tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74060753417699112102024-03-12T22:33:23.602-04:00The Gypsy's VardoIn the World But Not of It: My Times and Trials on the Quest to WomanhoodAbigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-71282187641401433672014-09-07T15:38:00.000-04:002014-09-07T15:38:19.191-04:0073: No, really. What am I Doing?I'm 24 years old and I haven't a clue. I thought I did. I really did, actually. I wrote about it last time. But there is one other plan I want as well. I don't know which one is better, right, or more practical. Can I ever get the one I want? Can I get something else that will not make me a beggar on the streets?<br />
I want a teaching job back in Kansas so I can make a troupe and dance at the KC Renaissance Festival every year. How shallow and silly is that? Who is that benefitting? No one but me, really. I mean, I know that it makes the patrons happy and that is good. Especially since the fest is a place people come to so they don't have to deal with Real Life on the weekends. And I don't care about that. I think ignoring life and coming out to play is a good thing. But is that something I can do of for the next 20 years of my life? Who says I have to have a job that settles me up for the next 20 years? It would be good though. Who wants to be fired and move around a lot? That's stressful. I'd like some security in my life but all my dreams don't involve that. Or a man, to be honest. Did you notice the absence of Magic Man? I did. Magic Man is a drop dead handsome guy who does adventurous things with me and has a lot of money. Or rather, enough so I don't HAVE to work but I can if I want and it would help out if I did. So, not a LOT of money. But enough for two, ambitious people.<br />
School is freaking me out. I have no loans out yet, but that may change. Very soon. See, these fees I had not thought about have thrown off my money plan and my stipends didn't come in when I thought they would. And the scholarships I had renewed were only for undergrads, which I am not nay more. So I miss calculated. By a lot. So I'm about $1800 short and the school wants their money. I don't blame them. But I only have around...$300 maybe and the car needs: the window fixed, the door fixed (it won't open form the inside, it's all shattered), an oil change, gas (NOW!), and the alarm system looked at. Phew...<br />
So no buying that cute hat and scarf I wanted this winter. I don't "need those things any way... I'll just wear my old one and my hat with cat-ears on it.<br />
I didn't get a job during the summer because I spent forever setting up a Creative Writing class for homeschooled kids. Well, the parents decided last minute I was too expensive and they all bailed. Plus, the church I was trying to get a room from never, ever emailed or called me back. So no class there...Or work. I almost got a job as a manager at GameStop but I turned that down because I cannot currently make myself walk into a mall for work any more.<br />
Sometimes I wonder about wasting my time. I also wonder why I cannot get the difference between "waist" and "waste" right. It's my biggest issue right now. I sit in my room for hours on end reading all the required texts, making notes, trying to think about applying what I'm reading, adventuring into the digital texts mentioned in the print texts and I still haven't paid the school. I owe them so much money and yet I am taking their classes. What if I can't pay it and I have to drop out and go work retail? Wasted hours--months--of my life. I should write too.<br />
I say the same things over and over again. I write these blogs because there must be someone else out there with these issues (please...?) and because it forces me to write in a semi clear way. I have to organize my thoughts a little and try to make sense any way. So it's "writing". There. I did my bit for today.<br />
And honestly, I took 3 days to write this post as it sat in my "drafts" bin. I suck and I need to do something about my life.Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-48210940387634532802014-08-20T11:22:00.001-04:002014-08-20T11:22:38.426-04:0072: Cabbages and Kings!<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m taking this moment to think
about myself. What would I look like in my perfect life? Like the real, reality
of what I want/dream of. This may change. It often has. It will again. When I
was a teenager, I saw myself in a zoo taking care of animals, wearing khakis,
being a vegetarian (hahah!). Now it’s different. Please, come into my home, it
is 7am and my alarm has just gone off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I wake up and hit the off button
because I always get up when my alarm tells me to. I know I have to use every
hour of every day. I stretch and smell the fresh air coming off the Montana
mountains. I left my window open again. It’s September but it still gets cool
in the evenings. I find that my studio cools just fine if I can cut off the AC
during the night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My studio is wide and open. Huge
windows let me look over the small town and the wilderness beyond that was my
first love. In the distance, I can see the road I take to get to the
reservation where I teach adult classes on the weekends. I love my students
though it’s a challenge and I have to watch what I say. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Putting on my slippers to protect
my feet from the cold stone floor, I check my phone and see I have a missed
text from that one guy who wants to “hang out”. I smile and make a mental note
to reply later. He can wait. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In the kitchen, which of course has
no walls and is really just a jaunt away from my bed, I flip on my Goodwill
coffee maker and the radio to get some news and music from the 60s to the 80s.
I grab a bag of fruit out of the fridge that I had cut up the night before and
place it next to a bowl. I decide weather I want yogurt or bran cereal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
After pouring some cereal to have
with my fruit, I check on my kids in the other room. Spike, my large mutt is
just blinking into the light when I open the door to the only bedroom in the
loft. Across from his crate, Augustine and Benedict, my ferrets, are still
snoozing in their hammock. I call Spike out and rub his ears as he does a
terrific downward facing dog. He’s reminding me to not forget my morning yoga.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I chat Spike’s ears off as I listen
to Journey and the news and do my own meager dishes. I can’t stand a messy
kitchen. By this time, it’s a quarter till 8am and I need to start my day. I
stand for a few minutes in the middle of my loft—my ritual “What the hell am I
supposed to be doing?” moment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Deciding it’s still early enough, I
quickly change into my black and neon workout clothes and grab Spike’s leash. I
stretch a little, do some jumping jacks to warm up and then head out to jog and
walk in the town and the bits of the woods I can get to in 30 minutes. Spike
loves a good run, but sometimes he’s too fast for me. I have to pull him back,
chastise him, and then walk to remind him he must go as fast or as slow as I
do. I accidently run through a mud puddle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Back in the loft, it’s just after
8:30am when I pull out my yoga mat and turn on some soothing music. I stretch,
waking up my mind after the run and breathing deep into my brain to get it ready
for what’s next. I do some weights, because I feel the need just now. Just a
few reps of some ten pounders or so. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I slow down my heart and grab a
bottle of water then clean up from the jog. I change into my Writer’s Clothes
(no doubt baggy harem pants and a camisole) and grab anther cup of coffee and
make sure I have a Red Bull in the fridge. Spike yawns and makes him way to his
giant pillow bed. He has a tug toy and knows he can play with it and usually
makes all the noise he wants, but to day he is being polite. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
At 9:15, I go to My Space. This is
the western corner of my loft where the sun cannot hit my computer screen until
it is time to call it quits. I have an old wooden desk that I probably picked
up out of someone’s curb trash. I have a nice chair with a back that I did
spend money on. My computer is nice (Alienware for night gaming) and I have
walls lines with bookshelves that start at this point of my room. This is the
heart. Everything branches out from here. Under me is a giant, multicolored shag
carpet that I squinch my toes in when I get to a good plot point. My desk and
shelves are covered in dragons, wizards, fairies, rocket ships, Star Trek
gadgets, unicorns, and Alien figurines. I also have an incense burner and more
watts worth of candles than I do electric lights. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This is my space.</div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On the walls I also have maps of
the lands I created and lists of characters. With these are pictures of my
family, my kids, and maps of my beautiful Montana. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When I log on, I check my emails,
reply to a self-publishing author I am editing for and check on my other
free-lance jobs. It was hard starting out, but once I had a bulk of work done,
it was easier to get hired. Plus, getting one stand along novel published and
the first in a series didn’t hurt either. I also teach. I work a lot, like I
always have, but I’d have it no other way. I like doing more than one thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I edit some web pages for clients,
write an article for a fitness e-zine that I work for, and then apply for a few
more free-lance jobs. After that, I go over the next weekend’s worth of
lectures and classes for my adult class on the reservation. It’s a special
class for adults who never learned to read or write very well. I do a lot of
creative writing and novel reading in the class, but it is teaching them. Even
if it is a little less academic than normal teachers. I grade the essays from
last weekend and smile at some of the progress and sigh at the lack from
others. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Then I get an email from my own
editor talking about changes that need to be made to my second book. Some of
them really grind my gears and I go back to my manuscript to read the bit
mentioned. At first, I don’t like it. But the more I read her ideas, the more I
realize it’s for the best. I make a note to edit my own work and reply to her
that I’d give it a shot.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
By this time it’s almost 11:30am
and I need to move my legs. I get up and stretch, play some tug with Spike and
get tea. I also feed and water Benedict and Augustine and let them out to play
in their room. I shut the door so Spike doesn’t bother them. They have a cat
toward and I think he gets jealous sometimes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Now I sit down to make my own
words. I open a short story first that needs to be a finished first draft and
bang out some ideas, scenes, and a finishing act. I wonder for a moment why I
only use the Steampunk genre when I don’t care how I write but they end up
being some of my favorites. At this point, I’ve only published 2 of this genre,
but I still like writing them. I shrug and think about my main character with
the crazy name and her religious fanatic sidekick. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Deciding it’s all good for now, I
close it out and work on my novel. As I’m writing about magic and knights, I
remember a professor I had who loved nonfiction. I had two professors who loved
nonfiction. I still talk to them sometimes because they believe in my writing
and that’s encouraging often. I’m distracted. Dragons. He’s going to find out
that his arch nemeses from child hood is the man who’s been helping him all
along. Nether of them know that though. Hahah, I smile, sorry boys, shocker!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Next thing I know, Spike is whining
at the door and it’s almost 1:30pm! I realize my shoulders and back and
cramped! I run to the door, slip on my shoes and take Spike for a short walk as
I’m starving at this point. He does his business and I head back to eat. I
contemplate the meager food in my fridge and remind myself it’s for my better
mental health that I chose this job. I make a sandwich with no mustard as I’m
out and my next royalties check isn’t do for a few more days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I see I have an email from a dance
client asking me to do a show Friday night. I reply that of course I would and
go into the bedroom that is also the workout room. I move the ferrets’s tower
aside because they are snug in their hammock again and get out my dance stuff.
I run through some new stuff I’d been practicing but mostly polish up old
stuff. I only do that for about 40 minutes and then take ten minutes to wipe
the sweat away with some WetWipes. Showers are for the evening. I live along
and can do what I want.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Now it’s just after 3pm and I have
to write up those changes my editor wanted. After that, I look around for more
teaching jobs just in case. I want to move up to teaching more, but don’t know
if it will happen. I’m always looking. But the mail brings a surprise! My check
from the reservation has come and I can go shopping.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The town is small so I ride my
motorcycle to the store to get groceries and check out the used bookstore.
Margaret Mallory’s Highland heroes stare at me from one dusty corner and I
finally cave and buy the first two. Sticking romance next to my weeks supply of
wine and food in my plastic saddlebags, I motor home after stopping by the
local coffee store to say hello to the few people I know. We make plans for
hanging out after my show on Friday and one of them asks me if I can recommend
books for her son to read. I blabbed out a great list. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Once home, it’s close enough to
dinnertime that I start the veggies and slow cook the chicken that I bought.
Spike morns beside me like he has done for the last two years of his life,
wishing he could have the meat. I eat early, close to 6pm, and walk Spike one
last time. I take him farther into the woods as I always do when I get out
early enough for the sun to still be up. He loves the woods more than the
sidewalks and sniffs everything. I don’t mind. My head isn’t even there. The
woods are my inspiration and already there is a new story whirring inside my
mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
We get home and go into the bedroom
to snuggle up and watch a movie or a few episodes of whatever I am in love with
at the time. I let the ferrets out once more and Spike watches warily from his
pillow as they scamper about. I play chase with them and trap them inside an
old drier hose they cannot get enough of. They scurry out the other end and
chide me with wide, grinning fangs as they hop around doing a strange
war-dance. I miss some of the show, but I don’t mind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Once 9pm rolls around, I put all
the kids to bed. “So early!” I hear you saying. But trust me, I like my mind to
be sharp when it needs to be. I plan for the next night to be gaming night
rather than a movie and think about which character I want to focus on in my
game. After showering and getting comfy, I curl up in bed with one of my guilty
books and read until my eyes hurt. With so much screen-time, this only takes
about an hour. Come 11:15 or so and I’m out of it. I put the book down, turn
off the lights, lock the doors and go to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This is all a bit of nonsense
really since I live in reality. But it’s time to talk of other things in real
life. Enough of what is and more of what could be. Cabbages and kings. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-57864308201639656072014-06-30T10:34:00.002-04:002014-06-30T10:49:04.899-04:0071: What To Do When There is Nothing To DoThis summer has been a real challenge for me. No jobs, no moving out like I had planned, BFFF is all married and in a new life, struggling for school money so I can get a master's degree, family is evolving and changing and we can't really keep up--the list is endless as I'm sure yours is.<br />
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All of this and I don't know what to do. I feel really stuck and trapped. Every day (well, almost every day, at least 3 or 4 times a week) I sit down at my computer and search for jobs. I bookmark the good looking ones and make a pile to return to after my great search is over. Then I go through them one at a time, apply, write cover letters, send in resumes and CVs, and sometimes if the people are really annoying, I have to write whole new samples of my work based on their guidelines ("Write two 1000-word articles from different angles about the decline of youth involvement in society". Eh?) That's a lot for applying. Do you just want to see an academic paper I wrote about literature and psychology instead? </div>
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If only life were that kind.</div>
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This can get very disheartening after a while. Especially since, after more than 5 weeks of doing this, I've gotten one rather rude rejection (littered with typos... I hate to be that grammar Nazi, but really? Pay me to edit your rejection letters...), one email of "we're interested" but then no follow up, and a whole lot of empty inbox. That's right, of the 20+ jobs I've applied for (even some craigslist! eeh!) I've received 1.5 replies. I understand they are swamped with resumes though. But even that understanding isn't enough to sooth my grieving spirit. (And Constantine died so that doesn't help). I need a job, like so many others. </div>
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So in the mean time, what do I do to try to ease my father's anxiety and my mothers not understanding why I'm still here in her house? A lot of things.</div>
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<span style="background-color: magenta; font-size: large;">1. Keep up with my hobbies.</span></div>
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So not as much as I should be, but I did get to teach a belly dance workshop in Defiance the other month and that was good. It made me practice up, eat right, and make sure I still had my dance technique. I have another coming up in September and maybe a class at a local Zumba joint. They are all spread out so the money isn't something I can rely on, but my physicality can. I workout with these things in mind and still watch what I eat.</div>
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<span style="background-color: magenta; font-size: large;">2. Keep writing!</span></div>
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It is what I want my life to be about. I get so excited about writing sometimes that I have crazy, drunk butterflies in my stomach. That's how much I love writing! I get so much energy thinking about magic systems, worlds, religions, cultures, lizard-people, and giant monsters that I shake when writing! I get so pumped about sharing a lesson and life perspective that my mind races faster than I can type. I get jittery thinking about word-play and symbolism. It's all very nerdy and exhilarating! </div>
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Also, this gives me practice to say things different ways and realize how I speak and how my words come across to others. I also have the time to try out characters, flaws, twists, plots, and other things that I would normally have to carefully craft before finalizing. The play is super fun. </div>
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With so much material being produced, I now have something of a stash of stories, ideas, and novels. Yeah, I have 3 novels I can toy with and edit and a small series of novelettes too. This slumps has given me time to create a horde of things I can come back to. But don't misunderstand, I polish too and finish. Yeah, I finish now! How amazing is that? Usually, I can hardly finish a story let alone a novel. So when you're stuck, keep up with your craft. Even if you think it's a waste of time and you should be out hunting for a job 24-7, take a moment to practice what you want to do!</div>
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<span style="background-color: magenta; font-size: large;">3. Do other things.</span></div>
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I have one or two very specific hobbies so this doesn't mean that. My hobbies are reading (for my craft!) and dancing. I change it up with going to a Zumba class (so fun!), swimming, nature parks, or going to a movie. Later to day, my siblings and I are going to see "How to Train Your Dragon 2" just to give me some space and something else to do with my head. Movies are fine, just don't watch ones that make you feel stupid. And I love TV shows like "Supernatural" and "Heroes" but I try to not watch more than 2 episodes in one sitting.</div>
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Play a game! I love boardgames like "Catan" and "Hero Quest". Harry Potter themed "Clue" is also really fun for some reason. However...I absolutely love "League of Legends" right now too. Yes, I play video games. And I will admit right now, sometimes I spend too much time on League. Especially if I'm feeling really down about jobs.</div>
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The trick with these Other Things is to know when to stop and go back to being profitable. Train yourself and discipline yourself to know what enough is enough. </div>
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<span style="background-color: magenta; font-size: large;">4. PLAN!</span></div>
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This is my golden One Ring of power right here. I write down everything. Mostly because I cannot remember a thing and have very bad memory and pretty bad depression sometimes and if I don't see a written task, I may not do it. Get a spiral-bound calendar that fits in your man-purse or book bag and keep it with you. I am very sad that mine has just a couple months left in it. I've had it for a year!</div>
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I write down daily what I want to do. Everything. Even Other Things and fun stuff. Not just the work and the exercise. </div>
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To day I have things like "write/edit", "find short story ideas", "apply for bookmarked jobs", "dance exercise", "Go see dragon movie". Everything is on there that I want to do today. You will notice that League is not on there. *Sigh* </div>
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When you do a thing, check it off! That makes me feel so accomplished. This is seriously the biggest thing on here. Plan what you do. Make time, take the time, and get things done.</div>
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<span style="background-color: magenta;"><span style="font-size: large;">5. Do things that make you feel worth while.</span> </span></div>
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I try to not watch or read anything that is *ahem* below my intelligence level. I like my leisure time to be challenging as well. Or I chose "easy" things that are not unintelligent. I do like the occasional Young Adult series of books (Looking at you, Heather Brewer) and the animated Disney flick. But those things are well-thoughtout and worth it. Do not dumb yourself down and do not get lazy. </div>
