Updated: Apr 25
If I told you to write freely for 5 minutes under the topic chop, what would you write?
Scroll below to see what our students had to say when they wrote about "chop".
Chop. I can just hear the sound of an axe hitting a tree. I don’t know why I also think of a tree when I hear of chop, maybe it’s because of the way things have been for many years. I can feel a sense of negativity associated with the word chop and essentially that relates to the play. The image that comes to mind is lopakhin’s sick voice as he says “ I bought it” “it’s mine”. I remember when we were rehearsing yesterday, Lopakhin had his long ( annoying ) speech where he’s talking about how he is now the owner of the cherry orchard and I just felt furious I left like I wanted to punch his stupid face and the thing is, although anya is excited for the future and is looking forward it just hurt, “I felt so bad for mama” as Anya said in Act 1 and that’s exactly how I felt. I just remember thinking - how could he do that, how could he hurt her like that! Another way of thinking about chop is actually this situation, I mean … I know wither is things slowly falling apart, but chop, it's like BOOM, POW, it’s just such a clean word in the sense of how it sounds, isn’t it called onomatopoeia, i don’t remember ha! But I mean the pandemic was like a chop, a pound, a punch, we weren’t gonna do the performance, but here we are! :)
Md Razi Al Islam
Chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop. Chop down the cherry orchard. Chop down this. Chop down that. Chop that thing. Chop this thing. Chop chop chop. What do you do after you chop. You chop some more. And then some more. Chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop. When I type chop like that over and over again it sounds like a horse galloping. Chop chop chop chop chop chop chop. Whoever is reading this, try it out, it’s fun. Chop chop chop chop chop. I think I found my new favorite word to type over and over again. Chop chop chop chop chop. That’s a lot of chops. You got lamb chops, pork chops, and tree chops. Chop chop chop chop chop. I wish I could chop down some trees for real right now. I feel like that would be very relaxing. Would help vent some anger too. Chop chop chop chop. This is really fun. Typing the word over and over again is weirdly soothing. Chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop. How many more times do I have to type chop before we’re out of time? All you’re gonna read is chop. Chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop. Chop, chop, chop! But real talk, I feel like I should write something important that has been on my mind lately… chop! Yeah You thought it was gonna be different for a second, but no, it was just another chop. Chop chop chop chop chop chop. Chop chop, chop… chop, some more chops, chop chop chop chop. Chop! THIRTY MORE SECONDS!!! LAST FEW CHOPS! THIRTY MORE SECONDS FOR CHOPS! CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP!
Ofcourse chop is gonna stand out in that piece. What else was I gonna pick. All there is is just chop. Chop is my new favorite word. Probably only for today though. I don’t know, just had fun typing it so many times. Chop chop chop. Chop. Ok I’m gonna stop. Maybe for now. Can’t promise I won’t be typing it like a lunatic again by the end of this piece again. This is true poetry. Shakespeare has nothing on this. The Iambic pentameter is nothing compared to the Chopambic pentameter. Wow I’m losing my mind. This quarantine is really getting to me. Holy shit. I meant chop. Holy chop. Never mind, I can’t censor myself in writing. Wow. I can’t think. When am I finally gonna go out again. I can’t stand being at home doing boring shit everyday. Even things that were fun are boring now. And boring things are so much worse than they already were. It’s like nothing is fun anymore, even playing games and making music feel like chores. THIRTY MORE SECONDS!!! CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOPC HOP CHOPC OP CHOP CHOP CHOPCHOP HCPOHC POHCPOHCPO HCPOHCPOHC POCHCPOHCO PHCHOPC HOPCH CPOHCPOHC COPLHCOPHCPOH CPOHCOPH CPOHCOPHCPOH CPOHCPOHCPOCH POCHOPCHOPCH OHPCH CHPOC HOPCHOP CHPOHCPOHCOPHCPOHC HCOP CHOP CHOPC HOPCHPOC HOPCHPOCH POHCPOHC POHCPOH COPHC HCOP CHOPCCHPOC HCOP CHOPC HOPC HOCP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHPOC HOPC HPOC HOPC CHOP CHOPC HOCP HOCPH COPHC OPHCCHOP CHOPC HCOHPH POCHCPOH CPOHC CHOPC CHOPC HOPC CHPO.
Muhammad Muneeb Ur Rehman
I chopped my hair. I usually do when life gets tough and this time, it got really tough. Cutting your hair is probably the best way to think about the future, to think about how it all grows back but does it really? Maybe until a certain point, a certain age. Everything is blooming after this lockdown and I honestly don’t know how to feel about the word ‘chop’ because it seems to be the case that humans are the ones who do all the chopping. Everything else is just being. Or trying to be but then we come and we want to change and evolve and transform and progress and develop, not knowing what it will all do to us and our surroundings. It is our greed that kills everything around us, that makes it okay for us to just chop whatever we want down with our axes at first and then with chainsaws and new technologies and newer techniques and then use it all, more precisely abuse it all because, in all honesty, we never needed more than the required amount. The required calories, the required shelter, the required clothing, the required necessities but then we decided we want more. We want to be more. We want to do more. And in the process corrupted our environment, chopped it all down and now it all just stands still. But everything blooms without human intervention, can’t you see?
I think of chopping kale and potatoes in my kitchen for soup while my mom puts something in the oven. I think of the show Chopped on food network. I think of a chopping block. I think of chopping wood for a campfire and then I think of my grandparents house and how when we visit in the winter we all gravitate to the fireplace and someone makes popcorn. Before the Cherry Orchard I didn’t think of Chop as a bad thing because for some reason I didn’t associate it with trees. When I drive by a field of stumps I think of words like “timber”, “chainsaw”, “raze,” “clear-cut”, and “hack”. Chop is such a satisfying word, the sounds are so whole in my mouth with the big bite of “ch” and the pop of the “p” at the end.
Chop is a word that has a sound. It’s like that condition when numbers are certain colours. I hear the constant stoke of an axe against a tree; each stroke bringing a world of pain, leading closer to the end. But what is in the end? Does the life of the tree end there? Perhaps not. Perhaps it turns into paper and ends up being someone’s thought catalogue. Perhaps it turns into firewood and keeps someone warm. Like Trofimov says, perhaps at the end, the five senses we know of end, but 95 others finally awaken. Life doesn’t end at the last stroke of the axe. Life goes on, in people’s thoughts and memories, in that page from that tree, and I suppose that’s the best any of us can ever hope for. To live on, through someone or something.
Chop, the cherry orchard is being cut down. Chekhov had the audacity to call this a comedy. I too would have been shook and wondered if all of the misfortunes that happened in life had turned him into a sadistic masochist. However, I must say I admire Chekov greatly. In his last moments, even when the very people in charge of his work were questioning his methods, he stood firmly with what he believed in. In that sense I think he must have been a philosopher. He taught that misfortune casts a shadow hap hazardously and there it is one’s choice on how to deal with it. Each one having different outcomes depending on the choices we make.
It occurred to me during this class that we would never sit in the same room again, well never is too strong, but its unlikely. I’ll never sit next to Razi again or hear Awad get sh*t from Ann: and that we are sitting here for several hours a week busy salvaging whatever we can, not sparing a moment to mourn what we have lost. In that sense, our orchard has been cut down, but the spirit lives.