3/12/07
The Sister
The sister is a part of me
I can open a closet and she is the box
Of scraps: ticket stubs and letters and zooming memories
(Always the clear green and blue of an idealic day
And the motions and distant events of a childhood.
What a mystery memory is).
My days are recorded in her face
The laughter echoes
Rapidly as rocks being thrown at a window
When the child looks down at a hopeful face.
The soul is quiet with the sister
It is the quiet earth throughout time,
With shatters and sand,
Eroded into a formation
Of sisterhood.
I saw the sister just recently
And we were the same reflection in the mirror
And the same pattern of rippling sand
Of crimped hair and plaid skirts
And hacking jackets.
We are quite beautiful together,
And peaceful,
The sisters.
3/13/07
Last night I had a dream that you and I were in a field at night. I was teaching you how to fly. We only could fly for a few seconds at a time and then our bodies would smoothly bounce back to the ground. I felt close to the ground but must have been high up because I gathered stars into my hands, thousands of stars like buttons or seashells or petals, do you see it? We ran quickly. And we glanced at each other with gleeful smiles as we ran. I took your hand and told you to crouch and then to jump. “You will fly”, I told you. We ran quickly through a field of green grass, green grass glowing turquoise in the night. I saw no other landscape, but I saw the green grass glowing turquoise in the night and I saw the sky that shined like the back of a whale moving through the cold ocean. But the stars shined in a true way. The stars shined like tin foil. We really did fly. In the night, in my dream, we really did fly, but it felt more like gliding. I could feel us gliding because the wind tickled my body. I showed you to crouch, to then use your legs for the muscle to push you into the sky. When we flew we were the backs of whales moving through the ocean. As we moved we hit the tin foil stars that went cling clang as they shattered against our sides. The stars dipped into my hands. They dipped like silver coins dropping into an offering plate and making that same generous noise. They held their form; they did not dissolve. The sun did not come upon us but rather we were in continual night and kept flying and landing.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
I listen to the dancing of sounds
Spinning each other with wispy tulle
And shaking, shaking their skirts of leaves
Clicking their heels, the earth rewords
Quickly to the heart- the autumn wind blows
To tell the tale of the land below
Where each life falls with a breeze
Swiftly caressing the silky fool
From the heights to the dirt floor.
To walk outside through the changing woods;
To feel a part of the earth: the unspoken place
Where all were born.
But looking down to covered feet with synthetic
Forms and cushioned beats, separating from the crispy dry leaves which
Lie like gold in a Pirates treasure heap.
And try to think the real thoughts of worth
Of origin, order, or of birth
No thoughts will conjure from the dark stew
Because the soles of synthetic mark
The separation of form from earth.
It does indeed cure the shell
To lie and walk and feel the
Uncontained wild and finally
The heart can roam and
Simply breath, pulsing and
Reaching to the deepest dirt like
Ancient trees with digging roots.
Fallen trees look to the sky
Of bursting stars, licking the night like an inextinguishable fire;
Fallen, fallen to the ground
Where crunching leaves mindlessly surround
And every weather, rain and wind and sun and heat
And cold and dark and shining
Can seep into the veins of wondering men and
Give them life.
But I return to my machine
Which tells me when to breath.
I throw this book of white
Parched paper and find some bark
Where all philosophy is recorded.
The grass sways, the wind shakes it;
The trees bend, upon the mountain
And it moves, slowly consuming.
Does the morning glory, in
Its closure, wish the opening back again?
Does the apples’ heart weep when
A bruise appears on its skin- and ponder
Its youthful days on the branch?
Does the golden rod plan out the day-
And now I glimmer, and now I fade,
And here I’ll go, and there I’ll sway?
Spinning each other with wispy tulle
And shaking, shaking their skirts of leaves
Clicking their heels, the earth rewords
Quickly to the heart- the autumn wind blows
To tell the tale of the land below
Where each life falls with a breeze
Swiftly caressing the silky fool
From the heights to the dirt floor.
To walk outside through the changing woods;
To feel a part of the earth: the unspoken place
Where all were born.
But looking down to covered feet with synthetic
Forms and cushioned beats, separating from the crispy dry leaves which
Lie like gold in a Pirates treasure heap.
And try to think the real thoughts of worth
Of origin, order, or of birth
No thoughts will conjure from the dark stew
Because the soles of synthetic mark
The separation of form from earth.
It does indeed cure the shell
To lie and walk and feel the
Uncontained wild and finally
The heart can roam and
Simply breath, pulsing and
Reaching to the deepest dirt like
Ancient trees with digging roots.
Fallen trees look to the sky
Of bursting stars, licking the night like an inextinguishable fire;
Fallen, fallen to the ground
Where crunching leaves mindlessly surround
And every weather, rain and wind and sun and heat
And cold and dark and shining
Can seep into the veins of wondering men and
Give them life.
But I return to my machine
Which tells me when to breath.
I throw this book of white
Parched paper and find some bark
Where all philosophy is recorded.
The grass sways, the wind shakes it;
The trees bend, upon the mountain
And it moves, slowly consuming.
Does the morning glory, in
Its closure, wish the opening back again?
Does the apples’ heart weep when
A bruise appears on its skin- and ponder
Its youthful days on the branch?
Does the golden rod plan out the day-
And now I glimmer, and now I fade,
And here I’ll go, and there I’ll sway?
The Grasshopper
“A Leaf”
A leaf, one of the last, parts from a maple branch:
It is spinning in the transparent air of October, falls
On a heap of others, stops, fades. No one
Admired its entrancing struggle with the wind,
Followed its flight, no one will distinguish it now
As it lies among other leaves, no one saw
What I did. I am
The only one.
Bronislaw Maj
I sat down in a fraying beach chair to look at the water and slowly sip my coffee. Rain from a few hours earlier soaked the morning, and the lake blended entirely into the sky in pale grey with hints of blue. I felt a light tickle on the back of my neck and turned to see a small grasshopper perched on the chair. I watched it as quietly as an observing scientist. The grasshoppers long legs stepped slowly and deliberately and I realized I was examining one of nature’s most beautiful dances. It gradually bent its front legs and rubbed the underside of its entirely grass green body against the chair and rubbed its rounded nose against each front leg, dusting the last drops of sleep from its body; the movement reminded me of a just waking cat. Leaning in closer, I saw its green tranquil eyes shaped like little rain drops and as sweet as a child. I watched it’s gracefully movements, the way it swayed ever so slightly in the morning breeze. The rain tap tapped harder then before, and soon a down pour soaked my skin. I ran to the lake and dove swiftly into the water marked by a billion rain drop dimples, swam to a sand bar and sat down in it, pushing my hands through the thick lake bottom. The experience was exquisite. Delicate tones of blues and hardly visible greens swish swashed through water and sky. So God was painting a water color this morning, blending the colors of the world with tender water drops.
Finding the Sea Glass 7/21/06
Bending down in a smooth swoop, I clasp the new treasure in my hand. Unlatching my fingers, I toss the glistening stone from palm to palm, allowing its misty tones to remind my skin of soft loving touch. Holding the stone between my thumb and pointer finger, I try to gaze through its hazy complexion, but what once was a broken piece of glass now lay a stone resembling the polished emerald city. I imagined a sailor throwing a useless bottle over board without a second thought. It splinters against the side of the boat and sinks to the bottom of the lake, grinding against rock and sand. This churning continues for a few weeks or less, speeding the process with the harshness of each storm. Tossing back and forth, back and forth, the glass eventually ends up on the beach. A broken piece of glass with sharp edges. Harsh weather and the hurling of waves. A faultless gem.
The Harmonious Flight 8/17/06
In the morning I saw tiny birds above the whisky waves flying towards the southern horizon. The flock flew in a single file line creating a constant line of flittering wings. Their flight continued for several minutes, thousands of birds in a row caressing the whole stretch of sky. Like Can Can girls, they methodically flapped their wings. Just below them, each bouncing wave danced also, and I saw the world in both poetry and a mathematical equation- with a perfect balance of rhythm and purpose.
