My Memory's Pretty Good (Extra Credit)

Have you ever had a recurring dream? Or have you ever had a dream that played through several nights as a story of some sort? Let me tell you, they’re pretty weird. At the same time, though, they’re so cool. It’s like reading a suspenseful book. You don’t know what will happen when you pick it back up. I used to have those dreams all the time when I was about six or so. When I think back on it, I wish I could be six again. Children’s imaginations are so much more wild and fascinating than that of someone my age. I am still creative, but it takes so much more effort to spit out some great idea than it would have when I was less than ten years of age. I remember a specific dream of mine which continued for about a week. It started off with my family and me in a museum. Well, I knew it was supposed to be a museum in the dream, but it was really just a blank white hallway. At the end of the hall, a blue light shined out of a door on the right. My family and I sped up to take a peak inside and it was the weirdest thing ever. We walked in through the door and on a white leather couch sat Tony the Tiger.

I was so happy because I knew all the words to his song and I happily ran up to him and began to sing it. He simply smiled and waited for the song to end to tell us to put our belongings in the cubbies on the wall. I put my white blanket and my shoes in one at the bottom; I was too short to reach any of the upper shelves. My parents and Iain put their things in cubbies as well. Jake was still only about a year old, so my mom had him propped up in her arms. He had no need for a cubby. When we all turned around, there were four large red cushions on the floor on which Tony insisted we sit. We flopped down on them and Tony stepped down from his couch and sat on the floor. He asked us about how our day had been and it had only been satisfactory…until we got to meet him!

After nearly two hours of just sitting and talking to dear Tony, he stood up in a kind of militant manner – good posture, head up, etc. – and told us we had thirty seconds to gather our belongings and leave the room. We were initially perplexed and thought it was just a joke, but then he started to count down. We bolted toward the cubbies, grabbed our things and ran toward the door. We were just out of the room when I realized I had left my blanket inside. There was no way in hell I was going to leave it, so I ran back for it, but once I finally had it in my hands, time was up. A two-foot thick glass door dropped. My heart dropped along with it. I was stuck inside a white room with some aberrant talking tiger. I think that was justification enough for any fear I had. I banged on the transparent barrier, and my parents reciprocated. There was nothing that could even begin to tamper with the door’s stability. I was actually trapped.

Fifteen minutes went by and my family finally gave up. They waved, blew a kiss and left. A tear ran down my face and a few followed rapidly after it. It was a race…literally. There was a close up, in the dream, of my tears trying to “out-slide” each other, for lack of a better word. When the dream zoomed back out, so to speak, I slowly turned around. Tony sat on the couch, reading a newspaper. I yelled at him to get him to open the door, but he ignored my request. I forcefully stomped toward him and took his paper from him. He yanked it back and continued to read. After that, I woke up. I didn’t know what to think of the dream except that it was all just a dream – thank whatever is holy. I don’t know what I would have done if my parents had actually abandoned me when Tony the Tiger could have killed me. Well, the next night, the dream continued to play, as if I had a movie on “pause.”

Without hesitation, I took the paper back from Tony and ripped it to shreds. Infuriated, he stormed toward me, got “all up in my grill” – as the kids would say these days – and roared. Along with his stressed vocal vomit came a large, orange hairball. The wadded up fur fell on my bare feet. I screamed and kicked him in the face. Bad idea. I knew I shouldn’t have done that, so I immediately ran to the other side of the room, curled up in a ball and prayed he wouldn’t hurt me. He got on all fours and walked toward me like a normal tiger would if he were on the prowl. I shook so much out of sheer terror that someone could have mistaken my nervous habit as a seizure. Again, just as he was about to pounce, I woke up with a cold sweat. I was terrified. For a few more nights, I dreamt of being in that room with Tony the Tiger and we continued to fight. My parents visited from time to time, but they made no attempt to get me out. It was all over to them. The last night, after eight or nine nights of the story, Tony let me out of the room. It was as if nothing were wrong. Just a change of heart, I suppose. When I left the museum and walked outside, the streets were empty. Everything was completely desolate. I was alone. I yelled just to see if anyone would respond. There wasn’t even an echo. I got one response – Tony chuckled a bit behind me. I turned around, he leaped and then…

I woke up.

A Dead Beaver and Some Inquisitive Thoughts (Extra Credit?)

I spent Friday night and Saturday night at a friend’s house. The friend? It doesn’t matter who. It was a great time, though. Today, I had to come back to the dorm for study hall. I wasn’t even supposed to leave this weekend, but the duty teacher was cool enough to allow me to get away from this hell hole for a little bit of peace. My friend’s sister generously offered to drive me back to campus, because sadly enough, I do not have a car just yet. Oh well. On the way back, we listened to the Beatles and sung every word to every song. I love the Beatles so much. The last song we listened to was “Love Me Do,” which happens to be one of my all time favourites. Right as we got to the chorus, we drove over the railroad track – the one by the Sara Lee factory. I was so into the song that nothing could distract me. At least, that’s how it usually would have been. But just as I looked to my left, over the steering wheel, I saw…a dead beaver.

“Where did that come from??” My friend’s sister looked in the direction which my left index finger so fervidly pointed. When she finally set her eyes on the road kill, she came to an immediate stop. “What the hell is a beaver doing over here?” she asked. Obviously, we couldn’t run over and pick it up, but we were so fascinated in the little animal. Where did it come from? Why have I never seen a live beaver around here? I wonder if someone dropped it there to make it seem like there were beavers around. Who would go through that trouble, though? That’d be dumb. Maybe….maybe it’s not really a beaver! Maybe it’s an alien. Yeah. Wait, that sounds kind of dumb too. What if it walked all the way from some clan of beavers? What were its intentions? Did it know where it was headed? Probably not. Better yet, what was its motivation? Perhaps it was some anxt-driven teenager who just needed some time away from his (or her) parents. Poor thing. Karma is a bitch. What if he (or she) was trying to prove a point to his (or her) parents? He…yeah, let’s just call it a ‘he.’ He probably didn’t plan on staying gone too long; just long enough to scare the ‘rents.

What if that’s what really happened? That’s so unfair. I used to want to run away from home so badly. What if I had? What if I had and I had gotten run over by some careless driver? That wouldn’t have proven much of anything. I’m so glad I never ran away. That’s such a terrible way to die – getting hit by a car and left for scavengers. In a few days, bugs, birds and some crazy rodents will have stripped him of his flesh and left his intestines to decay. No one, except maybe I, will remember him. Even if he had died of old age, no human would remember him. It’s just an animal, right? Wrong! Well, maybe that is right. When I die, a few people will mourn, maybe some old high school friends will send my family some flowers, but will anyone really care after all is said and done? I highly doubt it. We, as humans, are given maybe 70 or 75 years on Earth now-a-days. Some of the lucky ones get more, and those who are not so lucky get fewer. Say I die when I’m 80. That gives me until the year 2073. That amount of time will fly with respect to eternity. And when I finally do die, then what? My family and friends will hold a funeral, people will be sad for a little while, et cetera, et cetera. Give or take a hundred years afterward, and no one will remember who Aliya Ilsa Smith was. That name probably won’t be of much importance to anyone by 2173.

What’s the point of my existence? What use am I to the rest of the world if my body will only eventually give out on me and force me to die? And in the end, if my existence is worthless, what happens after death? What will happen to my conscience? It cannot possibly die, because it was never “alive.” Then, if you think about it, I can never technically die, either. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed, so when my body deteriorates along with the coffin in which it shall lie in about 64 years, that matter will be reincarnated. And this has nothing to do with beliefs; that’s strictly science. The circle of life, if you will. The matter which makes up my body today could have been that of a tree centuries prior to my birth. My conscience, though, is a different story. What is it? What is a conscience? It works my brain, which controls the rest of my body, but what runs my conscience? Damn, this is confusing. Aside from that endless circle of disorientation and onto its servants. What about emotions? Why do they change so often? Why do they exist at all? What is the point? This sounds so depressing, but in reality, it’s just a whole lot of ranting on nothing too special. All I want is for something to answer these questions. I guess when it all comes down to it, life is a huge, dense ball of confusion and I’ll never have the answers to any of my relatively deep questions. I’m going to die soon anyway, right? For now, I just want to know what the hell is up with that beaver.

