a DOPPELGANGER

A Revolution of the Mind: Part IV

2008-10-26T03:43:03Z

Conclusion:

(10-26-2008)

My supposed “needs” are actually very few. I need God. I need water. I need food. I need family and friends. Everything else is unnecessary and most of it hinders me from truly appreciating the small, simple things in life.

As anticipated, the hunger for food, the actual appetite is far stronger than the petty desire to have a cigarette or a drink.

A Revolution of the Mind: Part II

2008-10-26T03:40:08Z

A Revolution of the Mind: Chapter 2

(10-25-2008) – 4:22 P.M.

Yesterday was an odd day to say the least. I spent most of the day in preparation for the days to come. I woke up early, ate breakfast and then picked up my paycheck. After cashing my check, I took a trip to Marquette. The first place that I went was to Wal-Mart, where I purchased three gallons of drinking water. I then traveled to St. Peter’s Cathedral where I met a priest named Father Tim who gladly blessed the water for me. He wished me luck on my journey. I picked up a rosary for my journey from a small store that sells religious goods, a place called Sacred Heart. I ate a hearty lunch and then headed to work. While I was at work I felt myself standing on the edge of a monumentous change. I kept going out to smoke a cigarette every chance I could get, because I knew that soon I would not be able to smoke. I left work at about a quarter to eleven in the evening. When I got home, I proceeded to bid farewell to certain items which I would not be able to take with me. I smoked from my pipe, as I sat and reflected. As I took the smoke into my lungs, it was as if I was meeting someone for the first time, yet I felt the striking notion that I had known that person for most of my life. I had a cigarette and drank the last of a bottle of Jameson. It was a very reflective moment in which I began to realize why I had come to enjoy these things so deeply, but at the same time, realizing why I would have to live without them. I finished my cigarette and emptied the bottle of whiskey. I prayed for strength as I put on the rosary. I threw the remaining pack of cigarettes into the trash bin. I emptied out the ashtray in my car as to remove even the smallest of temptations to smoke.

I then got into my car and drove. It was a rainy night and I missed my turn off. Almost immediately when I got to camp, I started to feel lonely. My desire for intoxicants or sensory pleasure was quickly replaced by a desire for companionship and conversation. It wasn’t long, though, until I started to crave a cigarette. I built a fire to try to get my mind off of it, which worked for a moment but as soon as I sat down I immediately felt the cravings again. I drank some holy water and made my bed. I laid down and tried to fall asleep. I watched the fire. Sleep did not come easily, but eventually I drifted into slumber. I am glad that I have Bootsy with me; she makes me feel a lot less lonesome. In the morning, I put on a few more layers and went down to sit by the lake. An hour passed as I sat there, listening to the waves and wondering what moves a lake, why it moves one way or another, why it is constantly advancing and receding, constantly renewing itself and all which surrounds it. I walked back up to camp and gathered some wood, though most of it was very damp as it had rained for the past few days. I laid that wood in among the ashes from the night before and hoped to get it dry enough to burn. Eventually it caught fire. I am feeling the need to smoke tobacco more desperately than anything else. I could live without sex, whiskey, or pot, as long as I could just have one cigarette. I have a strange sensation in my throat and sometimes when I swallow, the discomfort in my throat causes my eyes to water. I really want to smoke, but I know that unless I stand firm now, I may never conquer my addiction. The feeling in my throat is designed to make me weak in this moment. I feel the presence of Satan in my mind. He keeps hinting, using my voice to make his point: “I could drive to the store and get a pack of cigs.” “I could just smoke a few of them.” “Just one more, then I’ll quit.” I drink more holy water. I am beginning to get hungry. Soon, I am sure; my desire for food will dwarf my craving for nicotine. I long, now, for the sound of music, or for conversation. I miss my family. It won’t be long.

Writer's Block: United Nations World Teachers Day

2008-10-06T07:41:31Z

In recognition of United Nations World Teachers Day, let us reflect on the subjects we hated most in school but must now grudgingly admit were useful. What subject will today’s students find most useful when they’re older?

View 455 Answers

English :)

Struck

2008-10-06T07:33:41Z

What an irony is boredom when we know we’re all doomed to die! Death sentences and we’re all dying to pass the time till we get our own shining moment in the chair. What time we waste and then say how fast the years have gone! I can’t believe they died before I got a chance to know them! I can’t believe how messy the kitchen is! All so rushed but always wasting time. What an irony is boredom.

Such victims we are. Such hard lives we have. All of us.

Diary // 10.04.08 // 4:36AM

2008-10-04T08:37:59Z

I am not sure that I remember how to do this. Undertake one final flood of the mind before plunging into deep sleep. You have to. Why this intensity, this all the time worrying about something? I think that all worries stem from a single worry and then branch outward from this one root—the foundation of all fear—the acknowledgement of death. This is what is at the seat of our fall from innocence. It is not our revolution as sexually active creatures, but moreover, our true realization that we—and everyone else we know—is going to die.

This time is one of change. I have become focused on the now. The lesson for today is, be. If you focus on the future, you are not being. If you focus on desire, materials, or “a tingling of the nerves,” you are not being. If you become angry because of something that you have taught yourself to need but that you did not need when you were a child, you are not being. Know yourself. If you do not know yourself truly, then you will spend half of your time betraying the part of yourself that is really you.

Anger is the impulse of a fool manifesting itself through emotion. Temperance is the mark of the wise.

Not all battles are worth dying for.

That is all for now.

Writer's Block: Awesome Openers

2008-07-01T04:56:14Z

What are some gripping opening lines from films or books, and why do you think they work so well?

View 500 Answers

The opening line from Virginia Woolf's "Jacob's Room" has always been one of my favorites:

"'So of course," wrote Betty Flanders, pressing her heels rather deeper in the sand, 'there was nothing for it but to leave.'"

I think that it works so well because it brings you into the story in medias res, in what I believe to be the most effective fashion possible. Woolf begins the novel with the word "so," which immediately implies that something preceded this line, and also that something will follow. Betty Flanders is in fact, in the middle of composing a letter. I feel that the opening scene of the book is just beautiful. You have Mrs. Flanders, standing by the beach, desperately trying to write this letter while her children are driving her mad. This is one of my favorite openings to any book.

Divorce in Young Adult Literature

2008-07-01T03:35:56Z

Previous to 1970, there had been a lack of literature dealing with the issue of divorce which could be read and understood by young adults. There was literature available which spoke about the topic of divorce, but it was all in works that were far too sophisticated to be grasped by a young adult, and/or often portrayed issues that had nothing to do with what could be considered a ‘common’ divorce. I have found several literary works whose treatment of divorce/separation can attest to these assertions.

Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary is a fine example of the aforesaid trends. The risqué novel was published in 1856. Charles Bovary is the main protagonist of the novel and finds many difficulties in his two marriages. In his first marriage, his mother has him married off to an older woman named Heloise, and she dies very shortly afterwards. Charles then meets and is married to Emma Bovary, the ‘Madame Bovary’ for whom the novel is named. The novel explores the issue of infidelity in marriage as Emma has affairs with two different men over the next few years. She does not love her husband, and she makes it evident that she often feels disappointment in him. She later kills herself after getting herself deep into financial trouble. After her death, Charles discovers the letters from the two men whom Emma had been seeing. The book ends on a very tragic note, highlighting the sorrow of their failed marriage. The issue of marital infidelity runs rampant throughout the novel, but Berthe, the daughter of Emma and Charles, is scarcely even mentioned. The perspective of the child and the effects of the divorce upon Berthe are almost nonexistent. We realize that she will be cursed with a life of poverty after the death of her parents and as a result her mother’s enormous financial debts. Madame Bovary is a book for more mature audiences, and is likely a book that would cause a young adult to grow very frustrated in reading. The prose is very sophisticated and would likely be too challenging for a younger reader. Although the nature of their marriage is set in reality, the book is not written in a manner which could be easily read or understood by a younger audience, and it offers little in the way of exploration or explanation into the effects of the declining marriage upon the child, therefore, it is ineffective when considered as a work of Young Adult Literature.

Similar trends to the ones found in Madame Bovary can be seen in Arthur Miller’s work, After the Fall. The book was published in 1964, and is centered on a girl named Maggie. Maggie and her mother were abandoned by her father. Maggie is very promiscuous and begins giving men sexual favors and allowing them to take advantage of her at a young age. She leads a very troubled life and makes a name for herself as a musician. A man named Quentin leaves his first wife to marry Maggie. He desperately tries to save her throughout the course of their marriage, but despite all of his efforts, she ends up committing suicide. Like Madame Bovary, the story ends in the suicide of the wife. It also deals with a wife who is very estranged from her husband and a husband who tries tirelessly to be the man that his wife needs him to be, but eventually failing. After the Fall deals only slightly with the issue of divorce, and it is treated from a distance. Maggie’s father leaves her family early in her life, and the effects of that separation continue to affect Maggie’s life until her suicide. This work does deal with the issue of divorce from the perspective of the child who is the victim of it, but I would argue that the graphic content of the novel makes it inappropriate for young adult readers. The explicit sexuality in the text is far too obscene for a young audience. So, while we see some of the effects that the divorce has upon Maggie (i.e.—her own difficulty marrying/having relationships, her sexual promiscuity with random men, potentially her own suicide) and her mother, and while a victim of divorce may potentially relate to the book very strongly and profoundly, the novel is a bit too sensual to be read by young adults.

In the two works that I have discussed thus far, the end result of all of the tragedies endured by the wives in these stories is common—suicide. Kate Chopin’s novel, The Awakening, is no different. The book was published in 1899. At the novel’s conclusion, the main protagonist, a woman named Edna, offers her body up to the water, drowning herself. Like Emma Bovary, Edna strays from her husband Leonce and her children. She moves out to live on her own and paint and spend time with a man named Robert in her leisure. Edna’s friend Adele pleads with her, asking her to act wisely and to realize what she is doing to her family. Later, Edna has a sexual affair with a man named Alcee Arobin. Her husband, Leonce, tries to get her help and asks a doctor to see her. He is constantly trying to reconnect with his wife, but she is no longer satisfied in the marriage, and each of his efforts end up proving to be futile. Robert tries desperately to make the marriage work and to understand his wife’s alienation from their relationship and their family. Edna’s own self-individualism and personal freedom ultimately end up proving to be more valuable to her than her marriage and even her own life. The Awakening deals extensively with the issue of divorce, but children are hardly even involved, and rarely even mentioned. The language is a little less sophisticated than that of Madame Bovary, but still, it is a novel that I think would cause a lot of difficulty for a younger and more developmental reader. Again, this is a text whose content is a little too mature to be considered as Young Adult Literature.

All of Kate Chopin’s literature tends to regard marriage in a similar fashion. She seems to believe that the one essential quality of the marriage is that both members remain satisfied. Chopin felt that “…a marriage should last… only as long as those in it are fulfilled by it.” (Stein, 170) This can clearly be seen in The Awakening, as well as in Chopin’s first novel, At Fault, which was published in 1890. In that novel, the main protagonist Therese slowly begins to understand that a marriage to another person can be a useless and destructive force if one is no longer happy with her marriage: “…it is what Theresa finally learns in this novel and is the lesson behind all of Chopin’s subsequent marriage fiction.” (Stein, 170) Her texts all seem to feature a woman who possesses a desire to leave the world in some way. Therese and Edna both have these kinds of urges. Chopin’s books are useful in understanding a woman’s perspective on marriage, as well as in displaying her motivations for becoming estranged and/or separated from her husband, or to stay with him. She is very effective in illustrating the psychological processes of women who feel disinterested and/or alienated from their marriage in some way. However, these works are not works which a young adult could relate to, and they do very little in the way of incorporating the perspective of a child into the text.

The topic of divorce is definitely being handled by authors before 1970, but it is not being treated or written about in a fashion that a young adult could easily relate to it and draw parallels between the text and their own life. I feel that the settings as well as the diction in all of the texts I have already mentioned would make a younger reader grow disengaged and bored with the text. Other texts of the time steer clear of the issue of divorce altogether and work to persuade the reader that perseverance and endurance in the marriage should always be regarded as an alternative to divorce.

In 1871, William Dean Howells published a novel entitled Their Wedding Journey. The book features an atypical wedding situation. The newlyweds in this text are not young and passionate while looking out upon the verge of their new lives, but aged and temperate in their love for each other. The two are wedded and then they embark on a trip. The book tells the story of their everlasting bond and embraces the joy of marriage. The relationship is not without its share of difficulties, but they work through their problems with love and understanding for their significant other. This novel is an example of a text which avoids the issue of divorce completely, instead emphasizing that marriage is a bond that should never be broken by everyday problems, but something that should endure all trials. This text could likely be read by a young adult, despite the disengagement with the text that would likely occur as a result of the text’s antiquity, but it does not aid them in any way, shape, or form in the effort to understand and confront issues they might be dealing with in a family divorce and/or separation. The couple in Their Wedding Journey does not have children, nor is the concept of divorce ever discussed in the text. There are many texts of this nature which were written in the years which preceded 1970, texts which attempted to persuade the reader to try to work through their marriage at all costs. This text would be best-suited for a much older reader, and it may help to establish the politics of a healthy marriage, but it does nothing in the way of handling the issue of divorce within the context of childhood, which is the issue at hand here.

Even after 1970, these trends remained very prevalent in the literary world. Authors were still writing and publishing novels which failed to incorporate the issue of divorce within the context of childhood. In 1977, John Updike published a book by the name of Marry Me. The novel highlights the lives of two suburbanites named Jerry and Sally who are living in a town called Greenwood. They are in their thirties and they are confronted with adultery. The novel focuses largely upon the psychological and emotional effects of adultery upon Jerry and Sally. Young children are not included in the spectrum of this novel, though it deals heavily with issues which are commonplace to many dysfunctional marriages, but I do not feel it is a piece of literature that a young reader could find him/herself relating to. Marry Me may successfully portray and capture many of the emotions and scenarios involved with a failing marriage, but it does so from the perspectives of Jerry and Sally, which is a quality that may likely distance a young audience from being able to identify themselves or their own issues within the text.

William Shakespeare was no stranger to writing about the issue of divorce. The topic is heavy throughout the course of his play, Othello. Iago attempts to court Desdemona, even though he is married to Emilia. Othello kills Desdemona, because he suspects her of infidelity as a result of a handkerchief which had been found in the possession of Cassio. There are many reasons why a young adult reader would be unable to connect and identify with this text. First of all, the split between Othello and Desdemona comes as a result of a fantastical plan on the behalf of Iago, and is not likely to be a situation which is to be found in a ‘common’ divorce, therefore this factor would probably make younger readers feel disconnected from the text and feel that it has no relevance to their own situation if they may be dealing with a divorce themselves. Secondly, there are no offspring as a result of this marriage, so we are unable to see how the incidences in Othello and Desdemona’s marriage would affect a child. Lastly, the antiquity of the work may also hinder a child’s ability to engage with the text, feeling that it is too vintage and has nothing to do with them.

Hamlet also deals with the issue of divorce. Hamlet’s uncle, Claudius, kills his father in order to marry his wife and attain the throne. In this play, we can see the issue of infidelity, as Hamlet often vents his frustrations about his mother’s new marriage, especially due to the fact that it came so soon after the death of his father. This is the first work we have seen where we are able to discover the point of view of the child of a divorce through the text. There are, however, facts that disqualify this work from being considered as Young Adult Literature. First of all, the language is very challenging and would likely cause difficulty for a young reader. Secondly, the situation surrounding the divorce is so diluted and complicated by the murder subplot. I do not believe that having your father killed by your uncle is what constitutes a situation which is common to your average divorce. Among the other fantastical aspects of the plot, King Hamlet’s murder and the appearance of his ghost to Hamlet work to diminish the ability of a young reader to identify themselves and their own situations with those which are confronted by Hamlet in the text. Lastly, and again, the setting and age of the text may also disable a young reader from feeling any sort of connection with the text. When analyzing the treatment of divorce in Hamlet, we are able to see that there is literature out there (previous to 1970) which speaks from the perspective of the victim of a parental separation, but that it is ineffective as Young Adult literature and in mimicking scenarios which are likely to arise in a commonplace divorce.

“Then a much more rapid and dramatic rise in divorce frequency began, starting during the 1960s.” (Whyte, 2) With the emergence of a larger divorce rate in the 1960’s came the emergence of literature aimed at helping younger children to confront issues closely associated with divorce. I have found and included several works of literature published since that time that speaks directly to children and works to align itself with their own struggles when going through a divorce.

1. Nelson, Blake. Paranoid Park. Viking Press, 2006.

The unnamed protagonist of the story is sixteen years old and deals with various issues that could be considered to be rather common to teenagers. His girlfriend is anxious to have sex with him, but he does not seem to be ready. He witnesses the death of a railroad worker, and the book is his confession of this, his dark secret. In the midst of all of this, his parents are in the process of being divorced, and all of these issues are debated in the text. I feel that it would be a very good read for any reader from 7^thto 10^th grades. The scenes that the protagonist must see and then describe are very relatable and if read by a student who was also dealing with these issues of divorce, or of losing their virginity, that they would be able to take some very valuable knowledge from being exposed to this book. Many young children who are dealing with divorce become codependent themselves and have trouble getting into and maintaining healthy relationships, and I believe that this book would speak directly to children who are being faced with divorce and may be trying to initiate their own relationships, possibly becoming sexually active for the first time.

2. Townshend, Sue. The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Aged 13 ¾. Turtleback Books, 2003.

This book is consistent of the diary entries of thirteen year old Adrian Mole. He openly discusses the details of the decline of his parents’ relationship, including such elements as marital infidelity and issues of pregnancy felt from a woman’s perspective. I feel this would be a very good read, especially for those close to the age of the story’s protagonist, Adrian Mole. Anyone who has had parents who have may have cheated on each other could easily relate to this novel. It may even be a good read for a young female who is dealing with a pregnancy and/or divorce.

3. Crutcher, Chris. The Deep End. Kensington Pub Corporation. 2003

The novel is told from the perspective of Wilson Corder, a therapist. The book deals with a very hard divorce, as Wilson treats a patient who is the mother of a young girl named Sabrina. He is scared that Sabrina’s mother will kidnap her. The mother is an alcoholic and Sabrina is later killed. This would be a great read for a teenager who is dealing with any of the following issues: divorce, child abuse, and parental alcoholism. Ideal readers could range anywhere from 7^th to 12^th grade.

4. Brown, Mark And Brown, Laurene Krasny. Dinosaurs Divorce! A Guide For Changing Families. Little Brown & Co, 1986.

This is a book which would be best suited for younger readers. It would probably be most effective with readers who were in 5^th grade or younger. I think it is an amazing book. It describes divorce from many different angles. It explores ideas like the incorporation of new step-parents and step-siblings into the family and attempts boldly to express why two people choose to divorce. Overall, I found it a touching book and a potentially great medium for expressing divorce to young readers.

5. Masurel, Claire And Denton, Katie MacDonald. Two Homes. Candlewick Press, 2001.

This book is also for younger audiences, likely being for readers in 5^th grade or younger. It explains, in a very positive and optimistic way, the concept of growing up and going between two different parents in two different homes. The idea is that the child will be best cared for in this kind of arrangement and that divorce is not necessarily a bad thing. Both of the child’s parents clearly love her very much, and that seems to be the main moral of the story—that the divorce is best for the child. I think that the book is very heartwarming and could definitely help a young child to conceptualize and understand some of the aspects of their separation in a positive way.

