Author: rgardner2 (Page 3 of 7)

1. Describe at least two ways in which you think the “medium” (the audio, the video, the two combined) affects how you make sense of the content. Be sure to provide evidence form the videos to support the meaning carried by the medium.

I definitely thought there was a change in the videos when I rewatched with the animation. In the first video I remember being confused about the sound effects happening in the background as I had no visuals to go along with them. But on my second watch I understood the sound effects and even thought the animation was a little funny. Which helped me to understand what the video was saying about message and medium.

I personally am more of a visual person (though in the age of smartphones I’m sure most of us are) so it’s always been a little harder for me to understand just audio. I have to put a lot more focus into understanding when someone is speaking versus when I can read words such as subtitles. So in that way I feel like podcasting can be a much nicer medium as, at least for me, it forces someone to focus on the message more to understand it. But I can also understand the importance of video as pictures, especially photographs, may be able to help people realize how serious the message is. I think picking the correct medium for the message is extremely important as, even if people don’t realize it, they will gravitate towards a specific medium to understand things.

1. Let’s consider podcasting with the two videos and the podcast “complete” history in mind. Write 250-400 words to explain what you take the “message” in the medium of audio storytelling, or podcasting.

I think podcasting can be a great way to communicate with people. I especially think in the case of the American Airlines podcast discussed in the reading it makes sense why people may try to create a podcast. It’s a cheap and easy way to connect with a large group of people and explain the rationale behind certain company decisions that the average person may not have been able to grasp. In a nutshell I think this is why podcasts are so important/have done so well over the years. It’s a simple, cheap, and easy way to get new ideas or lenses on issues out to the world and a lot of people like hearing ideas different from their own. 

I also feel as though it connects us in the same way music might. It’s very intimate to put on headphones and listen to someone talk to you for any amount of time. But especially in your own space. I think because a podcast isn’t limited to the screen of your phone or computer, the way a video is, it is a form of medium a lot of people can take a lot of places with them. I also agree with the reading that being able to edit a podcast, unlike a radio show, has a lot of influence on why so many people like podcasts. To me the editing gives the medium a more finished feel.

I think with all things the medium has to be picked. I don’t think just anything can be made into a podcast the same way I don’t think just anything can be made into a book or a movie. But if the podcast form is right for the message I think the more intimate nature of podcasts can make the message much more powerful.

Iteration number 1 – the original

I watch the spit fly from my grandfather’s lips.

His yelling is a familiar mud in my ears.

His threat was lost a long time ago.

My Grandmother doesn’t tense in her soft pink recliner.

I won’t remember his yelling. But the look in her eyes will scare me awake at night.

I sit in the plush comfort of my Mother’s bed.

My father is slamming dishes downstairs.

He curses at them.

His violence makes me cringe against the sheets.

My Mother clenches her fists and looks to the ceiling. 

I don’t ask about the fight.

My Mother says Grandma and grandpa need to divorce.

My little sister says Mom and dad need to divorce.

I wonder if my Mother promised not to be my Grandmother.

I wonder if my Grandmother promised herself the same.

I promise I won’t be like them.

Iteration number 2 – This was the poem I did for my chatbook so the above poem was also very revised but I still felt like I could do something to make it better. I changed a few words around but also played with the places of the lines in my second stanza. I felt the changes in the lines better reflected the first stanza which I wanted to show the similarities between the generations. I only ended up revising this one once.

I watch the spit fly from my grandfather’s lips.

His yelling is a familiar mud in my ears.

His threat was lost a long time ago.

My Grandmother doesn’t tense in her soft pink recliner.

I won’t remember his yelling. 

But the look in her eyes will scare me awake at night.

I sit in the plush comfort of my Mother’s bed.

My father is slamming dishes downstairs.

His violence makes me cringe against the sheets.

My Mother clenches her fists and breathes through her teeth as she looks to the ceiling. 

He curses the dishes.

I don’t ask about the fight.

My Mother says Grandma and grandpa need to divorce.

My little sister says Mom and dad need to divorce.

I wonder if my Mother promised not to be my Grandmother.

I wonder if my Grandmother promised herself something similar.

I promise I won’t be like them.

Iteration number 1 – the original

I stare at the blank page in front of me.

The white glow of the screen seems to be blinding.

A black cursor sits small on the page.

It blinks at me.

My hands hover over my keyboard.

My fingers flex but never touch the keys.

My entire personality has flown out the window.

Who am I?

What do I find interesting?

What do I have to talk about?

What do I have to add?

Have I ever had an original experience?

I feel as blank as the page in front of me.

As pure as though I was just born.

I’ve had no experiences.

I’m not interesting.

I close my computer. 

Iteration number 2 – For this poem I didn’t change much just a few words that I thought may fit what I was trying to say better. I was also told during peer review that the line “As pure as though I was just born.” didn’t seem to fit. So I played with a few different ideas to change there. I only ended up revising this once.

I stare at the empty page in front of me.

The white glow of the screen seems to be blinding.

A black cursor sits small on the page.