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<span style="background-color: magenta; font-size: large;">6. Lastly...</span></div>
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Do not be upset when you cannot get everything on your list or you do not hear back from those people you spent 24 hours preparing your resume, cover letter, and writing samples for. I do though, so don't worry. But telling someone else not to helps me not to. I am very down about jobs right now but I cannot let it nail me to the floor or I'll never get back up again. </div>
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When the job-thing starts to tear you up and tell you your not worth it, stop and go look at something great you did. Don't go that Thing and be like "Nah, you suck! You didn't get me the job!" It's not the Thing's fault! And it's not yours either. The Thing is not badly done. Maybe it just wasn't right for that job. Take an idea from it and try something else. Keep producing ideas and Things. You are unique enough to make a lot of cool Things and someone will want it and you. </div>
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Don't give up, and don't drown in depression. </div>
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Sorry, that last one was for me, but you can take it too. </div>
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Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-42590321499610121182014-06-12T17:02:00.003-04:002014-06-12T17:02:49.650-04:00Chapter 70: Grown Up ThingsI'll be 25 this year. Not till the end of this year but there it is. Looming up out of the cold, Ohio Autumn comes that age. The time when some people who know scientific things say that your body stops growing and starts to, well, get old. To die. Back in the European olden days, 25 was when you were considered an old maid. If you were not married by then, you were probably pretty screwed. You were not desirable, pretty, young, fresh, and lovely any more. You are old and rather useless.<br />
Bring this to the 21st century. You're not really old until you are well over 40. And if you dress like a rave-kid with blond hair, all cropped and short and wearing short jean skirts--well, then you can pull it off for even longer. Don't forget the fake tan and excessive exercise. You know the women I'm talking about.<br />
Here is me. College grad, English degree, some experience, lots of written words and stories, lots of passion and desire to change the world. The grown up thing to do would be to hunt like a tigress for a job. I am, don't worry. But when something doesn't show up, I suppose the other grown up thing to would be to just settle on something else. Be a banker or something. I wish I was that grown up. I want the job I want though. However, in the mean time, I am looking for something a little closer to home. Findlay is not exactly full of jobs but I am looking. To please my poor father who put love, sweat, tears, and blood and money into my education, I am applying at the public library. We'll see how that goes.<br />
In the mean time, this blog will be far less formal as I have started "The Moral Alien" for my fancy work. And by fancy I don't mean refined and perfect. No writing is perfect and no one will ever think so. "Alien" is for things I research and edit at least once. This is nothing any more. Just my every thought. And I think my thoughts are worth writing down. If I don't think so, who will? No one will do anything for you, so you have to get it started yourself.<br />
For now, I have applied for a job at Riot. I wish I could get the job, but I know I won't. In the mean time, I have applied to more than 20 jobs in the last 3 weeks. For each one I have had to at least write a new sample, hand in a resume, give ten titles for future stories another such shenanigans. It gets exhausting! I get so tired after a round that I want to sleep but then I have to work out. I get fat too fast. Maybe next time I'll tell you about something more specific like my exercise regime and how I eat. I find it interesting any way.<br />
I shall writ about everything. but for now, I will hush up :) This is an old blog but at some point, someone must have read it. And someone will. And I will always write. I have things to say and I want to say them. The gown up thing to do is not give a crap about other people. I do that in real life. Not on here. This is my space. My grown up thing is to do what I need to.<br />
Thank you and see you next time!<br />
Oh, and I am making a vlog video as soon as I can about being a Support on LoL. I know, I wrote about it on "Alien" but I have more to say. Someone said that Support is the easiest role. I will show you why it is not. Thank you and goodbye!<br />
<br />Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-19243736154421900902014-04-22T18:12:00.002-04:002014-04-22T18:12:40.068-04:00Chapter 69: Writerly Literary Things<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I realized I wasn’t breathing when
my vision started to go grey and I felt myself tipping off the back of my old
stool that sat in front of my first ever new laptop. I had had the stool for
ten years. Before it sat in front of my vary old Casio where I made music. The
laptop was a Mac, new and purple. The thing on the screen that had caused such
dizziness and shock was an email from school. Well, two emails from school. The
first said something like “Congratulations, you are invited to the Symposium of
Scholarship and Creativity” and then went on to tell me the program. That meant
honors in English. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
For years, my dad has reminded how
expensive my orthodoction was. He told me about my Spec Ops brother who had his
school and house bought for him by the US Air Force. He told me about my other
brothers and how they both got many offers from private colleges for full-ride
scholarships. They all went on to do great things. Then there was me. Not even
out of high school and had a record amount of dental bills and medical issues
with joints, breathing, and brain activity. That’s why I remembered to breath
when I saw the email: don’t disappoint dad now! He said that if I was going to
graduate, I had to do it with honors. Or not at all. Everyone else before had. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The second email was about
graduation. I have no idea what it said now. All I know was that it was about
graduation and it was talking to me. I’ve lived in 3 states and gone to for
colleges in the last 3 years and have been in college for six. I never thought
graduation would come. But it has. And this has been a fantastic year. Last
semester was better. I wrote a novel, a novelette, 3 short stories, and plotted
an entire series.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This semester, I struggled to get
twenty-five pages out. Fortunately, I told myself, “It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only </i>twenty-five. Last time, you could do that in three days
without editing. A week with.” I kept remember my first class in Cap Stone. “I
reall really want to be a writer,” I had said like a high school freshman. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I had to remind myself of that kid
to get any writing this semester. My parents think that science and math are
the be-all end-all of the universe. I had to take statistics this semester. I
wish I could just blame the four hours a day I spent studying on that for my
lack of writing this semester. I say lack, but I did get two short stories and
twenty-seven pages of some kind of supernatural novelette written. The point
was that it wasn’t the amount of last semester and that’s what I wanted. But I
had to get a B+ in stats. That is not happening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I had to remind myself of my much
younger-last-semester-self because I wasn’t writing. I was working hours on a
class that doesn’t matter. I was crying at night over formulas I will never see
again. I don’t know how many there are, but I have learned thirty new ones just
this semester. I can tell you the probability that someone will kick a field
goal this year. But that will not help Glenn, my paladin-knight from a long
novel, claim the dragon-throne for his own and show the world how the lines
between power and corruption are thin. No, instead that formula stopped Glenn
from even existing in my head for some time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Like all bipolar, depressed kids, I
went for an escape but didn’t have the brainpower to write it away. I couldn’t
even read. So I played online games. But there, in the battlenet chatrooms I
was guilt tripped again. Some user had the audacity to call themselves
Claredy-catgirl99. Clare is another character of mine. It was as though writing
was calling me beyond the isolation room I had sent it off to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I was distracted by gaming nonsense
and mathematical nonsense. More than learning cool writing techniques (and that
when I write non-fiction I apparently demean men) I learned to prioritize.
Again. I learned that back in grade school, but I had to relearn. Rather than
stay up to all hours screaming at my calculator as I typed in wrong integers
again, or instead of logging on to League of Legends, I started to write again.
It was very, very hard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I had a run-in with someone from my
parents church who told me about how great religion was so I wrote about them.
Religion then become an automaton in a steampunk story where God was
represented by the a grandfather clock. The Man ran away in the end and it was
all very sad, but it may be my favorite story. It was very literary and I tried
a lot of techniques in it. Trying to write like a writer really got me back
into writing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
That was all it took though. I know
writing and I are destined to be together now. A little nudge and I was hammering
away till 2am rather than crying until 2am. I wrote more on my Golmasiah series
in which Hypria discovers new islands and tries to combat hunger with magic. I
found myself tying that post-colonialism and poverty in the world today. It is
a rather odd commentary, I admit, but one I was very interested in tackling. It
also helped me tackle the age-old question of “why don’t wizards just make
magic food?” Because it goes really wrong. Like eating food that’s been touched
by large amounts of radiation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I also had to learn to not hold
onto everything I wrote. I’ve been learning that for years but this strange,
supernatural thriller I have going on may be the cherry. When I started writing
it, it wasn’t supernatural. I didn’t know what it was. A travel narrative
maybe. But then it got weird when the main character ended up at a crossroads.
I think I was writing the story as an analogy of itself. It may still be. I
don’t know. But that is the twenty-seven pages I got out this semester. I doubt
I’ll keep it. But it was practice. I used to say that I only when inspiration
strikes. That can’t be true for me any more. If I want to be a writer, I need
to write—anything!—every day. Practice. How will I know if I am saying
something the wrong way if I haven’t tried it? I say, write all the time and
makes mistakes all the time so I know, all the time, what not to do. And what to
practice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
If I write everyday, there is a
chance that I will write a description or scene twenty times in a month. Maybe
in different stories but similar scenes. One will be better than the other nineteen.
That means there is a .052 chance that I write something good once a month if I
write every day. Oh, look there, Statistics! Maybe it’s not worthless after
all?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
That chance isn’t that big, but it’s
bigger than the next person who only writes when inspired. That means that they
write far less and have far less of a chance of getting it right. This semester
was a struggle, but I learned what it takes to keep writing. And if I want to
be a writer, I must keep writing. Every day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-2873587382637431672014-04-06T13:12:00.002-04:002014-04-06T13:12:53.001-04:00Chapter 68: Victor Frankenstein and I: Speculation on the Mad Scientist's Madness and Myself<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">We all love those crazy psychologists, right? Sometimes, the only way I can explain how I feel is to point </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">to</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> some of them and use their bizarro thoughts as my own. Plus, a lot of people won't believe you unless you point to some old, dead guy and say he thought of it first. Now, I'm not diagnosed officially because the therapist I go to can't do that. But after reading "The Modern Prometheus" for probably the billionth time, I thought, "Dang, Vic, I love you because you are so bipolar." I understand Victor so well. Enough, of this though. Let's talk science and get all academic. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Erik
Erikson developed simple-to-use psychological Stages of Growth that show us
what ages human beings go through certain stages (seriously, you can google0image search the thing). Mother’s always say, “Oh,
don’t mind him, he’s a teenager.” Erikson provided some answers as to what is
going on behind those children’s eyes as they grow. Using Erkison’s theory, we
can explore the minds and motives behind what literary characters do and say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Using
Erikson’s scale of growth (point out those smart ones!), we’ll examine Merry Shelley’s title character Victor
Frankenstein. Victor is interesting because he shows signs of having more than
one problem (I love a man with issues...). He is moody, hates socializing, likes to be in control of other
people, and is so driven at some points that he forgets about his family and
friends and drives at education mercilessly. Some of these symptoms, as we will
later discuss, are signs of depression, bipolar disorder, and possibly show him
as a sociopath (a </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">high-function</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> one at that!). What could cause him to be the way he is? Does he have a savior
complex or womb-envy (lol, but seriously, people, this is a thing)? Why is he so driven and seemingly sociopathic? Does he
have feelings or not? Erik Erikson’s theories and stages of growth can be used
to analyze this fictional character’s life and actions to see what could
possibly be troubling him and causing him to reach so far as to create life. Ever get that feeling? "Hmmm, I need a pal, let's make one!" Yeah, me too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
first thing that must be examined is that Victor talks very little of growing
up in the book. He doesn’t mention too much in chapter one about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> life. Instead he focuses on his parent’s life. He seems to be
intellectualizing his parent’s biography to tell you why he doesn’t wish to
speak about his life. But this is important to understanding Victor; his
parents have a great effect on his development. His father had a friend who
went into debt, bankruptcy, then hid to avoid the consequences of his actions
(Shelley 27). Frankenstein Sr. found out the friend and brought him back and he
died leaving his young daughter to the care of Mr. Frankenstein. Victor says
that his father “is one of the most distinguished of that republic” and that he
had “filled several public stations with honour and reputation” (Shelley 27).
From this, a psychologist could infer that Mr. Frankenstein was a man of high
standing and important in his community. He is used to being looked up to
admired and asked for help. He is perhaps even the savior of others under him. God-like-savior-alert!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">An
example of his “savior” behavior can be seen when he marries his friend’s
daughter Caroline. This could be signs of a messiah complex or what is called a
grandiose complex (Diamond). He feels the need to save because that is what he has
been doing for some time in his offices of power. However, that is just the tip
of the iceberg. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These feelings of grandeur
can come from and be aggravated by a bipolar complex, which is where the person
has feelings of ups and downs that change at a normally rapid pace. Caroline’s
father probably had developed bipolar disorder after he was saved by Mr.
Frankenstein. Victor says that his grief would rise and fall until he was sick
in bed and eventually it consumed and killed him (Shelley 28). Well, dang.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now
Mr. Frankenstein feels he must take care of this woman. “Perhaps during former
years he had suffered the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved, and so
was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth… [Caroline’s] health and
even the tranquility of her hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what
she had gone through” (Shelley 28-29). Mr. Frankenstein felt he had to earn her
love. These feelings of worthlessness are common in bipolar disorder and in some
savior complex’s. They feel they must work extra hard to get the approval and
love of those around them. Hmm, sounds familiar. Where a savior complex will puff one up and make
them think themselves a god-like being, bipolar disorder will pull in the other
direction and make him think that he’s not good enough. So he must worship her
and pamper to her. But she is already feeling so depressed. What to do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Perhaps,
Frankenstein Sr. didn’t have full out bipolar disorder, but he did have a
savior complex and Victor’s mother was now ripe for depression to set in.
Caroline could have easily developed depression too from the trauma of the life
they must have lived while her father was running around avoiding debt and the
law. This could have planted the seeds for her own depression or bipolar
disorder which leads to her own savior complex and saving of Elizabeth (Victor's later wife) later.
These are the people Victor is surrounded by. Notice we haven't even gotten to Vic yet? Yeah, that's how far back scientists and those </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">psychologist</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> like to look. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">To
alleviate the utter darkness in the Frankenstein home, Mr. and Mrs.
Frankenstein start to travel (Shelley 29). No, really, it says that they were so </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">down</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> in the dumps they had to go on vacation. Amidst all of this, Victor is born
away from home and is the brunt for all their mixed up emotions as he is an
only child for some time (Shelley 29). He is now of course in Erikson’s stage
of Trust versus Mistrust. During his first years, they still traveled and he
says, “it was in their hands to direct happiness or misery, according as they
fulfilled their duties towards me” (Shelley 29). Bummer! The words that stand out apart
from happiness are the directing of misery he speaks of. Is there a possibility
that his parents were not always as sane as they should have been towards baby
Victor? He may have had reason to mistrust his parents and begin to isolate
himself from them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">With
two bipolar parents now saddled with a child, the chances of Victor being
ignored or even abused are high. This means that during his sensitive stages
all the way through Erikson’s Autonomy versus Shame to Initiative versus Guilt
phase (three to five years of age), he was the only thing around to receive the
brunt of his father and mother’s mood swings and their outlandish behavior. The
evidence later of his own mental disorders could be signs that he has repressed
bad memories of his parents. From here, Victor will inherit his own disorder.
According to the Ohio State University Medical Center, depression and bipolar
disorder can run in the family. From this point on, Victor will begin his own
downward spiral of disorders. He will displace his rage at his parents onto
someone he can own and possess. Controlling others will help him cope, he
thinks. So, like, get a dog or something, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Over
and over it says that his parents were good and gave and gave. That is how his
father came to marry his mother Caroline. When they go back to Italy they visit
the houses of the poor all the time: “Their benevolent disposition often made
them enter the cottages of the poor. This to my mother was more than duty; it
was necessity, a passion” (Shelley 29). This shows that they have that guilt complex
also common in bipolar disorders. They feel guilty for what they have so they
visit the poor all the time. Dr. Susan Whitebourne of the University of
Massachusetts links it back to Freud: “The psychodynamic theory of Freud
proposes that we build defense mechanisms to protect us from the guilt we would
experience if we knew just how awful our awful desires really were.
Specifically, Freud linked the feeling of guilt” (Whitebourne). His mother had
suffered her traumatized past and was now displacing her grief onto the poor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In
this poor neighborhood, Caroline Frankenstein comes across a little English
girl named Elizabeth who she decides to take under her wing while Mr.
Frankenstein is out of town on business. Caroline’s savior complex and guilt
come in again when she sees little Elizabeth in such poverty. “…but it would be
unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want, when Providence afforded her
such powerful protection” (Shelley 30). She's totally Batman. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When
Caroline brings Elizabeth home, she says to Victor “I have a pretty present for
my Victor—tomorrow he shall have it” and he replies, “I, with childish
seriousness, interpreted her words literally, and looked upon Elizabeth as
mine…since till death she was to be mine only.” (Shelly 31). Possessive much, dude? At the end of
chapter one (yeah, still chapter one!), Victor is in full possession of Elizabeth and is being influenced
for Erikson’s next stage of Industry versus Inferiority. His mother gave him
something to possess and he has now started to morph into his controlling-womb-envying-savior-complex
self. He has been given something (Elizabeth) since he was five years old to be
master of and he is used to this high throne of authority, which could lead to
his creation of the monster and his later projection of anger on the creature
when it defies him and makes himself the master putting Victor in a place
inferior to the monster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Victor
grows up over the next chapter where we can see his lust for control takes on
the guise of knowledge. In Chapter II, he leaves Elizabeth behind when he wants
more intellectual things: “Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated
disposition; but with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense
application, and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge”
(Shelley 32). By this point, he would probably be in Erikson’s Stage of
Industry VS. Inferiority and getting to move into Identity versus Role
Confusing. He wants knowledge over Elizabeth’s companionship especially since
he probably can no longer control her every move. She is inferior and he must
now find out who he is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
turns to the ultimate complex device for knowledge and dominance over: Nature.