6. Thomas, Pat. My Family’s Changing. Barron’s Educational Series, Incorporated, 1999.

This book is also written with younger readers in mind. It would likely be best-suited for children younger than 5^th grade. The most outstanding quality of the book was the way that it offered up many questions that might be posed by youngsters dealing with parental divorce, and then attempted to answer these questions in a manner which made the issues understandable and helped to pacify the curiosity of the young student. The pictures make it a very accessible and engaging text. It would be very helpful to a child who is going through a parental divorce/separation.

7. Lansky, Vicki. It’s Not Your Fault, Koko Bear: A Read-Together Book for Parents and Young Children During Divorce. The Book Peddlers, 1998.

Again, this is a book for younger readers, likely younger than 5^th grade. I found that it would be a book that would be great to read along with a young student, either by a parent or a teacher. It deals with many of the issues of anger and sorrow that a child will face during a divorce. It emphasizes that the child is not to blame for the separation of their parents. It explains many of the common problems confronted by families who are going through a divorce and a child who is living in two different places.

8. Levins, Sandra. Was It the Chocolate Pudding? Magination Press, 2005.

This book is for even younger readers than the previous books, likely being aimed at students between Kindergarten and 3^rd grade. It explains, as Vicki Lansky’s book did, that the child is not at fault for, or to blame in any way, for the separation of the parents. I liked that it explained things within the context of children living with a single father. This is a very good book for any child growing up in a single-parent home as the result of a divorce.

9. Avi. Blue Heron. Simon & Schuster, 1992.

This book is for readers anywhere from 4^th to 9^th grade. The protagonist is a young girl named Maggie who is staying with her father and new stepmother after the divorce of her parents. It deals with many issues which are attached to divorce and the incorporation of step-parents and siblings. This novel is the touching story of a young girl who is dealing with a new situation and would likely aid a young student, (most likely a female) to deal with issues of divorce and explain the politics of, and reasons for, having to establish a new family arrangement.

10. Hobbs, Will. Changes in Latitudes. Atheneum, 1998.

This book is aimed at readers who are a little bit more mature. An ideal age-range for a reader would be from 9^th to 12^th grades. The book deals with a sixteen-year old male protagonist who is on a family getaway. He is staying with his mother and sister in Mexico, and he begins to conceptualize that his father may not have come because of the fact that he is thinking of getting a divorce. He ponders the idea of his parents’ separation. A good and engaging read for teenagers, but doesn’t deal with the idea of divorce very extensively.

11. Henkes, Kevin. Blue Lake Moon. Greenwillow, 2008.

This is also a book for high school readers ranging anywhere from 9^th to 12^th grade. It deals with two different issues from the perspectives of two young boys, Mitch and Spencer. Mitch’s parents have divorced and Spencer is very curious about his brother’s early passing. The two boys bond over the summer and express these issues to each other through various conversations. This book would be great for any teen dealing with divorce or the loss of a sibling. I think it would be best-suited for a male reader. It is a heartwarming book that explores ideas of loss, divorce, and how friendship can help to heal those wounds.

In conclusion, I believe that it is important to notice this shift in the treatment of divorce in literature as a result in the rise in the divorce rate. More literature is being published on the topic of divorce, and it is being written with young readers in mind. Now more than ever before in literary history, authors are taking a stand to help youngsters to deal with the struggles and everyday issues involved with their parent’s divorce.

Works Cited:

Stein, Allen F. After the Vows Were Spoken—Marriage in American Literary Realism. Ohio State University Press. 1984. Page 170.
Stein, Allen F. After the Vows Were Spoken—Marriage in American Literary Realism. Ohio State University Press. 1984. Page 170.
Whyte, Martin King. Marriage in America: A Communitarian Perspective. Rowman & Littlefield. 2000. Page 2.

On "Walden" and the "Bhagavad-Gita"

2008-07-01T03:34:03Z

Upon reading Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, I noticed that he often made references to eastern theology and philosophy within his text. He also mentions a book called the Bhagavad-Gita, a book from which I believe many of the more eastern beliefs in Walden arose. I will speak briefly on just a few issues from the Bhagavad-Gita and explain how they re-emerge in Thoreau’s novel. In particular, I will illustrate how Thoreau uses or innovates upon some of the principles of the Yogi, as explained in the Gita, such as the importance of finding your own duty, or Dharma, despite the influence of popular culture or external influences. Other issues discussed are the Yogi’s balance between action as inaction, the renunciation of desires and material attachments, as well as the notion that the Yogi should recognize the self in everything around them, most specifically—in nature. These eastern principles and beliefs are all essential to Thoreau’s novel and extremely prevalent within it.

In the Bhagavad-Gita, the word duty is often substituted for the word ‘Dharma.’ Annie Besant defines the word Dharma as: the essential nature of a thing, that which makes it what it is externally; hence the laws of its being, its duty.” (Besant,29) In essence, what an English-speaking westerner would call one’s ‘duty’ is what an easterner would call one’s “Dharma.” In the pages of the Bhagavad-Gita, the deity, also called the “Blessed Lord” is speaking to a soldier, named Arjuna, who is reluctant to go to battle. The god-figure tells the soldier: “But if thou wilt not carry on this righteous warfare, then casting away thine own duty and thine honour, thou wilt incur sin.” (Besant, 39-40) The path is a difficult one, but the Blessed Lord emphatically persuades Arjuna to choose the correct path. The Lord goes on to state: “Better one’s own duty, though destitute of merit, then the duty of another, well-discharged. Better death in the discharge of one’s own duty, the duty of another is full of danger,” and later, again echoing his previous words: “Better is one’s own duty though destitute of merits than the well-executed duty of another.” (Besant, 193) The Blessed Lord reiterates that Arjuna must be cautious and loyally follow his own path, rather than the path that someone else has paved for him.

Henry David Thoreau also speaks in regards to these ideas of finding one’s own duty, or Dharma, despite those who may try to influence you to do otherwise. Thoreau speaks openly about this issue, inquiring: “How godlike, how immortal is he? See how he cowers and sneaks, how vaguely all the day he fears, not being immortal nor divine, but the slave and prisoner of his own opinion of himself, a fame won by his own deeds. Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion.” (Thoreau, 1634) In this passage, Thoreau makes clear distinctions between public and private opinion, stating that public opinion is the inferior of the two and implying that one should seek within for direction. Later in the novel, Thoreau states that he does not wish for people to simply follow in his footsteps, writing: “…but I would have each one be very careful to find out his own way, and not his father’s or his mother’s or his neighbor’s instead.” (Thoreau, 1670) Even though he believes his path to be a righteous one, he does not wish for others simply to fall into a state of blind compliance, but to discover their own path in life, or their own Dharma, if you will. Thoreau does this by escaping from the mores of society and constructing his own principles of living. He does this chiefly by transcending and destroying common views of work and redefining what was commonly accepted as necessary for the maintenance of human life. Thoreau makes fine distinctions between action and inaction, work and leisure, and these issues are also strongly tied to the Bhagavad-Gita.

In the Bhagavad-Gita, the Blessed Lord repeatedly debates about action versus inaction, and takes careful steps in explaining the differences among them. Early on in the text, the Lord instructs Arjuna that he “…shall cast way the bonds of action” (Besant, 41) Seeing action as an activity which possesses the ability to bind someone is quintessential to understanding the views of action and inaction, both in the Bhagavad-Gita and in Walden. The public opinion of what is commonly deemed ‘lazy’ plays into these notions of action versus inaction. The public makes one believe that a certain amount of work is necessary and accepted. If anyone works less than what is deemed common, they may likely be coined as a ‘lazy’ person. The Gita goes on to make detailed distinctions about these ideas:

“Man winneth not freedom from action by abstaining from activity, not by mere renunciation doth he rise to perfection. Nor can anyone, even for an instant, remain really actionless; for helplessly is everyone driven to action by the qualities born of nature. Perform thou right action, for action is superior to inaction, even the maintenance of thy body would not be possible.” (Besant, 52-53)

The Blessed Lord admits that it is impossible for a human to abstain from action for any period of time, going on to state that as a result of this fact, it is thus important to “perform right action,” and therefore to do what is deemed by the self to be necessary. Thoreau often speaks of the necessity of certain actions within his novel: “I learned from my two years’ experience that it would cost incredibly little trouble to obtain one’s necessary food, even in this latitude; that a man may use as simple a diet as the animals, and yet retain health and strength.” (Thoreau, 1664) Here, Thoreau illustrates the separation between luxury and necessity, here and throughout Walden, emphasizing that what one really needs, in terms of work, shelter, and food, ultimately amounts to very little. In the Bhagavad-Gita, these distinctions between action and inaction make up nearly a quarter of the text, and are very integral to a full understanding of it. The Blessed Lord states that: “the man who rejoiceth in the self, with the self is satisfied, and is content in the self, for him verily there is nothing to do; for him there is no interest in things done in this world, not any in things not done, nor doth any object of his depend on any being.” (Besant, 55)

A reader can easily see how these ideas can be applied to the text of Walden. Thoreau builds his own cabin and makes his own living. His house and food is his, and he does not need anyone else in order to survive. The Blessed Lord says in the Gita: “He who thus knoweth me is not bound by actions.” (Besant, 64) Here, he again uses the word “bound” in order to describe the relationship to action. Thoreau applies this idea to modern society, stating that most people are bound to things like maintaining a career and providing themselves with the luxuries that they have always known and believe that they need. Thoreau writes that: “A lady once offered me a mat, but as I had no room to spare within the house, nor time to spare within or without to shake it, I declined it. It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil.” (Thoreau, 1668) In this passage, he makes clear statements in reference to action and inaction. He did not believe in taking pains to maintain things like carpets, or dusting off the three pieces of limestone that he one had as knick-knacks in his dwelling place. He believed that taking the rug would bind him to the duty of shaking it out and maintaining it. This would begin to consume his leisure time and to control his ability to live independently from the rug and the cleaning of it. Thoreau later writes that: “For more than five years I maintained myself thus solely by the labor of my hands, and I found that, by working about six weeks in a year, I could meet all of the expenses for living.” (Thoreau, 1669) Again, he makes statements in opposition to common perceptions of how much work, or action, is necessary in order for human survival. One of the most important ideas behind the novel is that society makes you believe that you need to live a certain way, that you much work a conventional and ‘safe’ job, that you must own this and you must own that—but that it is possible to be wiser than the norm and to transcend all of these preconceived notions in regards to human survival. He shows that necessity is relative to the individual. “It is not necessary that a man should earn his living by the sweat of his brow, unless he sweats easier than I do,” (Thoreau, 1670) and “I do not wish to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary.” (Thoreau, 1685) In these passages, Thoreau makes further statements in reference to the necessity of work, or action. He believes that very little action is necessary for survival, and that his experiment has allowed him to become virtually free from the bonds of action.

Another ideal which is critical to the Bhagavad-Gita is the ideal that the Yogi must be free from personal attachments and desires. The Blessed Lord confesses that:

“When a man abandoneth, O Partha, all the desires of the heart, and is satisfied in the self by the self, then he is called stable in mind,” (Besant, 46) going on to state: “Let the yogi engage himself in yoga, remaining in a secret place by himself, with thought and self subdued, free from hope and greed. In a pure place, established on a fixed seat of his own, neither very much raised or very low…” (Besant, 81) Thoreau accomplishes this with his experiment at Walden Pond. He goes into a “secret place,” “by himself,” which is neither too luxurious nor too lowly. The Blessed Lord goes on to state in the Gita: “He who… is… self-reliant, to whom a lump of earth, a rock and gold are alike… he is said to have crossed over the qualities.” (Besant, 160) Thoreau echoes these lines in Walden: “Genius is not a retainer to any emperor, nor is its material silver, or gold, or marble, except to a trifling extent.” (Thoreau, 1662) In this passage, Thoreau implies that he does not believe any metal to be more valuable than another, that their values are man-made and relative. Thoreau denounces attachment to material possessions throughout the novel, asking: “Shall we always study to obtain more of these things, and not sometimes be content with less?” He describes their bondage to desires and material possessions, recalling having seen a family moving their furniture and looking through their various possessions: “I could never tell from inspecting such a load whether it belonged to a so-called rich man or a poor one; the owner always seemed poverty-stricken.” (Thoreau, 1667) He states that they look “poverty-stricken” regardless of whether or not they are well-off or not. The point that he is making is that they have such a bondage to their trap that they drag it around with them, while a muskrat will chew off its own limb to be free, that human beings prefer to drag these things around with them until their death. Like the Bhagavad-Gita, Walden emphasizes the renunciation of this bondage to the material endorses a general simplification of life in general: “Simplify, simplify. Instead of three meals a day, if it be necessary to eat but one; instead of a hundred dishes, five; and reduce other things in proportion.” (Thoreau, 1681)

In the Bhagavad-Gita, The Blessed Lord tells Arjuna that “The self, harmonized by Yoga, seeth the self abiding in all beings, all being in the self, everywhere he seeth the same.” (Besant, 85) Here, the Lord implies that the harmonized self can see itself in everything. This is another theme from the Gita which can clearly be seen to parallel ideas that can be found in Walden. Thoreau writes: “I go and come with a strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself.” (Thoreau, 1702) In this passage, we see a similar kind of unity with his surroundings. He believes himself to be a “part of herself,” or a part of nature. He believes himself to actually have become one with mother nature, whom I assume is the recipient of the ‘her’ pronoun. Near the end of the novel, Thoreau identifies the human spirit with an object of nature: “The life in us is like water in the river.” (Thoreau, 1810) He believes the running of the river to be symbolic of human life. This also ties into eastern beliefs because the Bhagavad-Gita speaks often of the continuation of human life and reincarnation. The representation of human life as a river that is continuously running and flowing implies that he believes, as the Hindus do, that life is everlasting and goes on renewing itself. At any rate, he recognizes human life and qualities of himself in the world around him, which is what the Gita said that the Yogi must do, when they ‘seeth the self abiding in all things.” Thoreau speaks again in reference to this idea, stating that: “Yet I experienced that the most sweet and tender, the most innocent and encouraging society may be found in any natural object.” (Thoreau, 1703) He sees a representation of a more perfect society when he looks to nature. Later in the novel, he expands upon this idea, contrasting the harmonious society that he sees in nature around him with that of human civilizations, writing:

“I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very patterning of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, and infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since.” (Thoreau, 1703)

Here, he implies that he recognizes such a harmony in the interactions of the natural world around him that it causes him to recognize such a discord and chaos in the “human neighborhood” that it causes him to cast it aside and never think of them again.

In conclusion, I believe it to be clear that Henry David Thoreau’s experiment was highly influenced and inspired by the Bhagavad-Gita. He moved into the woods because he believed that the majority of American society was living in a fashion that he did not agree with, and he was searching for a better way. He chose his own duty, or Dharma, in that he persisted with his experiment even when people tried to dissuade him, telling him that he could not survive off of vegetables alone. He chose a life of inaction, rather than a life of perpetual servitude. He performed the most minimal amount of work necessary for himself to survive, and he was not bound to a job, or to his estate, or to any material possessions or desires. He lived as one with nature until he discovered a more natural state of human existence, becoming nature himself. As a result of these qualities, Henry David Thoreau’s Walden could be seen as an American documentary of one who is attempting to incorporate the principles of the Yogi (as described in the Bhagavad-Gita) into their lives, and succeeding.

Works Cited:

Besant, Annie. The Bhagavad-Gita. The Theological Publishing House. 1974.
Thoreau, Henry David. Walden. Anthology of American Literature, Ninth Edition. Pearson Education. 2007.

SHORT STORY: THE OUTCAST [PART I]

2008-05-05T05:40:17Z

“Simon,… this is Anastasius, he’ll be the new mechanic. Take him on into the warehouse and show him around.”

I nodded my head, gesturing for Anastasius to follow me into the back. We passed from a dimply lit office into a large warehouse that was illuminated by fluorescent light. Once we had entered the light, I turned around to get a better look at him.

“Well, Sir, this is the place.” I said. He looked around.

“Anastasius, huh,” I said, “I’ve never heard a name like that before.”

He said nothing, only nodded and continued to scan the room. He was wearing black boots and a matching leather jacket, his collar pulled up high around his neck like James Dean in “Rebel Without A Cause.” He was in his mid-thirties, overweight, and balding. He slouched, and wore the brim of his cap so low that you could not see much of his face.

“I’m Simon, Anastasius.” We shook hands, though he did not look me in the eye. I gave him a brief tutorial about his workstation. It lasted about an hour.

“Gimme a holler if you have any questions.”

“Thank you,” he replied, as he stared intently at his workstation. I went on to my duties. We did not speak for the rest of the night.

He was a quiet worker, diligent and humble. He rarely spoke, but he was not impolite. As a result of his introverted tendencies, many of our co-workers immediately concluded that he was either socially inept, mentally retarded, or some kind of sexual predator. I did not know what to think of him, to be quite honest. But, unlike them, I was not intimidated by his silence. I was intrigued by it. I felt I could relate to him in some way, though I knew not why or how.

After about a month, Anastasius approached the warehouse supervisor one morning:

“Boss…”

“Yes, Anastasius?”

“Do you think it would be all right if I brought a radio into work?”

The boss deliberated a moment, and replied:

“Well, I don’t see why not. Yes, you can bring a radio, just don’t play it so loudly that you all can’t hear each other to communicate. Sure, no problem.”

The following day, Anastasius came into work bearing a small boom-box. It was bandaged, and its frame was held together with duct tape. The radio bore the words Rock-n-Roll Will Never Die in permanent marker upon its face. I smiled as I walked by his workstation. I did not know why. Something about all of it amused me.

He was listening to a rock station. I felt this was a good opportunity to try to have a conversation with him.

“So, Anastasius, tell me, what kinds of music do you like?”

He seemed surprised that I had asked such a question, as if I had reminded him of some fond childhood memory.

“Rock music mostly, but I like all kinds really.” He replied, looking me in the eye for the first time ever.

“Right on, man, I’m really into heavy metal and rock as well, but I like it all. We should hang out sometime… trade some of our favorite music… whatever, ya know?”

A few moments passed. I believe that he felt awkward.

“Well, no pressure,” I said. He looked back towards me and said:

“Maybe. Sure.”

“Okay, cool.” I walked away.

8:08. How can they judge him so quickly? I wondered about the nature of Anastasius’ silence, wondered what the cause of it may be. 11:02. Another day, another dollar. Chikk-tingg! The machine punched my card. When I began my walk home, Anastasius was still pounding away at a bent screen.

I was almost home by the time his van pulled up next to me.

“Would you like a ride?” he yelled through the passenger-side window. I nodded, and hopped into the vehicle.

“Cold out there tonight,” he said.

“Sure is,” I replied, putting my hands over the heat vents. He turned up the music on the radio. I directed him through my neighborhood, and we made our way to my house.

“Have a good one, thanks for the ride.”

“See you tomorrow,” he said, and drove away.

A couple of weeks went by, and we got to know each other a little better. I found out he was in the Air Force and that he liked a lot of the same music that I did. I began riding with him to work regularly. One night, after a late night on the job, I asked him if he would care to have a drink. He enthusiastically accepted the invitation.

Vodka.

Straight shots mixed with soda.

We sat in my living room, listening to an album. It was an old favorite of mine that always seemed to invoke a special feeling in me, and somewhat inexplicably. We drank and talked. The music had moved into the room and encircled us, lending a sense of comfort to the room. Conversation seemed more inviting, and the air of the environment seemed lightened by a strange force—acute and ineffable. A song came to an end and then there was silence.