The Morning 7/23/06
If in the first moments of looking in some ones eyes you see flickers of how they truly feel, the earth similarly shows its true nature in the earliest moments of sunrise, when the dark sky must stubbornly give way to light. In the early morning the sun breaks through and shatters the darkness, marking the sky with coral slits and fiery slashes. On this particular morning, dark midnight clouds settle like fat lazy men, budging slowly from the horizon. The lake, with waves crashing into foamy egg white, offered colors of steel and silver, bright whites, navy, ballet pinks, and lemon. Despite the soft undertones, the water looked ancient but constant, alluring but distant- like some untouchable and beautiful god. Cold and prehistoric in its steel texture, the water stood victim to the dominant sun. Slow and steady in its course, the sun stamped reds and oranges into a dark world.
A deep breath of air. I take it eagerly. With a crash of white foam the purples mix with the sandy browns and then fade away. Little bubbles sweep swiftly onto my toes, leaving a few to liger, absorb my peachiness, and reflect it in their globe of gleaming curvature. Honey yellows dance on the edges and I think of fireflies tangoing through the leaves of trees. The low set, lazy men clouds start rimming with soft pinks and golds, slowly bursting with the morning. I stand up to stroll over to a heron bird wearing garments as purely milk white as a bridal gown, pick up a piece of only slightly misty sea glass which I throw back into the water for further processing, turn and watch my footsteps imprint the balmy brown sand, and sit down by a hill of tiny seashells. Blinking wildly, I look to see syrup of pure gold reaching for my toes. I follow the gold across the lake to the huge yellow sun, and I am surrounded. By still and timelessness. By swirling colors of browns, pinks, blues, gold’s, all in every hue and texture.
I sit here. A deep breath of air. I am tiny in this scene, a dot of pale ink on the canvas. But I am here, and I am glad to be bathing in gold. And my hands, thankful to be basked in pink light. I imagine my face glowing like a white heron, made radiant in simplicity next to every other color. My toes creep over to the blues and greens, and they welcome me with chilled water and diamond bubbles. The new light is everywhere.
I let is smooth away my bitterness. I let it take my steel grays and push through in red slivers, to seep through my toes and fingertips and melt my cold dark soul. I wanted to be illuminated, to walk as the sun and melt everything in my path.
I stood up, heavily and filled to the brim. As I continued walking the stream of golden sun chased me. I remembered the moon at night, how I thought it followed me by the way it always magically appeared outside the car window no matter which way I’d go. I remember being so bitter at the moon, cursing it for failing me, hating it for watching but not protecting. Looking again at the gold, I felt tempted to return to my bitterness. “Will you protect me?” I asked this sincerely and out loud. I shook my head; sometimes God just needed to turn the volume up and talk to me. Then I heard it, a whisper in my soul- soft as the foamy egg white waves. I heard that I needed to listen to the silence. A deep breath of air. The wave’s crash: they ask me to remember the earth when it was new and untouched. They told me to remember that light always comes.
“A Leaf”
A leaf, one of the last, parts from a maple branch:
It is spinning in the transparent air of October, falls
On a heap of others, stops, fades. No one
Admired its entrancing struggle with the wind,
Followed its flight, no one will distinguish it now
As it lies among other leaves, no one saw
What I did. I am
The only one.
Bronislaw Maj
I sat down in a fraying beach chair to look at the water and slowly sip my coffee. Rain from a few hours earlier soaked the morning, and the lake blended entirely into the sky in pale grey with hints of blue. I felt a light tickle on the back of my neck and turned to see a small grasshopper perched on the chair. I watched it as quietly as an observing scientist. The grasshoppers long legs stepped slowly and deliberately and I realized I was examining one of nature’s most beautiful dances. It gradually bent its front legs and rubbed the underside of its entirely grass green body against the chair and rubbed its rounded nose against each front leg, dusting the last drops of sleep from its body; the movement reminded me of a just waking cat. Leaning in closer, I saw its green tranquil eyes shaped like little rain drops and as sweet as a child. I watched it’s gracefully movements, the way it swayed ever so slightly in the morning breeze. The rain tap tapped harder then before, and soon a down pour soaked my skin. I ran to the lake and dove swiftly into the water marked by a billion rain drop dimples, swam to a sand bar and sat down in it, pushing my hands through the thick lake bottom. The experience was exquisite. Delicate tones of blues and hardly visible greens swish swashed through water and sky. So God was painting a water color this morning, blending the colors of the world with tender water drops.
Finding the Sea Glass 7/21/06
Bending down in a smooth swoop, I clasp the new treasure in my hand. Unlatching my fingers, I toss the glistening stone from palm to palm, allowing its misty tones to remind my skin of soft loving touch. Holding the stone between my thumb and pointer finger, I try to gaze through its hazy complexion, but what once was a broken piece of glass now lay a stone resembling the polished emerald city. I imagined a sailor throwing a useless bottle over board without a second thought. It splinters against the side of the boat and sinks to the bottom of the lake, grinding against rock and sand. This churning continues for a few weeks or less, speeding the process with the harshness of each storm. Tossing back and forth, back and forth, the glass eventually ends up on the beach. A broken piece of glass with sharp edges. Harsh weather and the hurling of waves. A faultless gem.
The Harmonious Flight 8/17/06
In the morning I saw tiny birds above the whisky waves flying towards the southern horizon. The flock flew in a single file line creating a constant line of flittering wings. Their flight continued for several minutes, thousands of birds in a row caressing the whole stretch of sky. Like Can Can girls, they methodically flapped their wings. Just below them, each bouncing wave danced also, and I saw the world in both poetry and a mathematical equation- with a perfect balance of rhythm and purpose.
The Morning 7/23/06
If in the first moments of looking in some ones eyes you see flickers of how they truly feel, the earth similarly shows its true nature in the earliest moments of sunrise, when the dark sky must stubbornly give way to light. In the early morning the sun breaks through and shatters the darkness, marking the sky with coral slits and fiery slashes. On this particular morning, dark midnight clouds settle like fat lazy men, budging slowly from the horizon. The lake, with waves crashing into foamy egg white, offered colors of steel and silver, bright whites, navy, ballet pinks, and lemon. Despite the soft undertones, the water looked ancient but constant, alluring but distant- like some untouchable and beautiful god. Cold and prehistoric in its steel texture, the water stood victim to the dominant sun. Slow and steady in its course, the sun stamped reds and oranges into a dark world.
A deep breath of air. I take it eagerly. With a crash of white foam the purples mix with the sandy browns and then fade away. Little bubbles sweep swiftly onto my toes, leaving a few to liger, absorb my peachiness, and reflect it in their globe of gleaming curvature. Honey yellows dance on the edges and I think of fireflies tangoing through the leaves of trees. The low set, lazy men clouds start rimming with soft pinks and golds, slowly bursting with the morning. I stand up to stroll over to a heron bird wearing garments as purely milk white as a bridal gown, pick up a piece of only slightly misty sea glass which I throw back into the water for further processing, turn and watch my footsteps imprint the balmy brown sand, and sit down by a hill of tiny seashells. Blinking wildly, I look to see syrup of pure gold reaching for my toes. I follow the gold across the lake to the huge yellow sun, and I am surrounded. By still and timelessness. By swirling colors of browns, pinks, blues, gold’s, all in every hue and texture.
I sit here. A deep breath of air. I am tiny in this scene, a dot of pale ink on the canvas. But I am here, and I am glad to be bathing in gold. And my hands, thankful to be basked in pink light. I imagine my face glowing like a white heron, made radiant in simplicity next to every other color. My toes creep over to the blues and greens, and they welcome me with chilled water and diamond bubbles. The new light is everywhere.
I let is smooth away my bitterness. I let it take my steel grays and push through in red slivers, to seep through my toes and fingertips and melt my cold dark soul. I wanted to be illuminated, to walk as the sun and melt everything in my path.