He sees nature as a challenge that must be accepted. It holds secretes and he
must uncover them or he will not be seen as “smart”—as Erikson would say, he
would feel inferior. He is indeed in this stage because his brother is born
“seven years in junior” and his parents become more depressed and give up on
their wondering life, which may have been escapism and now they have to be tied
down (Shelley 32). Things just get worse from there on out. His parent’s live
in seclusion in the country now. And it was in his temper to avoid a crowd. He is
anti-social as we will see in the later chapters when he goes to school. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
can see examples of his anti-social self in contrast with his best friend Henry
Celrval. Henry is the opposite of Victor in that he loved stories of knights,
tales of enchantment and he also loved danger for danger’s sake (Shelley 32,
33). This could infer that Henry is very outgoing and outspoken. Just the right person to get on Victor's nerves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">On
the other hand, Victor’s temper, he says, was sometimes violent. In a large,
revealing chunk of text, Victor confesses, “My temper was sometimes violent,
and my passions vehement; but by some law in my temperature they were turned,
not towards childish pursuits, but to an eager desire to learn” (Shelley 33). This
could be his reaction to his thoughts and feelings that come with bipolar
disorder. He doesn’t know how to deal with them and all his parents do is spoil
him, which is not what he wants. He says he was violent and vehement and yet
those feelings were turned towards knowledge. This could show where he is angry
that he doesn’t understand himself and his feelings. So he feels the need to
learn about them. But it isn’t simple things like politics and government that
attracted his pursuits, no those things would be too simple for
high-functioning Victor. He wants to learn “the secrets of heaven and earth”
(Shelley 33). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">From
a high flying temper and violence, Victor then plummets into what psychologist
say is the depression side of bipolar disorder. “I might have become sullen in
my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to
subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness”; simply, he raves, is angry,
violent and then falls into sullen moods where he is probably locked away in
his room being moody and only Elizabeth can sooth him and sometimes Henry as
well (Shelley 33).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Another
example of Victor’s strong anti-social behavior can be seen on the next pages
when they go to a party where he also discovers the books that will set him on
fire for his passions of the ultimate knowledge and even a search for the
Elixir of Life and immortality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When
Victor is thirteen years old and approaching another phase of Erikson’s growth
chart: Identity versus Role Confusion is in full swing as Victor makes contact
with books that will inspire his studies. The family goes to Thonon, a resort
in France, and is confined to an inn there due to the weather. This upsets
Victor no doubt because of his antisocial tendencies and so he does what any
knowledge-craving boy his age would have done: he sits down with a book to read
and avoid the people. Victor reads a book by Cornelius Agrippa and “a new light
seemed to dawn upon my mind” (Shelley 34). Victor runs to his father, excited
about his finding only to be brushed off by his father. When a depressed person
gets brushed aside, they either let go or retaliate with a fierceness that
cannot be guessed (Wexner). Trust me, I know...Victor did the later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“If
instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me that the
principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded…I should certainly have thrown
Agrippa aside” (Shelley 34). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If his
father had explained it, perhaps Victor would not have delved so deeply and
largely into the well of unknown sciences and gone on to other studies. But his
father suffers from the same disorders as Victor and could not be bothered to
give an explanation to his young, energetic son. Perhaps Victor was more
frightening when excited about scientific things his father had no idea how to
handle and thus Frankenstein Sr. had no other defense mechanism but to try to
shut Victor down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Victor
hits fifteen and is still in Erikson’s Identity Vs. Role Confusion stage while
he eats away at the hunger for knowledge. He is high-functioning and never
satisfied at this point. The quest for knowledge had inflated his head even
more as he pursued higher levels of writings: “they appeared to me treasures
known to few besides myself…Those of his successors in each branch of natural
philosophy with whom I was acquainted appeared, even to me boy’s apprehensions,
as tyros engaged in the same pursuit” (Shelley 35). Here Victor is saying that
he is the only one who knows about this great knowledge. No one else could know,
especially no one else his age. And now, he has studied so long that the
writings of other great scientists are like novices compared to what he knows.
But sadly, he was left to struggle with a child’s blindness (Shelly 35). He has
no one there with him as is often the case with manic depressive people, which
only adds to the aggravation of the condition (Wexner). Victor’s symptoms and
behaviors have gone on too long untreated just as his parents have and which he
has been exposed to while floating in this delusion of grandeur. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
moves to pursue things greater than this physical life; “the elixir of life;
but soon the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was in
inferior object; but what glory would attend the discovery, if I could banish
disease from the human frame” (Shelley 36). This coupled with his next pursuit
of trying to contact ghosts and devils which he eagerly sought shows his
descent into madness. When one begins to rave and delve too deeply into things
usually seen in society’s eyes as odd and not normal, one is normally described
as mad. They begin “reasoning with insufficient data or rigidly defending the
wrong theory” (Daw). Thus, all Victor needs is one more push and he will be
over the proverbial edge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the lightning storm strikes at the end of
chapter two, Victor then moves on to school in Ingolstadt. He is about to enter
into the young adult phase for Erikson and Intimacy Vs. Isolation and it is
ironically the last stage of his life. His mother dies no doubt causing a
massive trauma to young Victor. He is delicately on the verge of pure insanity
at this point as he is in need of intimacy more than ever. His mother has died and
he is young and unbalanced according to Erikson. He must mingle with people if
he is to survive. But he does not. When Victor is in the Intimacy Vs Isolation
Stage of Erikson’s theory, he shuts himself away instead of spending time with
Henry and making friends at school with his mates. He has no one “worthy of my
consideration” (Shelley 37). Boy, do I know that feeling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Henry
sees the signs which are evident when he tries to pursued his own father to
allow him to accompany Victor to school (Shelley 39). Victor’s determination is
seen just before this when he insists that even though his mother is dead, he
still had duties to attend to and perform (Shelley 39). Finally, Victor states,
“I threw myself in to the chaise that was to convey me away… I was now alone”
(Shelley 40). He has reached the height of what he desired: He is alone and in
a realm of smart-things and people where he can run rampant with his
experiments. He is depressed, swinging from manic and back, never learned to
control himself, and suffers from grandeur and a savior complex. There is
nothing left but for him to do the ultimate act and creat life. He met a
professor who would, unknowingly give him all he needed to finish off his mad
desires:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 49.5pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 418.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“He then took me into
his laboratory and explained to me the uses of his various machines,
instructing me as to what I ought to procure and promising me the use of his
own when I should have advanced far enough in the science not to derange their
mechanism. He also gave me the list of books which I had requested, and I took
my leave. Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">From
here, Victor goes on to gather dead bodies and try his best to create life.
This last act of his nearly sane mind could have been his ultimate hate: it
would seem the only thing Victor could not do is create life. He tried to call
to the dead, attempted the elixir of life, learned all he could about science
and yet there was nothing that would make him a god. His nature was nurtured
into a high level of savior complex and fed anger by his bipolar disorder
causing him to think he had no other goal than to creat life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Whatever trauma his
parents may have caused him in his childhood he has shut out, but it has led to
his pursuit of perfection and ultimate control over his and other’s lives. His
youth shows that he sought solitude and projected his anger onto others,
particularly Elizabeth and Henry. Victor sought control and got it but his
high-functioning, nearly sociopathic mind was not satisfied until he had reached so
far that he fell over the edge.</span><!--EndFragment--><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">A fun Biblio incase you wanna check it out for yourself:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Daw, Jennifer. "Why
and How Normal People Go Mad." <i>Http://www.apa.org</i>. American <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Psychological Association, Nov. 2002. Web. 27 Nov. 2013.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dr. Daw discusses in a brief essay the reasons
that can cause people, normal and productive, to drop off the edge into
clinical insanity. She describes the descent as one that can be triggered by
many things but mostly as blows to one’s self esteem. She warns against false
madness cues and discusses in brief biological reasons for madness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Diamond, Stephen, Dr.
"Messiahs of Evil (Part Three)." <i>Psychology Today</i>. Sussex
Publishers,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>20
May 2008. Web. 26 Nov. 2013.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dr. Diamond discusses a theory about how fanatic
religious leaders from all over the globe could possibly have had a messiah
complex. He informs the reader of the definition of a true messaiah complex and
likens it to delusions of grandeur. He also provides research in Jung and
Erikson’s theories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Erikson, Erik.
"Erikson's Psychosocial Stages Summary Chart." <i>Erikson's
Psychosocial Stages<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Summary Chart</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. Ed.
Kendra Cherry, Dr. About.com, Web. 25 Nov. 2013.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A summary chart of Erikson’s theories with
hyperlined examples and further discussion. For the essay, simple the names and
order were taken from this chart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Martin, Chris.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>The
Scientist</i>. Coldplay. Rec. 2001. Ken Nelson, 2002. MP3.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The song about a man who loves but cannot identify the feeling as it
cannot be explained by science so he considers giving up or just going without it.
Title was used as well as the line “pulling the puzzle apart” to symbolize
Victor’s diagnosis as bipolar. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Shelley, Mary
Wollstonecraft. <i>Frankenstein, Or, The Modern Prometheus</i>. New York:
Barnes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">and Nobel, 2003. Print. Barnes and Nobel Classics.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">An annotated version of the original classic
with essays and historical clips in the back of the book for further study. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Wexner Medical Center.
"Manic Depression / Bipolar Disorder." <i>Wexner Medical Center</i>.
Ohio<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">State University, Web. 26 Nov. 2013.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The University of Ohio’s medical page for
students who think they may be, or no someone who may be, suffering from
depression or bipolar disorder. It gives symptoms, cures, and therapies. It
also discusses in depth how such illnesses can be passed or spread through
prolonged exposure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Whitebourne, Susuan, Dr.
"The Definitive Guide to Guilt." <i>Psychology Today</i>. Sussex<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Publishers, 11 Aug. 2012. Web. 26 Nov. 2013.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Dr. Whitebourne gives a
different look at guilt in this short essay. Rather than explain how people
manipulate a person, she explains what people plagued with guilt do. She
explains how people afflicted with guilt live their lives and how they see
tasks before them as essential to curing their guilt. She also likens it to the
psychodynamic theory of Freud. </span><!--EndFragment--><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-3915668305673997572014-02-11T17:26:00.001-05:002014-02-11T17:26:12.834-05:00Chapter 67: The American Bad Guy<div class="MsoNormal">
"American Criminal: from a Belly Dancer’s Point of View Who Has Taught International Students for More Than 5 Years."<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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If you are an American, you are a global criminal. You are
the bad guy and you should be ashamed of yourself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you are an American, you cannot do anything that is
un-American or you will be deliberately and rudely making fun of someone else.
Do not say you are a gypsy dancer because you are not Romani and are ignorant
and stupid and racist for saying so. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you are an American, you cannot like other people’s
music: especially Native American and you cannot AT ALL wear jewely that
reflects said ethnic’s style. If you do, you are taking it, stealing it, and
making a mockery of them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you are an American, you cannot be interested in someone
else’s religion or culture. If you wear a Bohemian skirt or a tribal-looking
bracelet you are trendy-know-nothing American.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pray for forgiveness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you are an American, you cannot eat Chinese food because
it is not real Chines food and you don’t know what real food is.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If you are an American, always apologize for being white.
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you can. <o:p></o:p></div>
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will be the butt of jokes in Britain. You will be killed other places. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you are an American, do not dance anything but hip-hop.
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Best to stick with a hoedown. <o:p></o:p></div>
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you do, you will be just one more stupid white trying to expand their horizons
for no good reason.<o:p></o:p></div>
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person stealing a practice because you were too dumb to think of your own. <o:p></o:p></div>
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That is criminal. That is bad. You are bad and you are wrong. Do not change
like the language you speak.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If you do all this, you will be a bad American. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-31565660634995965642014-02-09T16:38:00.000-05:002014-02-09T16:38:37.784-05:00Chapter 66: Fantasy Men and the Women Who Write Them and the Other Way AroundDungeons and Dragons is going through another revamping called "The Sundering". I know it's been great so far because I've read some of the books and talked to Ed Greenwood and Erin M. Evans personally about it. While I was ooing and awing over the new books for D&D (which I am new to, I won't hide that little fact) I was hacking my way through a series that was supposed to be great. I heard from many of my friends that this series was great, you'll love it and "it's like Supernatural but better!"<br />
Please... better than the Winchesters, Garth, Jo, and Bobby and Cas? Really?<br />
Well, it's a popular genre and I want to write in that vein as well. Why not try Jim Butcher? He's been around for a while and dear ol' Dresden has had a TV series based on his adventures. MUST BE GOOD!<br />
Or not...<br />
Just popular because...well, I don't know honestly.<br />
People: Read the first one (Storm Front). Me: Eeehh... People: It gets better in the next one! (Fool Moon). Me: Uuugghhh.... People: It gets better in the-- *PUNCH!*<br />
No, it never gets better. I've heard that Butcher's latest one, "Cold Days" is supposed to be his masterpiece. Sure, it takes that many books to describe women's legs, waistlines, and especially those buxom breasts. What would a supernatural book/movie/game be without female legs and soft contours? Well, let's just say they would have to hold their own.<br />
Fed up with that fiasco, I went to the other end of the spectrum just to see what was there. I picked up Margaret Mallory's Highlander series. Never had I read a Romance novel. My sister will tell you I have with Deanna Cameron's "The Belly Dancer", but more on that later. For Mallory, she is honestly just several aspects away from being a pretty good writer. Not going to lie, I felt gypped when the "The Scene" came around and I didn't even get the whole thing. That was for later it turns out. For Mallory though, the attraction for her highlanders comes in the form of their honor, bravery, patriotism, and of course, gleaming muscles. But not overly so. I can hear males disagreeing with me right now. But trust me, we read those book sot get he-man descriptions and Mallory makes us wait for it. We don't know that Alex's muscles are sharp and angular every time he enters a room. There times when Mallory will go PAGES without telling you a thing about this gorgeous guy.<br />
Not male writers. No, the instant that woman walks into a room (or a darkened hall way in a few Butcher cases) we know from the warmth of her body, or the curve of her outline, or the longness of her legs that it's <i>her</i>. Those (always!) dangerous, dominating females of the fantasy genre.<br />
So leading in to Erin M. Evans and D&D, we have Havi, Fari, and the demonic Lorcan. But just so you know, Lorcan is a hunk. A very evil, demon-y hunk. At first, as a female reader isn't that fond of dangerous-Edward-Vampire types, I thought "Oh, great, the evil sexy demon man is here to make you a deal you can't refuse." But Evans wouldn't have it.<br />
Rather than slather Lorcan in sex and attraction, she makes you cringe every time the guy is on the page. He appears and you're like "Oh good, he saved Havi, but he needs to disappear again." No amount of his "good guy moves" makes you want him there. Yes, you remember him floating in the demon trap at the beginning and how much his red, muscled skin glowed in the flames. But you don't want him there like other sadist chicks want Vivian to chomp Aiden oh so hotly. Or how about that new Rid Riding Hood flick, eh? *Crepper grin*<br />
Evans gives us a wonderful departure from those men. Of course, being female she doesn't sexualize her heroines either. Perhaps it is just be because I am female, but I really found Havi and Fari wonderful females. They were strong, but not independent. They depended on their dragon-born father (who was awesome, by the way!) to help them because they weren't perfect and got into trouble. And also something Evans doesn't let her girls get away with is getting into trouble and then apologizing their way out. Mehen let's them know when they've done wrong and they learn (usually) from their mistakes.<br />
I use Evans because she seems to the only author doing genders right. The males look like they should be <i>that </i>guy, but they're not and they give us the creeps rather than making us desire them. Her girls are not sexualized or free to be stupid females either. Maybe she does this because she's a female and is just trying to stay away from stereotyping? Maybe, but I doubt it. She's just good at character and has realized we don't need all the sex to have a good fantasy adventure. Take it from me, the story needs to be able to stand on its own and not depend on females with dominatrix tendencies or males with sadist playmates on their minds. Let the story speak for itself. <br />