“I have always loved music,” he said.

“I agree.”

“Sometimes… sometimes I think that without music I might not be here today,” he confessed. I emphatically nodded my head, and grinned.

“Agreed, it seems to have a healing power like nothing else... it’s like a perfect marriage, one of those fine unions between communication and emotion,” I replied.

“Music saved my life in a way. It’s been like therapy for me. In times when I had nothing, I had music… keeping me alive… keeping me strong.”

“I can relate to that,” I added.

We had become intoxicated. He seemed to have changed right before my eyes, undergone some kind of subconscious metamorphosis. He was suddenly so outspoken. I poured another shot and took it. I poured one more for him. He tipped it back without a wince. The music slowed, it was a sentimental song.

“I used to be an alcoholic,” he said. “After I got out of the service, I drank quite a bit. I would spend weeks on end holed up in my apartment. I never came out… only to get more booze. I was real depressed back then. I felt like my life was going nowhere, and that it had lost all its meaning. Those were some of the worst days of my life. I used to listen to a lot of sad, sad music back then. It did me all the worse. Music can be like a magnifyin’ glass in that way, ya know?”

“No, I don’t, Sir, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, it seemed like when I was in the worst of moods that I would always hear some sad song, and it would remind me of my sweet Dina. The songs would just make me cry and cry and I would remember all of the old memories that I was trying to forget.”

“Hmm,” I said. I dared not to pry further into the matter, for fear of trampling upon already caving grounds. The music picked up. The song was heavy, and full of a nostalgic reminiscence. It had an eerie quality and seemed to make the moment more meaningful. Chills crawled down my spine. I pulled a pack of cigarettes from my pocket. Placing one in my mouth with my left hand, I held the open pack out toward him with my right. I lit his cigarette, and then my own.

“I haven’t drank in over four years,” he said.

“Wow, that’s quite a stretch,” I replied.

“Well, like I said, I went on quite a binge there when I lost my fiancé.”

“Ah, you were engaged. I’m sorry to hear that it didn’t work out—where is she now, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“She died…”

“I’m sorry—I apologize for bringing it up.”

“I’m the one that brought it up, it’s fine,” he said.

“She died in a car accident about five years ago. She was six months pregnant. I was so shook up by it all that I just started drinking. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s understandable, Anastasius, I think most people might have done the same in your shoes.”

“Yeah. Well, after she died, a few months went by and I didn’t really have many friends left in the world. My mother and father were both dead, my brother was the only one I had left, and he lived in Minnesota. I was kinda on my own.”

“That’s too bad,” I said, attempting to comfort him.

“You wanna see something cool?” he asked.

“Sure,” I answered. He proceeded to put his cigarette out on his left forearm. The air smelled of burnt hair and flesh.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said.

I wondered if his pain was real. The music had changed, undergone a metamorphosis of its own. It was heavy with emotion, building upon itself like pyramids that make themselves from nothing, giving life to something borne from pure imagination.

“…so I was out on my own, drinking every day. I was stayin out at my camp, near Hancock, and I stayed inside most of the time. I had a wood heater, ya see, so the only time I ever really went outside was to chop more wood. Well I woke up one day and started drinking from the moment I opened my eyes. I was completely hammered by noon. I was listening to an old tune about a man whose love had been ruined. It was a Johnny Cash song, named “Delia’s Gone.” Anyway, I remember I was lying in bed, naked, wrapped up in the blankets. I was crying out her name, over and over. Dina! Dina! I think I had nearly lost my mind. The radio kept blarin out that line “Gone, gone, gone,” and all I could think of was Dina. I jumped out of the bed and smashed that radio against the wall. Then I sunk down in a heap on the floor. A little while later, I took my Remington double-barrel off the wall, and walked out into the woods. I was fixin’ to kill myself. I climbed up the side of this hill. I was breathing hard, I was really tired from climbing that hill, and fell down. I sat in a small patch of snow, leaning up against a birch tree. I pulled a picture of Dina out of my pocket. Seeing her calmed me. I remember feeling really peaceful.”

A few moments passed in silence.

“…She was so beautiful. She looked so happy. I wanted to be with her. I remember having tears just well up in my eyes, and I couldn’t see her picture anymore… so then I… I placed the end of the gun into my mouth. I unclasped the safety. I placed my thumb over the trigger and closed my eyes. Goodbye, I said. But just then, I was startled by the sound of a stick breaking just behind me. You would not believe what happened next…”

“What?” I asked, enthusiastically. The music had reached its climax.

“I was frightened by that sound. I knew I wasn’t alone in those woods. Out of instinct, I turned around. I saw a black bear standing but a few yards away, standing on its hind legs. I stood in awe. Then I snapped to my senses and slowly turned the barrel from myself unto the bear that stood before me. The bear soon became relaxed and we both walked away slowly, both of us watching each other the whole way.”

“Wow,” I replied. “That’s quite a story.”

“I think that the bear was something more than a bear, like some kind of messenger… some kind of… I don’t know what. Something told me that if I’d killed myself, I’d never have the chance to see Dina’s face again. I don’t know. I guess I just realized that I had to try to go on with my life, as hard as it might be.”

The tempo slowed and the mood was calm. Conversation had ceased, the silence was heavy, but did not cause discomfort.

“Music offers us so many things…” I said.

“Yeah, this one’s got a nice melody,” he replied.

“It has the ability to make us feel so much. It can heal wounds, or intensify the pain of those wounds. Music can help us to bear the heaviest of burdens, or add weight to those burdens,” I said.

“I agree. Music really helped me, especially when I stopped drinking. Sometimes I felt like the singer was speaking directly to me. When you’re in the dumps like that, It helps to know that you’re not the only one out there who feels that way.”

The album had reached its conclusion.

LITERARY ESSAYS: "VULGAR" -- AN ANALYSIS OF JOSEPH CONRAD'S TREATMENT OF TIME IN "THE SECRET AGENT"

2008-04-26T04:45:21Z

The concept of time is a very prevalent issue in Joseph Conrad’s novel, The Secret Agent. In the book, time is portrayed as a man-made, empirically imposed force which dominates the psychology of the novel’s characters. Through the way these characters individually conceive of time and the way that they process certain moments, time is shown as a largely relative force which can work both for and against humanity. Some characters are psychologically enslaved by the imposition of this force, and others are able to think in a way which allows the human mind to operate on a level that “rises above” and transcends time.

In chapter five, Chief Inspector Heat visualizes the last moments of a drowning man. As he reflects in this way, he begins to understand how much can be contained in a moment, in a minute, or in the blink of an eye:

“Chief Inspector Heat rose by the force of sympathy, which is a form of fear, above the vulgar conception of time. Instantaneous! He remembered all he had ever read in popular publications of long and terrifying dreams dreamed in the instant of waking; of the whole past life lived with frightful intensity by a drowning man as his doomed head bobs up, screaming, for the last time. The inexplicable mysteries of conscious existence beset Chief Inspector Heat till he evolved a horrible notion that ages of atrocious pain and mental torture could be contained between two successive winks of an eye.”

Feeling compassion for the victims of the attack, Inspector Heat is compelled by sympathy to conceptualize time in a way that breaks free from the usual and standard perceptions of it. Although the amount of time contained within two blinks of an eye seems like a very short amount of time, the human mind can fathom and conceive so many thoughts, feelings, and emotions within that span. This passage implies that there are two very conflicting conceptions of time within the human psyche. There is what the narrator calls the “vulgar conception of it,” which is a very standardized and subjective understanding of time as a force, in which time seems to work against a character by moving faster than their thought processes. This dynamic is directly contrasted by the reflections of Inspector Heat, as his thoughts display evidence to the contrary: that the human mind is more powerful than the forces of time.

When Mr. Verloc is murdered by his wife in chapter eleven, his thought process is trapped within this “vulgar conception of time.” It seems that his mind is operating at a much slower rate than that of his knife-wielding wife:

“He saw partly on the ceiling a clenched hand holding a carving knife. It flickered up and down. Its movements were leisurely. They were leisurely enough for Mr. Verloc to recognize the limb and the weapon. They were leisurely enough for Mr. Verloc to elaborate a plan of defense, involving a dash behind the table, and the felling of the woman to the ground with a heavy wooden chair. But they were not leisurely enough to allow Mr. Verloc the time to move either hand or foot. The knife was already planted in his breast. It met no resistance on its way.”

In this passage, Mr. Verloc seems to be betrayed by his own conception of time. It is stated that the movements of the murder weapon were “leisurely enough for [him] to elaborate a plan of defense.” Because the movements were shown to be so drawn out, and yet Verloc is still incapable of stopping them, we can assume that his ability to process and react to the events unfolding before him is slow and ineffective and ultimately leads to his demise. To put it simply, Mrs. Verloc is able to act much more quickly than her husband is able to conceptualize the moment and to react. Although he has the time to develop an apparently “elaborate” plan of action, it is shown to be nothing more than staircase wit, and his thoughts are shown to be futile and meaningless. Despite the fact that he is able to imagine how he will react, he is unable to react in time to save himself. Thus, Mr. Verloc is betrayed by his own conception of time.

Mrs. Verloc is also betrayed by time in a similar way. Time haunts her after she has murdered her husband. In chapter eleven, the ticking of the second hand of the clock melds together with the trickling of her husband’s blood:

“Nothing moved in the parlour till Mrs. Verloc raised her head slowly and looked at the clock with inquiring mistrust. She had become aware of a ticking sound in the room. It grew upon her ear, while she remembered clearly that the clock on the wall was silent, had no audible tick. What did it mean by beginning to tick so loudly all of a sudden? Its face indicated ten minutes to nine. Mrs. Verloc cared nothing for time, and the ticking went on. She concluded it could not be the clock, and her sullen gaze moved along the walls, wavered, and became vague, while she strained her hearing to locate the sound. Tic, tic, tic.”

This passage illustrates various psychological constructions of time. It states that Mrs. Verloc looks to the clock “with inquiring mistrust.” This shows that she begins to become paranoid and judgmental in her conception of time. The fact that the ticking seems to her to begin all of a sudden displays the concept that she was probably just not paying attention to time in the moments that preceded her husband’s murder. This lends itself to the idea of time as a relative and empirically enforced principle in the novel. In the passage that states that Mrs. Verloc “cared nothing for time, and the ticking went on,” we are able to infer a lot about her conception of time. In this moment, time is being represented to Mrs. Verloc by the trickling of Mr. Verloc’s blood. Time does not cease to “tic” forward simply because Mrs. Verloc “cared nothing for it.” This implies that even though a person is able to ignore time, that the mortality of the human life will inevitably impose itself upon us anyway, and that as humans we cannot escape it.

In chapter thirteen, the Professor states that “[m]ankind… does not know what it wants.” Ossipon replies by saying that “[i]t’s time that you need. You – if you met a man who could give you for certain ten years of time, you would call him your master.'” This passage is indicative of yet another conception of time. By stating that time is what “you need” as a human being, this section illustrates that time is all we have as humans, and that we have the ability to view time in many ways. We can view time as an opposing force. We can view time as an empirically imposed social construct which keeps us from fully understanding and appreciating the depth of the human psyche. We can view it as the black face of our own mortality. Time can work for us if we can “rise above” it, or it can work against us if we allow the moment to get ahead of us. In the end, time is inevitable and unstoppable. But all we have is time on this earth, in this life, and I believe that if this novel teaches us one major lesson, it shows us the many ways in which time can be squandered, ignored, and taken for granted. But it also establishes the fact that if a man can “give you for certain ten years of time,” that we “would call him [our] master.” Time is shown to be many things in The Secret Agent, but first and foremost it is shown to be elusive, fragile, and fleeting. We can use the time we’re given, or it can use us.

Bibliography:

Conrad, Joseph. The Secret Agent. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998.

SONGS: "BLACK & WHITE VEIL"

2008-04-26T04:40:29Z

Forces - moving rapidly
Time - it is my enemy
Always two steps behind me..
Oblivious, reaction
Motionless, yet violent
from the roots - everything grew
and just as we grew,
I always knew
that things would never be this way
again. (again)
This distance spawned within us
Remembrance, born within us
Remembrance, Remembering, Remember when?

The joy and the pain
You make me feel alive again.
and I can’t go on unaffected
by your ways and the way you bring
light to my dark, cold world.

dark cold world.

Think of all we been through
tell me what
tell me what
tell me what it means to you.

Sweat spent while dreaming
diluting true feelings
and all
in vanity

Ripping through
Taking you for
Ripping through
Taking you for (X2)
Granted.

Forces moving - slowly
Time it is my enemy
always two steps behind me
Why trade love for hate?
Why trade love for hate?
I’m taking you
Just the way
that you are..

LITERARY ESSAYS: "CONSCIENCE AS COWARDICE"

2008-04-26T04:31:50Z

This piece highlights the main differences between the characters of Hamlet and Laertes, and their corresponding roles as revenge heroes in William Shakespeares Hamlet, explaining why Hamlet is an atypical revenge hero, and illustrating how these differences allow the two avengers act as foils to each other.

Hamlet always thinks things through before taking action, while Laertes is able to act purely upon impulse. For example, Hamlet initially believes the words of his father's ghost wholeheartedly, and accepts his role as his father's avenger: "And thy commandment all alone shall live 102 Within the book and volume of my brain 103 Unmixed with baser matter. Yes, yes, by heaven." [1.5, 102-104] In this passage, he seems to speak with conviction about avenging his father's death. He states that he will let no other lesser thoughts enter his mind until his deed is done. Hamlet's words imply that he is focused upon revenge, and that he will not be distracted by any other means. But, shortly after, Hamlet begins to doubt the authenticity of his father's spirit, and thinks that it may be the devil, instructing him to do evil: "The spirit that I have seen 575 May be the devil, and the devil hath power 576 T'assume a pleasing shape." [2.2, 575-577] He feels that he would easily be led astray by such a devil, because he was in such a vulnerable state. This passage implies that he may not fully subscribe to the actions which he had earlier seemed so passionate about. Hamlet then designs a plan, in order to see if he can get a reaction out of Claudius, because he desires further clarification that his actions are justified. Claudius falls into his mousetrap, and Hamlet seems to have the motivation he needs. But when he finds Claudius praying, and even as the new king is confessing the very sin of his brother's murder, but Hamlet hesitates yet again: "And now I'll do't. 72 [He draws his sword] 73 and so a goes to heaven, 74 And so am I revenged." [3.3, 72-75] Here, even though He has heard a testimonial by his father's killer, Hamlet stays his sword, fearing that his actions would send the guilty party to heaven. In this passage, he deliberates between an impulse to avenge his father's death, and an uncertainty about the consequences of his actions. Again, Hamlet procrastinates as a result of his reverence for the spiritual world, and due to a sudden grip of conscience. In the next scene, we find Hamlet in his mother's chamber. He and his mother, Gertrude, are having a heated conversation about the nature of King Hamlet's untimely death, as well as her incestuous marriage to the king's brother. During this verbal exchange, Hamlet grows more and more erratic. When he suddenly stabs Polonius out of impulse, Hamlet acts completely out of character. This is the only time in the play when he acts spontaneously, and in doing so, he makes a very grave mistake. As a result of his actions, he begins a second revenge sequence, which consequentially ends his life.

He often acts spontaneously, and without thought. He always feels justified in his behavior, even if his intentions are violent, vengeful, and malicious. Laertes does not flinch. He does not stop to worry about either the earthly or the eternal consequences of his actions, which completely contrasts the thoughtful nature which Hamlet has shown thus far. For example, after the convincing speech regarding his father's request, "thy commandment all alone shall live," Hamlet later despairs about the task which he has been given: "O cursed spite 189 That ever I was born to set it right!" [1.5, 189-190] In this passage, Hamlet regrets that he must be the one to undertake this deed. He does not desire his role as avenger, but is burdened by it. In this way, Laertes is Hamlet's opposite. He immediately accepts his role as avenger, and never contemplates notions of choosing another path: "How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with. 126 To hell, allegiance! Vows to the blackest devil ! 127 Conscience and grace to the profoundest pit! 128 I dare damnation. To this point I stand, 129 That both the worlds I give to negligence, 130 Let come what comes. Only I'll be revenged 131 Most throughly for my father." Everything that Laertes says in this passage directly contrasts with Hamlet's character. He is not concerned with the consequences of his actions, nor does he falter in his convictions. Laertes is willing to do whatever it takes, regardless of the consequences, in order to achieve revenge. He states courageously: "Let come what comes." This passage clearly illustrates the fact that, unlike Hamlet, Laertes is not worried about what ill-fortune may come from his actions. Laertes' words act as a very drastic contrast to Hamlet's famous soliloquy, in which he contemplates suicide: "To die, to sleep. 66 To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub, 67 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come 68 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil 69 Must give us pause." [3.1, 66-70] In this soliloquy, Hamlet debates between life and death. He attempts to decide whether it is better to endure the troubles of life, or to oppose them. This passage shows that his thoughts are balanced, and that his mind works in a way that is dualistic. He always considers every possible outcome which could result from his actions. This speech distinctively illustrates Hamlet's nature, which lies in a constant state of deliberation. Laertes, on the other hand, does not possess this characteristic. He is only concerned with one thing: revenge.

In mine ignorance 193 Your skill shall, like a star i'th' darkest night, 194 Stick fiery off indeed." [5.2, 193-195] Hamlet's words imply that he is nothing but a foil for Laertes. When he says "in mine ignorance," the ignorance that he speaks of is mentioned in relation to his ignorance as a revenge hero. When compared, the behavioral patterns of both Laertes and Hamlet seem to shine brighter, as Hamlet says: "Your skill shall, like a star i'th' darkest night, stick fiery off indeed." The skill that he is referring to is the skillfully merciless nature of Laertes as an avenger. When these characters are set up against each other in such a deliberate manner, their differences become more apparent. Hamlet is a foil for Laertes in that he is an imperfect avenger. Hamlet is governed by thought, by a reverence for the divine, and most of all; by his own conscience. Because of this, Laertes also stands as a foil for the character of Hamlet. Laertes seems reckless and hasty, when compared to Hamlet. His actions seem thoughtless, as though driven chiefly by instinctual impulses. Laertes is the epitome of the classic revenge hero. He is as remorseless as he is ruthless, and he fears no obstacle which may stand in the way of his quest for vengeance. Because of the fact that Hamlet does not possess any of the typical characteristics of an avenger, but still succeeds in exacting revenge for his father's death, he is an atypical revenge hero.

His final thoughts seem to be the most curious of all. "O, I could tell you- 279 But let it be" [5.2, 279-280] He confesses that he could say many things about what woes had befallen him, but that it would be futile at best. I believe that this may have been Hamlet's attitude all along. Although, at times, he felt so passionate about avenging his father's wrongful death, I believe that he may have just wanted to leave the matter alone. Despite the horrid actions of his uncle, I think that Hamlet realized that two wrongs would never make a right.

Works Cited:

1. Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. The Norton Shakespeare.

1997. W.W. Norton & Co., Inc.

LITERARY ESSAYS: PRACTICE WHAT YOU PREACH, BELIEVE IN WHAT YOU TEACH -- A REFLECTION ON CHAUCER

2008-04-26T04:30:49Z

In Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, religious piety is generally abused. Most of the ecclesiastical characters in the story are portrayed as hypocritical, deceptive, and greedy individuals. They use religious piety to take advantage of others, in the effort to obtain some kind of earthly pleasure. I will provide examples of this, and explain how certain characters abuse religious piety, and include evidence to suggest the contrary: that not all of the pious characters in The Canterbury Tales are corrupt.