I stood up, heavily and filled to the brim. As I continued walking the stream of golden sun chased me. I remembered the moon at night, how I thought it followed me by the way it always magically appeared outside the car window no matter which way I’d go. I remember being so bitter at the moon, cursing it for failing me, hating it for watching but not protecting. Looking again at the gold, I felt tempted to return to my bitterness. “Will you protect me?” I asked this sincerely and out loud. I shook my head; sometimes God just needed to turn the volume up and talk to me. Then I heard it, a whisper in my soul- soft as the foamy egg white waves. I heard that I needed to listen to the silence. A deep breath of air. The wave’s crash: they ask me to remember the earth when it was new and untouched. They told me to remember that light always comes.
The Oz Farm
Today I rode my bike past an old farm. First, I noticed the quintessential red barn. It should be straight, perfectly painted, with box windows and a white picket fence around it. But chipped paint covered this barn, faded to shades of terracotta and pink. The carelessly cut windows tilt in crookedness, and blank slabs of soggy wood support a run down wire fence surrounding the pasture of tanned grass. A few more tilted buildings, slight and rotting, scatter randomly through a broad field. Beside a rusting tractor, countless brilliant flowers situated in perfectly groomed gardens surround the blindingly white house with respectable green shutters. Throughout the garden sit a myriad of strategically placed statues, perching and protruding, hidden in every possible spot like munchkins popping out through layers of gigantic flowers. The garden and house are exaggerated and immaculate and argue the effort of the woman of the house to cope with the habits of her farmer husband. She is splattering beauty, pouring buckets of effort to erase the chaos.
Today I rode my bike past an old farm. First, I noticed the quintessential red barn. It should be straight, perfectly painted, with box windows and a white picket fence around it. But chipped paint covered this barn, faded to shades of terracotta and pink. The carelessly cut windows tilt in crookedness, and blank slabs of soggy wood support a run down wire fence surrounding the pasture of tanned grass. A few more tilted buildings, slight and rotting, scatter randomly through a broad field. Beside a rusting tractor, countless brilliant flowers situated in perfectly groomed gardens surround the blindingly white house with respectable green shutters. Throughout the garden sit a myriad of strategically placed statues, perching and protruding, hidden in every possible spot like munchkins popping out through layers of gigantic flowers. The garden and house are exaggerated and immaculate and argue the effort of the woman of the house to cope with the habits of her farmer husband. She is splattering beauty, pouring buckets of effort to erase the chaos.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
"Ministering Angels"
I am but a shellWithout the earth and the sea
This is the place. This is the place with no name, with no character, with no energy. It is blank and careless, dark and heartless, cold and numb. It is a nondescript face with no expression: no eyes to witness, no nose to sense, no ears to listen, no mouth to communicate. This is the place; it is the room with no name and no face. Just an empty vacuum. The Tick Tock ticks.
This is the man. This is the man in the deepest despair, in the darkest, gloomiest misery. This man, in the darkest, gloomiest misery, sits on the floor in a cold blank jail cell brooding in anguish at his infected heart. The pits of Hell vehemently grip his skull causing it to sag wretchedly between two limp and hopeless knees. This man, feeling more alone than any man who lived, is undergoing a transition from anger and curses, from resentment and ill-wishes, to willingly allowing the cold blank jail cell to suffocate the vigor of each successive breath. The Tick Tock ticks.
At first glance his eyes appear weak, but hide a shyly kind man. With cheeks that hollow in like carved wood and thin lips which close as tightly as scissors, his silent face seems more gentle than harsh. His smooth skin, weathered only in patches, testifies to a life of harsh experiences. However, once his eyes showed only kindness and his face was as smooth as a sea pebble.
He came here on a day of unusual sunshine and beauty. This day knew no sorrow. It seemed to mock him, he now recalls, to bid him farewell with the most accurate tinge of irony.
In this jail cell he creates. Perhaps, he remarks, because the walls destroy him and eat at his core. Recreating through writing and drawing rebuilds his existence with an inky smear, becoming his only way to endure. He remembers music. He sits wearily searching for a note and begins humming a tune which he pulls by a fragile string from the depths of his memory. Music has not pacified his ears in countless days. He remembers a song, the beat gently sounds. “All that shimmers in this world is sure to fade away”, the all too appropriate lyrics of the Fuel song emerge eagerly. To pass the rhythm of the Tick Tock clock, he rewrites the verse. Creating:
All that glistens in this globe is sure to glide away, like golden arrows whistling through the dainty clean air. Everything that shines in this earth loses its color, like a fading, hazy, blurred silver spoon reflecting nothing of real consistency. Each glistening, gleaming, shining, shimmering, shocking thing in this world surely fades away, like some flowering, reaming, silkily soaring-and suddenly!- Dreary dream.
In the jail cell he sleeps. He sleeps to dream of heaven’s gala; countless thimbles of golden syrup dripping from the black cap sky and soaking life back through his fingertips. And he awakens, to see the true black cap of loneliness and solitude.
But one day, before the loneliness, the breeze mixed and turned the blood in his veins. In those days the birds’ clear twill transferred their potion into his lungs. He recognized his role as a human, he thought with guidance and clarity. He lived without cares; an unquestioning heart. He knew God, because he felt the forces of life quickening his body every moment.
For this man, the change to desperation happened through continually engaging in experiences which eliminate the recognition of the living air, the thudding breath, the evident God. He recognized change at its dying moment, at the beginning of his new ugliness, when reconciliation expired.
I hear an Angel!
When silence fills me.
Now, as the man sits in his jail cell with Hell pulling his thoughts between two bony knees, a knock knock on the door opens his eye lids with a jolt. Time stops- the door frozen half way open and the drab guard with a gaping mouth standing firm as a stone. The man hears the guard announce “A letter” in a cold, distant, booming voice, which makes time restart. The man hesitantly reaches over to the letter, which lies on the stone floor and glows with whiteness. First its’ glow frightens him. Then he opens the letter with as much vigor as a young boy on Christmas day. He feels the most wonderful joy. He wants to shout a joyous shout; for with the arrival of the letter his despair and anguish disappeared. The porous texture of the letter seemingly captured all the happiness floating around in the universe. The jail cell smiles at him, even the cracks in the stones adopt an upward curve. A breeze (in a windowless room) lifts him to his feet, and he walks, grasping the letter to his chest. An angel! he cries. An angel.
Flight is the productof God exhaling.
Her head tilts to the cream swirls in the sky (through the cascading trees with buds pregnant with new life).
“The air. The sun. A smile. The swaying meadow. To exhale. To walk slowly. The closed eye lids. A buzzing bee. Stinging cold water. To feel rain. Bubble clouds. To clear the throat. To search. A simple prayer. Hope. A crackling fire. A leaf which floats. A twilling bird voice. The soil. Blue. Ancient trees. Birth. Silence. To wipe sweat from the brow. A single tear.” The earth, so far below, looks quiet and peaceful and she envies the people walking quickly with places to go. “To be human.” She talks to God and thanks him for the day, for the world, for her life. She asks God to help the people in need, the people dying, and the people with no hope. Then she closes her journal, climbs down the tree, walks to her room, unlocks the door, and sets down her school bag.
Weeks have passed since she sent the letter.
She is 18 years old, in a tackily decorated college dormitory. In the mornings she brushes her teeth and goes to class. In the afternoons she works in the library, or reads in her room. And now at night, she hears a whisper. She remembers her old friend Tom, who she met several years ago one drunken night. He sold drugs. That night she talked to him about his life, and why he jeopardized everything with his habits. He cried. They kept in touch through emails ever since. He loved her. She was the girl he loved but hurt, a girl who should rightfully hate him.
The last email, which she sent almost a year ago, went unanswered. So she writes a letter. She sends it to his house, believing he still lives off the profit of drugs. She tells him he has a soul to hope, eyes to witness, a nose to sense, ears to listen, and a mouth to communicate. She tells him he is not an empty vacuum, and to remember stinging cold water, to feel rain, bubble clouds, hope. To be human.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
The leave flitters in the wind
Because the wind pulls it onto the dance floor.
A pebble is old
even when the earth reforms it.
I am but a shell
Until I lie in the grass or swim in the sea
A building is like the earth-
It is only a term, for a space filled with activity.
The birds' flight is the product
of God exhaling.
I hear an Angel!
When silence fills me.
To an ant
I am like the wind
It senses me but can not feel me
But through the tangible crush.