<br />Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-20539569712318708552013-10-30T10:50:00.002-04:002013-10-30T10:56:07.935-04:00Chapter 65: Imagination: How to be Killed By a Headless Horseman <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOx6hOSIEtN60F2_udNgem5C9AnXl6wOYdcXmE3dUoq2w4olxhA2HwyUtnBzOMERZzTxbYXmH9SqK8v0hYYucJyhjqA-7IuVao6sr-OuaFXe2hlTzLEK3Q3anuI3MbEzKl2rDco4T/s1600/headless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOx6hOSIEtN60F2_udNgem5C9AnXl6wOYdcXmE3dUoq2w4olxhA2HwyUtnBzOMERZzTxbYXmH9SqK8v0hYYucJyhjqA-7IuVao6sr-OuaFXe2hlTzLEK3Q3anuI3MbEzKl2rDco4T/s320/headless.jpg" width="255" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.comicvine.com/headless-horseman/4005-53680/">http://www.comicvine.com/headless-horseman/4005-53680/</a></td></tr>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-5832c8b0-09c3-6af7-708f-69a565f7748a"><span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">American literature before the war of 1812 was stoic, religious, and never really dealt with stories in literature. This is believed to have been because of the steel grip Puritans and other religious groups had over what was published. After the war, Englands grip, as well as its dominating religious holds, were loosened and America was more free than it had been in 1776. The freedom came when stories, poems and novels were being written and shared with the public. This time of literature is the American Renaissance.</span></span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-5832c8b0-09c3-6af7-708f-69a565f7748a"><span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The American renaissance was in the mid 1800s and was a release from all the tight, religious literature that was being produced before. Not only were the American people free to make their own histories and stories, but legends began to be born as well. One of the most famous of these legends is Washington Irving’s “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Washington Irving (1783-1859) was named after the man he wrote a 5 volume biography for: George Washington. He was always a writer and was first published in 1802 when he wrote satirical essays for his brother’s paper much like Benjamin Franklin. He was the first American writer whose books and stories were loved on both sides of the ocean and was one of the only writers to support himself entirely by his writing at the time. Irving liked to write about darker things and historical transformation; hence his famous work from </span><span style="font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Sketchbook </span><span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The three themes that stand out most in Irving’s work are: imagination, supernatural reality, and the boundless selfishness of the characters in his little Dutch community. Without Ichabod Crane’s fantastic imagination there would be no ground for this story. His obsession with the paranormal and fascination with witches are the base for practically everything that happens in the story including his attempts to win Katrina Van Tassel and the spoils to be gained (yeah, he was a gold digger!). Ichabod’s imagination is to be expected since he is the focal character of the plot, but the townspeople also show a great interest in stories of ghosts and goblins, which leads to the telling of the legend of the Hollow's own supernatural haunt: the Headless Horseman. The theme of selfishness in the story is the only one that stands apart from the spooky themes as it has nothing to do with the ghostly reality that Irving’s work is based on. Ichabod is selfish in that he covets Katrina’s inheritance and the towns people are unconcerned with Ichabod’s disappearance in the end simply because he does not owe anyone a debt. Yay, for economic mind-sets! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The story of “Sleepy Hollow”, for those of you who may have never actually read the story, is simple; a superstitious school teacher desires the hand (and estate) of the beautiful Katrina Van Tassel. She is also pursued by Brom, the village’s seemingly only handsome young man (time to skip town, Katrina), who is something of a trickster. The backdrop for the story is the frightening image of the headless Hessian who not only haunts the Hollow but searches every night for his head. Anyone else search for your head every day? Just me? Alrighty then, moving on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The theme of imagination is really only dominant in Ichabod though the love of supernatural stories of all the townspeople is written throughout the story, however it does not interfere with the lives of the people. Ichabod is like a child trapped in his own supernatural world, which eventually results in his ruin. It is from the townspeople that the reader first hears the legend of the horseman from. The hollow is described in great detail of being a place where everyone is dreamlike and has a witching aura. Irving writes (in the voice of his narrator) that even visitors to Sleepy Hollow are, in a little time, influenced by the dreamy air. The people are subject to having trances and hearing music and voices! As a reader, it can be assumed that this means everyone who lives there and visits becomes entranced somehow. Perhaps there is a bit of magic in the air and that is what accounts for the sightings of the ghostly horseman? But that would be taking the supernatural as reality. Either way, the people of Sleepy Hollow see things that cannot be there outside of a supernatural reality. But with them it is a simple matter of flights of fantasy. Ichabod, on the other hand, lives and breaths his supernatural world. But I can't judge him too much for that. After all, I live in a fantasy world! But I don't get killed by my characters. Not yet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The first example given of the school master’s supernatural paranoia is when Irving describes how Ichabod has set up traps and defenses about his school house; stakes at the windows, locked doors, and wires twisted around handles so they cannot be opened. This introduction to his paranoia is key to the rest of the story as it intermingles dangerously with his supernatural beliefs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A second part of Ichabod’s illusionary life is his pride. He takes great pride in disciplining his students and teaching them, but is also proud of the fact that should a weaker student come along who he could not bear to whip, he simply gives them a lecture. It is obvious that he holds his teaching methods in the highest respect. Outside his school house, he takes pride in showing off in public. He is deemed smart among the hollow’s community because he is the only book learned one in the area, but really he just carries around a copy of Cotton Mather’s “History of New England Witchcraft”. Well, what we can say? He's a fanboy. It is this praise of his knowledge that leads him to be boisterous among the women and his delusion that he thinks he has a chance with any one female he chooses, but this is proved dreadfully incorrect when he tries and fails with Katrina. May I never be this teacher... </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is hard to say if Ichabod is in love with Katrina, her lands, or his illusion that his knowledge will get him what he wants. From what one can read in the story, it may become quite obvious that it is the last two that give Ichabod his ridiculous courage to pursue Katrina. When he goes to call on Katrina, the narrator (as a writer, I'm desperate to wonder who it is) states that Ichabod's “mouth watered, as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare”. Ew. He's hungry for land, I guess. Then the narrator describes a wonderful feast in the Van Tassel home, which Ichabod now sees as his lordly home. He sees a “whole family of children” and “himself bestriding a prancing mare” on these grounds. When Ichabod actually enters the house, he doesn’t see it as a visit, but rather as if he is entering his own home and his “only study was how to gain the affection of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel”. See? Gold digger. What is it with big houses and lavish furnishings, people? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When a person is so far into their own reality, others around them can easily be tempted into unkind pranks and schemes against the dreaming person. As common as that situation is and as smart as Ichabod thinks he is, he should have seen the schemes that were playing out before him starting with the invitation he received during his class to come to the Van Tassel gathering in the first place. It’s easy for Katrina and Brom to plot against him for the remainder of the story without him knowing because he's actually quite stupid and delusional. By the end, when Ichabod vanishes, it can be surmised that Brom made him leave on Katrina’s bidding. Ichabod never knew that she had no interest in him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Ichabod is so happy to be invited to the ranch that he lets class go early and enters his dream world. He goes home, dresses well and even buys a horse to appear “before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier”. Ichabod’s imagination then starts to leak out of his world as he tries to pull it into genuine reality. He wants to show Katrina and everyone at the ranch, just how great he is. A glimpse of the reality can be seen though when the narrator describes the ride to the Van Tassel home: “He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle”. Remembering Ichabod’s long, thin description from before, the image becomes absurd as this delusional man is imagined in the mind’s eye. Ichabod’s reality and real reality do not seem to be able to coincide. It's at this point that a modern reader would scoff, look at the great rented horse, and ask if he's overcompensating for something. Well, yes. But it's not what you think. It's that he thinks he smart and he's just not. Don't those people annoy you? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The best part of the focal character’s imagination comes out in the theme of the supernatural in the story. In the beginning of the story, Sleepy Hollow is already described as a very dreamy place. The people tell stories of ghosts and all seem to honestly believe in the Horseman. Tales of encounters are the most talked about at the fire side and at social gatherings. Later, the narrator says Ichabod would be social with the older women in the hollow, not only for his own prideful advancement as previously mentioned, but because they would tell him stories of witches and magic and he would read to them from Cotton Mather in return. Throughout the story, Ichabod can be seen constantly feeding his supernatural desires and imagination. Brom plots against him to make him into the fool when he blocks up the chimney in the school house one day and silly Ichabod thinks that witches have cursed his school. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Brom’s plan to win Katrina is finally revealed to the listener when Ichabod is on his way home from the party. He waited behind to speak with his desired but the narrator, claiming he doesn’t know why, says that Ichabod left in somewhat dampened spirits. One theory assumes that Ichabod’s supernatural imagination is heightened by this depression. The scene set, the witching hour, and he’s passing the “very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been lain” when the Horseman charges Ichabod down and chases him for the next two pages. Perhaps if the school master had not been such a superstitious and paranoid individual living in a supernatural world, he could have turned and faced the farce. It was not really the Horseman because later the narrator tells that whenever the story of the missing school teacher is brought up, Brom grins and even chuckles a little to himself about the incident. With Brom’s past of tricks on Ichabod, it is not hard to realize what Ichabod could not see through his false reality. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The theme of selfishness is not as easily seen as imagination or supernatural reality, but is laced throughout the story and is a fun to talk about considering our modern times. How many selfless people do you know? Probably you know more selfish people who interrupt you when you talk and text while your speaking. In Irving's story, it can be seen with Ichabod and his lustful thoughts of the land and wealth he wishes to gain from his union with Katrina. Even his pride is a form of selfishness as he thinks he is the only smart person in Sleepy Hollow. His world would be turned upside down if someone out smarted him: Like Brom for example! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Katrina is selfish in that she schemes to have Brom scare Ichabod to make him leave and win the heart of the young man at the same time. Because everyone loves a scheming rich girl. A theory for the story is that Katrina used both Brom and Ichabod. She used Ichabod to enrage Brom thus leading him to making Ichabod leave. She wanted to be with Brom but for some reason could not simply tell Ichabod to stop pursuing her. She desires Brom to like her, though he already does, so she’s mean to Ichabod with false advances and catering to his talk after the party. She wanted the situation in her control and wanted toy with a man’s emotions: “Could the girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks?” the narrator asks us. The narrator implies here that she has more than one trick to play much like her man Brom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The people of Sleepy Hollow are not so obviously selfish but they provide the theme at the end of the story. No one cares that the schoolmaster has vanished very mysteriously. When it is discovered that he doesn’t owe any debts, no one thinks on him again except the old women in the Sleepy Hollow who tell his story as just another ghostly haunting of the Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. </span></div>
</span>Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-48258670848852175072013-10-09T21:11:00.002-04:002013-10-09T21:11:42.388-04:00Chapter 64: The One I Forgot<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
wish I could remember things better. I forget everything. I forget my keys in
the two seconds it takes me to walk out my bedroom door. I’ll open the fridge
and not know what I’m doing. I’ll think of something, go downstairs and forget
what it was I was going to get. I’ll pack up for school and forget my wallet, then
see it’s missing and not be able to retrace my steps to where I may have lost
it, totally unaware that I took it out earlier. I never remember that stuff. I
lose my cell, keys, iPod, everything all the time. Not just like other people.
I can’t retrace my steps either. Ever. I turn left when I say out loud “Turn
right”. I never which direction I’m facing, but that’s relatively normal. I can
set my mug down, turn to something for three seconds then storm around in a
rage looking for my mug. I scream and shout then am clam not ten seconds later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My
life goes up and down that fast all the time. That’s the first reason for how
tired I am sometimes. And why I don’t like being around people. What will they
think when I’m blistering angry one second and literally the next, I’m slapping
backs and making jokes. Who can handle that kind of person? Handling that is
hard work too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
also forget social niceties. I don’t remember that I’m supposed to say hello to
people who are standing by me. I’ll forget to introduce myself or my friends. I’ll
forget to say goodbye and walk away from people leaving them awkward. This
happened recently. I was in the coffee store and Anna introduced me to one of
her coworkers. We talked for a long time and then I just up and walked out the
door after the conversation was winding down. He called after me to say
goodbye. I was nearly traumatized. I’ll say things that shouldn’t be said in
social situations about myself or others. I don’t mean to until it’s out of my
mouth. When I try to behave, I’m quiet. So quiet that people ask me what’s
wrong. “Nothing, just trying to be socially correct” or something to that
extent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
can sit quietly for hours and listen to people talk. Then forget half of what
that said or what I was supposed to do after. If I can stand hours of people.
Things start to turn gray and I freak out after a while. I can’t meet new
people. It irritates me. There are rules and steps that I can’t remember so I hate
doing it. And I know those people don’t really want to talk to me and know
about me. Everyone else just wants to talk. That makes me feel strange too.
Knowing that no one cares. It’s like being around a bunch of androids. You’re
not real to them so they’re not real to you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Trying
to be social with them is horrible. I can’t do it. Not just because I can’t
remember what to do, but because they react. They judge or don’t do anything. Condemn
you or no reaction. They pass a judgment then go on about their lives. Or they
jabber away while their android eyes are fixed on their screens and buttons.
Scary things, these people. But my mind doesn’t work when I’m around other
people. I have to freeze. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or
I act the part of the comedian. That’s my best, strongest, and most acceptable fall
back. Everyone loves a joker, so that’s what I be. Sometimes my other problems
interfere and I can’t even think. So I’m quiet again. Silence more often than
not, as you see. I’d be a great comedian. I’m witty enough. I fall back on
humor all the time. It’s the only way I can be around people. I’m sure it’s the
only way people tolerate me as well. I’m too down, too awkward, too quiet, too
forgetful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
I try so hard and by the end of the day, I am exhausted. It’s hard to interact.
To remember all that stuff. What to say when, what not to say, what I’ve forgot,
I check my calendar every minute of every day. I fill in every line with things
to not forget. It’s a mess. Highlighted and scribbled to within an inch of its
life. This, among other reasons, could be why I cry when I'm driving or taking a walk by myself. Last night, I walked along and sat by the lake in the dark. I had my iPod on so I don't know how loudly I was really crying. I do that often. Sometimes 3 or 4 times a week. Sometimes less. Other times I giddy-happy. To the point of near hysteria. I smile and laugh at nothing. If you've ever seen someone do it, then you know what I mean, otherwise you can't imagine. It's the craziest thing. Or I do girlish squee noises and sigh happily. But within an hour or so, I'm crying again. I cry while brushing my teeth sometimes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m
only writing this now because I’m forgetting a lot more. And I can’t organize
my papers and stories any more. I have to outline and draft and outline.
Something is happening in my head and I don’t know what it is. It’s not bad, I’m
sure, or scary. It’s like moving a couch to a different side of the room after
20 years of it being in one place. Just a shift that I’ll learn how to handle
like everything else. If there is one thing I’m good at (even if I scream, kick
and cry at first) it’s adapting. For someone who never remembers and is never
in one place very long, adaption is easy. It’s how I live. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-29370916186053241042013-09-28T13:43:00.000-04:002013-09-28T13:53:13.566-04:00Chapter 63: Frankenstein: The Destroyer as Creator So I've been working on something a little more academic and wanted to post it just because. I've been on this "creators are destroyers" theme for a while and was thinking about that stupid argument of "destruction as a form of creation". In this post though, I get more scholarly and not so "fun". I also see that I haven't posted in far too long. I need to do that more, especially with all the stuff I have going on. Not amazing stuff, but stuff I can at least write about. Sort of.<br />
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Any way, this argument I summed up in this little post. What do I think? Can art be destruction? Is destruction creation? If you don't know the story of Frankenstein (I mean the real one. Did you know there is no such thing as Igor? I didn't even know who that guy was until a few years ago. Who the heck even made him up??) then please read it. It's actually very short and can be read in a day if you have nothing else to do. So here is my argument against destruction as creation. (A quick note: this is a very close reading of the first few paragraphs of chapter 5. Not the whole book. I used Barnes and Nobel Classics Edition [you should read the essays in the back, so cool!] in paper back, and cited the pages for you in case you want to check for yourself. But they're all pretty much from page 51. I love citing...)</div>
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All quotes taken from the revised version of "Frankenstein" (1831) by Marry Shelly (original 1818). </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ2sSR9aQPQzNuaU3uYWT_TdjwD2wh7o8NlzNW-fowTBKGpMct78MIsrImoMQ88wLckrkDGpfzjrIijy3VgWcfIv0epXZmfK7qeLyDsugDGbKIP0NIMaIyNEFafQYP7dTFMbWQgMga/s1600/frankenstein+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ2sSR9aQPQzNuaU3uYWT_TdjwD2wh7o8NlzNW-fowTBKGpMct78MIsrImoMQ88wLckrkDGpfzjrIijy3VgWcfIv0epXZmfK7qeLyDsugDGbKIP0NIMaIyNEFafQYP7dTFMbWQgMga/s320/frankenstein+(1).jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alec Newman and Luke Goss in<br />Hallmark Entertainment's "Frankenstein", 2004</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 27pt;">Prometheus was an
Olympian who brought fire to the mortals of Greece. With fire, they could not
only warm themselves and cook and see in the dark, but fight each other and use
the flame to burn down the homes of their enemies. They could forge weapons for
destruction and then sharpen metal. Basically, fire lead to knowledge of
destruction and means of killing. Prometheus didn’t mean for that happen. He
only wanted the mortals to be able to see in the dark. He was the
light-bringer. Mary Shelly’s “Modern Prometheus” didn’t intend for death,
sadness, and destruction to follow his invention either, but that is the
overall theme in Shelly’s gothic science fiction novel “Frankenstein”. The
irony that she presents is how creation leads to destruction; or light to
darkness. Chapter five displays the theme of creation (light) to destruction
(darkness) in three parts: the setting of the scene, the creature’s appearance,
and Victor’s reaction to what he’s done. Just the first few paragraphs off this
unity through a close reading of the electrified text.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 27pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 27pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The first level of
language is for setting the scene. The dreary night outside of the laboratory
was probably nothing compared to the emotions Victor Frankenstein was feeling
as he finished the preparations for his creation to come to life. It’s dark as
the “rain pattered dismally” against the creator’s windows. The scene is fixed
with details like the nearly burnt out candle and the “half extinguished light”
(51). The text is dealing with the balance of life and creation, which in the
case of the scene is the fight between light and dark. The night outside is
dreary and cold, but it is kept at bay, outside, for now. However, we can see
from the candle that is burning low and is almost out, that soon destruction
and darkness will emerge. The struggle is already there and eminent; there is
no escaping the darkness to come unless the candle could somehow be made to
burn longer. Darkness is coming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It is with “anxiety
that almost amounted to agony” that Victor “gathers the instruments of life
around him” in this tense scene. From this description, an excited, eager
life-giver is ready to “infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing” (51).
The language is charged with words of tension and description. Words like
“spark”, “glimmer”, and “light” bring electricity to the scene even though the
night is dreary. Victor is nearly a mirror of the night around him, lending
himself for this moment to scene. He is anxious and in agony over his
creation—excited but apprehensive. All contrasting emotions like the darkness
outside and the burning candle inside with the instruments of life. He is more
light than dark, more creator than destroyer with the “spark of being” he holds
in his hands. This spark is another image of the light and life inside the room
that battles against the waning time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The second level of
language used is to describe the creature and its own conflicting presence and
appearance. Just before the candle goes out entirely, leading the way to
darkness, the “dull yellow eyes of the creature opened; it breathed hard, and a
convulsive motion agitated its limbs” (51). The language here draws tension on
the belief of whether the creature is really alive or not. With the candle
having gone out, our vision of light and life, a tension of foreboding has
entered the room and now the only light or life left in the room is this
creature where the “spark of being” has been ignited. The words used to
describe the new life are permeated with death as if to say, “You have created
death, Victor”, which, in a sense of the rest of the novel’s events, he has. If
the eyes are “dull” and “yellow”, then is it really alive? They’re not
flickering and are even duller than the burned out candle. The color yellow is
not often associated with life. Yellow is more of a decaying color. The
creature’s breath is not easy either. It is convulsive and hard; far from
relaxed. There is a tension of opposites
here in the words. Life has happened but the words to describe it are not
entirely life-like. The creation is not “light” and pleasant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The third level is Victor.
He does not feel the joy he expected to find after creating life—his own spark
and light. At the sight of his creation, his light goes out and he says it is the
“wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form” (51).
It is not the life he wanted to create, as if he can see its destructive
capabilities already. To expound on this idea and show how life and death are
both embodied in the creature, he described it as “limbs in proportion, and I
had selected his features as beautiful” but then Victor exclaims “Beautiful!”
as if to dispel what he has just said. This strong exclamation tells the
audience that he is in disbelief. This thing does not look like life or light.