One glaring example of religious piety being abused can be found in The Miller's Tale. Nicholas sets the carpenters faith against him, telling him that a great flood was soon approaching. When warning the carpenter not to tell anyone about their holy secret, Nicholas says: For it is Cristes conseil that I seye, And if thou telle it man, thou art forlore. In this passage, Nicholas claims that what he speaks is in accordance with the will of Jesus Christ. By doing this, his revelation seems more authentic to the carpenter, which creates a heightened sense of urgency. The carpenter is duped by Nicholas, because of the fact that he trusts in him, and believes in what he says. In the end, Nicholas is not looking out for the well-being of the carpenter, he is only hoping to get the carpenters wife alone. Nicholas takes advantage of the carpenters nave nature by making appeals to him through his devotion to God. Hastou nat herd," quod Nicholas, also The sorwe of Noe with his felawshipe, Er that he myghte gete his wyf to shipe? In this passage, Nicholas puts the carpenter right up next to Noah, painting the humble carpenter to be in an identical predicament. This shows the deceptive nature of Nicholas, because he uses holy ideals to support his own lies. It also shows him to be a hypocrite, because while he pretends to be acting in union with Cristes conseil, he could actually care less about the carpenter. Nicholas is only looking out for himself, he does not honestly care about the will of Christ. He is only motivated by manipulating others to fulfill his own earthly desires. Nicholas provides a prime example of religious piety being abused in The Canterbury Tales.

The character of the monk provides good evidence to support this trend. He does not care for the old ways to which he is betrothed, but instead longs for another way of life, a new way. In the General Prologue, this monk is described in detail: The reule of Seint Maure, or of Seint Beneit, By cause that it was old and somdel streit This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace, And heeld after the newe world the space. This passage states that the monk did not care for the rule of Saint Maurice or Saint Benedict, because he believed it to be strict and outdated. The old things, in this case, are the religious ideals that the monk has left behind. The new world that fills the space in his life is the world of hunting. Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. This passage illustrates that this monk was taken by a list for rabbit hunting, and would not miss it for anything in the world, although the doctrine of St. Benedict out against such behavior: He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen, That seith that hunters beth nat hooly men. According to the Saints document, a holy man cannot be a hunter, and vice-versa. This monk apparently does not care for the text, because of the fact that it contrasts with what he truly desires to be doing. He likes to hunt and he loves to eat. Because he has allowed his appetite to consume him over time, he no longer resembles a typical monk: He was nat pale as a forpyned goost His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. Chaucer states that this monk was not pale, and he did not look like a ghost. He did not reside in spiritual reflection, but lived outside, hunting and eating. He no longer takes on the characteristics of a monk due to the fact that he no longer thinks or acts like a monk. This character behaves selfishly, and gorges himself with lavish game. Although he calls himself a monk, he does not have his heart set upon heavenly things, but upon food and drink: pleasures of the flesh.

Being vulnerable to earthly desires is a theme that does not stop with the monk. The Summoners Tale tells the story of a friar who is also very taken by earthly temptations. The friars profession is essentially to pray for others in a time of need. But, what the friar actually does is prey upon others in their time of need. The friar goes to visit his friend, Thomas, who has become ill, in an effort to try to make a profit out of a bad situation. Although the friar claims to be completely honest in his intentions: To yelden Jhesu Crist his propre rente; To sprede his word is set al myn entente, we are later lead to believe otherwise when he warns Thomas not to trust the other friars, and scolds him for having donated to them rather than to him: What is a ferthyng worth parted in twelve? At this point the reader inevitably has to wonder about his true intentions. If his will is truly only to spread the word of Christ, then why does he refuse to share the money with other friars? When Thomas begins to doubt his sincerity, the friar attempts to offer him some reassurance: Thomas, noght of youre tresor I desire As for myself, but that al oure covent To preye for yow is ay so diligent. In this passage, the friar says that it is not Thomas treasure that he desires, but to be able to have the whole convent pray for him. The friar claims to have only one thing in mind: helping Thomas. But, a few moments later, the friars true intentions resurface: "Yif me thanne of thy gold." Ultimately, the friar is only after one thing: the gold. He preys upon the family, using the loss of their child and Thomas illness to try to inspire them towards charity, claiming that he is a righteous man. Although he claims to be looking out for them, it is all an act, an elaborate discourse in which he tries to sell a dying family a blessing in their time of need. This is another perfect example of the abuse of religious piety. If the friar truly cared for the wellbeing of Thomas and his family, he would pray for them regardless of monetary. If he was truly concerned about him, money would not be an issue. Now Thomas, help, for seinte charitee! And doun anon he sette him on his knee

Another example of someone abusing ecclesiastical power in order to obtain personal riches can be found in the character of the pardoner. This man is a fine example of how religious piety can be abused. His very profession lies in selling fake relics, as he readily admits: To saffron with my predicacioun, And for to stire hem to devocioun. Thanne shewe I forth my longe cristal stones, Ycrammed ful of cloutes and of bones; Relikes been they, as wenen they echoon. He states that he sells relics to those who he has stirred into devotion. Soon after, the pardoner tells the pilgrims his theme: But shortly, myn entente I wol devyse; I preche of no thyng but for coveityse. Therfore my theme is yet, and evere was, Radix malorum est Cupiditas. In this passage, the pardoner says that the only thing he preaches about is covetousness. He reminds the reader that his theme will always be that greed is the root of all evil. After having read this passage, it is hard not to take the pardoner as a complete hypocrite. He has already told us that he offers salvation through selling pardons and fake relics, and yet he preaches about covetousness, saying that greed is the root of all evil. This man even admits to his own hypocrisy: But though myself be gilty in that synne, Yet kan I maken oother folk to twynne From avarice, and soore to repente; But that is nat my principal entente. The pardoner readily admits that he is guilty in regards the sin of covetousness. In this passage, he says that although he also falls victim to these same vices himself, he is able to make others turn from these ways and repent. But that is nat my principle entente. Here, the pardoner states that although he helps people find salvation, that their repentance is not his main intention. He is implying that he is not essentially governed by a willingness to help others, but by a desire to help himself, monetarily. This man is perhaps the finest example of ecclesiastical corruption and the abuse of religious piety in The Canterbury Tales. The pardoner, like Nicolas and the friar, attempts to make his intentions seem genuine by aligning himself with God. And who so fyndeth hym out of swich fame, He wol come up and offre, on Goddes name, And I assoille him, by the auctoritee Which that by tulle ygraunted was to me. In this passage the pardoner explains the great powers of redemption that have been vested unto him. Although he has already said that the salvation of others is not his principle intent, the pardoner wishes to test the strength of his con-artistry, and continues to attempt to swindle the pilgrims. He further attempts to use piety when he comes forth with sermons about gluttony, drunkenness, and swearing. The pardoner has previously shown himself to be hypocritical in nature, but his sermons only help to bring absolution to these assumptions. He is already drunk, as it reveals in his prologue, he had to consume a draughte of corny ale before he was ready to tell his tale for the host. Therefore, his is guilty of both gluttony and drunkenness, two of the things which he himself is sermonizing about. Then he comes out with another sermon against swearing, immediately after which, he swears an oath to continue with his tale. This action also helps to show his hypocrisy. The pardoner is not really interested in helping other people, he is only interested in providing for himself and his desires, as he states in his prologue: I wol have moneie, wolle, chese, and whete, Al were it yeven of the povereste page, Or of the povereste wydwe in a village, Al sholde hir children sterve for famyne. Nay, I wol drynke licour of the vyne, And have a joly wenche in every toun. In this passage, he admits that the life of luxury that he lives thrives upon the benevolence of others. The pardoner is perhaps the finest example of hypocrisy and greed in The Canterbury Tales.

Although Chaucer portrays most religiously pious people in TheCanterbury Tales to be completely hypocritical, he implies that there are exceptions to nearly every rule, through the character of the parson. The parson is described as a poor man, although he is rich in a spiritual sense. As it says in the General Prologue, the parson sette nat his benefice to hyre. This passage implies that he never sold his good will or deeds to others, but gave them freely. This aspect of his character sets him apart from every other pious character that we have seen previously, because of the fact that he gives of himself freely, without expecting anything in return. The other characters are completely motivated by selfish and earthly desires. The narrator also comments upon the parsons goodhearted nature: A bettre preest I trowe, that nowher noon ys. The parsons character is a portrait for how piety is to be used correctly. He did not preach in order to hide his ill-intentions, but spoke to others out of a genuine interest for their prosperity. Unlike the other examples we have seen, the parson practices that which he preaches: "But Cristes loore, and Hise apostles twelve He taughte, but first he folwed it hymselve."

The Canterbury Tales are timeless. The issues that are conquered within its pages are issues that are still relevant to us more than a thousand years later. Telemarketers and televangelists are often all that come to mind for some people when thinking about the religiously devoted. An offering tray is synonymous with most Christians perceptions of true worship. Although it seems that the picture which Chaucer paints is a bleak one, he does offer hope. Through the character of the parson, he implies that despite the wicked nature of most men who claim allegiance to the holy, good people do exist in this world. He states that even though there are many hypocritical people out there, some are really only out for one thing: to help others.

¹⁵On reaching Jerusalem, Jesus entered the temple area and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves, ¹⁶and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through the temple courts. ¹⁷And as he taught them, he said, "Is it not written:
" 'My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations'? But you have made it 'a den of robbers.'"

¹⁸The chief priests and the teachers of the law heard this and began looking for a way to kill him, for they feared him, because the whole crowd was amazed at his teaching. Mark 11:15-18

LITERARY ESSAYS: "SOVEREIGNTY-- THE DIVINE RIGHT TO REVOLT: AN ANALYSIS OF SHAKESPEARE'S RICHARD II

2008-04-26T04:28:15Z

I live with bread, like you; feel want,

Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,

How can you say to me that I am a king?

--Richard II

As King Richard gives himself over to despair and doubt, his claim to the throne, which many believe to be divinely granted, begins to diminish. The belief and adherence to the doctrine of divine right by the nobles of England is all that seems to allow Richard to retain his position as king, despite his heinous actions. As Richard grows more and more selfish and desperate, he begins to cast a shadow of doubt upon the ideal of divine right, and this ultimately leads to his demise. Although his worldly power decreases, Richards intellectual power and eloquent speech seem to increase.

In Richard II, there is a noticeable distance between the character of Richard and the character of the king. A sense of duty to his country and his responsibilities as a king are largely overshadowed by a desire for personal gain in Richards character. Although the king is believed to be appointed by God, what if he abuses this power for his own personal advancement? King Richards vices lead to his downfall. The murder of Thomas of Woodstock, the exile of Mowbray and Bolingbroke, the preemptive seizure of John of Gaunts property and finances, and the unfair taxation of his countrymen to fund a war with the Irish are ultimately the cause of Richards deposition. Even though the king abuses his power, certain characters stand fast to the ideal of divine right, and are wary to question Richards sovereignty.

In Act 1, Scene 2, John of Gaunt expresses his difficulty in confronting the situation: Gods is the quarrel; for Gods substitute, 37 His deputy anointed in his sight, 38 Hath caused his death; the which if wrongfully, Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift an angry arm against his minister. This passage illustrates just how deeply some people were affected by the idea of divine right. John of Gaunt states that if Richard, the divinely appointed king, was behind the murder, that God is the only one who can justly revenge the crime. Here, John of Gaunt reveals that even if Richard had planned the death of his own family member, he would not raise an angry arm against him, because of the fact that he believes that he would be going up against Gods own deputy.

Another example of a character who struggles with the ideal of divine right is the Duke of York. In Act 3, Scene 3, he warns Bolingbroke not to take his rebellion too far, reminding him about Richards divine right to rule: Take not, good cousin, further than you should, 16 Lest you mistake the heavens are over are heads. 17 This passage is another fine display of how deeply people subscribed to the idea of divine right. Here, the Duke of York implies that if Bolingbroke exceeds his bounds, he will disobey Gods will by doing so. Although he seems to wholeheartedly subscribe to the notion of divine right in the previous passage, the Duke of York does have his doubts about Richards choices as a ruler. Earlier on in the play, in Act 2, Scene 1, the Duke scolds Richard for his behavior as king:

How long shall I be patient? Ah, how long 164 Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong? 165 Not Gloucesters death, nor Herefords banishment, 166 Nor Gaunts rebukes, nor Englands private wrongs, 167 Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke 168 About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, 169 Have ever made me sour my patient cheek[.] 200

This passage illustrates the difficulties many of these characters were dealing with. Even though Richard had wronged their entire family, and committed horribly selfish and malicious acts, these characters still hold fast to their loyalty. They are very cautious and patient in dealing with such matters. In Act 1, Scene 2, the Duchess of Gloucester warns John of Gaunt against such patience: Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair. 29 In suffring thus thy brother to be slaughtered 30 Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life 31 Teaching stern murder how to murder thee. 32 That which in mean men we entitle patience 33 Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. 34 In this passage, the Duchess states that in ignoring this crime, John of Gaunt will show the murderer how to kill him. She believes that if this murder goes unpunished, that nothing will stop Richard from doing it again. The Duchess states that what we call patience, in the case of dealing with cruel men, is actually just fear. She believes that although Gaunt claims that he wishes to be patient and wait it out, that his patience is actually just a form of cowardice, and a way to evade confronting the situation at hand. In the end, both John of Gaunt and the Duke of York concede, realizing that although Richard was the king, it did not excuse his irresponsible and careless actions, and they consequentially decide to join up with Bolingbroke.

In Act 3, Scene 2, Richard states that Not all the water in the rough rude sea 50 Can wash the balm from an anointed king. 51 The breath of worldly men cannot depose 52 The deputy elected by the Lord. 53 Here, the king speaks with conviction. He does not have any doubts about his victory in putting down Bolingbrokes rebellion, due to his divine right to the throne. Richard feels that he is being guarded by angels, and that heaven protects his position as the king from such lowly rebels. But, just a bit later in the very same scene, when Scrope confesses to Richard that a few of his men have been killed, and that his army has sided with Bolingbrokes forces, Richard reacts with a pitiful and tragic speech: For Gods sake, let us sit upon the ground, 151 And tell sad stories of the death of kings-- 152 In this passage, Richard shows a highly vulnerable side of himself: a side that is given to despair, fear, and doubt. In this manner, Richard does not behave like a king. He does not speak with conviction, nor does he stand his ground. Instead, Richard, the lion, merely cowers with fear in the face of his enemy. His behavior directly affects the way that he is viewed as a character. When Richard acts increasingly erratic, irresponsible, and cowardly, it becomes difficult to respect him and see him as a king and a figure of high standing and nobility, despite the fact that he is believed to be divinely appointed. Through his repeated blunders, he grows into a new identity that bears a face which seems to be more human than divine. Richard even begins to doubt in his own divine protection, and begins to view his life as a tragic fate from which there is no escape.

Whenever there is any doubt about his right to rule, there is always someone there to pick the king back up, dust him off, and to remind him that he is the divinely appointed king. In Act 3, Scene 2, when Richard begins to despair over the odds of putting down the rebellion, the Bishop of Carlisle attempts to comfort him: Fear not, my lord. That power that made you king 27 Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. 28 Here, the Bishop of Carlisle reassures Richard by saying that God will protect his sovereignty. He implies that because it was God that made Richard the king, it can be deduced that God will protect his investment.

In Act 3, Scene 3, Richard uses the idea of divine right to dissuade the rebels: [W]e are barren and bereft of friends, 83 Yet know my master, God omnipotent, 84 Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf 85 Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike[.] 86 In this passage, it is evident how deeply Richard himself subscribes to the notion of his divine right to sovereignty. Realizing that the odds are against him, he uses these ideas as propaganda, one last effort to try to win back the loyalty of his subjects through attempting to put the fear of God into them.

Over time, Richards power is stripped from him. He unwillingly gives his throne up to Bolingbroke in Act 4, Scene 1: With mine own tears I wash away my balm, 197 With mine own hands I give away my crown, 198 With mine own tongue deny my sacred state. 199 In this passage, Richard states that he is denying his sacred state, or his divine right to rule. This event concludes Richards reign as king, but despite his sudden decrease in worldly power, his character is no less contemplative or imaginative. In fact, Richard begins to lament his despair through increasingly beautiful and eloquent language.

During his soliloquy, found in Act 5, Scene 5, Richard confronts the difficulties of being so isolated: My brain Ill prove the female to my soul, 6 My soul the father and these two beget 7 A generation of still-breeding thoughts; 8 And these same thoughts people this little world 9 In this scene, Richard is able to populate his cell simply with the power of his imagination. He imagines that his thoughts are all the company he needs in his prison. It seems that when Richard has hit rock bottom in a worldly sense, he has reached new heights in a poetic and intellectual sense. He is able to envision a whole world of thoughts, as people, living in a world that is populated by his own thoughts.

In a similar scenario, when Bolingbroke is banished, John of Gaunt suggests that he should try to imagine that he is on a holiday. In Act 1, Scene 3, John recommends that Bolingbroke should [c]all it a travel that thou takst for pleasure. 251 Bolingbroke does not agree, and offers a rebuttal to his fathers statement:

O, who can hold a fire in his hand 257 By thinking on the frosty Caucasas, 258 Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite 259 By bare imagination of a feast 260 Or wallow naked in December snow 601 By thinking on fantastic summers heat? 602 O no, the apprehension of the good 603 Gives but the greater feeling to the worse. 604 Fell sorrows tooth doth never rankle more 605 Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore. 606

In this passage, Bolingbroke implies that attempting to imagine the presence such things only makes their absence seem more intensified. He states that he would rather focus upon the harsh reality of matters than attempt to dilute them with imagination. Bolingbrokes ideas directly contrast those of Richard. Bolingbroke would rather face his problems head on, while Richard tries desperately to envision his in a different light. Although Bolingbroke appears to be upfront and honest, he shows himself to be a hypocrite when he kills Richard. His murderous actions parallel the very actions which started the play, and a perfect circle is formed.

Richard II is a beautifully scripted historical tragedy. It focuses upon two seemingly inherent qualities of world governments: corruption and hypocrisy. Another idea that is embodied in this play is the idea of the abuse of religious piety or station. These types of behavior were seen in Shakespeares day, and still exist prevalently in todays society. The belief of the divine right of kings was readily subscribed to by the people of England. This is a very common scene in our day in age: people acting rashly, abusing their power, and then attempting to justify their actions by claiming to have acted in accordance to Gods will. This is a dangerously appealing method of propaganda, and is in wide usage in modern-day media. The faithful are easily led astray by such a leader. The loyal will stay loyal to such a leader, turning a blind eye to atrocities made by a power-hungry madman on a daily basis. Four hundred and nine years have passed since Richard II was published, and nothing has changed.

SHORT STORY: "TONIGHT"

2008-04-24T17:37:08Z

I looked up from the spedometer, feeling momentarily comfortable. Glancing at my brother, I asked:

“Did we lose ‘em?”

“I think so,” he said, as he spun his head around to look back at the road behind us. Speeding up, I checked the rear-view mirror. There was no sign of them. It was just like in the movies, I thought to myself, except in real life.

“There they are!” He exclaimed, with fear in his voice.