A petal without her flower
is still as silky as heavens' garments.
The air acts as a transporter
for sents and sounds and feelings.
Because the wind pulls it onto the dance floor.
A pebble is old
even when the earth reforms it.
I am but a shell
Until I lie in the grass or swim in the sea
A building is like the earth-
It is only a term, for a space filled with activity.
The birds' flight is the product
of God exhaling.
I hear an Angel!
When silence fills me.
To an ant
I am like the wind
It senses me but can not feel me
But through the tangible crush.
A petal without her flower
is still as silky as heavens' garments.
The air acts as a transporter
for sents and sounds and feelings.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
I Ponder This:
Am Not I Who I Was?
Am Not I Who I Was?
(A reflection on My Reflection)
I lift my hand in a slow buttery swish. My walls. They are cold and impersonal. I have lived here for a year and the memories seem as foreign as strangers passing on a smoggy street. Like friends of another life, like I have shed a shell and am me not her. My green eyes, they glance across the room and focus on a photograph on the wall. It is shiny and reflective. It is like a mirror. In this photography I see my reflection. The reflective is immediate and true, it does not lie. Yet it is bendable, flexible. What is this place, this college for? What has it made me? I am part mirror part photography. The photograph- a concrete specimen of a second. My body is a tangible specimen of the evolution of my soul. I am textured and shiny, and I am not alone. I am the photograph- in all its gumby nature it still preserves the past. I am not new, I am not recreated, I am my past, I am real, I am a memory, and I am tangible.
I am the mirror. I am a reflection, but not of me alone. I am this room, this space in the Universe. These walls, these tacky posters, these drawers, that bunk bed. I am the desk; I am the books thoughtfully strewn in organized chaos across the earth. I am the song I listen to. I am me, it is I. A photograph: a single second of college fun captured in infinity. I have stolen that moment and in return it has stolen me.
So I revisit the memories and they no longer seem as foreign as strangers passing on a smoggy street. We meet, we shake hands, and then explain “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
I lift my hand in a slow buttery swish. My walls. They are cold and impersonal. I have lived here for a year and the memories seem as foreign as strangers passing on a smoggy street. Like friends of another life, like I have shed a shell and am me not her. My green eyes, they glance across the room and focus on a photograph on the wall. It is shiny and reflective. It is like a mirror. In this photography I see my reflection. The reflective is immediate and true, it does not lie. Yet it is bendable, flexible. What is this place, this college for? What has it made me? I am part mirror part photography. The photograph- a concrete specimen of a second. My body is a tangible specimen of the evolution of my soul. I am textured and shiny, and I am not alone. I am the photograph- in all its gumby nature it still preserves the past. I am not new, I am not recreated, I am my past, I am real, I am a memory, and I am tangible.
I am the mirror. I am a reflection, but not of me alone. I am this room, this space in the Universe. These walls, these tacky posters, these drawers, that bunk bed. I am the desk; I am the books thoughtfully strewn in organized chaos across the earth. I am the song I listen to. I am me, it is I. A photograph: a single second of college fun captured in infinity. I have stolen that moment and in return it has stolen me.
So I revisit the memories and they no longer seem as foreign as strangers passing on a smoggy street. We meet, we shake hands, and then explain “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
The next two paragraphs of SG paper (scroll down to May 2nd for the beginning)
Civil war created an ideal environment to cultivate human rights violators. With the presidency of Jacobo Arbenz the United States viewed Guatemala as a communist threat. True to United States habit, in 1954 the Central Intelligence Agency investigated and eventually exiled Arbenz. With his exiling came horrific commotion which inspired human rights violations by guerilla forces, the succession of military juntas, and the indirectly even the CIA (Readers Digest). Aboriginal peoples experienced torture, targeted killings, disappearances, and displacement from their Mayan communities, increasing human violation towards indigenous groups (Readers Digest). Additionally women were denied healthcare, economic security, and political access, while children became malnutrition, received inadequate healthcare, and became victim to sexual abuse or child prostitution (Readers Digest). With only one doctor for every 10,000 rural Guatemalans, even infants experience an extremely high mortality rate and malnutrition among Guatemalan children is one of the worst in the world (Madre).
From a sociological perspective Guatemala’s structural adjustments have caused an increase in poor living conditions that lead to crime. The countries structure caused an increase in unemployment. Furthermore, living costs are three times the minimum wage, leaving eighty percent of the population impoverished and almost sixty percent of households without access to proper health facilities (Madre). Women searching for work raise the frequency of the maquila, or sweatshop, where poor wages and abusive conditions plague the workforce (Madre). Indigenous peoples residing in the Guatemalan highlands have been inundated with poverty and hunger after a huge drought in 2001 and a decline in the main export, coffee (Madre). Over 40 percent of Guatemalans are unemployed because of the coffee crisis and destructive World Bank policies (Madre). Although currently at its worst, violation of human rights historically plagued this country.
Civil war created an ideal environment to cultivate human rights violators. With the presidency of Jacobo Arbenz the United States viewed Guatemala as a communist threat. True to United States habit, in 1954 the Central Intelligence Agency investigated and eventually exiled Arbenz. With his exiling came horrific commotion which inspired human rights violations by guerilla forces, the succession of military juntas, and the indirectly even the CIA (Readers Digest). Aboriginal peoples experienced torture, targeted killings, disappearances, and displacement from their Mayan communities, increasing human violation towards indigenous groups (Readers Digest). Additionally women were denied healthcare, economic security, and political access, while children became malnutrition, received inadequate healthcare, and became victim to sexual abuse or child prostitution (Readers Digest). With only one doctor for every 10,000 rural Guatemalans, even infants experience an extremely high mortality rate and malnutrition among Guatemalan children is one of the worst in the world (Madre).
From a sociological perspective Guatemala’s structural adjustments have caused an increase in poor living conditions that lead to crime. The countries structure caused an increase in unemployment. Furthermore, living costs are three times the minimum wage, leaving eighty percent of the population impoverished and almost sixty percent of households without access to proper health facilities (Madre). Women searching for work raise the frequency of the maquila, or sweatshop, where poor wages and abusive conditions plague the workforce (Madre). Indigenous peoples residing in the Guatemalan highlands have been inundated with poverty and hunger after a huge drought in 2001 and a decline in the main export, coffee (Madre). Over 40 percent of Guatemalans are unemployed because of the coffee crisis and destructive World Bank policies (Madre). Although currently at its worst, violation of human rights historically plagued this country.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
First two paragraphs of a research paper in Social Geography on "Human Rights Violation in Guatemala"
A country no larger than Ohio and consisting of extreme diversity in climate and terrain, ranging from steep mountain ridges to the Peten rain forest, Guatemala is a country of a rich history buried amongst its physiographic qualities. Regrettably Guatemala’s history involves severe battles which sprang from the deep wounds of political conflict. About twenty-one miles outside Guatemala City sits the Pacaya volcano, a magnificent view that “when active, a deep orange ribbon” of lava skids down, vanishing into ash at the foundation (Simon 13). This beautiful picture turned gloomy when, in the mid-1960’s, the Guatemalan government declared Pacaya a dumping site for hundreds of victims of systematic repression. Since 1970 nearly tens of thousands of people have been murdered by the Guatemala government, reaching its peak in the 1980’s with the inauguration of President Vinicio Cerezo Arevalo (Simon 16). Since his inauguration, the country has somewhat improved, but still struggles with a highly controlling military force. Due to a historically shaky political system the Guatemalan people have incessantly undergone tremendous human rights violations in various ways and by various offenders.
By examining Guatemala’s geography, perhaps some understanding will result about the cultural influences on human rights violation. Guatemala is the third-largest country in Central America, with an area of 42,042 square miles and 8.5 million people. Of those 8.5 million people fifty-five percent of them are Mayan Indians, belonging either to the Quiche, Cakchiquel, Kekchi, Mam, or Pocomam ethnic group (Simon 19). Most of these people live in rural highlands, while non-Indians live in either Guatemala City or coastal and eastern lowlands (Simon 19). The country is geographically divided into twenty-two provinces and 329 municipalities (Simon 19). Only 1 percent of Guatemala’s people are considered to be elite, and the lowest income groups have worsened in recent decades (Nyrop 50). The lowest income groups live in the western Highlands, an area inhabited by about 70 percent of the nations Indians (Nyrop 50). Not only have these people survived poverty, but they have survived a history of continuous political tyranny. Although Guatemala has recently transitioned to democracy in recent decades, Indigenous and Non-Indigenous peoples have undergone extreme abuse from the rulers of this conflicted nation.