It blinks at me.

My hands hover over my keyboard.

My fingers flex but never touch the keys.

My entire personality has flown out the window.

Who am I?

What do I find enjoyable?

What do I have to talk about?

What do I have to add?

Have I ever had an original experience?

I feel as blank as the page in front of me.

As though I’ve been rung out like an old rag.

I’ve had no experiences.

I’m not interesting.

I close my computer.

Iteration number 1 – the original

My feet ache as I shift my weight from the fake tiles of my kitchen.

Our green clock seems to be mocking me as it flashes closer to midnight.

Though my hair is still dripping from my fresh shower I still feel the phantom of grease from work on my skin.

I hate smelling like pizza.

I stand above the oven and my hand stirs what’s in the pan absentmindedly.

The sound of me hitting the pan to shake the sauce off so I can stir the noodles breaks the silence every few minutes.

The house seems to hum around me.

I can hear Hannah’s tiktoks playing softly from the couch.

I can’t help but yawn. 

I cringe at the feeling in my right knee.

I forgot my brace for my shift.

It doesn’t agree with me after I stand on it for twelve hours.

Soon enough the smell is too good for my rumbling stomach to ignore.

I decide the sauce is cooked enough.

I strain the pasta.

I divvy it up into two different bowls.

Mine is piled much higher than Hannah’s.

This is my first real meal today.

If you can call it that.

I always give her a little more sauce than she needs.

I bring her bowl to her in her spot on the couch.

She snuggles deeper into her blanket as she takes it.

She puts her phone down and waits for me to sit in my place on the couch.

What are we watching tonight?

Iteration number 2 – I edited this one after peer review and after it had been workshopped in class so I had a lot to fix in this poem. I completely cut the original third stanza and played around with some lines between my new third stanza and my original second stanza.

My feet ache as I shift my weight on the fake tiles of my kitchen.

Our green clock seems to be mocking me as it flashes closer to midnight.

Though my hair is still dripping from my fresh shower I still feel the phantom of grease from work on my skin.

I hate smelling like pizza.

I stand above the oven and my hand stirs the still gooey sauce in the pan absentmindedly.

My hands work on autopilot as I will the cheese sauce to be done faster.

I’ve been making this dinner since I was five.

My dad’s super secret mac and cheese recipe.

I can’t help but yawn. 

The ache in my joints rivals the ache in my stomach.

The house seems to hum around me.

I can hear Hannah’s tiktoks playing softly from the couch.

The sound of me hitting the pan to shake the sauce off so I can stir the noodles breaks the silence every few minutes.

Soon enough the smell is too good for my rumbling stomach to ignore.

I decide the sauce is cooked enough.

I strain the pasta.

I divvy it up into two different bowls.

Mine is piled much higher than Hannah’s.

This is my first real meal today.

If you can call it a meal.

I always give her a little more sauce than she needs.

I bring her bowl to her in her spot on the couch.

She snuggles deeper into her blanket as she takes it.

She puts her phone down and waits for me to sit in my place on the couch.

What are we watching tonight?

Iteration number 3 – For this one I only changed minor things. I switched little words to try to make it read better or a bit more clear that I was making mac and cheese as that seemed to be lost on a lot of people.

My feet ache as I shift my weight on the fake tiles of my kitchen.

Our green clock seems to be mocking me as it flashes closer to midnight.

Though my hair is still dripping from my fresh shower I still feel the phantom of grease from work on my skin.

I hate smelling like pizza.

I stand above the oven and my hand stirs the still separated sauce in the pan absentmindedly.

My hands work on autopilot as I will the cheese sauce to be done faster.

I’ve been making this dinner since I was five.

My dad’s super secret mac and cheese recipe.

I can’t help but yawn. 

The pain in my joints rivals the ache in my stomach.

The house seems to hum around me.

As Hannah’s tiktoks playing softly from the couch.

The sound of me hitting the pan to shake the sauce off my spoon so I can stir the noodles breaks the silence every few minutes.

Soon enough the smell is too good for my rumbling stomach to ignore.

I decide the sauce is cooked enough.

I strain the pasta.

I divvy it up into two different bowls.

Mine is piled much higher than Hannah’s.

This is my first real meal today.

If you can call it a meal.

I always give her a little more sauce than she needs.

I bring her bowl to her in her spot on the couch.

She snuggles deeper into her blanket as she takes it.

She puts her phone down and waits for me to sit in my place on the couch.

What are we watching tonight?

Iteration number 1 – the original

The Daughter He Created

Sometimes I wonder if my father is scared of me. Of the daughter he’s created.

If he’s scared of how I’ve gone from a little girl with ringlet curls and a holey smile to a woman with a pierced nose and a loud voice.

I used to run up to him to show him the frog or snake or other slimy thing I had cupped in my hand. Now I don’t run to him for anything.

When we watch a movie and I cringe at the man on screen I wonder if he cringes at me. As my voice gets loud and I define all the faults I see in that man I wonder if he thinks I’m talking about him.