It appears to be ugly, or rather dead and made for destruction. It could even
be viewed as bring death to life or creating destruction, which goes back to
the theme and unity of the novel. He goes on to explain why: “His yellow skin
scarcely covered the work of muscles and the arteries beneath” (51). The image
is gruesome with such vivid detail and yellow is again mentioned. But again, we
see the tension in the words as he finishes describing the creature with
“lustrous” and “flowing” black hair and “teeth of pearly whiteness” (51). There
is light and there is darkness in his creation; we can see the result embodied
in this creature, life and death. From creation comes death and the monster
with its contrasting appearance is both, just as Victor was both at the start
of the chapter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">In a way, Victor
feels like he’s failed. He set out to create something wonderful and he is not
satisfied. He moans, “The different accidents of life are not so changeable as
the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the
sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body” (51). What he means is
that he does not feel about his creation as he thought he would or should. He
is also insinuating here that what he has created is not human or even alive,
even though it clearly is. He also tells us that he had “worked hard”. This
phrase could have been something more scientific sounding but instead, he uses
simple words showing us just how worn out and tired he is. He is almost
whining. He’s not the great creator after all. Then what is he? He says, “I had
desired it with an ardor that far exceeded moderation”, he knows how
unattainable this idea was, “the beauty of the dream vanished” (51). Victor’s
light, hope, of creation has gone out like the candle before him. From his
creation, he has spelled out his doom and he knows it. He is distraught because
he is aware of the destruction he has created. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Lastly, he says he
was, “breathless with horror and disgust filled my heart” (51). The
descriptions of his fear are filled with excitement but not the kind he desired
or the kind at the start of the chapter. In a sense, his dream has died; the
light has gone out, his path from creator to destroyer already begun where it will
end in chapter twenty when he destroys the creature’s mate. He has not had any
physical exertion and yet he is “breathless”. He has created life and yet he is
filled with disgust. He is “unable to endure the aspect of the being” that he
has created and yet he cannot even go back to confront it and change his human
nature’s reactions. He has tried to justify his running away and abandoning his
creation by examining the horror of it. Even though he has succeeded and
created life, he is not satisfied because he sees that creation leads to
destruction (destruction of his dreams and hopes for now). From this feeling of
horror and fear, the path for death and destruction has been placed before the
creator. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Just as Prometheus
did not intend for his fire to corrupt mankind, neither did Victor Frankenstein
understand what he brought into the world: his own destruction by his own hands
through the means of his creation. Like Prometheus, he was doomed. With the
fire came the knowledge and ability to create and harm; from the creation of
Frankenstein came death and destruction and ultimately the maker’s own death.
There cannot be destruction if there was not first creation, and there can be
no creation without destruction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-75808835484375103372013-07-18T21:13:00.002-04:002013-07-18T21:13:51.190-04:00Chapter 62: The TARDIS Chose the Doctor Remember that episode of Doctor Who where the TARDIS gets put in to a human body and Matt Smith cries and it's all beautiful? Yeah, this post doesn't really have anything to do with that. Unless you're watching closely. (It has nothing to do with "The Prestige" by Priest either... sorry for all the miss leading!)<br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOj9Uk62YV1so7cUsv0Ff_xHtadBWbptj_gKUgwPaRMCU6JsBHfri9c0FCDATKgedcWNmDtshw4_mTd18ulqG0aECVDgMwmFIesZHAZgQCTa3e_zdj3RyyxD4xNAxVJJaqSEn13JUS/s1600/200px-Thieflordbookcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOj9Uk62YV1so7cUsv0Ff_xHtadBWbptj_gKUgwPaRMCU6JsBHfri9c0FCDATKgedcWNmDtshw4_mTd18ulqG0aECVDgMwmFIesZHAZgQCTa3e_zdj3RyyxD4xNAxVJJaqSEn13JUS/s200/200px-Thieflordbookcover.jpg" width="132" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I was sitting in my
Captain’s Cabin by the window, trying to fall asleep or nod off at least. I
read a couple pages from “The World Of King Arthur” by Snyder, but it was too
heavy for my dull head. I put it away and stared out that window. The yellow
light is not on yet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I was moping. AM
moping. I put the Arthur book down and saw the spine of a book that I’ve read
all the way through only once. But I loved it. Love it. I picked up my
paperback of Cornelia Funke’s “The Thief Lord” and just held it. It’s a perfect
size for a paperback. Not one of those mass markets that I hate (but had to buy
TH White’s book in…). It’s a good size for my hands. I cannot tell you why I
love that book. There a lot of factors though. Venice is one. I love that place
and I see it just like Prosper and Bo’s mom did. It’s magic. It always has
been. My “Cirqu” novel takes place there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then there is the
Peter Pan bit about it. Then how Scipio knew that the kids needed an adult to
look after them but Prop knew Bo needed a brother; not a father. The mystery
bits is nice with the weird old couple. It’s just all so nice. The Oliver Twist
setting of orphans living together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Other than that, I
don’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">So I thought, “If the
house burned down, I’d make sure to get this book”. Of course, I have others I’d
get and I thought I’d list them out. Some of them are cheating since I have a
few “complete collections of” (CCO). So here it goes, in no real order and to
the best of my knowledge. Sadly, I’d want to take ALL of my books. I have
underlined things, written notes, and marked at least one thing in every book.
If I had enough money, every time I bought a book, I’d by the hardcover and a
standard size paper back for writing in. But back to the list! Keep in mind,
this is a list of books that I own. That I am currently sitting next to and loving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 45pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“The Thief Lord”
(Funke)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 45pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The complete
collection of Shakespeare (It’s a big one!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 45pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The complete
collected tales and poems of Edgar Allen Poe (another big one)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 45pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">4.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Utopia” (Moore)
I hate this book, but boy do I love it. Talk about a lot of writing in the margins!
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 45pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">5.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“The Merry Adventures
of Robin Hood” (Pyle) I read it at least once a year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 45pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">6.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“The White Chapel
Horrors” (Hannah)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 45pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">7.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The complete
Sherlock Holmes (Doyle) These are two big ones!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 45pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">8.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Maggie: Girl of
the Streets” (Crane) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 45pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">9.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“The Belly Dancer”
(Cameron)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 45pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">10.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Dracual” (Stoker) But the one I wrote in is currently
on loan to my bfff so it’s safe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 45pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">11.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Gothic Charm School” (Venters) and it’s autographed! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And that may be it. “But Miss Abigail!
What about LOTR and the “The Languages of Tolkien’s Middle Earth”? “And your
new Drizzt book that you love?” you ask? “Or what about your bible, you bad Christian!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Well, the things my 12 year old self
wrote in the pages of that bible are not things I need to remember. I’ve
learned those lessons and am a different person now. In fact, I’d like a new
bible. Something fresh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">LOTR? Yes, it is my mother ship as a
writer and fantasy lover. But… I’ve read my copies maybe twice. They’re cheap,
movie-cover paperbacks. And… I can get Tolkien anywhere. And Drizzt, maybe he’ll
make it on the list when I know him better. I am in love with him, but he’s not
there yet. Yet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 31.5pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">So there it is. I can’t
explain all those things. Some of them have just been there and back again with
me. “The Belly Dancer” for example. I may take my copy of “The Sun Also Rises”
too and “Gatsby” since I do have TONS of scribbles in them, but I don’t know.
Who can say what books choose us? It’s like clothes. Why do you like that? Why
do you like that food or color? Why? Sometimes, I think things choose us. We
humans are so awesome that our bodies know to breathe in our sleep! But books
and things that touch us? Those things are special. Especially when they’re
things not a lot of other people understand. You may be one of those things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 31.5pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Why “The Thief Lord”?
I’ve not the foggiest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-79729177857756852013-07-06T23:39:00.003-04:002013-07-06T23:39:54.641-04:00Chapter 61: Cyclone, A Short StoryHere is a short story I scribbled out tonight. I wrote it on a whim, but I am so glad to have gotten a short story out. I haven't really written one in years. Even then, this is only about the 4th short story I've written. I hope to make more (at better hours of the day!) while maintaining re-writing my series and (hopefully) complete the LARP story that has no name yet. Please enjoy!<br />
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<div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
Cyclone<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
The pressure from his fingers bo<span style="display: none; mso-hide: all;">eing in</span>ring in to his temples was as intense as a tire jack. His
eyes were so wide they could reflect the glowing laptop screen in front of him.
The screen saver should have come on by now but it hadn’t. It was just another
glitch in his world now. Everything had come down in an almighty crash at the
board meeting that morning that he had had to miss for personal reasons. The
email now floating in the cyber world was short and to the point. By a
unanimous vote, the board had voted in favor of removing its CEO. Someone as
young, smart, and handsome as him should have never been removed by a board of
old men. They had called him the company’s prized tycoon and now they had
pulled him from his thrown and cast him down to the dogs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
He blinked before his eyes began to water. Outside the night life of
Kansas City was buzzing with its Friday vigor. He was ignored now. The lights
in his office were off. The only light was that damned email, softly floating
for him to read again and again. He loosened his skinny black tie and untucked
his well pressed shirt. He sat down and stared for just a moment more. His
nerves choked his senses and he grasped his hair with both his hands, hissing
an intake of breath. With a final defeated moan, he pulled open his desk and
lifted out a bottle of clear, liquid mood-lifter and drank straight from its
neck. The fire felt hotter this time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Placing the bottle next to the glowing screen he wondered where he was
going to go. The condo was paid for by the company. Maybe he could sneak in one
more night. The car would have to go. That beautiful black Camaro. If only he
hadn’t spent so much personal cash on that company promotion bash. He was
supposed to have been refunded. If the old goats were sly enough to pass this
vote and not inform until five hours later they surely were not about to send
him a check for a nearly sixty grand. This was not a night to be alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Pushing away from the desk, he took his leather bag and marched out the
doors one last time. No one was in the office at this hour. Even the custodian
was gone. He let himself out into the garage and ignited the engine on the
Camaro. He’d never heard it purr so deeply before. It was almost out of gas
too. He felt around in his bag for his wallet and pulled out the company’s
plastic. One last time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Maneuvering down city streets full of entertainment vampires, he
swerved around like a stunt driver into a Chevron. The lights were blinking and flickering like
they do at night just to irritate the customers while they sat around waiting
for their cars to finish devouring the hard earned cash in their wallets
through rubber hoses. While he waited, a woman with dirty dread locks ambled
toward to the station with a shopping cart full of dirty and smelly
city-growth. Something smelled like it was decomposing. He coughed politely and
pulled the wool collar of his long coat up to hide his face. She stopped
walking, staring at him, and the steam from her mouth rising in slow beats. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
The car could not fill fast enough. She began to shuffle towards him
again, her one eye visible beneath her hair was wide and trained on his hand.
That was enough gas. He pulled the pump out and gasoline sloshed all down his
coat and pants. He swore quietly and jammed the pump back in place. He turned
and she was not two steps from him. He twitched in surprise. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
“Can I have a dollar? That’s all I need to buy my kids some McDonalds
or something. Just a dollar. You got a dollar.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
It wasn’t a question. The honest answer was that he didn’t have a
physical dollar and maybe not even an electronic one anymore. He tried to
ignore her and shuffle around but she leaned into him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
“That’s all I need,” she repeated. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t have one. I really don’t.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
She took hold of his arm and something hard pressed in to his side. Her
other hand was holding something close to his side just above his fifth rib.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
“A dollar. That’s all,” she said through mossy teeth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Looking down, he saw the shiny black neck of a hand gun was pressed in
to his side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
“I don’t have a dollar. I really don’t.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
She growled and thrust her hand in to his pocket. With her distracted,
he seized her gun with his hand and twisted and pulled to take it from her. She
held on tight and cried out, using her other hand to push his face away. They
struggled and the lights still flickered. She was strong for a homeless woman.
Finally, he had the handle in his fingers and he yanked with all his might.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
The report cracked and echoed off the ceiling and the stations store’s
walls. Then the sound traveled down the street farther than it normally would
have it the weather hadn’t been so cold. The woman fell to the ground, making a
grunting gurgling noise in her throat. She began to shriek, louder and higher
with every cry. She pointed up to him. Her blood was seeping out from under
her, crawling towards him. He panicked and put his hand over her mouth to shut
her up. With a growl like a cat, she sunk her brown teeth in to his hand. He
cried out more in disgust than pain. The man the store was on the phone, crying
and talking very fast with his hands. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
He took the gun up off the floor and the woman screamed again. He
covered his face from the store’s view and shot the woman in the face. The
first time shut her up. The second time took her right eye and temple with it.
The third sunk in to her skull and made her head jump. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Snow began to fall straight down without any wind to redirect its path.
Down to the pavement where it started piling up. In the silent night, sirens
began to call his name and wail for the death of the lady. He held his hands
steady as he wiped the gun on his coat and ran in to the dark streets away from
the hellish flickering. Winter air cuts through a person’s lungs like breathing
frozen rose stems. He only made it to the bridge before the panting was too
much for him. Grasping the rail to save his fall, he clutched it and his chest.
Underneath him was a river running as if it could escape the ice. He looked
over the edge, wondering. He was so cold already. Down the street was a diner
that sold coffee at all hours. It was cheap, but it was warm. The walk there
would be risky but he thought he’d be able to make it. Down the road the other
way, he could see the blue and red lights dancing across the street. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
He pushed himself up, his mind made up. A car sped down the street towards
him, lights on high, and kicked up a load of slush and ice melt in to his face.
At the same time, the driver had flicked a lit cigarette out the window. He
only had a few moments to remember the woman before his pants and coat erupted
in a blaze of warm, excited fire. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-74187066560793899062013-06-27T15:00:00.000-04:002013-07-05T23:54:59.039-04:00Chapter 60: The Story That Has No Name. Yet.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Please be careful not to trip over the typos and bad story telling and quick pace. It's an uber rough draft. Thank you and please enjoy!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Chapter
1: They’re Destroying Our City!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Send
all the elfin sorcerers up north. Take an army of footmen to the northwest and
follow that up with the knights and priests to the north east.” An explosion
from the south alerted the master as cries rang out from the left and the sound
of crackling fire erupted louder. “Where are my workers? Send them to fix that!
We cannot let the enemy behind our walls.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
army moved out as instructed as she looked around in a panic to find the
workers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“They’re
destroying our city!” the mayor cried out again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Defend
yourselves!” she cried, calling all workers to take up an ax and act as a
militia. That would only work for a little while. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The
army is under attack!” an elf called out to her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
looked up. The elfin army was being slaughtered by undead warriors from the
north. “No!” she cried. “Save the elfin forest before the undead take it,” she
commanded her knights. It would take several minutes for the knight army to
reach the elves in time. It would never work. She’d have to invoke the ancient
words. The only way to ensure her elves would not be killed was to do the
ultimate sin. They had to have immortality. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
cries of her villagers was deafening as she stalled, her hand poised to make
the spell. Her city was lost. Her army was only safe for now. All she had left
was the elfin forest. She could not let it fall to the undead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Love
never dies,” she whispered the incantation as her fingers moved, spelling out
the words. A chorus rang out and cymbals clanged. A white light shot up around
her army and engulfed it in little twinkles and stars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Cheat
enabled,” it read on her chat bar. Then “Clare, U cheated!!!” from her opposing
team.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clare
smiled and pulled her large headphones off and slicked the microphone back into
place. With the noise gone, her invincible army slaughtered the undead before
the same cheat could be used by her opponent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Victory!”
scrolled across her screen in a matter of seconds. She put the headphones back
on and accepted the chat request from username lordalfred89. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hey,
my lady, you cheated and then cut me off!” His voice was pouty and angry. “I
thought we were supposed to uphold our rules. No cell phones, no internet
searches, and no cheating for six months. What’s up? Changed your mind?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
couldn’t let my elves die, Al,” she said. “That forest was the last thing I
had. You destroyed my city and Max took over my castle yesterday. I’m
practically sunk.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Sorry
you have to lose at your own game.” He did sound sorry. “But that’s how it
goes. Besides, I still have to face Stella and the others. No one is easy to
beat in this little shindig you put together. Why couldn’t you recruit a bunch
of newbies?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
laughed and took a sip of her grape juice. “Too hard for you, Al? Think of it
as growing pains.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You’re
a pain alright. I’ve got sweat on my glasses!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ahem,
Al?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Never
confess to breaking out in a sweat over a game.”<br />
“This from the girl who cried when her favorite warrior went to the dark side
in the last expansion? Ha, I don’t think so.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m
saving and quitting. Are we all still on for this weekend?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah,
we have a lot to discuss at the meeting.” Al’s voice had dropped down a few
octaves in excitement. “Can we ad midterms to the list to discuss? I mean,
these ones really count.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clare
smiled at the worry in his voice. “Of course. Stella asked me that too.” She
watched her home screen as the animated rain fell on the flag of her people,
the mouse hovering over the exit button. “Hey Al?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Senior
makes us sound old. We’re not old, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Claredy-cat,
we’re only eighteen. Still kids.” His voice had perked up again. His did that
whenever hers went down. It was why they were best friends. He was always
supportive to her when she was not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Nah,
we’re not. We’re adults now. We have to grow up and stuff. I mean, can we even
play this game and have our weekends after high school?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Save
it for the meeting,” Al said in a final tone. “I have to clean out the litter
boxes for my mom before my dad gets home.”<br />
“Chores.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
have them too as I remember.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
know, we’re the only kids on this block—us and Stella and the others—who have
chores?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Al
smiled over the microphone. “We’re awesome for it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“See
you later then.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
pushed out from the computer table and rolled the keyboard closed. The
temptation to open up her favorite social media sites crept up on her like a
flea. She had the itch but had sworn a pact with the others not to use it. She
had been grounded from her cell phone for using up all the minutes and her
friends, wonderful warriors that they were, had sworn off using theirs until
she had hers back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“When
one of us suffers, we all do,” Al had said when they all turned off the phones.
It had all been very touching but the parents of the not-grounded friends had
been furious about the safety issues of not having a phone until they explained
the human benefits of not talking and using the phone all the time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Going
up the stairs, she was greeted by the smell of her mother cooking some cheap
Italian food. The scent of red sauce from the jar was strongest even over the
out-of-the-bag garlic bread. Must have been really old. She entered the kitchen
to see her mom, frowning intensely over some bills, unaware of the boiling
pasta.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Uh,
mom? Can I go across the street to Stella’s? I’ll be right back to help with
the rest of dinner.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Mmm,”
was the only reply. She was in a mood and that needed avoiding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Okay,
I’ll be right back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Slipping
on her flip-flops, she jogged across the street in her jeans and dark red
camisole without a second thought. Stella’s mom, Mrs. Hart, had been in the
garden as usual. Newly planted hydrangeas were meticulously lined up on either
side of the door and every weed was torn up and all the soil tilled to
perfection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Pink
this year,” Mrs. Hart said as she came out of the house in gardening gloves and
an arm load of asdfghjk. “I don’t suppose you can talk Stella into wearing any,
can you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The
powers of forcing pink on strong-will women is beyond me.” Clare laughed but
Mrs. Hart was not amused. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Taking
the front steps two at a time, Clare went inside and straight up to her
friend’s room. She knocked once on the door then opened it without a reply.