A country no larger than Ohio and consisting of extreme diversity in climate and terrain, ranging from steep mountain ridges to the Peten rain forest, Guatemala is a country of a rich history buried amongst its physiographic qualities. Regrettably Guatemala’s history involves severe battles which sprang from the deep wounds of political conflict. About twenty-one miles outside Guatemala City sits the Pacaya volcano, a magnificent view that “when active, a deep orange ribbon” of lava skids down, vanishing into ash at the foundation (Simon 13). This beautiful picture turned gloomy when, in the mid-1960’s, the Guatemalan government declared Pacaya a dumping site for hundreds of victims of systematic repression. Since 1970 nearly tens of thousands of people have been murdered by the Guatemala government, reaching its peak in the 1980’s with the inauguration of President Vinicio Cerezo Arevalo (Simon 16). Since his inauguration, the country has somewhat improved, but still struggles with a highly controlling military force. Due to a historically shaky political system the Guatemalan people have incessantly undergone tremendous human rights violations in various ways and by various offenders.
By examining Guatemala’s geography, perhaps some understanding will result about the cultural influences on human rights violation. Guatemala is the third-largest country in Central America, with an area of 42,042 square miles and 8.5 million people. Of those 8.5 million people fifty-five percent of them are Mayan Indians, belonging either to the Quiche, Cakchiquel, Kekchi, Mam, or Pocomam ethnic group (Simon 19). Most of these people live in rural highlands, while non-Indians live in either Guatemala City or coastal and eastern lowlands (Simon 19). The country is geographically divided into twenty-two provinces and 329 municipalities (Simon 19). Only 1 percent of Guatemala’s people are considered to be elite, and the lowest income groups have worsened in recent decades (Nyrop 50). The lowest income groups live in the western Highlands, an area inhabited by about 70 percent of the nations Indians (Nyrop 50). Not only have these people survived poverty, but they have survived a history of continuous political tyranny. Although Guatemala has recently transitioned to democracy in recent decades, Indigenous and Non-Indigenous peoples have undergone extreme abuse from the rulers of this conflicted nation.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Style Lesson 10: The Ethics of Style
In the previous chapters Williams discusses how to make a sentence structurally correct and stylish, and now he explains the ethical responsibility of writers and readers. Writers have a responsibility to write clearly enough that our readers understand us. Similarly, readers have a responsibility to read hard enough to understand the complexity of ideas. Therefore, Williams creates a golden rule: “Write to others as you would have others write to you.”
Williams also explains that some writers unintentionally write poorly. For example, writers may employ unintended obscurity, intended misdirection, rationalizing opacity, and salutary complexity. Finally, how do we decide what counts a “good” writing? What is more important: writing that is clear but does no good, or writing that does well but is unclear? Williams warns college students to take all of his lessons seriously, because in “the real world” bad writing is common and distasteful.
In the previous chapters Williams discusses how to make a sentence structurally correct and stylish, and now he explains the ethical responsibility of writers and readers. Writers have a responsibility to write clearly enough that our readers understand us. Similarly, readers have a responsibility to read hard enough to understand the complexity of ideas. Therefore, Williams creates a golden rule: “Write to others as you would have others write to you.”
Williams also explains that some writers unintentionally write poorly. For example, writers may employ unintended obscurity, intended misdirection, rationalizing opacity, and salutary complexity. Finally, how do we decide what counts a “good” writing? What is more important: writing that is clear but does no good, or writing that does well but is unclear? Williams warns college students to take all of his lessons seriously, because in “the real world” bad writing is common and distasteful.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Journal Reaction Part 2
Slaughter-House-Five
After finishing this book, another main point reaches my interest. I love Vonnegut’s use of language to push ideas into his reader’s brain. He uses repetition of phrases to signal different events and tones. I wonder is he’s the genius that thought this up, or if some past author served as his inspiration. The main phrase that Vonnegut repeats is “So it goes”. Billy Pilgrim says that the Tralfamadorians say “So it goes” every time some one dies, to imply that death is an inevitable part of life. Billy picks up this phrase, repeating it after death is mentioned. In some parts of the book, I was simply overwhelmed by the amount of times “so it goes” was repeated. This is such a clever method, and reminds me of the way architects design memorials.
The Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C. serves as a prime example of how architects design memorials to affect viewers in specific ways. This memorial is a long black wall, a couple inches at the beginning, and angling upward to several feet in the middle. Names are inscribed in the black background, and viewers can see their reflection as they walk along beside the memorial. The viewer is amazed at the amounts of names, because the wall is narrow and spreads the names over a long distance. Furthermore, by seeing ones reflection in the shiny black surface, the viewer feels connected to the people who died. Similarly Vonnegut use phrases to trigger emotion.
“So it goes” is a simple three letter phrase. It is not decorated, lacy, or profound. In fact, if it was only sprinkled lightly throughout the text the reader would take little notice of it, and certainly not consider it significant. However, after a death scene Vonnegut repeats this phrase. Its interesting how that phrase reminds you that someone actually died. Death is so frequent an occurrence in this book that without the phrase, the reader would be numb to its forces. By repeating a phrase, Vonnegut reminds his reader that some one actually died. Furthermore, with its repition comes recognition of the vast multitudes of people that die as war tragedies. Such a clever strategy!
Slaughter-House-Five
After finishing this book, another main point reaches my interest. I love Vonnegut’s use of language to push ideas into his reader’s brain. He uses repetition of phrases to signal different events and tones. I wonder is he’s the genius that thought this up, or if some past author served as his inspiration. The main phrase that Vonnegut repeats is “So it goes”. Billy Pilgrim says that the Tralfamadorians say “So it goes” every time some one dies, to imply that death is an inevitable part of life. Billy picks up this phrase, repeating it after death is mentioned. In some parts of the book, I was simply overwhelmed by the amount of times “so it goes” was repeated. This is such a clever method, and reminds me of the way architects design memorials.
The Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C. serves as a prime example of how architects design memorials to affect viewers in specific ways. This memorial is a long black wall, a couple inches at the beginning, and angling upward to several feet in the middle. Names are inscribed in the black background, and viewers can see their reflection as they walk along beside the memorial. The viewer is amazed at the amounts of names, because the wall is narrow and spreads the names over a long distance. Furthermore, by seeing ones reflection in the shiny black surface, the viewer feels connected to the people who died. Similarly Vonnegut use phrases to trigger emotion.
“So it goes” is a simple three letter phrase. It is not decorated, lacy, or profound. In fact, if it was only sprinkled lightly throughout the text the reader would take little notice of it, and certainly not consider it significant. However, after a death scene Vonnegut repeats this phrase. Its interesting how that phrase reminds you that someone actually died. Death is so frequent an occurrence in this book that without the phrase, the reader would be numb to its forces. By repeating a phrase, Vonnegut reminds his reader that some one actually died. Furthermore, with its repition comes recognition of the vast multitudes of people that die as war tragedies. Such a clever strategy!
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Journal Reaction Part 2
The Things They Carried
After finishing this book, I am inspired to adjust the way I write to closer look like O’Brien’s. He writes with such vitality, with such a life force, that events previously foreign to bystanders come alive. Each event breaths with unique rhythm and volume, and the readers eagerly consume it. After admitting my reaction to O’Brien’s writing style, I am now interested in examining my opinion of war.
I am convinced that each human is born with this gut instinct that screams of the immorality of war. Born innocent to the world, a child looks encouraged towards his neighbor. As the Bible teaches to “love thy neighbor as yourself” so a person newly born into this world respects his neighbor. How unnatural it would be if an infant devised a scheme to destroy a play mate that refused to share a toy. However, children are undeniably quite capable of manipulation. In Bill Cosby’s stand up comedy, he does a skit where a child climbs to the top of the refrigerator, grabs a forbidden cookie, and then, as the adult enters the room, says “I got you a cookie Mommy”. Thus, are adults similarly driven, that they will deceive to get what they want? One passage in particular stands out to me in The Things They Carried:
War is hell, but that’s not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead.