I drove up and down the streets like a madman, but it was no use: they were right on my tail. We did not know the reason why they chased after us, but what we did know is that they didn’t want to play nice. After a half an hour of pursuit, I pulled off onto a dusty old county road and put it in park. Locking the doors, I looked at my brother, and he at me, and we silently reassured each other that we were ready for whatever came.

The two men stepped out of their vehicle. One was very large, wearing a t-shirt with cutoff sleeves to show the true grandiosity of his machismo, which existed almost exclusively in his eighteen-inch biceps. He was a true juggernaut. His tiny eyes sank deep into the frame of his enormous face. As he walked towards my car, he cracked his knuckles. Though his accomplice was much smaller in physical stature, his ignorance far exceeded that of his juggernaut friend. He was mean, and due to being the weaker of the two; he made up in cruelty what he lacked in size. The short one came to the passenger side window, and the muscle bound lunatic came to mine. Almost simultaneously, my brother and I rolled down our windows, stopping at a few inches, as not to let them get too close. The little one spoke first.

“Why were you guys running from us?” He inquired in a serious tone.

“Why were you guys chasing us?” I replied.

“Because one of you two grabbed my girlfriend’s ass, that’s why,” quoth the juggernaut.

“And who might she be?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“Sarah Palmer.” He answered.

I looked at my brother, and he looked at me. Neither of us knew this girl, nor did her name ring even the smallest bell within the chapel of our remembrance. I realized that this was a setup, but men like this don’t exactly believe in democracy, or in handling things civilly.

“I hate to break it to you bro, but we’ve never even met your girlfriend,” I confessed, looking first at the juggernaut, and then at his minion. A few seconds passed, and I felt like I could have easily inserted the lives of ten men in the space of that single, excruciating moment. Neither of them knew what to say. Just then, the little one decided that the debate about this issue was closed, and handled the situation the only way that he knew how.

“That’s it, enough talk,” He said. Then he cast his hand in through the passenger side window, grabbed my brother’s throat, and began choking him. As he fought to get the boy’s hand away, I threw the car in drive and slammed on the gas pedal. I looked over and saw the boy trying desperately to keep up with the car. When I yanked the wheel to the left in preparation for a U-turn, my brother let go of the boy’s hand, sending him rolling and spinning along the gravel road.

As I pulled back onto the highway, I looked back through my rear-view mirror. Through the dust, I could barely see the two of them. They were running towards the car, this time far more furious than before. Scrambling to get in, they slammed their doors, violently, and sped off. But they would not catch us, not tonight.

SHORT STORY: "LOCKED DOORS AND UNFINISHED WORK"

2008-04-24T17:36:07Z

Snow falls as I stare out of my window. The room is old, and full of memory. I vividly remember looking out that window, ten years ago.

In the spring of 1996, at the height of our angsty teenage rebellion, my brother and I were assigned a research paper that would make up half of the final grade in our political science class. We spent most of our time skateboarding, listening to heavy metal, and chasing after girls. Despite the affect that this paper could have on our grades, neither of us seemed to feel that it stacked up to much in the broader scheme of things, and thus, it did not make its way onto our very short list of priorities. Life was good; we were carefree and did not have a fear in the world. But just then, in my routine of adolescent and pubescent apathy, a tree fell into my path of careless self-destruction.

I was in Algebra class when it happened. An ominous voice came from the loudspeaker, rising above the clamor of the young, exuberant students.

“Mrs. Swenor, could you please send Jason Marietti to the principles office? Thank you.”

Blushing, I grabbed my books and proceeded to walk out of the room. As I closed the large, wooden door, I was overcome by pain. A sharp sensation came from my neck, and crippled me, making all further movement impossible. My book bag fell from my hand, and I heard a voice behind me.

“It’s time for some tough love, boys. If you won’t listen to your mother, you WILL listen to me.” It was my father. He pulled us out of school that day to begin work on our essays, starting immediately.

He drove us to his house, and said nothing for the entire ride. When we arrived, he proceeded to put a lock hitch on the bedroom door. My brother and I looked at each other in silence, knowing that we were about to become prisoners. As he tightened the last screw, he smiled at us.

“Get to writing, boys. I’ll have dinner on the table for you at eight.” He said, closing the door and clicking the padlock shut.

At first, we imagined that we would rebel. We thought that we would refuse to write anything. But, after nearly an hour of whispered conversation, my brother and I had deduced that he would not give us dinner if we had not at least started on our papers. And thus, we began to write.

After two days of doing nothing but writing, sleeping, and eating, we asked him if we could go and hang out with our friends for a bit.

“Are your papers done?”

We shamefully answered: “No.”

That afternoon, our friend Brad came, yelling up to the window to inquire if we could come and buzz the gut.

“We can’t come out, he’s got us locked in here until we’re done.”

“That sucks,” Brad exclaimed.

I stared out of that window as he drove away, bitter about many things, but mostly the fact that I knew it was ultimately my own fault that I was stuck in that room. I began to work furiously, and by the following night, we had both finished our papers.

Ten years after submitting that paper, my brother and I moved into that house, the house of our fathers. The walls of that old room had been severely damaged, and the wood was warped and bowed. Without speaking, we began tearing the walls down. Within minutes, the walls were gone. I began to put up new walls over the next few months, using lengths of old cedar that I had found in the basement. Soon I was out of lumber, and the walls were only partially finished. I moved a desk into the room, along with a bookshelf. I stare out the window, and remember the past. I stare at these partially finished walls. Some of it looking fresh and new, and the rest looking ancient, distinguished in its antiquity. I feel centered when writing in a room with this kind of history. When I sit down at my desk, there is a special focus I am able to attain. We were so eager to tear those walls down. Since removing them, I cannot recall a desire to replace them. This unfinished room has some subconscious effect on me. Sometimes I imagine that my door is still locked, that I am still a prisoner to my father, to my mother, to the world, to myself, to my unfinished work in this world.

SHORT STORY: SELF AWARENESS AND I

2008-04-24T17:34:21Z

He forced his chapped hands further into his pockets. His fingertips had been permanently seared and scarred from years of cooking. Cooking was an occupation of his, a trade he had learned in order to survive. These fingers had a shine to them, and fingerprints that were barely visible. With blue eyes, he looked up at a gray sky, and wondered when he would see the sun again. The wind picked up. His dirty blonde hair, which had been tucked neatly behind his ears, was now caught by the breeze, and blew freely. His dog ran beside him, a black lab. She looked up with an expression of loyalty which could barely be captured by words, then looked back to the north, pointing out a crow that had no fear of winter. They could see the whole town from up on that knob. Nature was his true home, and he felt alienated when in the city. He was short in stature, just like his mother and father. Picking up a shovel, he began his day. It would take at least an hour to get out of the driveway. He wondered when the plows would finally make it to the side streets. As he threw snow over his shoulder, he saw his own reflection in the window of his house. This house was once his father’s and his father’s before him. He dreamed of making their name more glorious, of being a good man, a gentleman. He wondered what that meant, and if his dreams would change. He tattooed ideas onto his body, so that certain parts of him would always stay the same. His twin brother had now joined him in the wintry wilderness. They shared a look, but no words, for none were necessary. They worked as a team, both pushing snow scoops. He pondered how he was different from his identical twin. He thought that even though most of their physical and mental characteristics were the same, that they were two very different people. But as much as they were different, they were alike, and vice versa. They were born and raised in this small town. Hard work was a way of life that was embraced by their ancestors and passed down as the staple of their table. They shoveled on.

SHORT STORY: "FAITH"

2008-04-24T17:32:55Z

She hasn’t been gone that long. I believe in her. She probably just went out with her sister again, that's all.

Patrick sits looking out the window of his cramped, suburban apartment. The clock on the wall reads 1:42 A.M. He crosses his legs, right over left, as he is accustomed to. Lighting a cigarette, he winces as a small cloud of smoke enters his eyes, stinging them. He leans forward. He looks at the clock. Thoughtlessly scanning a copy of The New Yorker, he sits back, folding his legs again, this time with the left over the right. A moment of heavy silence passes. Patrick picks up the phone, and dials feverishly.

No answer. He leaves a message.

“This is Pat, gimme a call me back when you get this.”

Where could she be? What could she be doing?

A lone cotton filter lies burning in the ashtray. He looks to the clock. 1:45 A.M. He lights another. His mind is soon overrun with nostalgia and sentiment, and he reflects.

I was younger then, and had much to learn. She loves me. I am sure of that.

He remembers that day in the ambulance. The confusion of it all was sufficient to make anyone weak, no matter how strong their resolve.

Consciousness came suddenly. Pain was all I was aware of.

Shards of glass were in my hair, and my hands were badly cut. There was blood on the road. I wondered if it was my own. It was then that fear took me, and I stirred.

An EMT stood above me, saying: “Please lay still, Sir. You’ve been in a bad accident, and it’s best if you stay there.”

Patrick jumped up, without thought or consideration for consequence.

“Where is she?” He asked.

“Sir, you may be badly injured!” The EMT exclaimed.

Patrick ran to a nearby ambulance and pulled open the back door. He had found her. She looked up, with tears in her eyes.

“Patrick!”

“Christine.”

“I love you,” she said.

She had a broken hip, and was bleeding badly from the left side of her abdomen. She took his hand. For the first time, he felt true love. The emergency workers closed the door, and the ambulance drove away.

“I love you too.” He said.

Cracking a brew, he grows increasingly calm. He turns on the television set and reclines in his seat, continuing to convince himself that whatever force that is keeping her out at such an odd hour could not change their bond, and his anxiety diminishes.

The phone rings.

Scrambling to get to the phone, he knocks the contents of the coffee table unto the floor.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Patrick, it’s me...”

“I’m just calling to let you know that I went out with my sister after work this evening, and that you don’t need to wait up for me.”

EULOGY SPEECH

2008-04-24T17:24:13Z

I choose to begin today by posing a simple question. Who was Mary Polkinghorne?

Every single one of us has a different answer to this question. To some of you, she was a mother. To some of you she was a grandmother, or a great-grandmother. To some of you, she was a friend, or even an acquaintance. Though all of us may have known her in different ways, I suspect that if we sat and talked with each other for awhile, comparing our stories and our various memories of her— we would all find one common thread. In the end we would all discover one distinct similarity: She was always there when we needed her. She always took us in, took us under her wings. She gave us shelter. She gave us advice. She gave us the strength that we needed to face the day. Mary taught us all valuable life lessons.

May we remember those lessons, and never leave them behind. May we remind ourselves of them every single day of our lives. May we teach our children the kind of neighborly love that she taught to all of us. May we all let go of our old grudges today. May we walk out of here and live in her legacy, that we may discover unconditional love, and show it to each other, as she showed it to us.

Today we become fully aware of life, not death. The greatest tragedy in life does not lie in the grave. The greatest tragedy of life lies in forgetting, and in being forgotten. Therefore, may we all take an oath amongst us now to always remember her name, an oath never to forget her, or to forget the gifts that she bestowed upon us all. Today is not about death. Today we acknowledge life. May we accept that the body is frail, grows old, and dies, but choose not to dwell on the frailty of the flesh— and instead let us turn our thoughts to the hope that she may live on forever through her legacy and be resurrected by the memories that we have of her. Memory, so long as we can hold onto it, transcends death, and eludes time. By the sacrifice of Our Lord Jesus Christ, she can live on forever.

If I had but one sentence to illustrate what Mary Polkinghorne taught me, it would be this:

“Be there for each another, no matter what.”

I will conclude with a reading from the famous Irish prayer, “St Patrick’s Breastplate.”

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through the belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism,
Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial,
Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension,
Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love Cherubim,
In obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In prayers of patriarchs,
In predictions of prophets,
In preaching of apostles,
In faith of confessors,
In innocence of holy virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me:
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in multitude.

Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness,
Of the Creator of Creation.

May Christ be with her now. AMEN.

POETRY [2003-2007]

2008-04-24T10:09:03Z

Contents:

Making Sense of Words
Tired
Blind Hindsight
Good Evening!
Epiphany
In the Garden
The Human Need for Catastrophe
The Birthplace of Repentance
A Stranger's Room
Incarceration (12/18/02)
Momento de Silencia
Women
Illuminati Informato
A Guide to Hypnosis
20,000 Leagues Beneath the Sea
The River
Notion: A Lesson in Surgery, A Processus in Vision Vitiation
Descent
A Lifetime Sentence Inside the Panopticon
Nino, Padre, Abuelo
Acer Negundo
Touch
Passion With Reason
Birth of a Hero
Face Two Face
Daze
Concatenation
Sleep
Reverse Chronology
Pinnacle

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Making Sense of Words

What is love?
Love gives motive for hunt.
The search for prize stock
Which keeps the ground well trodden.
"Beautiful morning isn't it?"

I'm a man
on a bench
with loneliness.
Embracing this.
I float along
carelessly.
I miss thee
endlessly.

Doubt
Hope
Doubt
Hope.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Tired

19 degrees
Who knows what I mean,
when I don't know what I need?
I'm sorry.
I wasn't there
But neither were you.
No one is right,
we were both wrong.
What are these words accomplishing?
Nothing.
I'm writing just to hear myself think
just to hide the pain away.
Like I have done
yesterday
and the day
before that.
I have denied
I have sinned
You have sinned
And all is lost,
yet
Life goes on.
forgotten is how I feel.
forgotten is how they must feel.
It's been so long I forgot what really happened.
All is worthless
All is gone.
How can I go on
and know I'll never know?

Help us to forgive sincerely
Help us to see the truth more clearly
Help us love like you did.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Blind Hindsight

Have I always been alone?
Or were you following me?
So near, and I've never known.
So close, and yet I've never seen.
I always forget the ones who've gone.
It's my way of remembering just what I please.
But there is always a new day with the dawn.
Wounds in my back still bleeding profusely.
Dying slowly, slowly dying.
I'm renting a body,
and buying my time.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Good Evening!

Come one
Come all
Brothers-
Sisters-
Only
the
Lonely
truly know me.

Leave convention
at the door.
Check your baggage
like you check your coat.
Nothing matters tonight
Nothing more
than a dream
is necessary
to BE.
To change everybody,
everything.

Witness to the only true God may He bless the little ones.

I have not seen, but still believe.
in hope,
I am breaking the norm,
and yet-
Still a sheep.
( unique in this bleak )

Uni
verse.

a moment of warmth
held within
a moment of strength
walking against
the icy winter wind.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Epiphany

See to shining sea
Love is blind by design.
Blindfold mankind,
we need not see
to use the eye
of our minds.
I have seen
tragedy
travesty
deceit
and still
believe.
Hope
resides
inside
me.
Dormant,
barely
breathing but
the heart still
beats
and bleeds
patiently.
Unknowing-
Unsuspecting-
While
all the while
waiting
only
to be awakened.
With a kiss...
emptiness is
dissipated.
The illusion
is over
again.
The tide
is coming in.

Dawn.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

In The Garden

Walking naked
in the woods
where will you go?
He calls out
"Where are you?"
As if He doesn't know.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Human Need for Catastrophe

An earthquake is what it would take
to make us love
to make us see the good
in the world
the human need for catastrophe
in live
technicolor
video feed.
Showing our similarities
through unity
and peace.
Unique—
until we begin to bleed.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Birthplace of Repentance

Forced remorse
is meaningless.
Like forced words,
their place of origin
is incorrect.
Therefore
the conviction,
the connotation,
and
the detonation
are thereby
insincere.
based on motivation,
based on place of birth.
I lost my way
in translation
what am I?
End of transmission-
Communication: Non-Contagious.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A Stranger's Room

quiet
keep your mouth shut
sewn closed
predisposed
subhuman
more
than just skin
I'm in.
nightmares
making their way
every day
I'm dreaming
the same dream
over
and over
again.
"You will never go anywhere,
all you ever do is sit
and stare."
You will never see
what this means to me.
I can't tell the difference
between
what's a dream,
and what's reality.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Incarceration (12/18/02)

Lust causes clouded vision.
Warning:
this form of slavery
can seem
so blissfully intriguing.
Like the way
I speak
of my own
anti-gravity.
One is enough
to shift the course
of the sun.
But without the son,
revolution
will never be won.
One with a word-
I long
to be a slave
to everything.
Every time
I go against
my instincts,
I grow further from me.
Only I know
what I need.
Only I know
the struggles
and plagues
of my disease.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Momento de Silencia

awkward silence
may never exist
unless we permit it
to become awkward
in our minds.
why do we feel the need
to try to ignore
the loneliness
and sanctity
which silence brings?
why speak
merely to cover
the long pause?
Simple grandiosity
contained
and existing within
a moment of silence.
Very subtly
and humbly
acknowledging
this unspoken
and ambiguous
agreement and treaty.
The true feeling
of complete honesty-
For I feel no need to speak
until I find the right words to say.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Women

i WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND A SINGLE ONE.
IF ONE DAY BY SOME MIRACLE i SAY THAT i DO
REMIND me i SAID THIS
AND CALL me A FOOL.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Illuminati Informato

Hypocrites give the best advice.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A Guide to Hypnosis

inside honor.
teach me how to be an honorable man, my friend.
lessons learned inside my head.
old memories
and points of viewing
are like archived files.
step to the side,
let it unfold
let it ride
like an olde time story
late at night.
"I'm counting down now."
most of the time
only I know what I need.
a dominant mode of thought
comes as a wave
picks you up, makes you feel,
then overtakes you.
now, try to remember who you were
two days ago...
a gentleman and a scholar.
phrases uttered by mad men
in an attempt to bid flattery
and to this very day
I do not know
if it was the look in his eye
or the potency of heart
which his presence requested
that made me accept
his invitation.
look long and deep
to the depths
undiscovered.
Why am I such a coward
sometimes
I try
to walk on stilts
and when I fall
to the ground
it was as if I never stood up
at all.
Go to sleep,
my son,
fall into hypnosis
and when you wake up,
Rise.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

20,000 Leagues Beneath the Sea

technological ways
of measurement.
But how to measure?
or what?
many questions go unanswered,
but I drive on.
Ignoring the signs,
nearing collision,
i look to the road ahead.
it's pure instinct
that steers us
but it is desire
which fills this blood bank gas tank.
still wandering on
looking left to right
green, go, gas.
still surviving,
but wasting time
all the time.
downhill or uphill?
I wish I wasn't driving sometimes,
but you can't help me there.
If we ever do happen to uncover
what it is which we set out for,
and sought to discover,
more power to us, right?
Answers seem so beautiful,
and truth is as air to newborn lungs.
On the other hand,
poor examples left behind
will leave a trail
stained by blue blood.
beware!
man will dictate
and give birth to stereotype.
differences are what makes you
human.
what things!
what precious things we find
at the bed of the ocean
20,000 leagues beneath the sea.
mystery
proving once again
to be an iceberg
most of which
cannot be seen.
return to shore, mate!
no treasure will be found here,
we are digging too deep,
and for fool's gold,
truth be told.
the truth will not find you-
not in this world.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The River

Memories left inside,
Like splinters hard to reach
With clumbsy fingers.
One must take more caution,
Dispatching a careful eye
With which to remove debris.
I cannot bear to do this alone,
Won't you pull it out for me?
Wounded-- scarred in the most tender of places,
Deeply and most profoundly affected was
The left portion of my torso, just below my chest.
Diagnosis: Post Mortem Loneliness.