When we watch a movie and I see the way he looks at the women on screen I cringe. The comments he makes and the way he views them make my stomach shrink. I hope he doesn’t think of me that way.

I used to want to view the world the way he did. He’d look up at the stars and I’d look too. I’d try to find what he was staring at. Now I hope I never come to be as negative as him.

I hate the fights I have with him. We both raise our voices and I refuse to back down. Something he taught me. I keep my emotions in check. I explain as well as I can. But he never seems to get it.

He never seems to understand I am the woman on the screen. I am the woman he doesn’t say goodnight to. I am the woman he whistles at on the street. He doesn’t understand we are all one. That his actions have consequences.

My voice dies down as I realize he won’t get it. Not because he can’t. Because he refuses. Some primal or subconscious piece of him won’t let him understand. He wouldn’t like the man he was if I was right.

So instead I end our conversation. I look at this man who used to cause such adoration in my chest and now I can only conjure a feeling of a mild disappointment. I have more questions about him than answers. 

How can he do this to me? He raised two daughters, how can he still not understand? Is he really that thick headed? I know he’s not. He understands so much, why does he refuse to understand this?

Where did my father go?

Iteration number 2 – for this one I had gone through the peer review and gotten some feedback on the poem. The main one was that the second line seemed to be out of place. So I switched the last stanza around and tried to make it fit a bit better. I also changed some minor words which to me seemed to better the poem.

Sometimes I wonder if my father is scared of me. 

If he’s scared of how I’ve gone from a little girl with ringlet curls and a holey smile to a woman with a pierced nose and a loud voice.

I used to run up to him to show him the frog or snake or other slimy thing I had cupped in my hand. Now I don’t run to him for anything.

When we watch a movie and I cringe at the man on screen I wonder if he cringes at me. As my tone becomes angry and I identify all the faults I see in that man I wonder if he thinks I’m talking about him.

When we watch a movie and I see the way he looks at the women on screen I cringe. The comments he makes and the way he seems to view them makes my stomach shrink. I hope he doesn’t think of me that way.

I used to want to see the world the way he did. He’d look up at the stars and I’d look too. I’d try to find what he was staring at. Now I hope I never inherit his negativity.

I hate the fights I have with him. We both raise our voices and I refuse to back down. Something he taught me. I try to rein in my emotions. I try to explain as well as I can. But he never seems to get it.

He never seems to understand I am the woman on the screen. I am the woman he doesn’t say goodnight to. I am the woman he whistles at on the street. He doesn’t understand we are all one. 

My voice breaks as I realize he won’t get it. Not because he can’t. Because he refuses. Some primal or subconscious piece of him won’t let him understand. He wouldn’t like the man he was if I was right.

So instead I stop our conversation. I look at this man who used to cause such adoration in my chest and now I can only conjure a feeling of a mild disappointment. I have more questions about him than answers. 

He raised two daughters, how can he still not understand? Is he really that thick headed? I know he’s not. He understands so much, why does he refuse to understand this? Where did my father go?

I think he’s scared of me. Of the daughter he created.

Iteration number 3 – For this one I only changed some minor words around which I thought might help the poem. I’m still not sure how I feel about the wording in the line, “As my tone becomes angry and I identify…” I don’t feel like identify is the right word but I cannot figure out what should go there. So this was my switch.

Sometimes I wonder if my father is scared of me. 

If he’s scared of how I’ve gone from a little girl with ringlet curls and a holey smile to a woman with a pierced nose and a loud voice.

I used to run up to him to show him the frog or snake or slimy thing I had cupped in my hand. Now I don’t run to him for anything.

When we watch a movie and I cringe at the man on screen I wonder if he cringes at me. As my tone becomes angry and I point out all the faults I see in that man I wonder if he thinks I’m talking about him.

When we watch a movie and I see the way he looks at the women on screen I cringe. The comments he makes and the way he seems to view them makes my stomach shrink. I hope he doesn’t think of me that way.

I used to want to see the world the way he did. He’d look up at the stars and I’d look too. I’d try to find what he was staring at. Now I hope I never inherit his negativity.

I hate the fights I have with him. We both raise our voices and I refuse to back down. Something he taught me. I try to control my emotions. I try to explain as well as I can. But he never seems to get it.

He never seems to understand I am the woman on the screen. I am the woman he doesn’t say goodnight to. I am the woman he whistles at on the street. He doesn’t understand we are all one. 

My voice breaks as I realize he won’t get it. Not because he can’t. Because he refuses. Some primal or subconscious piece of him won’t let him understand. He wouldn’t like the man he was if I was right.

So instead I stop our conversation. I look at this man who used to cause such adoration in my chest and now I can only conjure a feeling of a mild disappointment. I have more questions about him than answers. 

He raised two daughters, how can he still not understand? Is he really that thick headed? I know he’s not. He understands so much, why does he refuse to understand this? Where did my father go?

I think he’s scared of me. Of the daughter he created.

I’m not sure why it was zooming in so just for clarity sake I’ve listed below pictures of my original poem compared to my revised.

Original:

Revised: