sure beats picturing impending disaster and will help with performance-related stress.
9. Reward yourself. Break the cycle of continually seeking and then dismissing validation outside of yourself by learning to pat yourself on the back. Actually make a list of non-food rewards to gift yourself. 
10. Fake it ’til you make it. Don’t wait until you feel confident to start putting yourself out there. Courage comes from taking risks. Change your behavior first and allow your confidence to build.

Closely adapted from A Girl’s Guide to Project Management

Too Late

After a week of dreary weather, today was wondrous, bright sunshine, no wind. I wanted to go bicycle riding, but I give up a block from home. My bike’s broken, whether it’s the brakes or gears doesn’t matter. Walking it home, I start crying and I can’t stop.

The most tragic words in life are Too Late.

• 
  When I had lapband surgery at 54, I feared it was too late to get my life back.
• When I did get healthy, it was too late to have a child, but not too late to return to teaching.
• Last summer, it was too late for cosmetic surgery to turn me into a hot babe, but not too late to feel comfortable in my own skin.
• At 60, if I want to be a ballerina, it’s probably too late.
• And, today, it’s too late to ride my bicycle.

My parents, step-parents, and grandparents are all gone and I know each of them died with some things undone -- and it’s too late for them.

Too late is tragic because one recognizes what might have been, because one must acknowledge lost opportunity; one must be profoundly self-aware.

I don’t want my last words to be “Too Late.” I will

• find the time and money to go back to Italy and walk in the steep streets of Siena
• contact Bonnie O’Malley and apologize for hurtful words our senior year in high school
• write more poetry and submit some poems for publication
• say “Thank You” more often to the people who make my life better
• ride a boat up the Nile and climb the pyramids
• keep in better touch with friends and family
• hear (and say) the words “I love you” so many times I get bored with them
• take more photographs
• volunteer for Habitat for Humanity
• be a docent at a local museum
• keep this blog updated
• ride my bicycle again
• discover more things I want to do before it’s too late

Images by Victoria Ivanova

https://fineartamerica.com/shop/acrylic+prints/victoria+ivanova+hourglass

Full Wheelbarrow

Don't pick up other people's rocks. My wheelbarrow is full.

On SmartBandsters, a Yahoo support group, Jesse Ahroni posted the above line which provoked all sorts of thoughts for me today. Her point was that we all have enough of our own baggage to carry, so we don't need to pick up other people's rocks. If we focus on solving our own problems, we won't have time to worry about someone else's issues.

At some level, I'd like to think that my interest in someone else's problems is a sign of an empathic nature, that I am a genuine, caring human. Truth may be that I am perhaps too eager to find weaknesses in others. If they are flawed, it's OK for me to be flawed.

Of course, even if my concern is heartfelt and artless, what can I really do with someone else's rocks? I can't control other people,or their actions. Sometimes good advice is irritating. A good example can even provoke undesired behavior out of pure contentiousness.

Other people's rocks distract me from toting my own. Hmn?

Memory Palace*

One begins with a real place --
Grandmother’s house full of knickknacks,
a beloved bedroom hideaway,
the special corner of a favorite coffee shop,
the hidden stacks of Bizzell Library,
Heidelberg’s Bahnhof,
my lofty terrace overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea --
a place so real that you can float above it,
twisting and turning from top to bottom,
every angle familiar, 
placing objects in perfect settings,
framed by memories,
flooded in sounds and smells and tastes.
A place so real that you do not need it.
Keep it anyway.
For ever, for ever after.
Decide how you will travel through your memory palace.
If you want to remember in a special order,
define a route you can follow over and over,
‘til it becomes unconsciously there.
Move through your palace,
marking locations to store your memories --
landmarks, crossroads, shadows, colors,
sizes, smells, symbols.
Fill your palace with images that can store your truths for the years
when time will eat away thoughts that fill the mind now -- the yellow kitten that spits and scratches holds that first heartbreak,
the scratchy record player warns of Death’s close seductive song, 
the soft gray angora granny square quilt can be the mother lost,
the snap of a Waterman fountain pen can save every poem,
the smell of a honeycrisp apple sings of survival and joy,
the taste of Brunello will kiss a lover’s lips forever.
For ever ever after.
*Apologies to Matteo Ricci and Jonathan D. Spence (The Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci).

Totally Inappropriate

Leonard Nimoy Dies 27 February 2015

I had such an inappropriate obsession with the Spock character, so here is my totally inappropriate poetic tribute --

Star Trek Again

Do you remember
lusting after the alien,
just devilish enough
for a teenage girl
to know it was so wrong
to want his hands on her,
to ache to see yearning
in his cold intellectual eyes?
How might that first forbidden desire
have encouraged
other adventures,
other dark quests,
for reluctant passions?