Rejuvenation of severed limbs.
Extremities once thought lost,
But which had merely disappeared from view.
Like starfish, we make
And remake
Ourselves. (If necessary.)
Parts of us die,
Ascend toward the sky,
Turn round,
Dip, turn,
And jive-
Before ultimately returning to the place from whence they arrived.

Lest we forget the tears of Ohan and Choemon,
As In death, the debt we owe
Simply for each others' company,
Your very breath,
Is a miracle
And comes clear
And close
To the eye
As for close examination.
Accompany me, to the river.
You need not be a good swimmer.

Like Juliet and Romeo,
We are isolated, separated,
Not only from those that we know,
But transcending the space between our bodies also.
Our barriers cannot be touched,
They are intangible, invisible,
But with strength, undeniable.
Time is on our side if we choose to abide.
The other's flaws, the others temptations,
The past which has led us to this present.
Battered, bruised, but with smiles none-the-less,
We shall prevail, stronger in the end.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Notion: A Lesson in Surgery, A Processus in Vision Vitiation

[VERY VIRULENT: USE WITH CAUTION.]

Most likely if you're reading this

You shouldn't be.

I wouldn't be

Pointing fingers at me

I am not the only one

Who sins imperfectly

Or practices some form

Of private, personal perfidy.

All of which end in no joy for anybody.

We're all ugly

Empty

Incomplete.

Satisfied?

Bullshit.

You're the lesser,

I'm less than me.

Stop reading.

Don't reply.

Don't think of me for the rest of your life

And you will be just fine.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Descent

How long must I strive to find the means to mine end?

O body, within which life and death are married,

Where are dreams bourne and where is truth buried?

These scars will not mend, and although I know the risk of infection

I cannot stop myself from itching and scratching at them.

Who now, who is left to argue? I take another unwilling adversary,

Lead by the demons at war inside of me.

Humans! Too concerned with climbing to consider to descend.

I take great pains just to take great pains.

But do this and come back again:

Transform water into wine, and then into blood.

And then turn it back into water again, and not just for your friends.

Learn from your mistakes, love thine enemies, and suffer in the name of change.

No tombstone for this nameless man, a dirty asphodel sprouts in the mud.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A Lifetime Sentence Inside the Panopticon

the truth is,
very few people in this world genuinely care
what i think or how i feel,
and the rest either pretend to,
or show no effort at all.
Let's be simple.
I'm a joke, we're all joking.
Seemed pretty real to me.
People come along,
take what they want,
and then leave.
I hate everything, and yet I love this disease.
I want to try so hard, 2 days in a month.
The rest of the time I just feel like giving up.
no one knows.
no one can even understand.
You say "i understand,"
i say, "oh no, you can't."
If you think you know, you don't know.
Life is like God, or death-
the only way we can meet our maker is to actually die.
Sure, people have near-death experiences,
and they see white light.
What about the rest of us,
who feel the unrelenting eye of God
beating down on us
the rest of the time?
I cry out, I scream out:
"I AM A SINNER."
I don't know if i feel bad or not,
all i feel is life coursing my body,
and this is not a shell, but a shell it is!
I can not escape this cell until my death.
Life sentence
Write and wrong decisions will make themselves evident.
(or more opaque, depending on perception.)
crazy
always crazy
going nowhere
because i'm already there.
I hate myself,
I hate you for knowing why I hate myself,
and feeling mutually disgusted in possessing such information.
Drive the sword deep into my chest,
at least that way i'll see it coming;
never call anyone a friend.
Either call them family or enemy,
because such ambiguity only causes misery.
Don't beat around the bush.
You call me a joke, you think i'm joking.
I hate you, so,
it doesn't matter to me.
But apparently it does matter;
somehow, some way, to someone.
Welcome to my world.
2 days and a month,
that's how long I would linger in your minds after I died.
2 months, that's how long it took you to fall in love.
it's your own fault for having a heart, not mine;
I tore mine out long ago, unconsciously, in a dream.
and I don't know myself any better then you know yourself,
for we are all just fish in a bowl
pretending to have an identity of our own.
But do we, really?
I'm a joke, you're a joke,
we all could do more.
But we know we're being watched,
sometimes that makes us realize what we are.
This, in turn, makes us wonder about why we should even try.
"wishin i could go back in time."
But why try, when i wouldn't fix a thing anyway.
We always think
that the golden days are behind us
instead of in front of us.
We love driving, driving is fun
but it gets old after some time.
"You don't know how i feel," or do you?
Is that what I am afraid of?
I fear that someone will see me and accept me for how I am.
This could curtail all change.
I don't know why i am bothering with this.
I am attempting, weakly and in vain, to express the ineffable.
Teaching tao to a two year old.
stupid poseurs, phonies, pretenders.
Who are you to dispute me?
human beings..., aren't we're all equal?
Kill us by ice, or fire, both are fair, as Frost once said.
I want to become a dentist, so i can be a master of extraction.

God, please kill us all
painfully.
no one knows how i feel.
You would love to say that you could relate,
but you have probably lied to me too,
just to try to relate.
my life is not your life,
so just stop.
You're dishonoring yourself by even trying.
I am lost, I am gone,
I am too far away for you to reach me.
Let me go, let me die alone.
remembering the times i used to have, and i think,...
my life wasn't always this bad.
what have I done?
apparently nothing.
I LOVE TO TAKE EVERYTHING FOR GRANTED,
I am human.
I have no heroes.
I have only foes who know not why they hate.
I ask you, I smash your face... do you not bleed?
You smash mine, and you find the same heart beating
going on and on,
even when we wish for it to end.
Stop watching me die!
I am ashamed of what I've become
I just want to be who i was.
With this armor, I can resist your slings and arrows.
but, I cannot move.
I cannot go anywhere.
I Stare back, despite the pain,
at the center of it all.
I wonder,
I wonder
if the warden is watching me now.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Nino, Padre, Abuelo

what happens to men when they die? why am i thinking about this so much and not just writing, typing, but finding nothing. I'm not doing this for them, i'm doing this for myself. I am just writing, smoking in my grandfather's house. It hurt so much that day when she told me that I would be just like him. It was not the first time I'd heard that. I have many such memories; of the lot of them I am fond of none.

High School graduation party:

Look at him! Look at the way he's dressed, what a disgrace!

I wondered then, how they could say such things when he was far prouder of having nothing than they were of having luxury. Still I bore it, and did not say a word.

Musicians to our souls we swore we were, or we would be, if we were given the chance some fateful day. The right stage, the right record, the right song, still, ignoring the point, and painfully taking the theme for granted. Every song is the right song. I don't know how the rest of the world does it but when I write something, it's because it means something to me. Without that, there is no sense wasting in words.

"you're going to be just like him, Hero: point Zero"

Burn these words unto me
so that i may never forget them
because when passion dies
we have nothing to live for anymore.

forget i said anything.
knocked his teeth out.
another time
damn near.

our grandfather
stern,
picked us up.
we rode east on North,
1/2 a mile later,
he congratulated the victor.

such beginnings. of love of love
I remember love
pain in my back
never expecting

killing to appease
rained on
two umrellas
i have none.

who are you

road
a long road
i know where it goes.

hours
w/division street
i could always see the Cross
before i went to sleep.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Acer Negundo

Misdirection knows me well my fellow friend.

I sit here pondering what I do not know.

I am scared, and so I stay in

Wandering.

My mind is slow

What is left of me

After all that has happened?

"Learn your lessons. Move on,"

I said, as we sat around the campfire

Burning.

I did not believe my own words.

-------------------------------------------------------

touch

No sleep for the dead.
I wish if i was going to die, I would just die already.
Or, if i was going to live, I would choose
One way or the other
Instead of preferring neither.
Wasting a body,
Perfecting newer,
More innovative ways of slow suicide.
I'm sure I'm past the worst of it now.
Sleep seems like a luxury.
I'm seeing things I shouldn't see,
Wanting what is out of reach,
Trying to focus,
Still, translucent.
An acute sense of death.

touch.

---------------------------------------

in fat you ate.
–verb (used with object)

1.	to inspire or possess with a foolish or unreasoning passion.

2.	to affect with folly

--------------------------------------------------------------------

I lie

But never to you.

I lay still,

But not alone-

For my thoughts lie with you.

Just as my conscious soul was exposed,

You said "alas, two roads!"

I digressed as a fatuous hope arose,

Fleeted fast from a fearful realization

Hidden from plain sight.

I know where one road leads.

Off to folly, infatuation, and misinterpreted means.

And though I know the end of that road well,

It is the beginning that has so often hexed me with its spell.

To have a root,

A name,

An identity

Amidst a world of such cookie-cutter conformity

and careless, cold impersonality

Is to rescue self from treason,

and to protect the soul by sword and shield.

This is how I recognized you, and you me;

Among a sea of seemingly similar beings.

And as this rose blooms out of season,

It displaces disillusionment with reason.

A reason!

That is the difference.

As profundity and passion

Become one with reality,

Rationality replaces predilection.

I know only one road, one path, one way.

My focus will not falter,

And I have not been led astray.

Not by illusion,

Not by imagery,

Nor by any means of trickery

Have I been duped to believe

All that I hear subconsciously.

I hear only that which your eyes tell me.

I see only that which your mouth shows me.

I taste only that which your heart feeds me.

--------------------------------------------------

Birth of a Hero

Seven years later
0.0
The birthplace of a conception
the meaning of a word
"hero."

envisioning my goodbyes
instead of devising more direct ways of saying "hi."
and by the way,
I don't know if I've ever told you this
but I love you.
Fixated only on myself
while everyone around me dies
one day at a time,
instead of turning this negative to positive.
Instead of using this,
the knowledge
to grow closer,
to see our time with each other
for the blessing that it is.
I ask of myself a question:
"Why try, when few care
and inevitably, you will die?"

And I answer:
I live
but not to die.
I sleep,
not not to dream.

WHY?

To walk in his name
to be strong
to be valiant,
be a gentleman, be a scholar, "walk like a man."
To stand up tall
like I know I can.
Strong in the face
of the wind, of the world
like your father;
in his image
in his honor.

Time has come
[to face hate]
to know love,
[to face sin]
to know God.

To develop a true understanding of life,
you must know death
as a close personal friend.

Learn, then, to view this cross

not as a burden
but as a holy gift.

WHY TRY?

Because we must die.

KILL YOURSELF
to know what love is.

--------------------------------------
the length of a second, the relativity of pain

Who ties me down?
What leads me around?

She watches traffic
as it passes,
and I gaze into my past.
She looks flushed
yet satisfied.
She moves me-
Her lips and eyes combine
to spark a look of reflection.
She projects.
I project.
We project.

These are just my thoughts,
just one take
on a hundred-million flows of current.

I think I know that person.
Wild.
Untamed.
These are words that come to mind.

She makes me want a new life.
But go slow-
Rushing is what made you wish
in the first place.

What hunts you?
What traps you?

I want to see like you do
for a moment
and then see with my eyes
again.

How much happens in a moment?

What is gained or lost?
What is learned?
What is felt?
When is control lost?
At what point does my will become compromised by external forces?
What if the forces that blind me are not external at all?
What is a moment?
How much beauty or tragedy can be contained herein?
How much suffering or joy can occur?
How long a second can seem!
How high can we rise?
And to what depths can we sink!

The image of my life becoming new:
A clogged drain.

The water, my aspirations,
My life, the pipe.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

face two face

life is a lonely place
when you realize
you're better at letting people down
than anything.

(including yourself)

you fear another
not because they would hurt you
but because
you fear yourself.

(and fear itself.)

life is a sad place
when you see yourself
as you are
instead of
as you envision yourself to be.

waiting for the day i'll wake up in a better world,
in a better mood-
but nothing changes by itself
nothing changes without cause
or reason for doing so

can't have a scar without a cut
can't have a cut without a knife
and a knife can't cut by itself,
it needs help.

I see so much emptiness in it.
How do you see emptiness, anyway?
I worry on;
pondering things I envision I cannot control.

You bring me peace.
You show me something worth living for.
I find a reason to face another day
in simple things made complex

complex things made
simple.

I lie down, but I do not rest.
My head instead runs thick with malcontent
that never sleeps, never dies,
and never ends.

Again, time seems like 'my enemy.'
My last thoughts tonight
are how we might make amends,
forget the past, and become friends.

Drawing lines
asking why
seeking the source
of a better life.

I know now
what the problem is
and can thereby identify
how to resolve it

the positive forces in my life from the negative
negative from positive
if you can make a mountain out of molehill,
you can make a molehill out of a mountain.
--------------------------------------------------

daze

Grey days.

Waking up reaching out

Hands full of empty sheets

And nothing else-

Everything slips right through my fingers

Like sand in an hourglass;

Inevitable, unstoppable.
------------------------------------------------

Tell your dog not to act like a dog.

stop barking!
stop growling!
stop hunting for scraps!
do not eat garbage!
do not return to your vomit!
do not roll in shit!

but is it not our instinct to?

SPACES
space is

no one is objective
there are no objective subjects
nothing that doesn't coexist.
learned + unlearned = 1
peaceful man + evil man = 1
mother + murderer = 1
1 + 1 = 1
(why does this feel like my home, my life? it would still be a home without me living in it, still be a body without my soul. but I am what makes it what it is.)
in this body. in this life. in this time, this age, this day, this moment.
everyone just sat around pointing fingers at one another and no one dared to speak. no one would look anyone else in the eye. everyone simply sat and waited for someone else to break the silence, to stand up, and to lead them.
but no one did a thing.
there are two things a polite gentleman never brings up at the dinner table.
but...
my parents taught us love
and showed us how to live
these are things that are born
bred into us.
Lies were not rewarded, nor were they hidden from view, they were brought from dark to light, and with them, truth, and through that came healing, learning, and insight. Family. Unity. Togetherness. Leadership. Determination. Selflessness. Hard-work. Strength. Perseverance. Dedication. Humanity. Those are the staples of our table.
Bread
into us.
stop barking!
stop growling!
stop hunting for scraps!
do not eat garbage!
do not return to your vomit!
do not roll in shit!
But is it not our instinct, too?
does nothing make coherent sense?
or do all things meld together
and all colors form from one?
earth and animal
sky and water
there are no breeds, no species
no being apart from being
all things being for a reason
there are no meaningless decisions
no moments devoid of decisions
so
choose
use choice
choose reason
use voice

use life
open your mind

------------------------------------------------------------------
SLEEP
I stand as a city awakens from sleep
Steam slowly rising from boilers,
Mixing with smoke
From neighborhood chimneys.
As a truck slowly drives west on Division Street,
We rest, on the edge of the wilderness.
A hound looks out from above the city,
Watching for anything.
Ready for anything.
The birch trees reach toward the sky
They will persevere amidst the wintry air.
They are only aware of time
Simply though the passing of seasons.
A bird sings.
A train can be heard
Howling through the hills
Like a lone, ghost wolf.
Anything can be seen.
Everything can be heard.
All things can be felt.
Nature lies in simplicity.
Return to nature.
Go there.
-----------------------------------------------
REVERSE CHRONOLOGY

MY means are hard to see.

What's more difficult?

Defining truth honestly

And without illusion-

Or reading dreams accurately

Before their conclusion?

Though we oft veer

Far and wide, wide and far

From our intended courses

Ultimately, whether good or ill-

In the end

All of our character

Everything we've envisioned

Hoped for,

Dreamed of,

Everything that we are,

Everything that made us that-

Every choice,

Every motivation

All that is special, all that is human,

Humanity itself, existence, all that exists;

Shall shine through, brightly.

And be seen

As it is.

Perseverance lies in patience.

Faith resides with that which is felt.

Finally, hope is the belief in tomorrow,

In smiling faces,

Blue skies,

And better days.

I implore you,

Mirror man,

To view every end,

As a more educated beginning.

To step from your door,

Acknowledging the past

And all learning, all experience

By remembering those days passed-

In a sigh of respect,

And a promise

Not to be bound by them.
--------------------------------------------
PINNACLE

it was then that the artist reached his pinnacle, only when he had nothing left to believe in except his work could he see what death truly meant, and thus, life. His family held him up, and nothing but that brand of love and his own art kept him alive. Nothing else had any meaning. Everything else had died. Everyone else was fleeting and led by impulse. His world was tangible. His form was one that he could find reason in. He would build four walls and paint a world inside those walls that looked nothing like the outside world, a single image that portrayed all the beauty he had remembered in life. Years would pass and he would no longer be able to remember the way the world really was: tragic, disappointing, and full of people who forget everything. He vowed to paint a picture that he could believe in, and even if that portrait was torn to shreds and burned, he would still have faith in it. He would remember his vision of the world with vivid detail and unfading passion, and to him-- that was everything. And with that, she chopped off his head.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

DIARY

2008-04-24T10:02:14Z

Circa 2002

Intense
The things I learn in a single day.
Who am I anyway?
Everything seems to need some kind of justification and I don't seem to care about much of anything anymore. I often find myself face down on the floor wondering about the way things were before. I don't even think about what I'm doing or why I'm doing it half the time I don't even know what time it is. I ask if I'm helping the matter for that matter. Outcast from everyone, everything seems sick to me what is it that's happening? Is this a beginning or is this an end?

------------------------------------------------------------

Sorrow seems to come in many forms. I've learned that over the years we merely get good at adjusting to the scenery. Witnessing good gone bad. A man who was born with a righteous heart and could not betray a man maliciously. What is all this supposed to mean? I really don't know but I try to keep writing. Anyway, I'm back again, let's pretend that what happened never happened. I know this makes no sense, but ignore my existence if you can. What's happened to the way things used to be? Faces rearrange but everybody stays the same except me. I seem to change every day, within each moment, I am a separate identity, shifting and stemming off of me, sickly parasite that lives off of me to be. This isn't real.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Which way today? Follow and don't dream of leading. This team formed long before your days, young slave. Why can't I save at least one soul, even if it's not my own? The shape of your grace, the light of your face, it makes my escape. Who writ this endless mess? Even if we know what to do we wouldn't know where to begin, nor could we if we did have a plan. I demand an explanation, some inclination to satisfy me. In being, here I'm the puzzle piece. Fitting the cage together gently. I walk unseen through the american Dreams or my company. Written messages never meant to be sent, for any eyes to see, the inner me enemy.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Paper seems still to be instilled in me as the canvas of my desires. Set fire to imagination. Words misdirected mean nothing, so be careful what you sing about. And wish for, what's more is that I don't have a clue what's the score and how much time is left on the clock? Tick-tock, time ticks down, down, down, as we run around like clowns trying to escape the sounds of our own fleeting heartbeats, pitter-pattering way beyond my expectations. Standing to face judgement, what if it came now? Would any of us go on? We all need to rethink the way we're going about things is all wrong. You won't last long if you don't change your faces, but be not a liar. Do not claim to be whom you are not. He sees right through compusive plots, He knows you better than you know yourself. You have the power now, yet you wait, placing this on the shelf for later use when maybe you do have the motivation to make things right.

------------------------------------------------------------

A perfect mind devised thee. If love exists, it is possessed within your ways. Your face claims ownership over my eyes. Darkness. Grey skies are driven to the wayside by the light you exude. Everything of any merit seems to exist because of you, because you wish it to. Every breath you take is awakening me, breaking me from ignorance. Your gentle existence redirects my vision, suddenly the evil in the world loses power. As you float across the room, I'm reminded of the miracle that is your very life. There is such beauty in even the simple things you do. Generous, loving, caring. Don't ask questions, just walk on, pretending that it all doesn't mean a thing to me, that I don't think about my life at all. Intrigue... what makes me... me? She doesn't love me anymore. I think she's scared of what lay within me, seems as if she only stays just to care for me and foolishly try to endure the healing of my wounds. Walk away, no more people today please, I've had all I can stand of this routine.. I don't care anymore if anyone reads this but me. Aimless, I still press on, playing the game, getting good at it, beginning to master the days before their expiration. Retire to falsely believing that I can sleep. Escape insomnia... not this night. The world is closing in on me. I with I wasn't born into this mess of human suffering, wallowing each successive day, in denial... while all the while, we're ignoring the pleading screams of the many humans who live to be happy. Hatred. Never will I tire of this until mine end. Justify the meaning of your definition of me, by mine you simply cease to exist. I have long ago pissed on the grave of everything that you think is me.

------------------------------------------------------------

So I write on, accomplishing nothing. I will not stop until I have answers, but this well will not go dry. Endless are its depths.

Shallow world, leave me be
Let me die in peace.

Poetry, be mine for an instant
Be mine and leave my fingertips
With inspiration and meaning
Parrallel to that of the apostles and prophets
When they writ the cornerstone of my faith.

I changed my mode of trans-portation.
I now walk on down to the bus station
As I am afraid of everyone I meet,
Yet I know they cannot hurt me.
I weep for things that I wish I could say,
But cannot accurately convey.
I am not yet found.

20 April 2007

...it was then that the artist reached his pinnacle, only when he had nothing left to believe in except his work could he see what death truly meant, and thus, life. His family held him up, and nothing but that brand of love and his own art kept him alive. Nothing else had any meaning. Everything else had died. Everyone else was fleeting and led by impulse. His world was tangible. His form was one that he could find reason in. He would build four walls and paint a world inside those walls that looked nothing like the outside world, a single image that portrayed all the beauty he had remembered in life. Years would pass and he would no longer be able to remember the way the world really was: tragic, disappointing, and full of people who forget everything. He vowed to paint a picture that he could believe in, and even if that portrait was torn to shreds and burned, he would still have faith in it. He would remember his vision of the world with vivid detail and unfading passion, and to him-- that was everything. And with that, she chopped off his head.

22 April 2007

Where does one begin to tell a story such as this? I suppose I shall begin with the first time I saw her, though the true beginning of this story is a much older memory. I will begin here, so that the tale should begin with a sense of awe and wonder that is not biased in any way and has no previous knowledge and holds no previous grudges against womankind or humanity itself. It was a warm June day. 77 degrees. She was sweating. I didn't look at her at first. [Section removed.] It was random, but not that random. It took me by storm, but then again- I saw it coming. It was unexpected, but not that unexpected. Aren't they all, those memories of that first glance and how she saw nothing but how your perception of beauty had instantly been changed, had been overthrown by a force mightier than any army this world had ever known between two successive blinks of an eye. Blink again. Am I really seeing this? I know this girl. I know her name. I know everything about her. I know what drives her, what she thinks of at the peak of a rollercoaster ride and how sad she will look when it reaches the end. I know what she likes to eat for breakfast and how many times she's been in love. No, that's not her. You won't find her there. You have no idea who that person is. You have never known anyone. You have never loved anyone. You would trade your soul for a few more moments of pleasure, for one more high or one more night without feelings or strings of any kind attached.

"How they will rage and fume to think that they have lost the bliss of heaven for the dross of earth, for a few pieces of metal, for vain honours, for bodily comforts, for a tingling of the nerves."
[Joyce, James. Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.]

15 May 2007

I see two couples in their fifties smiling and chatting, feeling secure in a chaotic world if only for their own love of each other. I felt some omenous prophecy: that I would never know that security for myself. I felt strange, as though I could see a glimpse of my future, a vision of days not yet passed, in which time became a burden due to my own self-pity and inevitable loneliness. There it was, my future, spread out before me, and there was nothing I could do to change it. It was fate. It was my destiny to end up loveless and alone. This is my purpose. Like a cog, I saw the wheels and pulleys around me as my equals- my foolish naivety, my bitter jaded past, my vice and my virtue: all were one, all necessary, all part of one play.

But you do love her. That's why you can't thinkkk of anyting elssse. [Section removed.] Life is good. Every moment is precious.

Turn to another page and write something meaningful here. Write something meaningful. He laughs to himself as his better judgement reminds him that his feelings do not matter. Our reflection is just like everything else we take for granted in this life, that is, until the day comes that we no longer recognize it. So much needed to be changed that he had no idea where to begin. Somehow the opaque had become clear, the clear, opaque. Someone had to be miserable so that these people could be happy and smiling. [Section removed.] She will move on, and her happiness is the sort that will endure all ails, all evils, and all woes. The rain and the clouds are your reflection today. Nothing is clear. You say "realization" as though you won't forget yourself a moment later. The most profound tragedy of life (or death, for that matter) lies in forgetting and in being forgotten. Teach yourself, then, to make a statement each night and to remember it each morning, anew.

20 May 2007

About to embark. Tragically, that is the strata of thought in which most of us will spend the duration of our days. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Five days have passed since my last confession. I have been self-absorbed. I often take pity upon myself instead of others. A long time friend and co-worker has recently put in his notice and intends to quit. He has been blessed with an opportunity for entry into a much better-paying job, with benefits. For this I am happy. However, rather than thinking of his welfare, my first reaction was to think of how much emptier my time there would be without him. I wish him the best. He is a good man and wishes to make a better life for his family and to marry the woman who bore his first son.

I went to my younger brother's graduation party today. When he smiles, he looks like we did when we were his age. It made me feel old, being there. The thought that seems to inevitably follow age is a sense of mortality- and that was not the case this afternoon. I saw old men talking with each other. "He's an awful man," one would joke. The punch line evoked a laugh that had been in the making for years. A name. A name! My father was in good spirits. My sister and I joked about our younger sibling's lovelife. It was nice to see the family again.

I napped.

I decided that rum seemed to strike my fancy. 10:00 PM. I bought a cheap bottle and came home. I spent the next few hours drinking and listening to music in order to truly create a mood. My plan is to finish this bottle and then write one polished page. It is cold in here. The air seems heavy. I'm waiting for the sun to come up. Then I will write with a fury. "Attack the canvas."

This story has no end. It keeps going until I can no longer find the will to write. Today's lesson is: live life with an open heart. Never let your own problems keep you from helping another. Never. If you debate saying "hello," shout it out and see if you regret it. Things are going well. I feel good. About to embark. About to embark. About to

20 May 2007 [II]

5:54 A.M. I have finished two things. I have finished reversing section fifteen of my tale. I have also finished the bottle of rum. The sun is slowly creating light. I now have 6 short more sections to finish before the first installment of "The End" will be complete and subsequentially sent in for editing. I plan to work on these sections at a rate of two per night, with the remainder of them being divided up into three separate writing sessions. I figure this will give me ample time to proofread. So, in layman's terms, and for those who are curious, this piece will be completed and ready to read in about two or three weeks. I am pleased with the tone and overall feel of this piece. It is sort of revolting at first, I must admit. It seems to work against the inborn and instinctual Aristotalian sense of storytelling and offers a reader something else. "The End" portrays a dark world in which light is very difficult to see, but the closer one looks, the more they realize that it is everywhere and present in everything. Chronological time comes second to the psyche and the recollection of the moment. The reaction to an event is seen before the cause of that reaction. Reading this story is like attending the funeral of a loved one who has passed long before their time. That is all I can say at this juncture: death is the beginning. Plot is nothing. I am going to retire.

18 August 2007

"Someone will care about me, even if it's not you."

Enough is enough, he thought.
(But it wasn't enough.)
(Or was it?)

19 August 2007

The meaning of the word 'temptation'
The ruler of this world.

Note to self: don't think about women like they are a conquest.

20 August 2007

Wait.
When you wake up, think of something other than yourself.
Think of God.
Think of hungry children.
Think of the state of the world.

You have work to do.

The day can be short
or it can be long
like the night.

21 August 2007

A new question
an illustration, all too real.

25 August 2007

How long have I been this way? I learned this, this hate. It feels so empty without you here. You picture yourself with someone, you put it up on a pedestal, you envision a marriage, a life, children. When that dream dies, where do you find yourself?

When you are with someone, you put so much of yourself into that entity-- the entity of the "us," the relationship, two as one, the human union, that you forget yourself, you forget that "you" existed before "us." But you train yourself in these habits. Bouncing back-and-forth between the overly paranoid and the untrusting:

"I don't need anyone."

And the hyperdramatic, the dark and depressed:

"I can't live without you."

Always realizing that truth is not about extremes, not about absurd assumptions or polar generalizations. Truth is truth, it cannot be denied, although the heart tries with little avail to justify the lies of the mind. You can live on. You will be okay. Use your feelings for constructive means, not to destroy yourself. Do not feel like you NEED someone else to enable your own happiness and peace of mind. Remember the control you once possessed. Think about God over and over again. Think about how many second chances you've been given. Think not of your own pain, but how you can use yout very understanding of it to heal the pain of others. Be open, be a friend. Do not curse others for their lack of control. Do not throw stones at sinners, for you are just as imperfect as they are. You may not commit the same injustices, tell the same lies or fall victim to the same vices, but you are imperfect, nonetheless. Wake up, and be not weary, but pray-- for strength, for wisdom, for faith.

May you lift up my heart, lord, and may it never be broken again.

May it never recall the depths of this hell.
The heat of the flame
Or the darkness of my cave.

Trying only to face heaven.
Trying only to forget earth,
And that I am human
feel pain
breathe air
bleed blood
pay taxes
die.

Thank you, sincerely.
Thank you for being there on my most shining of evenings
and as well on my darkest of days.

What is learned from broken promises,
From half-truths, and unexplainable phone calls in the middle of the night?
What causes that pain, that sting, that sorrow of the soul?
Her voice.
Her voice when she speaks to him
The conviction in it.

01 September 2007

She couldn't make up her mind.

27 December 2007

If I ever have a child, I'll tell them early on in life that one of the hardest things you're ever gonna have to do is to admit it when you are wrong. She makes my days. When I'm happy, she is usually at the source of it. Also, when I am unhappy, I am usually at the source of it. Today, she gave me a good reason to live when in a moment of tribulation. Things move so fast, you're trying to keep up with life and the next thing you know you're buried in the dust, left picking through a mess that seems to have no end. When you find yourself in that kind of mess, the mind panics, and you rush to conclusion, seeking to vanquish the pain of confusion, you thus thrust the prospect of death upon yourself— in an attempt to ease, to ease. The lesson for today is one I have learned before: always be patient, never let an angry heart lead you. An angry heart is full of unanswered questions and unresolved arguments of the past and present. It does not know how to love anymore. It is a part of you that has become jaded. Battered and bruised, it has one objective: protecting you-- despite everything else. Despite all logic and the realm of thought, it is completely driven by blind passion with no direction or concept of consequence. I was wrong. I got caught up in the mess and didn't stop to think the scenario through. I spoke words that I didn't mean out of a passion that was born from an angry heart. I didn't stay calm, I didn't say Slow down, breathe, every problem has a solution, every dog has its day. I was led by what I had known and by anxieties that already existed in my heart. The mind switches back and forth. Sometimes, it recalls moments of happiness in the relationship. All in succession, these happy moments move from the soul to the mind and then to the body, causing a smile. The mind recalls a summer morning, lying together in a hammock on the shore, it recalls a late night that ended in a soft kiss and an "i love you" and then "i love you too." Her eyes. Her smile. All you can think of is wonderful and good. Then, when the going gets rough, the tendency is just to give up, and a frown of rock is made from that selfsame smile. Now, all that the mind can recall are those painful memories, memories that make you wonder why you got into this relationship to begin with, and soon those memories are all that can be recalled, until the mind wonders: were we ever happy? We were. We are, sometimes, when we let ourselves. When we talk to each other warmly or when we are drawn in close on a cold winter's night, it is easy to see the beauty. One immediately can recognize the beauty that lies within the harmonious union of our two souls. Like a song from God, the mind at once recollects the feeling, and in a rush of sweet déjà vu, both lovers simultaneously wonder: have we met before? But, stepping forward is always the hardest part. You must resolve, then, to take it one moment at a time, one day at a time, and so on. Do whatever you need to do to remind yourself of what is important, and to remember that you have often forgotten those things before. Life does not have to be as you remember it. Life can be better. You don't have to relive your past. Simply step forth with new resilience. Love like you've never loved before. Go out and spread positivity, whenever you can, change someone's day for the better. Do not carry your burdens with you, affecting everyone else with your pessimistic ranting and raving. Instead, try to allow them a chance to heal, through you. For all that you may be bearing; you do not know what it is that those around you are carrying with them, and their trials are not for you to judge, only to observe, and to lend a helping hand when you can. You won't need the things you have needed and have been carrying with you. The world taught you to need those things. As a child, you knew better. But over time, the world broke you down, and when push came to shove— you did what you needed to do to get by. Don't worry about it then. You cannot change it. Focus on what issues are yours; focus on what you can change, and nothing else. Be thankful for what you have. Be thankful of who is still left in your life. Never forget them; they are the most important reason you have for living this little life of yours. So, for now, live, my friends, live, and forgive, especially when it is difficult.

SHORT STORY: "THE UNTOUCHABLES"

2008-04-24T09:59:23Z

The Untouchables:

Tales Based on Reality

I remember my youth, growing up in Ishpeming. I remember the name of every street in this town, along with every student I went to school with. I remember a day when the trees were taller and the days seemed longer, a day when this unknown small town seemed to flourish. And still, I am yet to witness all that life in the U.P. has to offer. Of all the stories that years of living in this historic old town have brought me, I will share three, all of which bear a common thread: misdirection.

The Bag Man

"There he is, the 'Bag Man,'" said Bradley.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"You never heard about The Bag Man?" Michael exclaimed.

"No," I said, shaking my head.

"Well, they say that when he was a young boy, he cut up his parents into little

pieces and put them into that bag. And then and then he just kept walking. He went up and down Division Street with that bag, until the cops found him."

"I heard that they couldn't put him in jail because he was so young when he did it they just put him in the psych ward and left him to rot until he was too old to remember his crimes," said Bradley.

"Now he walks down that same street every other Friday, carrying that bag. That's why they call him The Bag Man."

"What's in the bag?" I asked.

"Who knows," Michael answered.

"Rumor has it that he goes out hunting and puts his game in the bag, as sort of like a trophy. But, no one knows what's really in there."

"I say we find out," said Bradley.

"And how do you suppose we're gonna do that, ask him?" Michael said. We all laughed, although none of us knew why.

"I know how," I said.

"How?" They asked simultaneously.

"All right, here is the plan: this Friday we will wait for him behind that fence. When he rounds the corner, we will make our move. One of you must walk up and distract him, while I jump up and grab the bag."

We all agreed that it was a brilliant plan.
Friday.

The bag man was right on schedule. As he rounded the corner, he bumped into Michael.

"Excuse me, Sir, but do you have the time?" Michael inquired.

At that moment, I jumped up and seized the bag which hung over his shoulder, hanging onto it with all of my weight. The bag slipped out of my grasp, and crashed down onto the pavement. We were all disappointed by the contents of the bag, which was now rolling all over in the street. The bag contained a various assortment of canned goods: corn, green beans, black olives, and chicken noodle soup.

Just then, I heard the voice of my mother.

"Jason Albert Marietti, what do you think you're doing? This is a very nice man who you're harassing. Mr. Robinson works hard for our city, and he gives half of all he has to the Salvation Army. Now, apologize to the nice man for being so foolish."

"I'm sorry, Sir, I meant no harm, my friends and I were just playing a little game. We thought you were someone else."

"It's okay, Sonny, you kids kinda remind me of myself when I was young, so mischievous, You have a good evening, eh!" The Bag Man replied.

_____________________________________________________

Estella: Princess of Arabia

Once upon a time, in a land where Yoopers roam, there lived a woman named Estella, whose beauty was revered throughout that land. To add to the intrigue of the matter, no man had ever seen her face. She shrouded her face with black garments. The only features of hers that were visible to others were her eyes. Beautiful eyes, they were, and of a hue greener than the weeds of the sea. Some said that she was a princess, from a land far away. But, when I was 14, I found out the truth for myself, first hand.

My mother and father looked out the front window. Outside, a shrouded woman walked her sheepdog.

"I heard she's a Muslim from the Middle East," my father said.

"I bet she's some kind of gypsy, or a witch or something," my mother said.

"Who?" I asked.

"That woman down the street, Ms. what's her name?" she asked.

"Estella," answered my father.

"Yeah, Estella, anyway, she is a strange woman," my mother said.

"I heard that she painted her house purple so that the Soviets would not bomb her," my father said.

"That's ridiculous," my mother responded. "Where would she get an idea like that?"

"Who knows?" he answered.

I wondered how much of what they said was true. I thought about Princess Estella for many days after that. I had become overcome by a desire to know what she looked like, and to know the truth about her.

"What's a Muslim?" I asked my teacher.

"Nevermind," he said, dismissing my curiosity.

"There are some things we just don't talk about in school," he added.

I will never forget the day that I met Estella. I was walking home from school, when I was struck by a rock. James Finch and his followers, Tony and Pete, collapsed upon me, throwing stone after stone at close range. I lay upon the ground, curled into a ball, trying my best to absorb their blows. I closed my eyes, wondering how long the assault would last. Just then, and seemingly all at once, the stones stopped hitting me. I heard my assailants scatter, and as they fled, they screamed, "Freak!"

When I opened my eyes, I saw the trio running from me. In that moment, the fear that I had fallen victim to only moments earlier had given way to a new fear. I was no longer afraid of them, but instead I feared whatever it was that caused them to flee so quickly. Slowly, I turned around. It was then that I saw Estella for the first time. She had removed the shroud from her face, and was glaring at the three of them as they ran down the street. Her face was badly scarred. Although I was afraid to look, I could not help myself from staring. Then, she quickly covered up her face, and walked over to me. I felt strangely calm in her presence.

"Hello there, little boy, are you all right? My name is Estella," she said.

"I know who you are. Yes, I'll be okay. Ma'am, I'd like to thank you for your help," I said.

"It's no problem. I know what it's like to have people gang up on you. It's amazing how people fear what they do not understand, and furthermore, how that fear results in them attacking that which they cannot truly grasp. Many people have nothing better to do with their time than make up folktales about others. Most of them choose that route, rather than looking inward, at their own lives. Since you have seen my face, I suppose I will tell you why I look like this. I used to be a beautiful woman. I lived in New York City. In fact, I was a even a fashion model. But, nine years ago, my apartment caught on fire, and I received second degree burns on most of my face. I moved out here because I expected the people to be different. I thought that nobody would care that I wasn't beautiful anymore," Estella said.

"I think you are very beautiful, Ma'am, inside and out," I said.

"Thank you, lad. Perhaps I am beautifully ugly." She laughed, and then walked away.

__________________________________________________

George Bronte

I had become accustomed to seeing them at every mass. No matter which mass you went to, be it morning, noon, or night, George Bronte and the untouchables were always there. On this bright and airy spring morning, just a few weeks shy of my fifteenth birthday, my mother had brought me to the ten o'clock service.

"A reading from the book of Mathew, Chapter five," said the priest.

At that moment, nearly everyone in the church made a strange gesture, a gesture whose meaning was much of a mystery to me, just as it was to all of them. I wondered if any of them understood the meaning behind these mechanical motions, and these overly rehearsed prayers, or if they just said them, because that was all they had ever known. The priest began to read. "Happy are those who have been persecuted for righteousness' sake."