Vocab Story (Extra Credit)

It was 6:32 a.m. when Amyrose's mom knocked on her bedroom door to wake her up. When there was no response, Amy's mom forcefully turned the door knob, pushed the port forward and stomped to the end of the bed. "Get up and get ready for school," Mrs. Stephens said. Amy simply replied with a languid groan. "Get your ass up," Mrs. Stephens bellowed without restraint. "Mom, I'm sick!" Amy pulled her comforter over her face, but she wasn't sick at all. She feigned an illness in order to get away with skipping school today. "I'm sorry, baby! Let me fix you some soup," said Mrs. Stephens. She left the room and fixed a large bowl of that liquid food of vegetables and chicken broth for Amy. When Mrs. Stephens returned to Amy's room, Amy was sitting up, texting and laughing. "You're not sick," exclaimed Mrs. Stephens. Without a moment of silence after her mom's statement, Amy quickly declared her hatred for her. Amy's rancor for her mother has always been prominent, though. So the statement came as no surprise. In a swift and impassive motion, Mrs. Stephens grabbed Amy's arm and pulled her out of her bed. She mad her apathy for Amy's "sickness" evident when she threw her book bag at her, left the room and yelled, "We're going!"

Amy still refused to go to school. She had a good reason, though. Mrs. Stephens stomped back into the room once more, only to find Amy texting again. Mrs. Stephens ripped the phone from her hands and began to go through the messages. "I'm sorry," one read, from a boy named A.J. "Are you in trouble?" Mrs. Stephens wanted to know what could cause the questioned trouble. "What did you do?" Amy ignored her mom. Mrs. Stephens, vehement and full of various emotions, bolted to her computer to email the school. To her surprise, there was already a message in her inbox that read:

Dear Mrs. Stephens,
We have been worried about Amy a lot lately, and we wanted to make sure everything was all right at home. We had heard word that your daughter was involved in impudent "extracurricular" activities. So, we took the matter into our own hands and checked her locker and found multiple media of memorandum; we found texts, emails and passed notes. There were several recipients and correspondents. I don't know how to say this lightly, but we found a whip in her locker and erotic notes between Amy and a few different boys. Obviously, flagellation is entirely inappropriate, especially on school grounds. I wish you would speak to her about her decisions. Hopefully you can influence her and guide her in a better direction.
Thank you,
Dr. LaBorde

In amazement, Mrs. Stephens slowly stood up and walked to Amy's room. Amy still sat in her bed, looking directly at the wall ahead of her. Mrs. Stephens sat on the bed and a tear slid down her cheek. "Why did your principal email me?" Amy dropped her head in shame. "What the HELL is your problem," Mrs. Stephens screamed. Amy jumped up from her bed and Mrs. Stephens followed. The two entangled themselves in a heated feud. "You're nothing but a whore," said Mrs. Stephens, lugubrious due to her daughter's lack of self respect. Amy retorted with another "I hate you" and slapped her mom right across the face. In order to prostrate Amy, Mrs. Stephens pushed her to the floor, which knocked the wind out of her. Mrs. Stephens stood, motionless for a while. She had a "vision," so to speak. In prescience, she saw her daughter waving goodbye and climbing out of the window. Terrified of the possible events to come, Mrs. Stephens picker her daughter up off of the floor and hugged her. Reluctant to reciprocate the action, Amy pulled away, reticent.

A door slammed. Amy and Mrs. Stephens both hesitantly looked toward the hallway. Their neighbor, Topaz Ross had broken in. "I heard screaming and other clamour. Is everything all right?" Amy ran and hugged Topaz. "I HATE her," said Amy. Mrs. Stephens rebutted with a harsh glare and a raised fist. "Come on you guys! Why are you fighting?! Please stop," requested Topaz, in an attempt to intercede and put an end to the quarrel. "I refuse to merely let go of what Amy has done and how badly she has embarrassed me," said Mrs. Stephens. "You are rather obstinate, Mrs. Stephens. So I wouldn't expect anything else," replied Topaz.

Topaz released Amy from her refreshing hug. Before anything happened and before anyone said anything, Amy ran toward the window, lifted the handle and sat on the pane. Topaz and Mrs. Stephens both stood, immobile, filled to the brim with fear. "Don't do it, Amy," said the two in unison. To prove she was indomitable, though, she sprouted wings and jumped. Shocked to no end, Mrs. Stephens and Topaz dropped their jaws, turned toward one another and fainted. An hour later, they woke up, tied to chairs, with double cheeseburgers in their laps. "What the hell," exclaimed Topaz. "After I left," said Amy, "I felt bad, so I stopped by some fast food place and got you guys some food." Mrs. Stephens and Topaz fainted once more and they never woke up again. Amy killed them by gagging them with their cheeseburgers.

Liar (Blog Extra Credit)

When I was about four or five years old, I had a terrible habit of lying when the truth would fit better. When I realized the effect it had on people, I broke myself of it. Why would someone test the possibility of losing the trust of a loved one? How could anyone be comfortable with himself or herself if he or she has lies to his or her family and friends? I know I would not be as close to as many people as I am if I weren’t trustworthy or honest with them. After my massive puerile realization, I promised myself I would never lie again unless it were required to do so to save the life of a family member, a friend or myself. I broke that promise; last night, I lied to a friend as well as myself. I took a night leave to a friend’s house last night so we could watch Gypsy, the movie version of the musical. We wanted to watch it for a heads up for the possible musical next year (I might get a lead roll). A boy drove me to my friend’s house, because he will be in the musical as well. I used to like the boy.

When we got to my friend’s house, we all went down to the basement to watch the movie and for the first time, I saw that she has a miniature movie theatre in the lowest level of her house. I was flabbergasted when I saw it, but there were only three nice seats and they were taken. I sat down in the back of the room, just on a regular wicker chair. It wasn’t very comfortable, but I just wanted to watch the movie. When the boy saw that I had sat away from everyone, he smoothly exclaimed, “I’ll share.” The words, though simple and seemingly without thought, were an obvious invitation to more than just a seat. I happily took the offer, though, and climbed into the chair. He surprised me and showed me it was a recliner, which apparently gave him an excuse to wrap his arm around my waist. My arms were crossed, my head faced directly in front of me, and my legs were stiff and straight. The light left the room and someone turned on the wide screen television.

As soon as the movie started, my friend texted me to make sure that nothing would happen between the boy and me. In reassurance, I merely replied, “Nothing will happen.” After about three minutes, the boy’s hand found its way to mine and our fingers interlaced. My heart, anxious for what would happen next, raced with anticipation. I tried to ignore his actions, but he moved closer to me. I laid my head on his shoulder and he placed his own on my head. A minute passed and I felt his lips, pursed, just in front of my crown. It was sweet. I placed my left hand on his chest. His heart rate was twice as rapid as my own. He was nervous too. Nearly an hour went by and finally a dear friend and his wife arrived. As we had promised them earlier, we stopped the movie so we could start it over for them. To be polite, the boy and I stood up and offered the seat to our dear friend’s wife. She courteously accepted the offer and reclined in the chair herself.