Evidently war is full of a multitude of ironies. For example, what is worse: idly standing by and letting people die at the hand of a dictator, or intruding into the matters of another country and determining the future of its citizens? What is more just: freedom to determine one’s own destiny, which means no interruption by other nations; or gaining freedom even if it means the invasion of countries such as America?
I suspect, in the near future, our nation has a lot of deciding to do. What does freedom mean to us? What does death mean? Is the loss of one life a justifiable cause for the loss of another? O’Brien means not to answer these questions but to raise them, challenging readers like me to do some serious soul searching on behalf of this nation.
Journal Reaction Part 1
Slaughter-House-Five
As soon as I began reading this book I saw undeniable similarities to Tim O’Brien’s novel. Kurt Vonnegut begins by discussing the truth of his novel, saying that some of it is true and some of it is not true. Vonnegut uses lies to reach the truth, similar to other writers. That’s the beauty of fiction: the words used are inaccurate, but they paint accurate pictures.
Vonnegut uses time travel throughout this novel, not only as a means to transport his reader through the chronology of Billy Pilgrims’ life, but as a means to discuss different theories. For example, the residents of Tralfamadore have different ideas about the consistency of time. They view time as already determined, like a string of spaghetti or Christmas lights. To them time is tangible, unable to be manipulated, stunted, or changed. It simply is. I find this theory fascinating. Billy Pilgrim uses the Tralfamadorians concept of time to cope with his own life. For a reader like myself, I view these time travel theories as a literary move. I think it’s a genius method: use time travel not only as a way to move a character from place to place, but as a way to interest the reader.
The Things They Carried
After finishing this book, I am inspired to adjust the way I write to closer look like O’Brien’s. He writes with such vitality, with such a life force, that events previously foreign to bystanders come alive. Each event breaths with unique rhythm and volume, and the readers eagerly consume it. After admitting my reaction to O’Brien’s writing style, I am now interested in examining my opinion of war.
I am convinced that each human is born with this gut instinct that screams of the immorality of war. Born innocent to the world, a child looks encouraged towards his neighbor. As the Bible teaches to “love thy neighbor as yourself” so a person newly born into this world respects his neighbor. How unnatural it would be if an infant devised a scheme to destroy a play mate that refused to share a toy. However, children are undeniably quite capable of manipulation. In Bill Cosby’s stand up comedy, he does a skit where a child climbs to the top of the refrigerator, grabs a forbidden cookie, and then, as the adult enters the room, says “I got you a cookie Mommy”. Thus, are adults similarly driven, that they will deceive to get what they want? One passage in particular stands out to me in The Things They Carried:
War is hell, but that’s not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead.
Evidently war is full of a multitude of ironies. For example, what is worse: idly standing by and letting people die at the hand of a dictator, or intruding into the matters of another country and determining the future of its citizens? What is more just: freedom to determine one’s own destiny, which means no interruption by other nations; or gaining freedom even if it means the invasion of countries such as America?
I suspect, in the near future, our nation has a lot of deciding to do. What does freedom mean to us? What does death mean? Is the loss of one life a justifiable cause for the loss of another? O’Brien means not to answer these questions but to raise them, challenging readers like me to do some serious soul searching on behalf of this nation.
Journal Reaction Part 1
Slaughter-House-Five
As soon as I began reading this book I saw undeniable similarities to Tim O’Brien’s novel. Kurt Vonnegut begins by discussing the truth of his novel, saying that some of it is true and some of it is not true. Vonnegut uses lies to reach the truth, similar to other writers. That’s the beauty of fiction: the words used are inaccurate, but they paint accurate pictures.
Vonnegut uses time travel throughout this novel, not only as a means to transport his reader through the chronology of Billy Pilgrims’ life, but as a means to discuss different theories. For example, the residents of Tralfamadore have different ideas about the consistency of time. They view time as already determined, like a string of spaghetti or Christmas lights. To them time is tangible, unable to be manipulated, stunted, or changed. It simply is. I find this theory fascinating. Billy Pilgrim uses the Tralfamadorians concept of time to cope with his own life. For a reader like myself, I view these time travel theories as a literary move. I think it’s a genius method: use time travel not only as a way to move a character from place to place, but as a way to interest the reader.
Friday, April 28, 2006
The second way Vonnegut writes about effects of war on combatants is by describing Tralfamadorians’ views about death. As Billy reflects on time travel he writes a letter about his experience with Tralfamadorians:
The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral…Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is ‘So it goes’ (27).
Although Billy tries to use this method to cope with death, he constantly remembers the war. When he tries to go to bed at night he can not sleep, he explains “But sleep would not come. Tears came instead. They seeped. Billy turned on the Magic Fingers, and he was jiggled as he wept” (62). Therefore, Vonnegut speaks out against war by detailing Billy Pilgrim’s attempt, and ultimate inability, to cope with death.
Since citizens often absentmindedly allow war to become an unchangeable part of life, O’Brien and Vonnegut use their novels to speak out against war. Both authors illustrate the effects of war on soldiers in order to educate ordinary citizens about what is happening to combatants. In addition, these authors clarify that war continues far after actual battles, and becomes entrenched in the people partaking in them. Through these writings, hopefully general readers are called to activism against war.
The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral…Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is ‘So it goes’ (27).
Although Billy tries to use this method to cope with death, he constantly remembers the war. When he tries to go to bed at night he can not sleep, he explains “But sleep would not come. Tears came instead. They seeped. Billy turned on the Magic Fingers, and he was jiggled as he wept” (62). Therefore, Vonnegut speaks out against war by detailing Billy Pilgrim’s attempt, and ultimate inability, to cope with death.
Since citizens often absentmindedly allow war to become an unchangeable part of life, O’Brien and Vonnegut use their novels to speak out against war. Both authors illustrate the effects of war on soldiers in order to educate ordinary citizens about what is happening to combatants. In addition, these authors clarify that war continues far after actual battles, and becomes entrenched in the people partaking in them. Through these writings, hopefully general readers are called to activism against war.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
In cases such as Norman Bowker, Vietnam had a deadly affect. Norman Bowker got out of Vietnam safely, and returned to the security of his home town. However, he spends evenings driving slowly around the lake in his town, over and over again. In a letter he writes to O’Brien, Norman explains:
“There’s no place to go. Not just in this lousy little town. In general. My life, I mean. It’s almost like I got killed over in Nam…Hard to describe. That night when Kiowa got wasted, I sort of sank down into the sewage with him…Feels like I’m still in deep shit” (156).
All Norman wanted when he returned from the war was to embrace his home, yet like he said, he returned physically but not in actuality. The sewage of Kiowa sucked him up, consuming his soul. Although Norman imagines ways to reconnect with home, he never does, and ultimately commits suicide. Therefore, the war drives Norman insane because on his return home he can no longer relate to the people that enjoyed life while he was in a foreign country fighting a war.
Similarly to The Things They Carried, Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughter-House-Five illustrates the effects of war on combatants. The main character in this book is Billy Pilgrim, a man stuck in time. Vonnegut takes the reader on a journey involving Billy’s experiences with time travel. The core story is Billy’s experience as a prisoner of war in Dresden, Germany, but Vonnegut continually interrupts its chronology to insert past events of Billy’s life. These flashbacks (in the form of time travel) demonstrate the isolation that Billy experiences as a victim of war. Slaughter-House-Five provides countless examples of how the war effected Billy Pilgrims’ connection with reality.
In the first chapter of this book, Vonnegut addressed the reader directly, without the use of Billy Pilgrim as his character. By telling us a short story about who he is and how he came to write this book, he reveals how the war affected him personally. For example, Vonnegut explains that he tried to find an old war buddy:
I had the Bell Telephone Company to find him for me. They are wonderful that way. I have this disease late at night sometimes, involving alcohol and the telephone. I get drunk, and I drive my wife away with a breath like mustard gas and roses. And then, speaking gravely and elegantly into the telephone, I ask the telephone operators to connect me with this friend or that one, from whom I have not heard in years.