Leonard Nimoy Dies February 27, 2015

Anyone else remember Pon Farr? I actually got to interview Nimoy when he spoke at OU for the Oklahoma State Psychological Association in 1968. Liked him, but he was NOT Spock. Must have been a great actor...

Sienese Dreams

The Daunting Saga of the 37 Tunnels

PublicFriendsFriends except AcquaintancesOnly MeCustomClose FriendsStudentsSee all lists...FriendsHeidelberg, Germany AreaFamilyColleaguesFamilyNaples American High School, ItalyCentral Mid-High SchoolNaples, Italy AreaNorman North High SchoolBishop McGuinness High SchoolOklahoma City, Oklahoma AreaNorman Public SchoolsAltus High School, Altus, OKAcquaintancesGo Back

The GPS says I am 3 hours 54 minutes
from Siena,
but it knows nothing
of the tunnels twixt here and there,
the shock of sudden darkness
pierced by pursuing yellow eyes,
glowing red advice to "moderare la velocità,"
blinding flashes of sudden sun
as I jump through stripes
of light and dark,
13 tunnels and counting.

The car is stuffed with stuff
rattling clay pots
beating a clunky arhythmic clang
as I swerve and slide through exit curves
from each of the 19 tunnels
on the way to Siena --
some quick, some interminable trips
into heavy mountains that hang
on manmade promises of strength.
Do you doubt steel as I do?
Surely one of
22 tunnels will fail,
crash or crumble or gobble up
space it gave.

I escape briefly from the autostrada,
exit to slower curves,
through tree canopies,
and stop at a roadside shrine,
thank whatever gods may be
for a road that leads to Siena,
however convoluted and constricted
its 27 tunnels,
a fit price to pay to return
to the dream of Siena.

How did they find my grandmother 's
imperfect perfect tomatoes,
tart and sweet and juicy pale,
misshapen,
slightly green at the edges,
my reward for surviving
another tunnel on the journey,
for gripping the wheel,
turning, turning, turning,
ever so slightly
on every curve of the 32 tunnels.

A Brunello toast
to any person reborn, empowered,
tough enough to conquer
37 or 40 or 63 or all the tunnels
that ever tried to test
a traveler on the journey to Siena.

The waiter offers a firefly,
softly in his hands,
to a bambino,
giggling at captured light
that twinkles and wiggles.

Tomorrow
I will eat breakfast
with the sunrise,
stand at counters
like the Sienese,
expresso bitter on my lips,
sit in the Campo,
grateful
for all difficult journeys
that end at a homecoming.

I leave one bite
of Nonna's warm caramel cream cake
on the plate
for another time.

Grazie, grazie, grazie mille.

Heart Broke

Why is it so hard to tell someone we love that we love them? It's never a secret, because everything in what we do screams the words we are hesitant to say.

Forty years ago, I was crazy in love with a man I thought was the love of my life. In the two years we were together, he never once took me on a real date -- not to a movie or a party, never gave me a present or even a compliment, and it didn't matter. It felt so right in his arms that I ignored the truth that he did not love me. I never said it to him. He never said it to me. I was sure that he loved me, but just didn't want to say it.

At a particularly traumatic moment, I needed to ask him if he loved me. I asked. He answered.

"No."

"Will you ever love me?" I asked.

"No."

Perhaps if I HAD told him that I loved him sooner, I would have learned that he did not love me sooner, and I would have made better choices than the crazy ones made by that heartbroken, silly girl.

If I had been broken sooner, might I have healed sooner?

Years later, I saw this amazing pen drawing by a local artist in The Blue Bean, titled "When I Was Broken." And there I am.

So what if I got hurt, got broken. Done is done. Suck it up! Say it! If you are hurting, you are alive!

Philosopher's Walk

     On the northern side of the Neckar, you can walk the Philosophers' Walk (Philosophenweg), so-called because Heidelberg's philosophers and university professors were inspired by their conversations during the walk. Ha! Only if they were younger and fitter than most.
     For normal older folks, the walk is a challenge, more than 50 stories high, much of it inside narrow high walls, covered in moss, steep step after step, eventually coming out above the castle (schloss). Along the way, there are rustic cabins and gardens, memorials, statues to writers, even a cemetery. But best of all, there are several viewing spots where a tired climber can recover and look at the most amazing views in Heidelberg. 
     Rather than give up and take the "easy" way back down, each stopping place inspired me to go on to the next.
     Each narrow passage blinded me to the insurmountable heights above me, but each stop reminded me of the heights I had reached. Bypassed by people who were actually running up the steep passages and left behind by children who saw it as a lark, I was so proud when I reached the top of the top.
     Rainy and overcast all day, the sun came out, lighting the whole hillside and bringing Heidelberg out of its shadows. An Aha! moment that looked like an Aha! moment.