The boy and I took two wicker chairs from the back of the room, set them by each other, turned the lights back off and sat down. Five minutes passed and again, the chairs were uncomfortable. I gave the boy a glance and in return, he provided his own. We could read each other’s thoughts in an instant and we both quietly and slowly half-way stood up, pushed our chairs back and found spots on the floor. It was cold and the space between us was too great for our liking. He scooted over to where I sat, but my friend’s seat was in the way. So I moved over so that the boy could see through the space between two of the recliners. For another five minutes, I watched the movie. It was already a part we had seen, but I still wanted to watch. I finally caught him, out of my peripheral vision, paying no attention to the screen, but rather to me. I was surprised, but I turned my head and looked up. Our eyes met and he placed his arm, once again, around my waist. He pulled my body closer to his. Our cheeks brushed. My heart sped up again. His heart sped up again. Our eyes, still set in a fixed position towards the others’, stayed motionless while I lifted my hand to his chin and he ran his fingers through my hair. The movie continued to play, but I was too enthralled by the moment for anything else to distract me. He leaned in and gently rested his lips on mine. I felt him smile. I smiled back.

My friend turned around. “You WHORES,” she yelled. She seemed disappointed. I pointed my face at the screen. The boy turned my head back towards his and continued to kiss me. Just before my friend turned back around, I managed to detach myself from his grip. He recognized that I wanted to stop, so we watched the movie. It was still a repeat of what we had seen forty-five minutes prior. I went to the bathroom and when I came out, I saw the boy’s reflection in the microwave door, so I turned the corner to see why he was in there. “I offered to get *my friend* a drink,” he said with a subtle smirk. I walked nearer and knew why he had really left the room. He grabbed by hands, wrapped them around his neck and, yet again, kissed me. I didn’t reject his actions, but I knew it was wrong. My friend exited the room to find us in the kitchen, doing what she least wanted us to do.

I ran out of the kitchen, into my friend’s bedroom and hid under the covers. The boy went back into the theatre and my friend found me in her bed, afraid of her reaction. To my surprise, she was not angry. Instead, she was concerned. She didn’t care that I had gone against my initial claim to not do anything with the boy. She only wanted to keep me from getting hurt, which is understandable. We talked and talked. The boy opened the door to my friend’s room, poked his head through the space between the door and the frame, and asked if we were all right. We both nodded. He and I exchanged a grin and he knew to leave. My friend and I talked some more and we came to the conclusion that people do things even if they know the consequences will be bad. Temptation is too good sometimes. We hopped off the bed and returned to the theatre to watch the movie. We were too late; our dear friends paused the movie to go outside and smoke.

The boy and I sat down in separate recliners and talked it over. Everything was fine between us, so he offered a spot in his hand for mine to lie, and I accepted. Ten minutes flew by and our dear friends reentered the house to resume watching the film. We hopped back out of our seats for our friends. The light left the room once more and the movie carried on. After another hour, the movie was over and it was time to leave. I gathered my phone and my bag off of the cream colored rug, put on a hat and waited by the door. The boy swept his hand against mine to comfort me. It worked temporarily. We said good night to our friends and walked to his car. The ride back to the dorm was silent. It wasn’t awkward, but words refused to escape either of our mouths. He parked in front of the quad and we sat for a minute, still quiet. I picked up my things off the floor of his car and before I opened the door, I leaned in to kiss him one more time. He took the kiss and gave me one back. I got out of the car, got my book bag out of the trunk and walked away. He told me to text him. Later on, I did. But between the gravel of the parking lot and the jammed key hole of the dorm door, I could only think about my friend. I lied to her. I lied to myself. I thought I could hold back, but I’m weaker than I thought. My friend forgave me, and I want to forgive myself. That will take some time.

Unreasonable Fears (Magical Realism)

The grass was wet, as it always is at 5:48 in the morning, after the dew had set on the fresh spring blades. I stood, immobile for a split second, almost drowning in my tiredness. I don’t know why I was so fatigued; I had gotten a good eight hours of sleep. I didn’t remember my dreams, though, but I guess that’s a positive thing. When I was stable, I looked around at the branches of trees, petals of flowers, the hair on my own head, all ever so slightly brushed by a cool breeze. I glanced at my phone. 5:50. “Uh oh.” I needed to get over to the track, but something didn’t feel right. Something was offset. “I sounded the alarm.” Just as the words tenderly hit my trembling lips, a shadow emerged from my peripheral vision. Without a thought, I set off, running. Over the one and a half feet tall brick wall, barely hitting the sidewalk for fear of being caught if I were too slow, down the stairs, platform, down the stairs? No. I slid down the railing of the second set of stairs. I was not fast enough on my own. I needed more – anything to increase my speed. Across the paved tar; a leap over the stream, to avoid the bridge, under which anyone could have been hiding, waiting for my arrival. No “legitimate” clues or motives for my fear, but something was behind me. I know it. 5:51. I bolted across the rocky path, towards the tunnel. Not the tunnel.

I veered away from the sub-road and swiftly climbed the rock wall and I was filled to the brim with terror. Something caught my shirt. Maybe a rock, maybe that shadow. I needed to get to the top. I tugged my clothes back from whatever had taken a hold of them, and my shirt ripped. “Whatever. It’s old.” So I continued to the top. A glimpse left. A glimpse right. No cars. Just that damn shadow, still inching closer to the heel of my shoe. I darted to the opposing side. “What if it’s a robber?” No. That’s illogical. Why would he chase me? He wanted more than material possessions. “A monster?” Maybe. Still too vague. 5:53. I hopped over the bushes, nearly flew down the relatively steep hill, and landed. The shadow stood, motionless. I could feel its presence. “The track.” I ran to the half-opened metal gate of the track. “Why would something want to chase me around here? It will know I only intended to run.” 5:54. I started to jog around the red, cushiony surface. The shadow became more prominent. “Why won’t it just leave me alone?!” My face was, at that point, dripping with sweat. 5:55. “I need to get away.” The shadow was chasing me, and closer and closer. It swept across my heels and now, almost the soles of my shoes. 5:56. In an instant, I accelerated. 5:57. Faster. 5:58. Faster. 5:59. Up.

6:00. I no longer felt my feet hitting the ground. I still ran. Maybe I had “runner’s high.” I love runner’s high. No. It wasn’t that. I closed my eyes. I looked back and saw something I would not in a million years have expected. The earth. It was about nine feet below me. Maybe ten. Dawn broke. The shadow had disintegrated. I was so relieved. I had gotten away from that thing and I was safe. I was still in the air, though. “What the hell?” I embraced the obscurity for a while…and then, I opened my eyes. I had had my eyes closed. “Was I dreaming?” I was by the gate’s half-opened door again. “Maybe I should get back to the dorm.” I jogged back, still a bit confused by what happened. “Was I really flying?” I closed my eyes again to see if the same feeling would occur. Nothing. I did not feel as if I were flying. Back on the rocks, over the stream to avoid the bridge, across the pavement, up the stairs, at the door. I pulled my keys from my pocket, slammed the wrong one in the key hole, just ready to get inside. I found the matching key and carefully unlocked the door. The alarm had never been set the preceding night. My typical morning run was obstructed by what I later realized was my own shadow.

Euphoria

This morning, after a nice seven-and-a-half hour night of sleep, I woke up to the soft repetition of "The Cost of Resistance" by Xploding Plastix. Following my own resistance and final consent to disrupt the music's continuation, I languidly rolled out of my bed to rid myself of clingy fatigue. Once I set my feet on the Pom stained carpet, I stood still for a while to make sure that my foundation was as strong as I'd wished for it to be today. A good minute went by. My feet agreed to keep me standing and able to walk yet another day. On my way from the bed post to the vanity, I stumbled over a heap of nothing; I've always been a bit clumsy. Maybe my feet hadn't quite abandoned their own fatigue just yet. Luckily, I've tripped over myself plenty of times, so I managed to avoid a complete spill. I once again gathered myself and reestablished my balance. After I had safely made my way to the sink - with my head down to watch my feet take individual steps, parallel to each other - I tied my now semi-long hair up with a thin brown band which never leaves my person, grabbed my face wash to awaken the senses along with my mind, brushed my teeth with my green Pokemon toothbrush and finally, rinsed off my face and took my hair down- all without taking the slightest glance at my reflection. I have become quite accustomed to disregarding the presence of mirrors and going about my life without giving them the due respect of allowing them to serve their primary function: give back to us a smidgen of what we long to know without an ounce of questioning.