Outside, it had begun to rain. A moment later, I felt a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the entire foundation of the church. A commotion arose from the back of the church. I turned around in my seat. I could see George Bronte entering through two large doors. He was closely followed by the bag man and Estella. They were soaking wet. When they noticed that the back pew was occupied, they all stood patiently, scanning the room for a place to sit down. A moment later, they took their seats, in the pew just in front of my family.

"Happy are you when people reproach you and persecute you and lyingly say every sort of wicked thing against you for my sake." The priest closed the book, and then held it up high in the air, saying, "This is the word of God."

As I stared through a pane of colored glass, I wondered what it would be like to see life in black and white. My attention was soon cast onto a new scene. I looked to my left, and I could see the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Calvin. Mrs. Calvin was a small town girl, born and raised in Calumet. Felix Calvin, her husband, was from the big city, and you could tell just by looking at him. He had the look of a businessman, as he was well groomed and appeared to be a very civilized man. He was always on time for everything, and he never missed the Sabbath. At the moment, Felix was staring directly at George Bronte, who was dressed in rags. Houseflies swarmed around him. The right sleeve of his coat was tattered, missing the elbow pad. It has been torn completely, and now the hole in his sleeve acted as a window by which to see his stained elbow. Just then, Felix began to speak in a very low tone:

"What a poor, pitiful animal! Such a tragic fate is yours! While I am free, and can do anything I desire, you lie here, trapped within your lowly form. Your life is like that of a chrysalis. You are powerless, imprisoned within a shell! I am everything, and you, you are nothing, nothing but a poor and homeless beggar. Woe to the pariah! King of the untouchables!"

George Bronte had heard every word of this, but did not reply.

"A reading from the Book of Mathew, Chapter Seven. Stop judging, that you may not be judged; for with what judgment you are judging, you will be judged."

When the mass had ended, the people of the congregation headed towards the exit. George Bronte stopped to hold the door open for Mr. and Mrs. Calvin.

"Good day, and God bless you both," he said, smiling at them warmly.

Mr. Calvin looked at him sharply, and then walked out to the car.

For a few days, I wondered about George. I wondered about the kind of life he had, before he was a homeless man. I concluded that he had either been born into poverty, or had gone bankrupt. I secretly promised myself that I would never live my life poor, or on the street with bums and serfs, like George Bronte. >>

The following Sunday, the Untouchables were at two o'clock mass, but George was not anywhere to be seen nor heard. I wondered where he could be. Probably sleeping in a dumpster somewhere, or getting drunk, whatever it is that homeless people do.

Monday night.

When my father arrived at home, my mother and I were at the dinner table. When he came in, he slapped a copy of the Mining Journal onto the table.

"You'll never guess who died, hun," he said.

"Who?" my mother inquired.

"George Bronte."
"Really? How did he die?" She asked.

"Apparently, Friday night, he had fallen asleep inside of the building that was once Sammy's Cafe. Saturday morning the demolition crew leveled the building while he was still inside. Three days later, they found his body, crushed among the rubble. It's the strangest thing. They found his will in his jacket pocket, almost as though he was ready to die. It's like he knew it was coming."

"Why would a homeless man write a will?" She asked.

"See, that's the strange part. He wasn't homeless at all. He owned a house out in the Eight Addition, but never went there. I talked to Mitch Suomi, who works down at 96^th District Court, and he told me that Ol' George left his house to the city, in order to be used as a shelter for the homeless. Y'wanna hear something even more baffling? He left a sum of two million dollars to St. Joseph's church!"

"Why would he want to live like a bum if he was so rich?" My mother asked.

"Who knows?" My father replied.

____________________________________________________

I learned a lot from the untouchables. I learned that you cannot believe all that you see in this life, and even less of what you hear, because the truth is often misleading. Through these experiences, I learned to be cautious when subscribing to ideas, because it is easy to be led astray. I discovered that many human beings invent fables and tall tales for no good reason. Most of all, I learned that appearances can be very deceiving.

"I wish that photograph was not just a picture, but a portrait of me"- E. Quigley

SHORT STORY: "THE END OF EINO AND TOIVO"

2008-04-24T09:58:33Z

Eino and Toivo went fishin. They took ol' blue along too, he loved fishing trips. He was the best dog either of them had ever known, the best-lookin' retriever in the county.

"Well, Toivo, let's get through this ice."

Toivo smiled, opening the hatch at the rear of their rusty old jeep. One solitary moment passed. His breath could be clearly seen in the cold winter air. Then, a look of disappointment sternly wiped the smirk from his face.

"We forgot da auger!" He exclaimed.

"Oh no!" said Eino. "Hmmm…"

The two men stared into the back of the jeep as if waiting for an ice auger to magically appear.

"I've got it!" said Eino, triumphantly pointing one finger in the air.

"I still have a few sticks of that dynamite tucked into the wheel well. We can blow a little hole in the ice and cast into it."

Seconds ticked off the clock as Eino stood waiting patiently for approval. Toivo smiled.

"Why, that's a great idea!" he said.

Once they had pioneered their ground-breakingly innovative ice-fishing techniques at three different holes, they decided to jump in the jeep and go deeper.

"Dat's where the big 'uns are." Once they had reached a location that seemed promising, Eino parked the jeep. Toivo lit the fuse and threw that stick of dynamite like the first pitch of the World Series. Just then, the unexpected happened.

"No, Blue, NO!" They screamed, running for their lives. The dog followed, attentively and aggressively, thinking it was all part of the hunt. They hopped in the jeep, attempting to make their escape. The tires spun on the ice. They twirled and kicked, and then the vehicle finally stopped. The two men were in total and complete shock. Ol' Blue pawed at the bumper, sat down, and then set the stick of dynamite gently upon the ground. And that was the end of Eino, Toivo, and Ol' Blue.

SHORT STORY: "RIPE WITH RUE AND REGRET"

2008-04-24T09:57:44Z

As he stands outside the door, Michael tries to contemplate everything that may await him behind it. The unavoidably painful introduction comes next.

"Quiet down, class, we have a new student with us today. I would like you to welcome Michael Wallace into the class."

The pupils proceed to greet him, each in their own way. He finds his place

at the middle of the classroom, sitting in the only vacant desk that remains. The

lecture begins. The instructor's voice wanders off and is lost somewhere in the

back of the room. Although he can hear his teacher speaking, none of the words

have any meaning to Michael. All he can think of are the issues now weighing so

heavily upon his mind.

What will life be like in this town? When will I see my father? I wonder who my first friend will be, or my first girlfriend. I wonder if I will be more popular here than I was at Pine Oak.

The bell rings. Michael floats from classroom to classroom studying the students that surround him. Some of them smile at him, while others appear to be annoyed by his very presence. He tediously undertakes the motions of his day, learning nothing from his teachers, and thinking no thought that in any way could be construed as being of an academic nature. The final bell tolls. Michael sighs, grabs his books, and exits the school.

Car after car passes him by and he cannot recognize a single face in the bunch. Michael walks on, ignoring the festering feeling that he is merely some outlandish stranger roaming the streets of a town in which he does not belong. His long black hair blows in the wind and he considers cutting it. He imagines trading his trench coat for a letterman's jacket. He laughs. For a moment he relishes in thoughts of fresh starts, clean slates, and new beginnings. As he struts through the park, Michael believes that anything is possible.

He casually strolls to the corner and pauses, trying to remember the directions to the school in reverse order. A young man approaches him with two of his schoolmates. Michael spots them, and wonders if they will be his first friends. The dark-haired boy in front is as fat as he is tall. Wearing a tight fitting green t-shirt and purple shorts, he looked like an obese version of the Incredible Hulk. The two behind him look exactly alike. They both have red hair and are covered in freckles. They are both wearing faded black T-shirts and camouflage shorts. It is a kind of uniform for them. After working up a little courage, Michael smiles at them. They do not return the gesture. He feels a rush of anxiety rise up from within him. A few uncertain moments pass before Michael steps forth, breaking the silence:

"Hi, I'm new here—"

"Are you lost, boy?"

"A little."

"Nasty place to get lost."

"Why is that?

"Because I run shit around these parts, and we're gonna make damn sure you don't forget it."

His two minions chuckle for a moment in a show of approval.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't mean to trespass; I'm just tryin' to find my way home."

Michael pleads with them, but it is no use. The leader reaches out and plucks the cap from Michael's head, claiming it as his own. Michael lunges out with desperate arms, trying to retrieve his stolen cap and saying please repeatedly.

"I've had enough of your whining! You've got some things to learn. First off, this is my hat now, newbie. And this is my park. We're gonna show you the punishment for trespassing around here."

The minions land two precisely choreographed kicks directly to the back of Michael's kneecaps, dropping him to the ground in just a fraction of a second. The leader restrains him, and they strip off his shoelaces. He struggles, kicking his feet, but his fighting is futile and of little effect. Then, the three of them proceed to weave the shoestrings around his legs, fastening his ankles to a nearby chain-link fence and hanging him upside-down. The bullies each take their turn punching him in the ribs and the abdomen, making it nearly impossible for him to sit up and untie his bonds.

"How does that feel, newbie?"

In between blows, Michael notices a young boy walking through the park. The boy sees the commotion and hides behind a bush. Michael looks at him in utter desperation, hoping that he will come to his aid, but he just walks away.

* * * * * *

Jake lays awake in his bed, feeling guilty. I could have done something. I just walked away. I should have helped him. He then attempts to justify his actions by repeating certain details of the incident back to himself aloud.

"There were just too many of them, there was nothing that I could do. It was out of my hands."

Despite the repetition of these reassuring phrases, he remains in a state of terror after the events of the day. He remembers the boy's eyes more vividly than anything else. They haunt him, making sleep an impossibility. Jake tosses and turns, trying to repress a memory he would prefer to forget, but his mind overpowers him.

Jake has seen those eyes once before. He was five years old.

"Here it comes!" his mother exclaimed, pulling a pan of homemade pizza out of the oven, a dish she had diligently elected to make from scratch.

"Took long enough," said his father in jest, "I'm starvin'."

He sat at the head of the table and began to curse incessantly about his horrible boss. He strips off his flannel and is now only wearing a pair of ore-stained jeans, a once-white tank top and blue suspenders. His mustache has breadcrumbs stuck in it and his hair is very greasy. His neck was shiny, and small drops of sweat formed on its surface.

"Settle down love, it's just about done." the mother said warmly.

Jake's father grabbed the first slice of pizza.

"Careful, it's hot."

"Yes woman, I know."

He tried to eat it anyway, taking little regard for the warnings of his wife.

"Damn!" he said, throwing the pizza back down on his plate. He slammed back his Budweiser, taking a huge gulp, but the damage had been done, and his tongue was thoroughly scorched. Jake's sisters tried to hide their laughter.

A moment later, he picked up the slice of pizza and tried again. He chewed up his meal like an infant rejecting strained peas. Each and every bite took excruciating effort. He looked at the pizza with complete disdain, and began spitting it onto his plate.

"You call this a meal, woman?"

He took his plate and threw it. It hit his wife in the face and cracked the window pane before finally falling into tiny bits upon the kitchen floor.

"This ain't cookin'," he said. "This is shit."

"Rick, I can fix you somethin' else. Please calm down. Rick… please."

"Fix me somethin' else? And have me wait all night to eat? I'm 'bout tuh fix you, woman."

He seized her by the hair and leaned her back in her chair. And then he struck her.

"Do something," his sisters said. "You're the only one who can stop him."

Jake was consumed by fear and doubt. He did nothing, simply stood there and pondered potential actions, while pursuing none. His father pulled her into the bedroom, dragging her by a fistful of hair. She looked back at her children with the most sorrowful of eyes. Rick slammed the door. Her eyes were the last image Jake saw that night.

He sits up in his bed. Quickly putting on his shoes, he runs out the front door. His mother yells to him.

"Jake, where you off to?"

"I'll be right back, mom."

He jogs to the park to see if the boy is still bound to the fence, but he is gone.

* * * * * *

Jake walks through two large doors that read "Lakeview High" in a lettering that appears to be very sophisticated. He stops at his locker, and then ascends the northwest staircase. When he reaches the top floor, the first face he sees is that of Michael. His heart begins to beat a little faster, and he finds himself unable to look Michael in the eye. Jake takes a deep breath and hastens his pace. Once in his classroom, he sinks into his desk. He sighs and runs his fingers through his short blonde hair. His blue eyes stare down at the floor below him. He taps his black shoe on the floor anxiously. His mind throbs, and he is ripe with rue and regret.

* * * * * *

"Ernest, be careful hun, you don't want to break it," she said.

"I got it darlin', I'm tellin' ya. Just… one… more…"

She looks him up and down, admiring both the man himself, and his work. She had been married to Ernest for nearly two years now.

"Oh it looks wonderful. Thank you, you did a fine job."

"You're welcome. But it was nothin' really, you're my sweetheart. And its been cracked for a coon's age anyway; it's about time."

They embrace, kissing each other like newlyweds do.

"Oh! There's Jake, home from school," she said.

Ernest opens the front door to greet him.

"Welcome home, young lad. How was your day?"

"It was alright. How's it goin' Ernest?"

"Well, I got this ol' window pane fixed right up. I just pulled out the sash and tossed a whole new piece of glass in there. She's good as new."

"COOL."

Jake sits down at the kitchen table.

"How was school, Jake?"

He sighs. "It was fine. Ma, is dinner almost done?"

"You betcha, just a couple more minutes."

His mother turns around to wink at him. The air is warm and inviting. Jake's sisters casually harass him about his love life for awhile. They sit around the table, talking and laughing. Jake smiles and begins to forget about his troubles. Dinner is served.

Crash! Violent sounds rip through the night. A feeling of anxiety sweeps over everyone present. In their guts, they know. They know what that chaos means. The front door opens and Jake's father enters, slamming it behind him.

"I hit your mailbox again on the way in. Oops."

He throws his leather jacket onto the couch. It smells of rum.

"Well what do we have here? Looks like a nice little family picnic to me. Ya know, I was having my canned stew tonight when I remembered what a selfish broad you are, and it reminded me of why we got divorced in the first place."

"Is that so, Rick? Is it really no fault of your own?"

"Don't talk back to me, woman, this is my house. I broke my back for this house, for this family, you don't know nothin' about sacrifice."

"Get out, Rick. You're not my husband anymore."

"I'll leave when I damn well please, not a second sooner. And there ain't nothin' nobody gonna do about it. Not you, not the kids, and not your little boyfriend here."

Ernest begins to stand, and Jake grips his shoulder, lowering him back into his chair. He nods his head to Ernest, and then he rises.

"Time to go, dad."

Rick looks at his son and grins. Then he shoves him. Jake does not budge.

"You think you're a regular tough guy huh?"

He throws a quick jab that lands just shy of Jake's right eye. Jake leans over, picks up his father's coat and throws it to him.

"Go."

"No."

"Yes. Leave now."

"No. Son, let's talk about this like a family."

"We've had eleven years talk to about it like a family. But you talk at us, not to us, and you don't listen. I never knew what a family was until you were gone."

"Jake…"

"Just go."

Jake grabs his father's arm with one and hand and opens the door with the other. Gently guiding him out, he closes the door.

Rick stands in the yard staring through the front window as Jake pulls out his mother's chair for her, and she sits down. Inside, they continue talking, laughing, and carrying on as though he had not even been there. Rick gets into his pickup truck and drives away. On the ride home, he cries for the first time since he was fifteen years old.

* * * * * *

Jake wakes up on a sunny Monday morning.

"Today is the day," he says to himself.

He waits patiently for the hours to expire. Now is the time. The park is the place.

"Hey Michael, come over here, we ain't gonna hurt ya!" The head bully yells, taunting him. Michael begins to run, but they are hot on his tail. Soon they have him cornered. Michael closes his eyes tightly and swallows. The lord of the bullies takes hold of his shirt and pulls him close.

"Where ya off to in such a hurry, Mikey? We just wanna talk."

Just then, Jake sneaks up from behind, snatching the cap from the leader and shoving him to the ground. He swiftly tosses the cap back to Michael, looking him directly in the eye and exclaiming: "RUN!" As Michael makes a dash around the corner, Jake turns around to face the trio.

"Looks like we got ourselves a hero, boys."

Jake stands in silence, facing them gallantly.

"Get him—"

Jake goes down willingly. They string him up to the fence, beating him without mercy, breaking his nose and three of his ribs. As he hangs upside-down in the moonlight, with red blood running off the top of his head, a smile crosses his face. He is free.

SHORT STORY: "LOVE AND MURDER"

2008-04-24T09:55:03Z

"Alright, Luke, enjoy your flight!" She scans my ticket. I wipe the sleep from my eyes, grab my bags, board the plane. It seems unseasonably warm, but this is Florida, it doesn't have seasons. Most vacationers travel south, to places like Florida, but here I am traveling to the arctic north, to my family. With that in mind it is no burden to bare that cold. He takes my ticket.

The plane parts ways with the earth. I slump, sinking further into the furniture. It will be refreshing to see them. It's always strange seeing people you haven't seen in years. I don't think I'll ever master it. But dad, he can address a man he hasn't seen in twenty years as though he saw him just yesterday.

Lyle Swanson recognized him instantly. He was pumping gas.

"How ya been, Shitbrick?"

"I'm keepin' on. You know…nobody calls me Shitbrick anymore. What's it been, Lyle, twenty-two years?"

"Yes, sir it has." Lyle said, as he winked, hopped back into his truck and drove away.

He punched in and headed for the coffee. When he first started this job, he used to take his coffee with cream and sugar, sometimes even whipped cream on top- but now he drinks it black. Pulling out a bundle of oak, he began his day.

The first horn sounded. Lunchtime. Lyle grabbed his sandwich, topped generously by the missus.

"Candy is a good woman, comrade," said Sam, staring intently at Lyle's sandwich. Lyle nodded the slightest of nods, silently agreeing.

The second horn. Time to punch out. That was the last shift Lyle would ever work at Robbin's Lumberyard or anywhere else.

"There's my man. How was work, hun?" Candy inquired.

Silence.

"You hungry darlin'?

Again, no response.

"Alright, Crabby, I'm going to bed." She said, rubbing his head.

4:45 A.M.

Lights. Lyle stood above her.

"Honey? What are you doing?"

He raised a snub-nosed .45, and said: "I love you."

It is nearly dark now. I look through the huge corridors of the airport. I spot a familiar face: my uncle. They're all here, my aunt, my uncle, my grandmother- everyone. When I reached the table, no one smiled. Break the ice.

"How is everybody?"

Moments pass in pure silence.

"Guys? What's up?"

'Have a seat," said my uncle.

"Luke… well…Luke. There is no easy way to tell you this. Your father shot your mother."

"What?!? Is she alright?"

"Luke, let me finish."

"Where are they?"

"They're gone. He walked into her room and shot her. Then he went into the garage and poisoned himself and the dog- carbon monoxide poisoning."

Utter disbelief. A million thoughts were born simultaneously.

"Why didn't anyone tell me until now?"

"We didn't want you to be alone." My uncle said. "We're here for ya."

A tear falls down my cheek. No words. No thoughts now. My uncle takes my hand, tightly. Cold and contemplative, I barely react. He pulls me closer to him. I pull my head up, looking him in the eye. He takes me into his arms and I sigh. I look around me. They are all I have left.