This introductory chapter shows the reader the difficulty Vonnegut had with recovering from the war enough to write a book. He persistently talks about the struggles he had writing this book, explaining that first he did not have any ideas of what to write about, and then did not know how to write about what he wanted to write about. Consequently, the reader gains a sense of the seriousness of the war as soon as the first page of this book, expanding their understanding of the outcome of war.
“There’s no place to go. Not just in this lousy little town. In general. My life, I mean. It’s almost like I got killed over in Nam…Hard to describe. That night when Kiowa got wasted, I sort of sank down into the sewage with him…Feels like I’m still in deep shit” (156).
All Norman wanted when he returned from the war was to embrace his home, yet like he said, he returned physically but not in actuality. The sewage of Kiowa sucked him up, consuming his soul. Although Norman imagines ways to reconnect with home, he never does, and ultimately commits suicide. Therefore, the war drives Norman insane because on his return home he can no longer relate to the people that enjoyed life while he was in a foreign country fighting a war.
Similarly to The Things They Carried, Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughter-House-Five illustrates the effects of war on combatants. The main character in this book is Billy Pilgrim, a man stuck in time. Vonnegut takes the reader on a journey involving Billy’s experiences with time travel. The core story is Billy’s experience as a prisoner of war in Dresden, Germany, but Vonnegut continually interrupts its chronology to insert past events of Billy’s life. These flashbacks (in the form of time travel) demonstrate the isolation that Billy experiences as a victim of war. Slaughter-House-Five provides countless examples of how the war effected Billy Pilgrims’ connection with reality.
In the first chapter of this book, Vonnegut addressed the reader directly, without the use of Billy Pilgrim as his character. By telling us a short story about who he is and how he came to write this book, he reveals how the war affected him personally. For example, Vonnegut explains that he tried to find an old war buddy:
I had the Bell Telephone Company to find him for me. They are wonderful that way. I have this disease late at night sometimes, involving alcohol and the telephone. I get drunk, and I drive my wife away with a breath like mustard gas and roses. And then, speaking gravely and elegantly into the telephone, I ask the telephone operators to connect me with this friend or that one, from whom I have not heard in years.
This introductory chapter shows the reader the difficulty Vonnegut had with recovering from the war enough to write a book. He persistently talks about the struggles he had writing this book, explaining that first he did not have any ideas of what to write about, and then did not know how to write about what he wanted to write about. Consequently, the reader gains a sense of the seriousness of the war as soon as the first page of this book, expanding their understanding of the outcome of war.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
In the fifth chapter of The Things They Carried, O’Brien tells the story of Dave Jensen and Less Strunk, two soldiers that are turned against each other by the war. Jensen and Strunk fist fought “about something stupid- a missing jackknife-but even so the fight was vicious” (62). During their fight Jensen breaks Stunk’s nose, and afterward becomes overly paranoid about how Stunk might seek revenge. Although “There were no threats, no vows of revenge, just a silent tension between them” (63), Jensen constantly worried about whether or not Stunk would seek revenge:
Eventually, after a week of this, the strain began to create problems. Jensen couldn’t relax. Like fighting two different wards, he said. No safe ground: enemies everywhere. No front or rear. At night he had trouble sleeping- a skittish feeling- always on guard, hearing strange noises in the dark, imagining a grenade rolling into his foxhole or the tickle of a knife against his ear. The distinction between good guys and bad guys disappeared for him.
Evidently, after fighting with the Vietnamese for so long he can no longer distinguish the enemy, and begins fighting not only with a man on his own side, but with himself.
One of the most disturbingly profound effects of war involves not only an inability to distinguish the real enemy, but an inability to distinguish oneself from the land. In chapter 9, O’ Brian tells the story of Mary Anne, the innocent blonde girlfriend of soldier Eddie Diamond. Because their squad was stationed in an area seemingly away from the war, Eddie Diamond paid for his girlfriend to fly to Vietnam. Eventually Mary Anne got sucked into the horror of the land. As Rat Kiley explains to Tim, what happened to Mary Anne “was what happened to all of them. You come over clean and you get dirty and then afterwards it’s never the same” (114). Mary Anne had only been in Vietnam for a few months before she started to go crazy. The war affected her intensely by soaking her very soul into the violence and destruction of Vietnam, leaving her hopelessly absorbed in the war. As Mary Anne represents a “soldier” unable to disconnect from the actual war, O’Brien tells a similar story of a soldier that cannot forget the war once he returns home.
Eventually, after a week of this, the strain began to create problems. Jensen couldn’t relax. Like fighting two different wards, he said. No safe ground: enemies everywhere. No front or rear. At night he had trouble sleeping- a skittish feeling- always on guard, hearing strange noises in the dark, imagining a grenade rolling into his foxhole or the tickle of a knife against his ear. The distinction between good guys and bad guys disappeared for him.
Evidently, after fighting with the Vietnamese for so long he can no longer distinguish the enemy, and begins fighting not only with a man on his own side, but with himself.
One of the most disturbingly profound effects of war involves not only an inability to distinguish the real enemy, but an inability to distinguish oneself from the land. In chapter 9, O’ Brian tells the story of Mary Anne, the innocent blonde girlfriend of soldier Eddie Diamond. Because their squad was stationed in an area seemingly away from the war, Eddie Diamond paid for his girlfriend to fly to Vietnam. Eventually Mary Anne got sucked into the horror of the land. As Rat Kiley explains to Tim, what happened to Mary Anne “was what happened to all of them. You come over clean and you get dirty and then afterwards it’s never the same” (114). Mary Anne had only been in Vietnam for a few months before she started to go crazy. The war affected her intensely by soaking her very soul into the violence and destruction of Vietnam, leaving her hopelessly absorbed in the war. As Mary Anne represents a “soldier” unable to disconnect from the actual war, O’Brien tells a similar story of a soldier that cannot forget the war once he returns home.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Style Lesson 9: Elegance
Balanced sentence structure is the most important feature of elegant prose because it makes you sentenced balanced. Use words such as “and, or, nor, but, and yet”, to balance phrases and clauses. Second, elegant sentences end on strength, which can be created by ending with a strong word, ending with a prepositional phrase, ending with an echoing salience, ending with a chiasmus. Next, sentences should vary in length, but if they are longer than thirty words or so or shorter than fifteen, edit. While striving for elegance, understand that failure is common and keep persevering despite any initial difficulties.
Ultimately, to acquire an elegant style you must read writers who write elegantly, and then look at your own writing and understand the distinction between elegance and inflaion. Nonetheless, revise for simplicity of characters as subjects and actions as verbs, the complexity of balanced syntax, meaning, sound, and rhythm, and emphasis of artfully stressed endings.
Balanced sentence structure is the most important feature of elegant prose because it makes you sentenced balanced. Use words such as “and, or, nor, but, and yet”, to balance phrases and clauses. Second, elegant sentences end on strength, which can be created by ending with a strong word, ending with a prepositional phrase, ending with an echoing salience, ending with a chiasmus. Next, sentences should vary in length, but if they are longer than thirty words or so or shorter than fifteen, edit. While striving for elegance, understand that failure is common and keep persevering despite any initial difficulties.
Ultimately, to acquire an elegant style you must read writers who write elegantly, and then look at your own writing and understand the distinction between elegance and inflaion. Nonetheless, revise for simplicity of characters as subjects and actions as verbs, the complexity of balanced syntax, meaning, sound, and rhythm, and emphasis of artfully stressed endings.
Monday, April 24, 2006
In The Things They Carried Tim O’Brien illustrates the effects of war on soldiers. A collaboration of numerous stories, O’Brien not only makes a firm anti-Vietnam statement, but exemplifies the ways that war alters a soldiers’ perspective on life. As a response to war, soldiers experience lack of purpose, inability to determine right from wrong, inability to deal with death, disconnection from their original homes, and are even driven to insanity.