Every morning, some ulterior force provides me with yet another moment of life, but regardless of the endless love I have for those moments, I have not shown a fraction of the appreciation which I owe to that ulterior force. Every time a new day commences, the pages of my unwritten schedule close and reopen to the first page, starting at: Wake! Then, the sequence of events continues just as it did this morning; I get out of bed, find my ground, trip a bit, resist the mirror, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. My life could hardly be considered as boring, but repetition has the full capability of agitating, and it has done so in my own existence. To repeat something in one's mind triggers a memory, which creates a habit. Repetition is great for learning and obtaining new information! For life, on the other hand, to repeat is to hinder one's own experience on earth. And when one allows for hindrances to continuously occur in his or her life, life itself becomes something of less value than it would have been otherwise.

This morning, though, my typical schedule went against protocol and consisted of an unexpected violation; I turned away from the vanity, fresh and fully awake, to dress in the unflattering uniform the school presents as my solitary option of attire. Afterwards, I persisted to destroy my hair with a four hundred degree straightener in order to be a bit more pleased with my outward appearance. At last, after filling my autographed book bag with six or seven text books and spiral-bounds, I jumped to my feet and headed toward the door which was only about an inch cracked open. But right as I expanded the space between the door and it's frame, I stopped myself from stepping into the hall, and with a tinge of discomfort, I turned one hundred and eighty degrees to the right and faced myself in that reflective surface, once a pile of sand grains. To my surprise, I stared, and I did so with a bit of content. Another flaw did not leap out at me and carve at my self-esteem as I had expected. A form of remorse for exposing to myself an image which I rather disliked did not blanket my mind. Instead, I moved closer to the mirror and more delicately examined my anitomical features which had previously seemed to be an affliction to me. I saw my hair, and though it had been tortured by unbearable heat, I liked it. I saw my eyes, which have a small difference in shape, and I enjoyed their azure presence. I turned my head ninty degrees to see my nose, which now I know is nearly perfectly straight. Lastly, I turned back to a head-on position, and noticed a smile in the corner of my mouth. I giggled for a while at how silly I had been to hate my appearance for no real reason. I turned around, walked towards the door, flipped the light switch down, and left the room to live my repetition with a bounce in my step.

Cummings Imitation

Which conditions under are you allowed
love
to be in?
Sex is a requirement says
whom to love another? With days as
short
as they are,

leap

should thoughts across one's mind
with or without lust the slightest bit.
Done and said, all, mind one's thoughts of
love
and one's love of thoughts of
love
and think of not the shallow exterior
but
interior, deep, desirable, passion-drowned.
Hesitant quivering are the actions initiated by
and led by nervousness
yet curiousness
the movements, awkward,
unsure pure
sure formidable.
Flash the images through quickly the brain
but
thoroughly the mind.
Wrong is an erotic experimentation
but
why then right are amorous feelings/"feelings"
between sheets
proceeding marital ceremonies?
Constrainedbyconditions
meaningless
contradictory
one's
love
may not exist.
Lacking permission for physical allure
to commence
love
lifeless
will cease to continue.
Which conditions under can love allow
you in?

A Dream Deferred: Our Own Version

What happens to a dream deferred? (A)

Does it cease (B)
like a fire without air? (C)
Or does it burn like an itch – (D)
you can no longer bear? (C)
Does it tear at the heart? (E)
Or inject toxins in the veins – (F)
like a poison dart? (E)

Maybe it sits crying (G)
like a child in pain. (H)

Or does it go insane? (H)

Things Fall Apart versus A Raisin in the Sun: Characters?

Both Things Fall Apart and A Raisin in the Sun were influenced by poems which were written in times of despair. The two works expose conflicts between tradition and change, and the most prominent advicates of staying constant to tradition are Okonkwo from Things Fall Apart and Lena from A Raisin in the Sun. In Things, Okonkwo is essentially the alpha male and he runs the pack. His intentions are to keep his tribe true to its culture and not let it be corrupted by outside ideas or influences. Lena does the same with her own family, but at the same time, she wants progression for the generations to come. Her strict belief in God is something from which she will not step away, and Christianity is a means of comfort for her when faced with conflicts. Okonkwo, on the other hand, is heavily against Christianity and disowns those in his tribe, and even his family, who dare step outside of the boundaries he has set. The two firmly believe in tradition and being knowledgable of their ancestral lineage and pushing certain traits from generations passed through the generations to come. Nevertheless, Okonkwo's attitude is that of a closed-minded brute who cares for himself and his power, while Lena's approach is simply to better the lives of her family. Her intentions are nothing but good, while Okonkwo's are based off of rapacity.

A Raisin in the Sun: Setting Related to Themes?

The setting in any book, movie, play, et cetera, is vital in order to convey the proper moods or general themes of said works. Relatively soon after World War II and the Cold War, A Raisin in the Sun was written during a time of segregation, despite the recent abolition of slavery and uprising of equal rights. The play/movie is set in the family’s apartment, which happens to be pretty small and in a primarily “black area” of Chicago. The apartment represents the seclusion and isolation which the family is essentially forced to endure, but simultaneously, it is a symbol of the bond each member of the family has with one another. Notwithstanding the numerous arguments and disagreements, the members of the family get along and support each other to the best of their abilities.

As an “outside of the box” view, the apartment is small, correct? The play was influenced by Langston Hughes’ poem “A Dream Deferred,” correct? The apartment’s size and growing populace, for lack of a better word, may symbolize a raisin, being the black family, slowly shriveling up due to the overwhelming impact of the sun, being white people as a whole. The apartment can only hold a certain amount of people before running “like an oozing sore.” If the apartment begins to overflow, the inhabitants will not be able to help but leak out a bit. Lena realizes that the apartment is much too small for such a large family, so she ends up buying a house, which excites the family until she mentions the fact that it is in a “white neighborhood.”

Lena acts as the head of the house and does what she thinks is best, without first consulting the rest of the family. The result of her buying the house may be that the family is unable to bear the fact that they will be the only black family amongst a bunch of white people, who are the cause of their problems in the first place. Lena may have thought, though, that the household would explode, like a dream deferred, if the family did not move to a more reasonable location. The movie has a great amount to do with dreams, because Travis wishes for more than has, Walter Lee wants to have his own liquor store and provide more for his family, and Beneatha wants to be a doctor, which would never have come true for a black woman in that day and age.

The family wants progress, and that is their dream, as well as a massive theme in A Raisin in the Sun. The members of said family who stick to tradition, in a way, shoot those down who wish to better themselves through unbelievable manners. Although they are all black and have the same dream, Lena and Ruth basically defer the dreams because they see them as unreachable. The entire movie, so far, is an endless feud between progression and tradition. Once the family moves into the new house, though, what will happen to them? Will the dreams progress or be once more deferred?

A Raisin in the Sun: Perception of God

The idea of God is an extremely complex subject; what drives people to believe or not believe in him? In some households, God is a heavily enforced concept and figure in which family members seek guidance and assistance in their lives. In other homes, however, families are not required to believe in God. It is impossible to control others’ values or belief systems, so those who instill the power within themselves to say whether or not one believes in God is simply absurd. Walter Lee’s mother, Lena, who is essentially the head of the house, takes it upon herself to decide whether or not God exists. A strong faith or belief in him is completely normal, but no person can say what is real beyond the physical objects which are visible to everyone.

When Lena’s daughter, Beneatha, makes the statement that she does not accept the idea of God, Lena is absolutely infuriated, because she raised all of her children to strictly believe in God. In a way, Lena resembles the missionaries from Things Fall Apart; she tells everyone else what is “right” and that they will abide by her rules and belief system when they are in her house. The missionaries of Things Fall Apart act upon their goals in a similar manner, but instead of raising the Africans with the influence of Christianity, they simply invade and plant the seed of God in the minds of the Africans. When one acts out, though, the missionaries severely punish him or her, and Lena does so with Beneatha when she declares her disbelief in God; when Beneatha finally expresses her views in a truthful manner, Lena slaps her and has her say something along the lines of, “As long as I am in mom’s house, God still exists.” Such actions are a bit despotic.

Beauty

Sure, your eyes are captivating and quite capable of leaving me breathless, but most would base such a description off of mere aesthetic beauty. Not that your eyes are not quite deserving of the title, "beautiful," but the question is longing to evade these lips, through these fingers, which cannot keep up with this train of thought: what is beauty? In most cases, one would contemplate the concept of beauty and simply regurgitate every simplistic idea that had ever been spewed into his or her face - beauty is a six-letter word for something which elicits some sort of a hormonal outburst. Well, all right, that's beauty. But beauty, which manufactures a fleeting pulse and a cold sweat - rather addictive, if not related to cardiovascular problems - cannot possibly refer only to the select few lucky ones with the perfect symmetry and awesome genetic make-up. Arousal is not simply driven by voluptuousness or a petite skeletal frame; beauty provokes arousal both physically and mentally. What could cause the mind to produce the same feelings which are composed by a sexual sensation? Surely not the exterior. Your eyes, along with every other sight-capable being's eyes, are a direct path to pure truth. Whether it be the depths of an honest statement or the disclosure of a lie, your sensational, magnificent eyes provide the directions which lead to your mind, which just so happens to be connected to your soul. The one thing that brings forth unfeigned beauty in it is that the legitimacy behind your corneas, a bit to the left of your retinas, and straight past the optic nerves, is the unclouded honesty in every word which escapes your mouth.

It's strange that the utterances, forced upward and forward by involuntary systems - starting at the brain, which sends the signals to the voice box to generate vibrations which bounce off of the walls of your throat and remind the tongue to curl and touch the roof of the mouth occasionally, all in order to create a sound - originate in the soul. But wait, the signals initiate in the brain, do they not? What runs the brain, though? Some ulterior force, which some like to call a spirit, a soul, or a consciousness. All of such are absolutely correct, and they, as a whole, form the center of one's being which is where that alluring truthfulness, of which you are oh so famous, obtains its life. Why, though, are your eyes so much more understandable than the tone in those utterances or the fashion in which your lips move? A tone, which is yet again a result of one minuscule signal sent from the brain to the rest of the body, cannot uncover what the soul dies to eject; a tone merely follows its orders, which it takes from the brain. A tone is capable of trickery. Eyes, though, pull every emotion and every physical expression together to fully convey the mind, which is imprisoned in that overpowering brain. One cannot hide behind his or her eyes, because the eyes' sole purpose is to portray what the rest of the face and the body cannot; what the physical fairness cannot display, the eyes do, as a means of exposing the untouched, uncorrupted beauty which lies within.

So, your subdermal beauty, which surpasses your corporal excellence, either advertantly or inadvertantly seduces my very being. Let it be known that I am quite cognizant of the effect which your essence has on me, but your beauty, which even your captivating eyes are unable to fully release, has my inferior core under a hypnosis. The hypnosis would not succeed in enthralling me if my focus were not entirely devoted to your unearthly totality.

What is beauty?
I guess that's you.

A Bit of Discomfort?

Does it make me a creep or
a burden to care for your will?
Will my attempt at condolence
and understanding dilute our
bond? The less you accept it,
the greater the space between
us. That space may have mounted
from discomforts, but the farther
and farther it grows, the less we
know about one another. Might I
have another chance? May I
redeem myself, if at all possible?
I suppose it's plausible that my
evidently failed pursuit at helping
you purely pushed you away.
Thus, try, I will not. It's apparent
that my breath, and my words,
and my tears are wasted on an
effortless, cold soul. But my
observations and interpretations
are solely based off of previous
experiences, and that goes against
the underlying message of Tartuffe.
Wouldn't want that, now, would we?

Life Lessons

The purification of the soul and
the escalation of the mind let
the changes take the course so
the life is to the fullest, but
the memories and the times
win us over and over again and over
the years, when the angst has sat in
the seat, which stays dormant in the theatre,
the realizations build the guidelines and
the mistakes turn into the lessons which allow
the mind to escalate and
the soul to purify.

Commie Russia or Commie China?

When Stalin ruled in Soviet Russia, Communism was the main priority. Stalin was distinctly against rights of the individual, and his goal was to equalize the people and make success and life in itself a team effort. Mao Tse-tung idolized Stalin and intended to model China after Stalin's Russia. Once Khrushchev took over, however, things changed and Communism wasn't as heavily enforced in the USSR. Said takeover crushed Mao, because the changes made in the USSR were in an effort to achieve "peaceful coexistence," meaning that the USSR would not necessarily be at war with Capitalist nations. After Khrushchev came Khrushchev 2.0, or by his biological name, Makhail Gorbachev.

People referred to Gorbachev as "Khrushchev 2.0" due to his similar values and intentions. Gorbachev, though, went to greater lengths to achieve his goals; he started mass amounts of reforms in order to give freedom to the people and put an end to the Cold War and all of its disputes. In contradiction to his belief in freedom of the people, Gorbachev kept the government Communist. In spite of its negative connotations, Communism was put in place to provide equality to everyone so that no one had any feelings of discontent to one another for having more privileges than others. Gorbachev simply wanted to treat everyone fairly, because he had to appease both the conservatives as well as the liberals. Therefore, his choice of keeping Communism yet allowing more rights and cutting censorship was the best way to go about ruling a country that had such great differentiating parties.

When Mao was aware of Khrushchev replacing Stalin, he was infuriated. The changes which Khrushchev made were essentially going completely against Stalin, but even more so, Khrushchev directly stated that Stalin was the reason for the decline of the USSR. Such words were blasphemy to Mao's ears, because he had thought of Stalin as a great leader and he saw Khrushchev as a traitor to his predecessor's intentions.

Communist China was a completely different story; Mao created "three-year plans," as a form of mimicry of Stalin's five-year plans. The two main pieces of Mao's plans were the Hundred Flowers Campaign and the Great Leap Forward. The Hundred Flowers Campaign was meant to be a "comment box" campaign, which offered the general public the chance to criticize the government. Mao had lured the people in with trickery, because as soon as one decided to legitimately criticize his or her government, he or she was sent into "re-education," which entailed stern lessons on his or her wrongdoings and on the fact that he or she should regard the leader with high reverence. Mao blamed any areas on which he received criticism on those who were not supportive of his ideas.

The Great Leap Forward was a way to rob the farmers of their farming equipment and use it for industrializing China. The fact was, though, that the products were insufficient and useless. The government promised to provide regions that were not farming with food, which merely added to the stockpile of deceit. Eventually, thirty million people died in China, resulting from such deceit. Thus, Communist Russia, under Khrushchev, or rather Gorbachev, would be preferable.

"Breach" (by Aliya) - Contemporary Imperialism

Based on real events, Breach provides exploitation on the truth of the United States’ invasion of Iraq. Proclaimed as a great and forceful raid on world-wide terrorism and despotism, the incursion was intended to mark the uprising of an exceptional and more dogmatic American imperialism. After the launch in March, 2003, few anticipated the fail of the United States in their attempt to take full control of the country. Set in Baghdad, Iraq, 2006, Breach exemplifies the negative affects on America when the number of casualties amplifies, ethnic issues increase and uncertainty advances to neighboring countries; the Iraq war has undeniably become a representation of Americans’ global vulnerability.

Going back and forth between World War II and the war in Iraq, Breach presents the trend of American imperialism throughout various nations. With the help of colonies, protectorates and spheres of influence, the United States has, in typical Marxist terms, been an imperialist nation for over a century. In this light, Breach sends General Douglas McCartney through two of the three largest as well as lengthiest wars the world has seen. As a young high school dropout, only 17 at the time, McCartney enlisted in the army during the last year of Hitler’s reign. After the second World War had ended, McCartney was sure he had signed off with respect to such brutal fighting. A few decades later, though, he had been called in by a couple of his old mates for one last ride on the peak of adrenaline and adventure; the United States had already set their mark in Iraq and they were ready to move in more forcefully and with more might than any attack prior.