Stella’s room was a disjointed attempt on her mother’s part to keep her “normal
to society” and Stella’s sadly humble attempts to show off her individuality.
The walls were white but the bookshelves were black. The ceiling fan was a
hideously swirly white thing but draping purple lights hung on all the walls.
Her wardrobe was just as discombobulated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stella
sat hunched over her laptop, black fingernails stroking the keys as she
commanded her own armies across virtual planes. Her hair was long and un-dyed
out of respect for her mother but her clothes were, not quite loud, but
definitely an attempted at the dark subculture she yearned to be a part of. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Al
tells me you cheated,” she said, her black coated eyes not missing a move on
the screen. “I would have too, don’t worry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
sat up after exiting the match. “Max whined the whole time we were playing. He
didn’t even try to beat me. I hate him for that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“No,
you hate him for being able to wear and decorate as he pleases and his parents
don’t stop him.” Clare took her seat in her favorite chair of Stella’s: a big
black velvet covered bean bag. Stella had made the cover herself when her mom
had brought back a big teal colored bean bag and placed it in her room while
she was at school. <br />
“True, but look at it this way.” She put on her narrow black rimmed glasses.
“He says that he brings home good grades, is respectful, kind, and helps out a
lot at home and his parents let him do as he wants because they see what a good
kid he is. Now, I do the same thing. But still, I get no slack.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You’re
a girl?” Clare offered knowing full well the tirade she was going to get back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“That
shouldn’t matter in this case!” Stella exclaimed and leaped up to tidy her
room. Everything had to be just right. The curtains had to fall a certain way,
the desk objects had to be straight. “I’m safe. I never stay out late. I don’t
do anything!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Okay,
calm down, I’ve heard this all before. Can we talk business for a second?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stella
flopped onto her red and gold bed with purple pillow cases and moaned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Thanks.
So, meeting this weekend? Are you free?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
know I am. I claimed I can’t work on Sundays due to religious obligations.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Right.
So we need to set up this semester’s laws and boundaries. Do you still want to
play the sorceress? Because Al said he may have a female friend coming in from
another clan from Arizona or something. She’s moving here and is a hard core
larper.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stella
raised her arms above her head from where she laid and said in a dramatic voice
and accent, “I will kill her to keep my place as magic master and rule with her
blood in my river.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Oh,
okay, so that’s a no.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stella
shot up and smiled. “How do you know she plays female roles?” They’re eyes met
and they burst out laughing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
are desperate for someone to play Count Graph, aren’t you?” Clare giggled.
“You’ve had a crush on that imagined character for as long as I can remember.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stella
pretended to swoon on to the floor, tossing her long hair elegantly. “Ugh, I
long for my count,” she gasped, clasping her heart. “I need him to go on
living!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clare
stood up and walked to the door. “Tell Max to come at eleven then. We’ll get
lunch after.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Wait!”
Stella stood up, her count forgotten. “Can we talk about school? I know it’s
forbidden to speak of the outside world at meetings, but…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clare
sighed. “I know. I told Al that you asked me that last week. We all have a lot
say on that point. See you Saturday then. Full dress?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“My
new costume isn’t done. I ran out of money.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Wear
the old one?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
will do as I must.” Stella was always so dramatic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After
a quiet and awkward dinner with her dad coming home late, her mom in bad
spirits, and her younger brothers fighting like rats over the food, Clare went
to her room. She turned off all the lights and ignited her dozen electric
candles. After spilling a red candle all over the carpet she was not allowed to
burning anything anymore. The soft glow of the electric ones was not as
romantic as real ones but it had to do. Glancing around at her many posters,
play swords, maps, and ships in bottles she suddenly understood Stella and Al’s
fears. They weren’t kids any more. When she had had to get a job she was
excited to spend money on more DVDs, music that inspired her role playing, and
accessories to accent every costume and fantasy decorations for her walls. But
that had never happened. When she drove the car to work and school, it suddenly
needed gas and she had to pay for it. When the oil went out, she had to pay for
the change. Before she knew it, she was fighting to save money for one season
of her favorite show. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
down on her bed and continued to gaze around her sacred sanctum. How much of it
would change when she left for college? How much would she change? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Pulling
the yearbook out from under her bed, she flipped to the pages she had marked.
No one had said very nice things about her or her friends. She was the most
normal of them all. She had written for the school paper, volunteered for the
drama club once, and done a few other after school projects. They used a bad
picture of her though. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stella
had many rude comments written in about her. Max had more. Mostly from the boys
on the sports teams as usual. Clare didn’t care one way or another about Stella
and Max’s style choices. What she cared about was how they were treated based
on outside appearance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Al
was the only one with mostly positive reviews. Voted “Cutest geek of the junior
class” and at the same time “Most likely to be the forty year old virgin”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Stupid
people,” was all she muttered. The newest edition to their circle of friends
was a larger boy named Jeff who could do almost anything with a computer. He
had moved to their school too late to be in the year book and finished out the
year as a home schooler. He was shy and quiet, but Clare had liked him right
away for his technical powers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
tossed the book aside and fell back on her bed to look up at her ceiling where
her glow in the dark stars were just starting to appear in the dim light. The
only constellation she had taken the time to make was Draco and he was right
above her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“What
am I supposed to tell them?” she asked her dragon. “It’s like they don’t know I’m
just as scared as them to be eighteen. Help me?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Without
so much as changing she drifted off to sleep, making plans her head of what to
present to her fellow role players that weekend. Much to her disappointment,
she did not dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
weekend came with typical end of summer weather for the Midwest. The skies
began to turn greyer earlier even after promising sunrises and clear mornings.
The humidity stuck around and still made it so that Clare’s hair couldn’t be
styled in any other way than a braid and bandanna around her head. She put on
her brown leggings, tall boots and green dress which she had slit all the way
up the front of the skirt and back in order to ride horses better. After lacing
up her corset and strapping her short sword to her waist, she took her magical
staff and left the house where her dad was arguing with her brothers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Across
the street, Stella’s car was already gone. She got into her own old Mustang and
pulled out of the drive way gratefully. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Please
don’t let the sun out,” she begged the clouds above as the sun winked at her.
The Mustang was broken in more ways than one, but the worst was that it had no
working cooling system. Or heating. She wasn’t a complainer, but being
sweltering in the body binder around her was not how she wanted to conduct
business in the park. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
drove a few miles then pulled up to tiny number twelve; a small, aging town
home where Max and his family tried to make do with what they had. Clare used
to honk the horn to get Max to come out but since the arrival of his newest
youngest sister that was not an option. She tripped out of her car, her sword
catching the seat belt, and walked as quietly up to the door as she could. Max’s
mom was never happy to see her son leave with a horde of costumed kids.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Knocking
as quietly as possible she hoped Max could hear. Not ten seconds later a baby’s
angry cry erupted from inside. Then she heard stomping, rushing feet come down
the stairs just behind the wall. Max flung the door open looking as if he were
running for his life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Run,”
he breathed and took her hand and dashed back to the Mustang.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As
they pulled out, Max tossed a whole army duffle bag of supplies into the back
seat. He inhaled deeply and then let out a massive, long sigh. He smiled over
at Clare.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
see you finished the robe of darkness,” she said. “That only took a year.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Had
to save up for the silver thread. See?” He proudly pointed to the seams in the
long, trench coat-like tunic he was wearing. “And I added a pointed hood.” He pulled
it over his shoulder like a long braid. “And it’s form fitting.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Okay
there, fashion man.” She laughed. “Guess our dark elf has to be the one to take
the burden of good looks. Did you get your ears fixed?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah,
it cost everything I had saved up though. Those things are expensive.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“But
can’t afford a hair cut?” she teased. “Shoulder length.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“And
still growing. I know, my mom bugs me about it too. Says I’d save more money if
I wasn’t dying it crazy colors and…stuff.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clare
smirked sideways at him. “And stuff? You wear more makeup than Stella
sometimes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Clare,
look out!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Both
of them were jerked forward into the dash board as Clare jammed the breaks
harder than she ever had before. Clasping her hand to her throbbing head she
looked up and grabbed Max’s arm panting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Are
you okay? I’m so sorry, that sign came out of nowhere!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Max’s
eyes were streaming tears and his head was bleeding. He put his hand over hers
and pointed to in front of them. Ahead was a large orange sign that said the
road ahead would be closed starting Sunday and wouldn’t reopen until November. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“For
construction?” Max sniffed. “That’s the nature reserve. And the state park.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
a large man in an orange vest and yellow hat came out of the trees toward them.
He was chewing a chilly dog in one hand and holding a “slow” sign in the other.
Clare rolled down the window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
were going awful fast there, miss,” chilly dog man said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
didn’t see the sign. We drive down here a lot,” she added trying to sound apologetic.
“What’s going on?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
man motioned to all the immediate trees and the field next to it. “All this was
bought up by an oil company from Texas. Going to put in office buildings. Construction
starts in a few days but the park is closing Sunday.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“That’s
tomorrow though!” Max exclaimed. “We live here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
man frowned. “Say what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“No,
no, what he means is we pay to rent this place out a few times a month. We’ve
paid for the weekend. We use the camp site up the hill for our group.” He had
to understand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Uh-hu,”
he chuckled, taking a large, dribbly bite of his chilly dog. He eyed her
clothes then Max’s. “Listen kids, when school starts again you won’t even miss
this place. You look like seniors. Now be good little seniors, do your business
today then be on your way.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Drive,”
Max ordered but Clare was already shifting into gear. They sped away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When
they reached the parking lot they put on their packs and hiked up the hill to
where the others were already waiting. Stella had taken charge and seen to it
that the great hall (the largest shelter in the camp site) was already laid out
with a table cloth and goblets for everyone. Al had set up the tents too. Clare
dumped her stuff in the human tent and met the others at the round table in the
shelter. Jeff, Al, Stella, Max and Clare all stood around the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Everyone,”
Al rubbed his hands together happily. “Before we depart into our world, I’d
like to introduce you all to the new head of the barbarian clan Alice.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">From
out of the women’s rest room stepped a short girl in loose leather and animal
furs. Necklaces made of claws and teeth were layered around her neck and
wrists. Her hair was long and ratty. On her back was a shiny broad sword.
Stella elbowed Max as his eyes were fixed on her midriff. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hi,”
Clare said. “I’m really happy the barbarians decided to join Sun Age. We’ve
known about you for a while but weren’t sure how you played with others.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alice
smiled and removed her sword to take her seat. “Thanks! We wanted to join too
but again, same problem. We thought that after you accepted the dark elves
maybe you’d be more open to… different people.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m
different,” Jeff mumbled. He had elected to be the Mayor of Sun Age and not
participate in the fighting and spell casting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You’re
special,” Clare said. “Okay then, can we get started? We have a lot to discuss.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They
all looked in to each other’s eyes. Silence fell for a moment then Jeff
declared, “Begin!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Good
people of Sun Age,” Clare said in a booming voice that filled the great hall. “We
have gathered here because we are about to enter into a most trying time of
life. A time many people like us do not survive. As the founder of Sun Age it
is my duty to see to it that every man, elf and mage is taken care of. I have
appointed Lord Jeffrey Righteousheart to
take the minutes and make sure we stay on topic. Lord Jeffrey, what is the
first order of business, if you please?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jeffrey
pushed his spectacles more securely onto his nose and read down the parchment. “First,
Sir Alfred Firehearth wishes to announce the arrival of Lady Alicia of the
barbarian clan. But seeing as how we’ve already done that, perhaps Lady Alicia
has a few words of her own?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lady
Alicia stood up; her short stature was suddenly unnoticeable. She was powerful
and her face was wise. “We the barbarians are concerned about the use of
magical instruments in the civilian area. Many of our people do not abide by
the laws of no mystical talking boxes during town hours. Do you have any
suggestions as to how to enforce these laws? I understand everyone on the
council of Sun Age has taken an oath to avoid the use of such magic.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“In
deed,” Sir Alfred answered her. “On behalf of our founder Madam Clarissa, we
have taken an oath to follow in her suffering so as to avoid disrespectful
judgments on her unhappiness. Should the barbarians wish to pay homage to the
great lady, then bid them not use that magic only during town hours. They need
not give it up all together when in the other world.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“A
wise piece of advice,” Madame Clarissa added. “Thank you, Sir Alfred. Next?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The
bestowing of the title ‘senior’ to all persons of age at the Institute of Fog,”
Lord Jeffrey said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Alas,
we are all prisoners there in the other world,” Stella sighed. “It is called
Fog because of how it clouds and distorts one’s thinking,” she explained to
Lady Alicia. “The gods forbid a child should learn how to think. They are much
more easily controlled when told what to think instead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Now,
now, Maid Stella,” Sir Alfred smiled cautiously. “Let us not bring such
politics into the great hall. This is sacred ground.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Everyone
nodded and pounded their goblets onto the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“This
is the time where we all must band together stronger,” Maximus said, speaking
at last. “I know I am the one who suffers the most on account of my feeble
courage. But dark elves are never accepted anywhere.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
have been among us,” Madame Clarissa said. “And you always will be.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sir
Alfred spoke, “It is true though. Maximus has been the target of titans for
many years. I will be the first to confess that I have not lept to his aid. I fear
them as well.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Perhaps
you could visit the white witch for healing?” Stella smiled at Max. She was
adorned in her old white costume and long wig. She had painted her face pale
but her lips and around her eyes were black. “I am the healer. The user of good
magic. I think our powers would mesh well, dark elf.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Everyone
laughed at the subtleties in her voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
may have some aid for you as well,” Lady Alicia spoke up. “None near as
powerful or as exciting as the one our white which offers you though. Within
the barbarian tribe is a man who can match the titans in strength. He has saved
me from thieves before in the other world.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Is
he also a prisoner at the Institution of Fog?” Maximus inquired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Indeed
he is. You may not know of him though. I shall make introductions in the other
world when the time comes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Thank
you, my lady,” Maximus said, bowing his head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
servant came around and refilled everyone’s goblet and stoked the fire to keep
it light. The great hall could be a gloomy place without the blazing fire. They
all drank in silence for a moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“If
I may,” Madame Clarissa said at length. “I have an urgent matter to speak of.
Something Maximus and I discovered on the way up here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The
guard at the gate?” Lord Jeffrey inquired. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Indeed.
You met him as well?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes,
though less violently then our Maximus did. You should at least wipe away the
blood, my friend.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“That
was my doing,” Madame Clarissa said. “I did not see the guard. But what are we
to do? They cannot take our town. This has been out city of solitude. It has
been out land for years and now it is under attack!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">All
eyes were on her with awe. They all felt the same way about Sun Age but were
not sure how to fight the enemy that was at the gates.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“They
will close our gates tomorrow unless we can stop them,” she pleaded. “What can
we do? Lord Jeffrey, any ideas? I cannot stand to see this land go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lord
Jeffrey took his spectacles off in thought. His frown was deep and sincere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stella
spoke up first. “Must we fight? This is our last year at the Institution. What
have we got after that? University? Work as common people?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Give
up?” Maximus gaped. “Let what we have here go without a fight? Is that the kind
of witch you are?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stella
glared at him then. “Do not anger me, dark elf.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hold!”
Sir Alfred called out. “Peace among you two! These quarrels will not aid us. We
cannot let them even begin. Madame Clarissa, do you have a plan?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
stood before them, regal and tall, but not a hope in her heart. “I know not as
of now. I am sorry. But I do know I will not give this place up. What we have
created here is more than something for us. We have a history here. We have
fought and bled for each other here. We have stories to tell. Magic has
happened here. Foes have been concord. Sun Age is my home. It means more to me
than I can tell you. It is not just land from the hill to the river. This is
also the home to animals and to nature. Does that mean nothing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">No
one spoke or moved. Each noble among them was thinking back to his or her past
in Sun Age. What Madame Clarissa had said was true. This world needed to be
protected. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lord
Jeffrey stood up. “So let it be written in the book of Ages that on this day a
threat was made to the land of Sun Age and the council, from all corners of the
land, acknowledged it and will place it in the front of their thoughts as we
embark on this most perilous journey of ‘senior’.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“And
to those who have commoners work and must keep at it,” Lady Alicia spoke up. “May
the gods bless you and grant you the patience of a thousand mothers!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They
all laughed and clapped. Then, raising their goblets high, with one voice they
cried out: “To a rising sun!” and drank deeply, their voice echoing off the
walls of the great hall and up into the marble ceiling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Chapter
2: The Institution of Fog <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-6891513650243472222013-06-17T10:39:00.001-04:002013-06-17T10:39:20.601-04:00Chapter 59: The Adult Child <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwpxdKImzDhEt0OZ65z1BB9LittfMjgoM-Gl7LQmzg6RO7r7Mx2JwAEZq3Mke5QZoMXb4CELGlqY8DDiWYB7Ys_L553CnzlUPvem6-wuh1Hok6TjO7Z2fdQU0aoSJKV8oDW4GgRXV/s1600/GCS_FrontCover2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwpxdKImzDhEt0OZ65z1BB9LittfMjgoM-Gl7LQmzg6RO7r7Mx2JwAEZq3Mke5QZoMXb4CELGlqY8DDiWYB7Ys_L553CnzlUPvem6-wuh1Hok6TjO7Z2fdQU0aoSJKV8oDW4GgRXV/s200/GCS_FrontCover2.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gothic Charm School book cover</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The amazing Jillian
Venters tried to give baby bats and other gothlings hope when she said her
book “Gothic Charm School” that one good trick to getting your parents to
except you is to be a good kid. Straight As (if you can) obedient, respectful,
polite, creative, no drugs or alcohol. All that good stuff that I do naturally.
And that other kids could do if they really wanted to. Good advice, Auntie
Jillian. That <i>should </i>do the trick.
What parent wouldn’t be happy to have THAT kid?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">In season 7 of “Supernatural”
the adorable lesbian Charlie said that to be who she wanted to be she had to be
“indispensable” or something of the sort. Make it so that people need you. So
she could be free to wear the clothes she wanted, like the nerdy things she
did, and be open about stuff. Good plan, Charlie, got you a good job, friends,
and you were happy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Sadly, in a family of
eleven, you are not indispensable. There are eight other kids who could do your
job. And they all want the love and acceptance that you are trying desperately to
get. Being an A-student is also just the norm in a large, homeschooled family.