Early in the war, soldiers would waste free time playing mundane games such as checkers. As O’Brien describes, “There was something restful about it, something orderly and reassuring. There were red checkers and black checkers. The playing field was laid out in a strict grid, no tunnels or mountains or jungles” (32). They played checkers to establish a set of rules in their lives. Living in Vietnam as soldiers during the war, where death could come at any moment; the war affected the soldiers by causing them to search for reality in such trivial things as checkers. As soldiers spend their free time engaging in checkers and search for reality, they react by losing their ability to determine right from wrong.
Early in the war, soldiers would waste free time playing mundane games such as checkers. As O’Brien describes, “There was something restful about it, something orderly and reassuring. There were red checkers and black checkers. The playing field was laid out in a strict grid, no tunnels or mountains or jungles” (32). They played checkers to establish a set of rules in their lives. Living in Vietnam as soldiers during the war, where death could come at any moment; the war affected the soldiers by causing them to search for reality in such trivial things as checkers. As soldiers spend their free time engaging in checkers and search for reality, they react by losing their ability to determine right from wrong.
Post for Sunday. Blogger.com wouldn't work, I don't know why?
Anyways, Its the first paragraphs of my journal article.
Most people classify home schooled students as either belligerent smart nerds that sit cross legged on a spindly kitchen chair doing chemistry problems for hours, or deathly introverted kids that have no friends and when asked questions nervously check to see if their shoes are tied or what time it is. This story is about a once home schooled girl named Jenny. Jenny has twelve siblings, 5 sisters and 6 brothers. She grew up in the jungles of Africa because her parents were both missionaries with the Episcopalian church. Jenny is scared of animals because when she was 5 she almost died from a poisonous snake bite. Actually, she likes looking at animals from a distance, but as soon as she is face to face with one she starts crying. Jenny is bad at math and science but loves art. She spends a lot of free time drawing and painting. Her favorite is drawing people, mainly faces. She also draws flowers. One time she drew a flower that looked like a face. It was kind of a combination of face and flower and looked very abstract. She was 14 when she did that, and won an award of $200 from a local art competition. Jenny moved to the United States when she was 16. She wanted to continue being home schooled, but her parents objected; they thought she needed to be socialized. So Jenny went to school. So did two of her brothers and one of her sisters. Jenny’s parents kept home schooling the other children because they were still quite young. Transition? How do I do this?
Historically, education has gone through drastic changes and developments. Since the beginning of time, people yearn for knowledge. However, primitive education varies greatly from current education. Because society changes and develops, the purpose of education simultaneously changes and develops. For example, the purpose of the Spartan education “was to rear a physically perfect specimen, capable of enduring all kinds of hardships, well disciplined in militarily, and absolutely devoted to the state” (Bartky 21). Sparta as well as Athens considered education a public matter, and both had mandatory school attendance (Gwynn 27). Currently, schools are highly unique places with very specific goals, yet they are incredibly broad and all inclusive. Physical education, American history, world history, geography, math, science, English, foreign language, and electives in one category; then social skills, group work, test taking skills, writing skills, computer, extracurricular, and morals. What are schools really supposed to do? Furthermore, should there be a set rule of what schools do? Evidently, the work of schools goes far beyond the basics. According to Donald Arnstine, schools have three main jobs, education, socialization, and the aesthetic (Arnstine 5). Nevertheless, a historical perspective of educational agendas puts current educational practices into perspective, starting with religious influences on education.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Traversing the Screen Politics of Migration by Angelica Fenner talks about the movie Journey of Hope and director Xavier Koller. Fenner talks about how Journey of Hope essentially had no recognition and wasn’t really considered even a favorite for the Oscar for best foreign language film but still won. The French thought that the Oscar was deserved by the movie Cyrano de Bergerac. Therefore some controversy was surrounded by the selection of this film to win this prestigious award. This film is based upon Kurdish family who wanted to move to Switzerland for better opportunity In this section Fenner goes on to talk about how the lives of the cast were endangered if they told Kurdish theme in the film. This article goes on to compare migrating films from Europe. Fenner argues that the film is like a German production than like a Swiss production. The article states that Fenner that Koller had to operate his film under constraints by both Turkey and Switzerland. Koller also had to make his film appeal to the world. In sense Koller had to not offend either of these countries and try and get out his message from this film to the international scene. This article then talks about the plot of the film and how the film was based on the account of a Kurdish family that was trapped in a blizzard in the Alps. The article also says that the character development of Hayder is specifically weak in that he didn’t give sufficient reason to leave his homeland. In a general sense this article delves deeper in to the film and the time period as well as the reaction by people. It also goes into many themes of the film.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Kilpatrick, William Heard. Source Book in the Philosophy of Education . New York: The Macmillan Company, 1935.
In Source Book in the Philosophy of Education, Kilpatrick examines philosophy and education, science and philosophy in education, the concept of experience, generic traits of existence, the nature of the human individual, social and individual life, democracy and education, progress, and the legal aspects of education. Rather than providing his spoken opinion on these matters, Kilpatrick consults various Philosophers of Education such as John Dewey, Morris R. Cohen, Thomas Darlington, Thomas Jefferson, and Walter Lippmann to create a cohesive collection of influential works on education. The quotations provided present material in the philosophy of education to further study the context of modern education in reference to the most prominent crafters of democratic education.
Pierce, Truman. Federal, State, and Local Government in Education. Washington: Center for Applied Research in Education, 1964.
This book traces the expanding role of government in education by examining the constitutional provisions for education, the impact of congress on education, the role of state legislatures on education, federal and state court decisions, the executive branch of government, and various issues such as responsibility and control. Truman aims to provide a brief review of the reasons which led to the founding of education in this country to present a better perspective of the role of government in education. In order to provide this perspective, Truman provides bountiful historical context concerning the Federal, state, and local government.
Sommer, Carl. School in Crisis: Training for Success or Failure?. Houston: Cahill
Publishing Company, 1984.
In School in Crisis: Training for Success or Failure? Carl Sommer presents solutions to correct educational problems and create successful institutions. Sommer introduces the educational crisis declaring that because test scores are so low, schools evidently have failed to educate students. He argues that many dimensions exist within this crisis, such as racial and moral. Through careful research, Sommer believes that in order to cure educational failures, schools need to be highly supervised and students must learn basic educational principles early on in their schooling career. Finally, Sommer argues that in order to create a progressive and moral America, schools must confirm basic moral guidelines for students to follow.
In Source Book in the Philosophy of Education, Kilpatrick examines philosophy and education, science and philosophy in education, the concept of experience, generic traits of existence, the nature of the human individual, social and individual life, democracy and education, progress, and the legal aspects of education. Rather than providing his spoken opinion on these matters, Kilpatrick consults various Philosophers of Education such as John Dewey, Morris R. Cohen, Thomas Darlington, Thomas Jefferson, and Walter Lippmann to create a cohesive collection of influential works on education. The quotations provided present material in the philosophy of education to further study the context of modern education in reference to the most prominent crafters of democratic education.
Pierce, Truman. Federal, State, and Local Government in Education. Washington: Center for Applied Research in Education, 1964.
This book traces the expanding role of government in education by examining the constitutional provisions for education, the impact of congress on education, the role of state legislatures on education, federal and state court decisions, the executive branch of government, and various issues such as responsibility and control. Truman aims to provide a brief review of the reasons which led to the founding of education in this country to present a better perspective of the role of government in education. In order to provide this perspective, Truman provides bountiful historical context concerning the Federal, state, and local government.
Sommer, Carl. School in Crisis: Training for Success or Failure?. Houston: Cahill
Publishing Company, 1984.
In School in Crisis: Training for Success or Failure? Carl Sommer presents solutions to correct educational problems and create successful institutions. Sommer introduces the educational crisis declaring that because test scores are so low, schools evidently have failed to educate students. He argues that many dimensions exist within this crisis, such as racial and moral. Through careful research, Sommer believes that in order to cure educational failures, schools need to be highly supervised and students must learn basic educational principles early on in their schooling career. Finally, Sommer argues that in order to create a progressive and moral America, schools must confirm basic moral guidelines for students to follow.
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