With great sensibility and devotion, General McCartney leads troops into Baghdad where he comes into contact with his old general, Earl Jackson, who had been sent in during the 2003 launch on Iraq. Though Jackson is American, he has adapted to the life in Iraq and gained a sense of trust with the Iraqis, yet he has lost any sense of self he used to hold with evident pride. McCartney faces the possibility of losing his own sense of self while constantly running into new and unfamiliar technology which hadn’t been used during the last war in which he had fought. Everything is intimidating, but will it drive McCartney to his wit’s end?

That Devilish Tone (Second Draft)

You, with your devilish tone, send us home
to moan and groan. And you keep us, persistently,
on our toes, because no one knows what goes with you.
Without a tinge of remorse in that devilish tone of yours -
which, by the way, scorches and burns us, turns us white
with fear to utter a word - you slip in remarks that ache
and make us take, and double-take.
Why do we put up with you?

But all you do is "put up" with us, and thus, our lack of trust
in you is justified. In no way can we just confide in you
when you continue to do as you do, and pursue gratitude
through a magnitude of hate and "attitude." You roll your eyes,
wide, with vexation when we disagree with you.
And all of your sighs and grunts may stunt your growth;
because your constant state of bent over closure, with
your arms locked and jaw tightly shut, won't be of aid to you
when you whine about looks and aesthetic pleasance.

Rather, it will simply add to your essence, your unpleasant essence.
Your lack of poise destroys your forceful arrogance.
And directly above that lack of poise, accumulating
in that skull, three inches thick, is nothing but air, which I guess
is fairly sensible, because the density and mass are vast in scope
and it makes me wonder...
Is that why your hair is so big?

What good will it do for you? A temporary fix - fixed in that mind,
closed off from reality - seems empowering, but it makes you
intolerable when you push and pull with deceptive intentions,
that eat away at you everyday. And everyday,
you whine and complain with chilled and shrill shrieks about
what went wrong with so-and-so,
and who upset you through-and-through.

And everyday, that devilish tone, amplified with every word -
absurd, while making stomachs turn - forbids your lips,
which grip onto repulsive sounds, sounds more and more like
a desperate cry for help and assistance to retract this distance.
You know the one - that distance you place and continually trace,
and retrace, without an apparent trace of consideration for
the walls you've built.

When you finally face the face that belongs to you,
coated in caked on make-up; when you finally see
through those hateful eyes, behind which despise lies, endlessly;
and when you finally see your lips, torn up by the acid
spewed from your throat, from which that devilish tone erects...
You'll probably be surprised, and you will realize that maybe
you should clean your mirror a bit more often.

4th Correspondence with Kenya

“Heart of Darkness,” which is a frame story, presents an inside look on the cruelty that went on in the Congo after King Leopold of Belgium privately claimed the country. The story begins with an unknown narrator, telling the story that Marlow told him. Marlow, who represents Joseph Conrad, starts off his story, explaining how he had been fascinated by maps, and more specifically, how interested in the blank spaces on maps he had been. As years went by, however, Marlow did, indeed, come to a realization that the blank spaces on maps were not as literally empty as they were in a more figurative manner. In Marlow’s words, “it had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery. It had become a place of darkness.” The loss of luster in the “blank” spaces resulted in pure darkness. When something “glows,” so to speak, it is noticed and appreciated by its surrounding inhabitants, but post-losing its incandescence, the space becomes dark and more unapproachable.

Along with his portrayal of emptiness, Marlow describes the Congo River as a coiled snake, saying that the entrance into Africa is the head, while the body spirals into the heart of Africa. In a literal sense, a snake typically receive nothing but negative connotations, which makes Marlow sound as if he has nothing but negative things to say about Africa. Snakes can be dangerous in various ways, which makes them unappealing. So, Marlow referring to the entrance into Africa as the head of a snake essentially means that going into Africa will be a one-way trip into a hell pit.

Despite the bad thoughts of Africa, Marlow continues on his trip into The Congo. Even at the very beginning of his actual trip into the heart of Africa, he thinks of the people as sheer savages, due to his warped idea of civilization. As he takes in his surroundings, he sees nothing but darkness, which only increases his discontent for “the unknown.” Initially, Marlow does not realize that his attitude toward the people and habitat of Africa will conflict with his overall experience. It is most definitely valid that his ignorance will lead him into nothing but self-destruction.

Untitled (Rough Draft)

You, with your devilish tone, send us home
to moan and groan. And you keep us, persistently,
on our toes, because no one knows what goes with you.
Without a tinge of remorse in that devilish tone of yours -
which, by the way, scorches and burns us, turns us white
with fear to utter a word - you slip in remarks that ache
and make us take, and double-take, on why we all
put up with you.

But all you do is "put up" with us, and thus, our lack of trust
in you is justified. In no way can we just confide in you
when you continue to do as you do, and pursue gratitude
through a magnitude of hate and "attitude."

What good will it do for you? A temporary fix - fixed in that mind,
closed off from reality - seems empowering, but it makes you
intolerable when you push and pull with intentions of
deception, that eat away at you everyday. And everyday,
you whine and complain about what went wrong with so-and-so,
and who upset you through-and-through.

So, everyday, that devilish tone, amplified with every word -
absurd, while making stomachs turn - elicits reproach and
a lack of approach from those who dare withstand your presence;
that essence, unappealing to most, that discomforts thoroughly.

Life Is Beautiful - Movie Review

The story of Life is Beautiful starts off in 1931, with an introduction to Guido who enters a small Italian town. Guido is a poor Jewish man who has all the joy in the world and he wants to become a bookseller. Alongside becoming a bookseller, Guido wants Dora, a school teacher who literally fell out of a window, into his arms. After his first acquaintance with Dora, Guido begins to woo her using his most prominent talent; Guido is a liar, to put it simply. The largest and most important part of his gift is the fact that he believes his own lies himself. His one true goal is to bend the world to fit his wants, which makes life beautiful, no matter the situation in which he will find himself.

Consisting two parts, the movie is initially romantic, gentle, and it has an abundance of pratfalls, which create a great comedic aspect. When anything bad enters the picture, it is merely ridiculed and mocked. Eventually, though, in the second half of the movie, when true evil is introduced, Guido is forced to lie about the world again. He has to make it out to be better than it truly is, in order to keep his son from the cruelty of the world. Even more so, though, he lies to convince himself that the events going on around him are not really happening. He was a Jewish man, taken away from his life and put into a concentration camp, so that he would eventually die. He had done nothing wrong, but the fact that he was Jewish was all the “reason” needed to kill him and his loved ones.

Benigni sacrifices historical accuracy to get the plot of his story across to the audience. There were concentration camps where the men were forced into intense labour, but in no way would the men have acted as loosely as Guido had acted. If the authority and security of the camps had caught someone acting in the way that Guido did, they would have more than likely killed him on the spot. Also, when Guido steps up in the bedroom, when the officer asks if anyone is able to translate German to Italian, he is simply goofy, which would have never been the way someone would have acted in during the Holocaust.

Despite the fact that the historical accuracy is slightly off, Benigni creates a great storyline and evokes so many various emotions with his use of compassion within Guido’s family, along with the sheer depressing traits of the camp. What truly won me over was how Guido made life truly beautiful in his eyes, as well as the eyes of his son. He makes the camp out to be a game to his son, where he has to gain 1,000 points to pass through to the next level. This playful attitude makes it much less scary for his son and it helps Guido to take the tough times life less seriously and in a less harsh manner. The conclusion of the movie is pretty hard to deal with, but simultaneously, it is heart-warming to see the son back with his mother, and to know that Guido would not have regretted giving up his life for his family. The love he has for his family is not cliché or “corny,” but it’s genuine and sweet, which is the type of love we want to see in movies, because it’s the kind to which we, ourselves, are able to relate.