If you are a B-student there is something wrong with you. C-student and you
need to quit social life (when have I had one of those??) and your job and just
study. And still somehow magically pay for school. Oh, and have I mentioned how
expensive your car insurance is? And your cell phone bill? You can at least pay
for that! <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7V5EWkwXpkng0wULnDIZGqUd0KQ_k_tFgiKWk_5ucg1Mpv9iswYoFurVoRnB_MRHr1BgYYrc8yskJC4xbslSb9p2vVBLB2_Qvoem0_pzWPM2dxtOIWMHls63GOjnykq5P1sTPfkl-/s1600/SUPERNATURAL-GIrl-With-the-Dungeons-and-Dragons-Tattos-Felcia-Day-172x222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7V5EWkwXpkng0wULnDIZGqUd0KQ_k_tFgiKWk_5ucg1Mpv9iswYoFurVoRnB_MRHr1BgYYrc8yskJC4xbslSb9p2vVBLB2_Qvoem0_pzWPM2dxtOIWMHls63GOjnykq5P1sTPfkl-/s200/SUPERNATURAL-GIrl-With-the-Dungeons-and-Dragons-Tattos-Felcia-Day-172x222.jpg" width="154" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie from Supernatural Season 7</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Being respectful and
polite to a fatal degree (even when being reamed by upset authority) is also
normal and expected in day to day life. And let’s not even mention drugs and
alcohol at this point. I cannot imagine what my parents would say if I came
home high or intoxicated. Maybe the expectations wouldn’t be so freaking high
if I had been a worse child. If we all had. Damn, why were we such good kids? Because
my parents believed in discipline and we learned really fast to behave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">So all those
wonderful theories and ideas from Charlie and Auntie Jillian are out the
window. So what’s a goth-writer to do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And that’s my point
here. This is not about clothes. Yes, I am fashion obsessed when it comes to MY
clothes (when I want to be. As I write this I am in my yoga pants and a shirt
that I haven’t washed in 4 days) and I want to wear what I want. Like every
other person in the world including my mother. I hate her sense of fashion. I
would NEVER wear it. She buys more clothes in a year than I have in six. Which
is a good point, to my gothy brethren: you want those gothy clothes? Buy them
yourself. Know that when you get older though and have to pay for other things,
that won’t be so easy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The point is not just
clothes and makeup (which I also love and haven’t worn in months). The point is
that I cannot write either. Or draw or paint. The fear of my parents, their
expectations, the guilt they instilled in me, the lack of support has blocked
me. I can’t write because I think “Oh, yikes, what if mom read that violent
scene?” (or that sexy scene!). One time I asked mom to proof read “Generations”
my fantasy manuscript. Big mistake. I was traumatized when I got it back
because of the comments she had written about my descriptions and my
characters. Even where I am now, I can say safely that it was not constructive
criticism. And I love that stuff. I eat it up! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">What kind of a
psychology study could this be? It has something to do with being a miserable
twenty-three year old child. I am trapped in my parent’s house. “Run away” some
morons once told me (well, several morons over the course of about seven years).
No thanks. I could resort to prostitution and a strip club but I’d rather not.
Lesser of two evils. The last thing I want to be is one of those over-done,
over-written, crack whore stories that the “indie” and teen kids love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“So you’re choosing
to stay, you cannot complain”. It’s true. And I’m not. I’m writing about what
is happening so I can make sense of it in my own head. The French word <i>essayer</i> is where we get our word “essay”.
It means “to try”. Not “a paper you write in college”. This is an essay about
being a goth, writer, adult child in a parent’s home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I can hear the dreams
of gothlings and baby bats everywhere who were going to be good kids and indispensable
shattering and crashing twenty stories below. I’m sorry kids, I don’t know what
to tell you. For me, I’m giving up right now. I’m wearing hideous, boring
clothes (my dad still asked my mom when she was going to get me “decent”
clothes when I was wearing a red t-shirt and jeans. What?) working as hard as I
can at home, helping out, and trying to be respectful. Let me tell you, being respectful
when you’re twenty-three and not getting any back is hard. Weather the storm,
my friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Remember that scene
from the movie version of “Master and Commander”? Willy is out on the broken
rigging in the storm off the cape. It’s freezing and Jack knows this man has
helped him win his prize when Willy gave him that model of the <i>Acheron</i>. And yet that rigging is acting
as an anchor in the freezing water and the whole ship will go down unless it’s
cut loose. Jack cuts it away and Willy drowns. His friends even have to help
chop the offending rope. What I love about Jack Aubrey in the books (which I am
reading with great joy) and the movie, is how strongly he can make a decision.
The books make all the jokes about “navy discipline” real to me. Sometimes, we
have to cut things loose just to survive. Fortunately, surviving is what I’m
really good at. I’m a pirate that way. Take what I can, when I can. I give back
more than a pirate (I’m talking POTC kind of pirate here), but that’s the other
side of the coin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">So there it is,
friends. Sometimes, your best isn’t good enough. I am not good enough. I have a
3.5 gpa at a university level. I got that while holding three jobs. To pay for
the things I needed. I do not drink a lot. I have never done drugs. I work at
home a lot to help out my massive family. I do errands for my mom. I drive the
kids to classes and help them with school at home. I am polite. And somehow, I
am healthy and in shape. And somehow… that is not good enough to let me wear a
black and red dress with black lace and dark eye makeup. I’m at a loss, bats. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s like giving up.
But this ship (me?) will sink if I don’t cut something loose. Putting up with
stifling your creativity and preferences for two or three more years won’t kill
me. Sure, it may delay my writing career, but I’m not getting support and encouragement
for that from ANYONE any way. I will be even more unhappy and the depression
will sink in, but who cares? I need this ship to sail. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Years from now if I
ever get famous enough for people to go digging for my sparse set of writings:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A college kid assisting
an old professor looks down at my blog and laughs a little.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Check this out, Doc,”
he says, handing the printed blog to his superior. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ll be damned,” the
professor says, looking down his nose and through the lenses of his glasses. “What
a post to write on such a date.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Day after Father’s Day,” the assistant muses. “Boy,
she must have been a joy to have around.”</span>Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-13039230346911411212013-05-02T12:29:00.001-04:002013-05-02T12:29:36.090-04:00Chapter 58: Unconverted Soul Parts 2 & 3 <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A Girl of Substance</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One
night early this year, Friend’s Pub was roaring with patrons, beer was flowing
over the bar, and the band was still rocking the night with a cover of <i>Europe</i> after our midnight count down.
This was the second New Year’s Eve party I’d been hired to dance as
entertainment. The first was back in Kansas and I was only nineteen and shy at
the time. Now I was twenty-three and tipsy with an hour drive home. I had only
been drunk one time in my life and was thankful that right now I was just a
little dizzy. I could walk a straight line from the bar to the exit, but the
world was on a slow see-saw. My stomach was empty of food and yet I felt a bit
queasy. I needed to get away from the people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hey,
so I loved your show. Do you want my son’s phone number?” an old man with a
cigarette between his fingers that was dripping ashes into his plastic cup asks
me. “He’s a great kid,” he reassures me as if I was about to say no. Jennifer
appears in her costume and veil wrap taking me away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You
look tired.” She’s not even tipsy. “Can you drive home? I could take you as far
as Houston and Hannah could drive your car.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
car is old and is a special needs-mobile. “No, thanks, I got this,” I saw
through squinting eyes. “I’ve been worse before.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Jennifer
smiled. We gathered the rest of our New Year’s party and headed out the door.
Popped balloons were sticking to my feet and sparkles clung to my sweaty hair.
The night air was cool and relaxing on my hot, enflamed face. I hugged the
other girls goodbye and concentrated as hard as I could on walking a straight
line to my car and getting in without hitting my head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
felt fine until I was almost on to the highway out of Friendswood. The alcohol
must had discovered I had nothing else in my belly because I felt it take a
hold of my guts and my head spun like a yoyo—up and down and round and round.
My first thought: Hypocrite. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
have hated drunk driving for as long as I can remember. Alcoholism runs in the
family and my parents have done all they can to stomp it out of themselves and
their children. After my uncle got divorced a few years ago, it was only six
months later that he was in a twelve step program and getting weekly phone
calls from family members to see how he was doing. My mom even offered to have
him come and visit us for a while. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When
I first moved to Texas, the boy I’d had a crush on for a year at my old job
decided to call me and let me know he had broken up with his girlfriend. We
quickly hit off an excited long distance relationship. My morals and his lack
of them clashed almost instantly. He wanted to talk about a porn site and I
didn’t. He harassed me about what I liked during sex and I didn’t want to say
anything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
was twenty at the time and had only been drunk once before at an after party
for a play I was in. I had hated that experience and that was really the one
that made me decide drinking ounces of tequila on an empty stomach were not a
good idea. It also showed me the technique of getting sleepy from alcohol when
there is nothing in your stomach to cushion the blow. One night our online web
camera conversation was late because he had stayed out with friends. He called
my computer after midnight and was so drunk I swore I could smell it through
the screen. I chided him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m
tired and you need to sleep. You’re going to be so hung-over tomorrow.” I
pretended to be typing so that maybe he’d want to hang up. He didn’t move for a
moment then in a second he stood up and flashed me over the camera. I didn’t
move. Somehow my face stayed neutral. My great façade was perfect. He sat down
and sighed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
know you’re not looking at the camera window,” he said and was smiling for some
reason. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“How?”
No sudden emotions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
just flashed you and you didn’t say anything.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
had a second to think. Tell him you did see and laugh it off, or tell him and
chide him some more about disrespect and how disturbing that was, or lie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Sorry
I missed it,” I said in a monotone. He was too drunk to hear my anger any way.
The story teller went to bed angry that night.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Weather
the breakup happened because I was having to put aside my morals and act like I
didn’t mind everything he was doing and saying over the next few weeks or me
tired of living a lie is in the cold case unit. I just know I was tired of
talking about sex and pretending it didn’t bother me. Tired of him calling when
he was drunk. It was a strange relationship. I hated the things he did but I
lied about minding it all the time. And here’s the best part. On my 21<sup>st</sup>
birthday, he was the one I texted to let know that on my way home from work I
had bought a Mike’s Hard Lemonade to enjoy later. On the drive home. I don’t
know if that was out of spite or to let him know that I wasn’t the pious girl I
made him think he was dating. He called me out on my hypocrisy unlike Dr.
Lanyon not saying anything about Jekyll when he transformed in to Hyde right in
front of him. No, he just shriveled up and died from the shock. How could the
good doctor be Hyde? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When
I have a tough week, want to quite all three of my jobs, and drop out of school,
I stop by the gas station on the way home and buy a six pack of Heineken. I
plan too. I make sure not to eat too much at dinner so that when I guzzle down
the yellow, fizzy beer, it hits me hard and fast. Fortunately, I’m a light
weight and can be asleep within minutes of finishing a fast bottle. The next
morning I wake up with an innocent smile, acting as though I had not committed
the sin I preach against. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Marijuana
is also part of the substance umbrella. When I moved to Texas, I was surprised
to find that at least half of the people I knew smoked it “socially” as they
say. Some did it on a regular basis. I was shocked to know that nearly everyone
I worked with was a smoker. I was at work one day when my coworker told me
something interesting. At that time, I didn’t know if I had a bigger crush on
Andrew with his guitar band and music tattoos, or Kira and her
many-colored-flame hair. We were working in a specialty store in the mall
called Nomads at the time. African and Venetian masks covered the walls;
hookahs, incense, statues of Ra, dragons, and Beatles figures covered the
shelves. On the doors hung Woodstock and Bob Marley posters. The air was close,
humid, and never had just one scent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
was cleaning out the smelly hermit crab aquarium as Andrew spoke to me from
behind the dirty register.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Don’t
hate it, dude. It can be used as medicine,” he said in his melodic 90s surfer
voice. “For, like, people with cancer and pain and shit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“My
best friend has Lupus,” I told him. “I wonder if that would do any good for
her. She’s thought about it but was afraid what it would do when mixed with
other meds. I don’t recommend it. Besides, not like I can ship it to her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s
when he told me how easy it was so ship marijuana through the mail. All you
have to do is get a large candle (unscented since marijuana, like chocolate,
picks up the flavor of things it’s around), cut the bottom off and hollow it
out. Then you put the dried plant inside and re-melt the bottom of the candle
on. Candle wax is air tight so no scent escapes, making it pass any inspection
that might befall it. I actually considered this for a day or two. After all,
my friend was suffering. I am innocent of hypocrisy here! Scientists have
written that hypocrisy must be self-serving. But I still had the guilt. What
does that mean?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Despite
what my pot smoking friends say, cannabis is still not an accepted medical drug
and isn’t used in hospitals. The CSA has looked into the plant being used but
it has always lost its race to be accepted. The bottom line is that it lacks
the safety and reliability that scientists look for in a medical drug. Like
hypocrisy, pot wants to be perceived more moral than it is. Like me. I don’t
smoke marijuana, but I love drinking and then smoking hookah until I’m buzzed
and goofy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m
a hypocrite and I’m trying to kick the habit. In the meantime, I am searching
high and low for a fresh, hardback copy of “The Picture of Dorian Gray”.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A Magician <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve
been a smooth cheater since I was old enough to play games with my older brothers.
There were three of them and I was the youngest at the time. I had to find a
way to survive in the gaming world against them. We played a strange game with
giant dice that you had to tweak with your finger to make roll across a big
black board with cells etched into it. Whoever got all of their giant dice to
the other side first, won. I had weak, tiny hands with short fat fingers. To
win this game, I employed the easy Was-That-Mom-look over the shoulder and when
my brother looked, I pushed my die one more cell up. This didn’t always work so
I’d want to change games. But no matter what, I always lost. To make it worse,
my third brother would always do a little victory dance when he won. And
sometimes he asked to play with me just because he was sure of victory every
time! I apologize, I’m justifying again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As
kids we loved to sit upstairs by the TV on the long, brown, shag carpet and play
poker. My brother Stephen had gotten an old set of chips and yellowing cards
from a garage sale all neatly stacked into a round chip holder that spun on its
base. The game was fun and I loved the old cards, but I was sick of losing. My
five-year-old brain could not figure out how I never won and how the other
three did. A brilliant idea came into my head one day: I’d mark the cards! I
casually picked my nose and subtly smeared the backs of all the clubs I’d need
for a royal flush as we played. Now I could see my cards (we played where you
could trade in more than once). Whenever I didn’t get what I needed, I folded.
No doubt throwing away some good hands. This method was too tedious and rarely
worked. I needed something else. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
mom took me to the library for a research report on Mexican holidays one summer
and I took a detour to find books on magic tricks. An old book that smelled sweet
and dusty like my neighbor’s house showed me how to remove cards from the deck
while shuffling. Another that was fat with illustrations showed me how to place
my pinky in the deck to mark where a card that I wanted to draw was. There were
a lot of tricks I wanted to learn, but I stuck to the ones that would help me
win poker. With my new arsenal of sleight of hand, I asked to play poker more
and more until I could move cards flawlessly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
quickly learned that the card tricks and the subtle hand movements could be
used in other games as well. <i>Clue </i>and
<i>Monopoly </i>were suddenly easy wins for
me. I’d lift some money from the bank, sneak an extra house onto Boardwalk, or
make it so that I knew exactly what room and character were in the file in the
middle of the <i>Clue </i>board. At last I
was a winner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then
we started to play video games. Those were harder to cheat at. I would try to
hide pumping up my characters hit points in <i>Street
Fighter</i> but the game made a noise every time you hit a button. However, one
day I found out that my brother had been punching in a secret code in <i>Battle Toads</i> or <i>Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles </i>to give him extra hit points. And when
he’d accidently hit me, killing my character, it wasn’t really an accident. He
was cheating to get ahead in the game and get the extra points at the end. I
was furious. How dare he cheat to make me fall behind! I’d throw a fit and run
into my room to be alone. No doubt to plot how to cheat better the next time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Contempt
for people who were bad at cheating was something I didn’t realize I had as a
child until recently. I was at a friend’s house (let’s call her Nelly) and we
were playing board games. I think it was a “Strawberry Shortcake and Friends”
game. Hideous, pink, and covered in drawings of smiling suns and flowers. It
was simple: you rolled the dice, moved the spaces, something about cards, and
that ended your turn. Nelly would roll, move her piece, then stop, pick her piece
up off the board and say, “Now wait, where was I? Oh yes!” then place her piece
right on a card space. She did that because it helped you win. It only took me
two turns to figure out she lifted her piece up to count backwards from the
card place to land there and act like it was her real destination. I didn’t
have to know the dice read something different! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
won and I was furious. As furious as a ten year old can be over losing a board
game. When her mom asked me later what we had done all afternoon I said we had
played the game. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Oh
yeah, Nelly played that with me yesterday,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Who
won?” I asked, feeling the venom leak from my teeth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Nelly
did,” her mom said brightly as if it was something to be proud of. I scoffed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
was not angry that I had lost. I was angry that her cheating was so bad I could
spot it without trying. As I dwelled on the loss, I became appalled that one of
my closest friends had cheated while playing with me. How could she do that?
I’d never cheat against a friend. Would I? With humans, can we ever tell? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">My morals are
necessary for hypocrisy. If you don’t have morals, you can’t be a hypocrite. But
then you’re a psychopath. I don’t know what I’ve learned from torturing myself
without questioning the morals that were drilled in to my head as a child. I
truly believe in Dr. Jekyll’s work. If I had a chance, I might sell my soul
like Dorian Gray. Live like Dorian: Do whatever you want and get away with it.
Live like Jekyll: Be the hypocrite so you may teach others how to lead better
lives. You want to better the human race. These books are classics so that must
mean that the human race hasn’t forgotten that it knows some right from wrong.