Ecstatic Mortality

I never expected a recent brush with possible death to have made me feel so alive. Of course, I spent several days asking, "Why me? What did I do to deserve this?" before I embraced the inherent joy.

At 62, I decided to unretire for the third time and tackle a teaching job in Heidelberg, Germany, and that challenge nearly overwhelmed me. I started every day with a To Do List that never ever got completely done. I do not jest when I say I have hundreds of pages of paperwork filled in, filed, and filed away.

Everything has been more complicated than back home. In Oklahoma, if I wanted a new iPhone, I could have one in 15 minutes. In Heidelberg, I couldn't get a telephone until I had a German-accepted bank account which I couldn't get until I had an official DoDEA ID which I couldn't get until I was in the database which I could not be in until the principal's secretary filled in the proper forms.

So, complain, complain, complain...no joy here.

And then I had a pulmonary embolism (clot) in the lungs which knocked me down and could have killed me. My doctor says that 26% of all sudden deaths are pulmonary embolisms.

More, "Why me? What did I do to deserve this?"

Three days after the initial incident, I decided to try and enjoy Heidelberg -- Nothing To Do, nowhere to go, no one to account to but me. I got on a bus and just kept riding through Heidelberg, getting off when something caught my eye, downing coffee with cream here, chugging gassy water there. I wandered through the farmer's market, tasted my first ever Walnuss brot (walnut bread) and fell in love with butterbrezel mid schnittlauch from the Hauptbanhof. 

As my streetcar headed back to the Hauptbahnhof, I felt at peace for the first time in days. If, and I don't want it to be a true IF, but if I had died that Wednesday, it would have been a good time to die. Then and there.

I grab a butter pretzel with watercress at Yorma's, walk outside into the failing autumn sun and I am exhilarated by the sudden joy I feel. I am alive

Everything Matters

So I am watching an old DVR of an In Plain Sight episode and the recurring theme is "Everything matters." My first instinct is to quibble with the assertion. So, not true, does it really matter whether I have real half-and-half in my coffee, or go for the fat free half-and-half (whatever that really is)?

OK, I like cream in my coffee, but I'll settle for half-and-half -- 9 calories versus 20 calories per cup -- three cups a day -- 365 days a year = 12,000 calories. That matters.

My biggest recent indulgence is a sudden craving I have developed for the large cookies-and-cream milkshake from Chick-fil-A (700 calories) and I'm not even going to do that math.

At a recent conference I attended, the organizers handed me a stamped addressed envelope with a reimbursement form inside and reminded me to mail it as soon as I got home. So, I didn't have to locate the form online, download it, print it, find an envelope, address said envelope, stamp it, and dig all my crumpled receipts out of the bottom of my purse. Just put them in the envelope, fill out and sign the form, and voilà I get my money by the end of the month. Three steps, not ten. That matters.

I've finally committed to flossing every night, in spite of resisting and making excuses for years. I want to die with teeth in my mouth, so I hope it matters.

I recently retired from teaching for a second time, this time with some betrayal and bitterness. I wrote several exit speeches in my head, went so far as to compose the email I didn't send. And, yet when I had my moment, I smiled and accepted the goodbye present, silent. That matters.

My cowardice will eat at me for a while. I will even feel guilty that I didn't warn the teachers I left behind to be less trusting. All my anger is still pent up inside and I'm grinding my teeth. BUT there is absolutely nothing I could have said that would not sound petty, whiney, self-serving. My silence embarrasses me. It's not who I thought I was. That matters.

Everything matters.

Red Dress

After losing more than 100 pounds, starting in a size 32 and ending in a size 16, I went to Costa Rica and had cosmetic surgery. Mamma Lieberman, one of my surgeons said that when I was all recovered, I'd be in a size 12. I just laughed at her because I couldn't even remember when I was that small (and I know that doesn't sound small to many of you). She said, "Size 12. Send me a picture. In a red dress. Every woman needs a red dress. Every woman deserves a red dress." 

Now I know why.

What Do Women Want?
by Kim Addonizio

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

Wish I had written this poem!