The film is most definitely on my list of my top five favourite movies. I first saw it when I was about eight and I fell in love with the story. Even though the basic plot is a bit intense for a large amount of people, it shows the compassion and love that real people have for one another. It shows a man who lies to make life better, which I would usually look down upon, but it makes life for his family and him much more positive than it could have turned out to be. All in all, the movie is worth while and presents a horrifying part of history in a relatively positive light. We all experience bad things in our lives, but why not describe them as being good?

HoD - Third Correspondence (My prompt)

Throughout the entirety of Heart of Darkness, Marlow changes vastly from a completely civilized state of mind to having a “savage” quality about him. When Marlow first arrives to the outskirts of Africa, his mentality is that of an enlightened European, who had been raised “properly.” On his journey on the Congo River, Marlow is absolutely terrified of the possibility of damaging his boat and having to survive outside of his comfort zone. Before his expedition, a doctor told him to “beware of irritation more than the sun.” The sun is a big factor in Africa, especially the heart, The Congo, because it is directly on the equator, but irritation, meaning affects of the uncivil traits of Africa, will be worse on Marlow than the sun. Soon after Marlow mentions his desperate want for rivets, the steamboat hits a heavy current on the river and Marlow becomes immensely afraid of the possibility that the boat could be on its last leg, so to speak, and in turn, he would have been on his last leg.

Without the boat, Marlow would have to survive off of his internal instincts, and that was considered to be “savage” and in the wrong by the Europeans. The farther into the Congo Marlow traveled, the more uncomfortable he became, but subconsciously, he gained more of a knowledge of the people in the Congo. For instance, he eventually realizes that the inhabitants of Africa are just has human as those who invaded their home. As a result, Marlow recognizes the fact that what the Europeans are doing is inhumane and not at all a way to go about colonization.

The heart of Africa is where the least civilized people live, and the more primitive and traditional tactics of life are still utilized. Initially, such tactics simply scared Marlow, but after truly experiencing the Congo, himself, he is not nearly as bothered by the primordial actions and lifestyles of the Africans. How did Marlow’s views and personal traits transform after his conquest to the Congo? What triggered him to change and how did he change? Did the recognition of true corruption change him or was it a change within himself that initiated a change of…heart?

Heart of Darkness - Second Response

Though I, myself, have not read anything by Chinua Achebe, many people have stated that there is a direct correlation between “Heart of Darkness” by Joseph Conrad and Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart.” Heart of Darkness is a frame story that embodies a journey Conrad, himself, had taken to the Congo. Representing Conrad, Marlow, an Englishman, takes part on an expedition to Africa, not fully knowledgeable of what to expect. Various questions may arise when merely reading the title of the book; what is a “heart of darkness,” for example. A heart is usually thought of as a symbol of love and/or passion, while darkness immediately evokes thoughts of evil and possibly distress. Even as children, we didn’t like to be alone in the dark. We were terrified of “monsters” that could have been lurking around us.

Throughout the story, we come across multiple meanings behind a “heart of darkness.” The heart of darkness, as Marlow finds out, is something within all of us. We may not know whom or what has the capability to elicit or trigger the heart of darkness, but it is something we try to avoid encountering. Such an issue is a perfect example of a conflict involving man versus himself. The story has so many psychological issues within it, along with so much symbolism, that it is absolutely impossible to avoid a bit of psychological tampering while reading it. Another way to interpret the meaning of a “heart of darkness” is to look at the basic story line, itself. Marlow travels to the Congo, or the heart of Africa, and has a bit of trouble with stepping outside of his comfort zone, which we know is his boat. The boat has become his home, and if anything were to happen to it, Marlow is terrified that he would eventually gain savage tendencies and become more like those who inhabit the forest of the Congo.

Unfamiliarity scares us all to a degree. For example, when we step foot into a new school, where we know absolutely no one, it is a natural instinct to sort of draw inward and keep to ourselves. The unknown, so to speak, is a relatively scary thought. Marlow comes from England, where everyone is civil and where the British are thought to be superior to everyone else. Belgium colonized the Congo, but all of Europe saw Africa as uncivilized and savage. Imperialism was led by three main motives: economical improvement, political advancement, and morality. With respect to morality, the Europeans sought to “better” the lives of the people of Africa. Africans were supposedly not living correctly, and the Europeans felt entitled and stepped in on people’s lives, simply because these people’s lifestyles differentiated from those of the Europeans.

Today, people see colonialism as wrong, but during the era of imperialism, the Europeans had actually come up with a way to justify their invasions – social Darwinism. Social Darwinism was based on Charles Darwin’s thoughts of “survival of the fittest.” Europeans saw themselves as “the fittest,” and automatically took on a responsibility to “improve” the lives of others. In all reality, the pure drive that led to imperialism was sheer avarice; nothing but selfishness could have, in any way, driven people to treat people, yes PEOPLE, in such a manner. The Africans were not seen as equal, even though they were just as human as anyone else on Earth.

Conrad does refer to life in the Congo as a “living nightmare.” Imagine the worst possible thing that could happen. The people of Africa were stripped of their own lives; the Congo reeked of dehumanization. The Africans were beaten on a regular basis, but once they were released, they would go into the depth of the forest. Though such an action may be seen as “savage,” it was their home. It provided them with the basic commodities they required to live and the forest sufficed. Nothing more was needed, so why would the Europeans have intruded as they did?

Why did Marlow go on his expedition to the Congo in the first place? How does Marlow change throughout his journey, and what caused these changes? I guess we’ll find out.

First Response - Heart of Darkness

The title, Heart of Darkness, alone, can bring up a vast amount of curiosities. For instance, what is a “heart of darkness?” The term “darkness” automatically elicits thoughts of negativity and, in a way, causes us to draw back, but it also can peak our interest. A heart, though, is recognizably a good thing; it is associated with love and compassion. Therefore, thinking of a heart being related to darkness can cause a good bit of questioning.

Conrad pulls the title and the book, itself, together perfectly in various ways. Heart of Darkness is based on a journey Joseph Conrad actually took, himself, during the European colonization of Africa. Marlow, representative of Conrad, is an enlightened and civilized man, who initially sets out to gain a more personal insight of Africa. He travels to the Congo, the center, or the “heart,” of Africa. The title ends up showing itself to be somewhat of a multi-entendre; it is meaningful in many ways. While Marlow stays on his boat, which he considers his comfort zone, he is afraid to step foot into to real heart of Africa, because it is dark and unfamiliar to him. On a more psychological note, we see that the “heart of darkness” is in everyone, but we face conflicts with it and wonder if it is avoidable when all is said and done. During the Scramble for Africa, Europe used motives which seemed selfless, when in reality, they were completely selfish. The selfishness of Europe is a factor of the darkness within each of us. The motives were supposedly economic, political and moral, but in the end, Europe’s intentions were to gain economic support and power over different pieces of the world. Imperialism was most definitely hypocritical and took no one’s feelings into account. Marlow’s primary fear is that he will somehow become influenced by Africa in a negative manner and take on more of a “savage” persona, which drives him mad, in a way. Imperialism has driven Marlow to believe that the farther into Africa one goes, the more savage and primal instincts begin to emerge. Having come from civilization, Marlow had a set idea that Africa is wild and that its inhabitants are doing things in an uncivilized manner; essentially, Marlow sets foot into the heart of Africa and realizes that he is just as corrupt as the European colonial leaders.

Autumn's Embrace - Final

Alone on a peacock green park bench,
I slowly become solitude’s victim.
Dawn emerges, and the trees are drenched –
Drenched in the colours of a welcoming autumn.
The air is crisp against my paper white face.
A towering sun rises above it all.
One ray of warmth, and I’m quick to embrace –
Embrace the crimson pallet of fall.

On a peacock green park bench, I sit alone,
Waiting for solitude to consume me.
Without man’s corruption, true colours are shown,
The world’s and mine, alike; I’ve found an escape.
My childish instincts are prominent.

Covered - Final

Covered, head-to-toe, in your transparent coat of shame –
There’s nothing to be ashamed of dear.
Isn’t this what you wanted? Just a taste of fame?
Well, now you’ve got it. Hurry and wipe that iridescent tear.
Hide yourself and disguise that pain.
They feed off the stuff, with those blood-stained teeth. Looks like they’re starving.
Give them what they want, right? There’s nothing to lose. Oh, but nothing to gain.
Nothing to lose? Wrong! They’re little carpenters, and they’re carving.
Carving away at your dignity and your pride.
Is this what you wanted? A little taste of fame?
It’s starting to ache. I can see it in your eyes.
What a pretty picture. Well, here’s the frame:
They’ve gone fishing and tossed the bait.
You’ve taken hold and they’re in for the kill.
Your distress is tasty, but not enough. You give more, and they can’t wait.
They strive for your heart, and you give it with will.
Covered, head-to-toe, in your transparent coat of shame.
This isn’t what you wanted?

Autumn's Embrace - Rough Draft

Alone on a peacock green park bench,
I slowly become solitude’s victim.
Dawn emerges, and the trees are drenched –
Drenched in the colours of a welcoming autumn.
The air is crisp against my paper white face.
A towering sun rises above it all.
One ray of warmth, and I’m quick to embrace –
Embrace the crimson pallet of fall.
On a peacock green park bench, I sit alone,
Waiting for solitude to consume me.
Without corruption of man, earth’s true colours are shown.
So, I wander around aimlessly.
I kick the leaves around, and discover a path.

Covered - 2nd Draft

Covered, head-to-toe, in your transparent coat of shame,
There’s nothing to be ashamed of dear.
Isn’t this what you wanted? Just a taste of fame?
Well, now you’ve got it. Hurry and wipe that iridescent tear.
Hide yourself and disguise that pain.
They feed off the stuff, with those blood-stained teeth. Looks like they’re starving.
Give them what they want, right? There’s nothing to lose. Oh, but nothing to gain.
Nothing to lose? Wrong. They’re little carpenters, and they’re carving.
Carving away at your dignity and your pride.
Is this what you wanted? A little taste of fame?
It’s starting to ache. I can see it in your eyes.
What a pretty picture. Well, here’s the frame:
They’ve gone fishing and tossed the bait.
You’ve taken hold and they’re in for the kill.
Your distress is tasty, but not enough. You give more, and they can’t wait.
They strive for your heart, and you give it with will.
Covered, head-to-toe, in your transparent coat of shame.
This isn’t what you wanted?

Poe? A Romantic?!

Romanticism was an artistic and literary movement of the late 18th century. It originated in Europe and emphasized on the love of nature and dislike for the urban life (English Romanticism Worksheet). The source of a poem was found not to be located in outer nature, but in the psychology and emotions of the individual poet (The Romantic Period Worksheet). Romanticism was a way of showing that proof wasn’t the only necessity with respect to knowledge. There are various ways to be intellectual. One must be in touch with himself or herself to gain a better understanding of the world. That’s part of knowledge. “The Enlightenment stressed reason as the chief means for discovering truth. Although the Romantics by no means disparaged reasons, they tried to balance its use by stressing the importance of feeling, emotion, and imagination as sources of knowing” (Duiker and Spielvogel, 420). So, in opposition to the books and epics we’ve read so far, romantic poetry is all psychologically influenced, rather than both psychologically and sociologically. Poe wrote in the early mid-19th century, before he died in 1849. His time of writing was only a couple decades after the beginning of romanticism. In nearly all of Poe’s short stories and poems, he expresses his own feelings, and incorporates the influence of nature. In his poem, “Ulalume – A Ballad,” for instance, he starts off by describing the scenery, followed by a depiction of his feelings. Poe’s works are easily understood by all English-speakers, because he uses a relatively simple vocabulary. The usage of comprehendible language is included in the qualities of romanticism.

The works of Poe are classified as dark romanticism, a subgenre of romanticism, due to the transcendental influence on his poetry. Dark romanticism started in the 19th century in America. Though it takes on qualities of Transcendentalism, it is a more pessimistic view on nature, mankind, and divinity. Poe’s poetry and stories being referred to as dark romanticism, which branched off from romanticism, is proof enough that he fits in the romantic category.

It is difficult to discuss whether or not Poe would be considered a Romantic without looking at works aside from The Tell-Tale Heart. Though the story consists of many qualities of romanticism, there is one aspect, unnoticed by many readers. The Tell-Tale Heart expresses thoughts and feelings in an obvious manner, yet the narrator and Poe are not the same person. The narrator is a murderer, that may share similar feelings toward the matter that Poe does, but it should be recognized that the story is fiction, and the feelings expressed are not those of Poe, himself. This in no way, though, changes the fact that Poe is most definitely a romantic.

Covered (First Draft)

Covered, head-to-toe, in your transparent coat of shame,
There’s nothing to be ashamed of dear.
Isn’t this what you wanted? Just a taste of fame?
Well, now you’ve got it. Hurry and wipe that tear.
Hide yourself, disguise your pain.
They feed off the stuff. Looks like they’re starving.
Give them what they want, right? Nothing to lose. Oh, but nothing to gain.
Nothing to lose? Wrong. They’re little carpenters, and trust me – they’re carving.
Carving away at your dignity and your pride.
Is this what you wanted? A little taste of fame?
You’ve got it now, and there’s nothing to hide.
Such a pretty picture. Well, here’s the frame:
They’ve gone fishing and tossed the bait.
You’ve taken hold and they’re in for the kill.
Your distress is tasty, but not enough. You give more, and they can’t wait.
They strive for your heart, and you give it with will.
Covered, head-to-toe, in your transparent coat of shame.
This isn’t what you wanted?

Scrooged 2

A: Who's your favorite ghosts, and why? How does Director Donner characterize this ghost, and how does that affect the plot?


Scrooged portrays the three ghosts very differently from the description given by Dickens in A Christmas Carol. My favourite ghost, of the three, would have to be the Ghost of Christmas Present. In A Christmas Carol, the Ghost of Christmas Present is a large, burly man, while in Scrooged, the ghost is a psychotic fairy. The representation of the ghost in Scrooged is much more appealing to me, because of my abstract sense of humor. Donner characterizes the ghost as pushy and irritating, but such characteristics get Frank’s attention. The ghost’s sheer insanity is used in multiple ways: it adds comedic aspects, varying from those of scenes prior to the entry of the Ghost of Christmas Present, as well as presenting similarities between Dickens’ version of the spirit and Donner’s version. The most interesting and most prominent of the fairy’s features is her wings. Her wings allow her to fly around as she pleases, while, in A Christmas Carol, the spirit is conveyed as a large man, weighed down by balls and chains. The difference in the spectres’ appearances may be irrelevant, but it stands out to me.

Scrooged!

C. Is a comedic approach to the story as effective as the sentimental approach Dickens takes? Explain with details from the plot.


Every story can be told or explained in various ways; the essential plot of A Christmas Carol is no exception to the rule. Dickens uses a sentimental approach to depict the characteristics of people and places, while the writers of Scrooged, Mitch Glazer and Michael O’Donoghue, use comedic aspects to produce a more modern version of the same story. Society has changed since 1843, when A Christmas Carol was first published, so creating a universally understood tone makes the old story more comprehendible for people of all ages. The visitation of Jacob Marley is portrayed in a spookier manner than when Frank, or Lumpy, is visited by his old boss, Lou. Also, the Ghost of Christmas Past is vastly different in the movie, compared to its description in the book. In A Christmas Carol, the Ghost of Christmas Past is described to appear innocent, while Scrooged presents the spirit as dingy and disgusting. Despite the comedy in Scrooged, there are bits and pieces of sentimental value throughout the movie, to create a connection between it and the original plot of A Christmas Carol.