Are we still forced to be Jekyll and try to understand it for ourselves? Be the
hypocrite?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">_________________________________________________________________________________</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Now that that's over and that Summer is almost here (just a week away or so!) then I will hopefully be able to focus on more fun and personal things. I wanted this blog to be fun at first, then I wanted it to be all deep and academic. But I think I'll just write what I want despite the eyes that read. I hope it is inspiring, entertaining, and thought provoking all at once. </span>Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-6634241967998310772013-04-22T11:59:00.002-04:002013-04-22T11:59:48.290-04:00Chapter 57: Unconverted Soul Part 1: The Story Teller<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQYr8eyYQsKDBd9td65PQWfCQtkn4ULnTXU_Vy9T0_TLxnu9g1tOyYdcAHdOvcwpRjYc-prcyH03REbQOGrPu3poVtBSZiwMnojvi90D9Bb-95tZfAcN7FgX9ghyphenhyphenOonSru-39gHSN/s1600/dorian-gray-ben-barnes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQYr8eyYQsKDBd9td65PQWfCQtkn4ULnTXU_Vy9T0_TLxnu9g1tOyYdcAHdOvcwpRjYc-prcyH03REbQOGrPu3poVtBSZiwMnojvi90D9Bb-95tZfAcN7FgX9ghyphenhyphenOonSru-39gHSN/s320/dorian-gray-ben-barnes.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Dorian Gray" Fragile Films 2009</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No
human is guilty of anything. They try to explain everything away. It’s easier,
isn’t it? There is a gay gene that makes you attracted to the other sex. There
is a God gene that makes you biologically unable to believe in anything supernatural.
Lying is hereditary. Drinking is hereditary. Cheating. I don’t know. All I know
is that I suffer from what I’ve seen in every human on earth and I am
particularly skilled at it. I should have spotted in me earlier that anyone
with three copies of Robert Louis Stevenson’s “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll
and Mr. Hyde”, all written in, highlighted, bent up, with extra essays in the
back highlighted and annotated—this person is looking for something beyond a
good story. My graffitied copy of Oscar Wilde’s “The Picture of Dorian Gray”
agrees. I also have the soundtrack to the London cast recording of the musical
“Jekyll and Hyde”. One of the earliest ones, the Broadway version is too tacky.
My iPod informed me the other day that I have listened to the album more than
200 times. I could probably sing the whole show by myself. I cannot place my
obsession with this story or explain the love and understanding I have for the
sad Henry Jekyll. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In
the book and musical alike, Jekyll’s friends try to pry him away from his
“unholy” work of separating Man’s duel personalities. He is convinced that
there are two sides to every person and that if the evil side could be
suppressed then the world would be a better place. He ends up having to try the
experiment on himself. This creates the other title character of Edward Hyde,
an evil man who kills, engages with prostitutes, drinks, and steals. Jekyll is
unfair to Hyde when he says that Hyde is pure evil. Close reading shows that
Jekyll has already lead a double life since his university years: being the
good doctor by day and submitting to his darker urges and desires at night. He
must be right; each man does have two identities. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Story Teller<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">In
my family we have a little phrase that goes like this: Someone says something
that </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">doesn't</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> sound entirely true or accurate. The second person says, “Are you
telling stories?” or “The bard speaks!” Not the kindest things to say, but we
all have thick skins. I’m a story teller. Not just my desired profession and
favorite thing to do, but I am a liar as well. Hypocrisy is really just a big
lie in my opinion. It’s been said at least a million times that the social and
home life of children effect them. For me, I should be a good kid because my
parents raised me to know right from wrong and make good choices. Oh, I make
good choices for sure. I know right from wrong so well I can look like one and
do the other. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Henry
Jekyll was so wrapped up in the doings of Edward Hyde that he could justify
Hyde’s actions and even partake in them himself. He </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">didn't</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> see the shame or the
lie so long as he could be the good doctor once again. Like Dorian Gray, who
was so innocent and physically good looking that no one believed it was him
when he finally faced his demons and died. He had morphed into the image of his
painting and became someone no one knew. He was living a lie. Jekyll was too.
I’ve lied to my best friend more times than I remember. I know I have morals
because I felt the shame and guilt from lying. A theory of hypocrisy is that
you can only be a hypocrite if you have morals. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
best friend (let’s call her Alice) was a horseback rider. She even owned a
horse. A beautiful brown one with a white streak on her face and a white sock.
Her name was Charisma. Alice took lessons, worked at the barn, and was in shows
often. I loved her and coveted her horse. When I visited, I would ride too. I
remember thinking that was always a little unfair because at the time I lived
in the country and she lived in the city. The country girl was supposed to have
the horse. Sorry, I’m justifying myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One
summer, tired of not being as amazing as she was, I wrote her a letter saying I
was to spend the summer working at a stable not too far from my house (the only
truth being that the stable really wasn’t that far away). She called me a few
days later and we talked. She asked me the worst question a horse aficionado
could ask a jealous know-nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What
kinds of horses do they have?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
face froze. “Uh, purebreds,” I mimicked a word I’d heard her say before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“That’s
all?” How innocent her distant phone-voice sounded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">“And
some others. I don’t remember.” Worst lie in the world. I glared hard at the
cheap chandelier hanging above me in my parents tiny library, thankful Alice </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">couldn't</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> see my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
see.” She could tell I was lying and I knew that she knew! I don’t know how
impressive it is that I could tell she knew I was lying. I’ve always been able
to know when someone picks up on my lies. I’ve never corrected it though. I
just remember that they know and steer clear of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m
also like the frustrating female character in movies who becomes over emotional
and icy when she finds out someone is lying to her. Even if she’s been lying.
Maybe I get angry that I can’t spot the lying? I’m not special in that way, most
people can spot a big fat lie if they want to. Do I feel betrayed? Or are
humans just so dimensional that we have to lie and cheat? But we also must
function on some plain of honesty as well? We deserve that honesty and we must
be good humans. We want to appear good any way. But we also want to win. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> In the end, Jekyll
died, Dorian Gray died. I really hope I don’t die from hypocrisy. I suppose I
rather like my morals. </span>Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-86092888713109797012013-03-27T15:41:00.001-04:002013-03-27T15:41:07.949-04:00Chapter 56: A Shloppy AfricaI want to write on this dear sweet blog, but there is just not much time with all the essays I have to write for school and all the reading I'm doing. And of course I have to make time for exercise. So, for a small sample of what I've been reading, you can enjoy this first draft (I will not be posting a follow up) of an essay for my postcolonial literature class. This is the class with the devil teacher who hates us all. No, really, she said so in class. To our faces. Also told us she doesn't care how she teaches, this is her last semester, but we aren't allowed to be sloppy. Only she is. She also told me in the second week of class that I was a racist. It had to do with Jane Eyre, I'll tell you later. When I tell you about Ohio too. So here is the essay, a small bit of what I've been writing. (Ignore the freakish formatting. I don't have time to correct it right now.)<br /><br />
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Selected
Nationalism <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">If
a dog is taken to obedience school and trained by one person then taken home
and given back to the owner, he will have a hard time adjusting to obeying this
person who has fed him, raised him, and cared for him for most of his life. As
far he knows, the one who taught him and showed him how to behave is the one
who should be obeyed. Or emulated. That person is all he knows when it comes to
living life as a “good dog”. This is how I understand nationalism in my studies
so far. How can a people be jerked out of their way of life for generations
then revert back to a hybrid of colonialism and tradition? That path is riddled
with hypocrisy and confusion. Frantz Fanon takes an honest look at what he
calls the “wretched of the earth”: the new middle class in a postcolonial land.
<u>Fanon’s theories and observations of struggling, failing middle class
nationalism can be brought to life in a literary analysis of Ama Ata Aidoo’s
“No Sweetness Here” and “Two Sisters”. </u> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In
“No Sweetness Here”, Aidoo shows the many stages of colonialism and
de-colonialism through various characters and illustrations. First is Maami
Ama. She represents the old Africa struggling to find its new place in the
world. She is strong and independent, willing to give up her son for her
freedom. She is, as Fanon would say, the “underdeveloped middle class… which
refuses to follow the path of revolution” (Fanon 1579). She is not interested
in fighting for her home, is willing to pay the debts that her husband has
settling on her, and is willing to give up her son. All she wants is the chance
to live like she desires to. She is not interested in the new ways like Chicha.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
teacher is Aidoo’s representation of new Africa and the way the young
generation has adapted—or conformed to—the colonial way of life. Fanon says
that the new middle class’ work is to “keep in the running and to be part of
the racket” (Fanon 1579). She is working a white job. She is going forward with
the colonial way that has already been set down because she does not know, or
remember, what it was before like Maami Ama does. Chicha’s nationalism has been
implanted already. As far she knows, everything is fine and Maami Ama’s ideas
are old. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
there is Kwesi and his father. Kwesi is the land itself. He is the future of postcolonial
Africa that Chicha, the new Africa, adores and wants to take with her into the
future. He is a product of old Africa and that’s why he appeals to Chicha so
much. Fighting to keep Kwesi (the land) is Kodjo Fi, Maami Ama’s husband, who
here represents the mother country. Fanon says “Colonialism… recovers its
balance and tries now to break that will to unity by using all the movement’s
weakness” (Fanon 1584). Kodjo yells at Mammi Ama “[Kwesi] must be of some
service to his father too” (Aidoo 68). He demands that he take Kwesi since he
is only worth being a present to Maami Ama. The mother country says that the
land must be taken since the “new underdeveloped middle class” does not know
how to work it. She is undeserving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Maami
Ama may not make it through the rest of her life. She has lost everything she
loved and everyone who supported her. She, like the African people when the
West first imposed power, had no one to help defend her. All of her male
relatives were dead and her aunts were as likely to call her a witch as her
husband’s sisters. Chicha will do fine. Fanon says “the bourgeois caste draws
its strength after independence chiefly from agreements reached with the former
colonial power” (Fanon 1586). This is why Chicha, with her professional job,
love for the old Africa, and compliance with colonialism will no doubt live a
happy life. It also takes us into the second story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">With
this quote in mind, we see how “Two Sisters” is a story about nationalism and a
loyalty with what morally should be. It must be hard to be loyal to an Africa
that is struggling to define who it is while still coveting outside fineries. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In
“Two Sisters” nice things come from outside of Africa whether they are black
shoes, cars, or sewing machine motors. Fanon says that “a national economy is
an economy based on what may be called local products” and so in reply “they
will surround the artisan class with a chauvinistic tenderness in keeping with
the new awareness of national dignity (Fanon 1579). The subject of Aidoo’s
story is material gain. But not through nationalism. Rather through the mother
country and bowing to outside powers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">For
Mercy, she latches on to these big men because she cannot see herself any other
way. Fanon says, “they are completely ignorant of the economy of their own
country” (1579). Mercy is suffering from what many girls do: undervaluing
herself. But it’s more complicated than that as well. Mercy questions her
sister at the beginning “Is typing the only thing one can do in this world?”
(Aidoo 88). This symbol of struggling nationalism in Mercy shows Fanon’s theory
true; “the tribe is preferred to the state” (Fanon 1578). Mercy wants an Africa
she can love, does not like her colonial job, but cannot find any other way to
live but by latching on to the big man. Should she go back to the primitive
ways of ages past? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">With
James and the big men, they have taken the power and unfair advantages that have
transferred to them from the colonial period and, in the case of James, hope to
use them to their advantage (Fanon 1580). The big men use them to their
advantage in that they can have whatever they want from abroad (the senator
mentions going to London) and anything local and innocent like Mercy who
struggles between the new Africa and old Africa and is in danger of being
washed away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Aidoo
makes a great analogy of the ocean in the middle of her story. Mercy and
Mensar-Arthur are out on a date in the car and Aidoo has them park alongside
the gulf of Guinea. First, Aidoo shows you the ocean, the West, as devouring
the houses and people of the native land. Next, Aidoo uses the analogy of the
ocean washing away the houses and destroying things in its path as being
Mensar-Arthur. He is big, important, can do as he pleases and moves on after he
has wreaked his devastation. The big men no doubt live in the prosperous areas
mentioned by Fanon. He says those lucky few “come to the forefront, and
dominate the empty panorama which the rest of the nation presents” (Fanon
1583). Without him, the big man, this place is nothing. This struggle for
nationalism ends there. If the land is not counted as whole, then it will be
picked apart and the “useless” bits will be discarded. There will be no unity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">The idea of nationalism
is as far in the future as it ever has been, according to Fanon. He concludes
his essay with the gap that has not only formed within the tribes and religions
but with “white” and “black” Africa. The separation we see in Aidoo’s stories
of struggling peoples and classes are the micro versions of North and South of
the Sahara. But Fanon says that the new African middle class is not doing much
to change that. He calls it lazy and it has a will to imitate its western
counterpart (Fanon 1585). The new middle class has not had to work its way
there, it was left its place when they finally pushed the West out. But he
leaves us on a positive note: “such men fight in a certain measure for the mass
participation of the people…we must know how to use these men” (Fanon 1586).
But postcolonial lands everywhere face the same problem. There is only a
bourgeoisie class in the large cities established by the colonials, and outside
of that, there is not much hope. A middle class is only in existence where
there is economic value. And that, according to Fanon, is only in select parts
of great Africa. </span><br />
Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-55185301518230230022013-02-17T15:50:00.001-05:002013-02-17T15:50:24.264-05:00Chapter 55: That's impossible! What is? What's impossible? Shocker: me writing a nonfiction essay, that's what. "A 5-paragraph thing?" you ask. No, a normal, blah-blah-blah essay. "What?"<br />
<br />
I can't do it and I don't know why! Here I am writing on a blog and I'm enrolled in a nonfiction class that defies all rules of writing. My teacher is amazing and the book we're reading is bizarre. But good. "Several Short Sentence About Writing" by Verlyn Klinkenborg. A great writer. He knows what he's talking about. And I don't. I've written A-essays for years. Some Bs too, but we don't talk about those. I'm a good writer. When I put my mind to it and can concentrate. I've said a million times this blog is not a show-case, but maybe it is. The kinds of essays my teacher wants us to write are not about "I learned this" or "let me inform you of this". They are crazy hard to write because they do not have a point. If you haven't had a professor like her than you can't understand. And it's so hard to not "preach" or "teach" in essays. I had no idea how hard it was. She says "write and discover a long the way. If you know what your point is before you start, then you're doing it wrong." I can't have a point. I can't have an introduction and conclusion I need a scene. Dialogue. I know, it sounds easy! I thought so too, but now I'm mad with effort. All I want to do is write an essay with a point and a "lesson" or something. But it's so hard!<br />I wish I could impart to you the difficulty I am having with this class. I'm trying desperately get it right because my writing is getting generally worse in the class and I don't want her thinking I'm this loser who wants to be a writer some day but can't write nonfiction, unstructured essays. But I am! I can't not do it and it's killing me! Ugh. <br />I'm blogging right now because I was working on 2 essays (for different classes) and one was for nonfiction. I don't know why I can't just write something that doesn't have deep "meaning" or a "lesson to be learned". Maybe I've been teaching writing too long. But she's a teacher too and is really good and has a lot published. Grrrr, why can't I write nonfiction? I just need to say something, that's all. <br />You know what? I hate writing on this blog and posting something that "has no conclusion" or "so in the end" thing tact onto the end. I hate that. I felt like that was wrong and I have trained myself out of it. You know those posts. Where I just talk, don't teach. Don't you hate those? But that's what she wants! And I can't do it. I've started and re-written this one essay 3 times now and I keep trying to "show you what I learned" and that's not what it's about. I write in my journal and on here all the time like that. But I can't do it. Why do I have to preach? Because I like being in a position of power? I said that once. That it might have something to do with my social anxiety. That I don't like being around older people or people who treat my like a dumb little kid. Well, no one likes that, but I take it to a much higher level. I love teaching though. I love tutoring. My age, older, younger, it doesn't matter. Thank God I'm good at it, but I think I love it because I'm in charge and I'm not under any one. I hate being the underling. Sometimes. Not all the time. I like people who lead. Not people who stomp on me. <br />People who lead are different than the ones that put others down or treat them like lessers. I do that with my students. I respect them, listen to them, and I love them. I don't mind that. So I like showing and teaching. Listen to my story and what I learned. But I can't do that in these essays. It's just a "one time this happened and yeah" kind of thing. I have a hard time doing that. I want to but it's hard. Like I've said a million times. <br />So I also think that has to do with my social anxieties. I'm not clinical (that I know of) but I have it and depression pretty bad. So I need to feel secure in my knowledge. These essays take away from that. That's not a bad thing, it's just a new thing I can learn write about later. :) If i learn it. I want to. So here I go... Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-13353798949197757342013-01-12T23:37:00.002-05:002013-01-13T15:31:21.336-05:00Chapter 54: Nothing Special, Just a MemoryAt one time, I was a girl with an entire herd of imaginary horses. I had a grey Arabian stud named Skywise (after my hero from Elf Quest) and a brown thoroughbred named Tulip. In my world, they were married. I rode these horses and their offspring through my growing woods and over golden hills where more real mustangs lived. They would adopt play names with me when I pretended I was Robin Hood or Guinevere. But then when Tulip had her second foul, I got some startling news from my best friend: It was too early for Tulip to be having another baby! Scared, I sent her away to a horse doctor in Montana and adopted a what I called a Blue Meringue. He was tall, like a Clydesdale with the long hair over his hooves, but as graceful as a friesian. I can't remember what his name was, but he was a great jumper. Fantastic! Like a Pegasus preparing for flight. He was my champion. I think Skywise was jealous.<br />
Around this time, my brother Daniel was born and when that happens mothers don't cook after birth often times. Maybe back in Arthur's days or when the female samurai needed to get back into the rice paddies. Any way, she was bedridden. Families we knew brought us meals and one Saturday it was Elise's family's turn to bring dinner. I was so excited to show Elise this Blue that I downed my turquoise flare dress (short bell sleeves and a skirt that was at least 8 yards!) with purple flowers. It was gorgeous and went with his grey blue fur perfectly. I took him into the orchard and ran laps with him before practicing some jumps. I was so excited to show her. I switched leads, walked, trotted, and cantered. I was sweating in the July heat and the grass wearing down. I had been out there with him for three hours, never stopping. I wanted her to see him running with me astride him in my blue dress. I waited and waited, ran and jumped. The sun began to crawl down into the east and the shade of the apple and pear trees stretched out. I was about to give up when that familiar, huge, old brown van came down the road. I kicked the Blue into a gallop and leaped high over a fence post, hoping to the high heavens that she had seen me jump. I don't know.<br />
They were late because our house was "new" to most of our friends and located in No Where Leavenworth. Elise still lived in a suburb and I tried hard to seem at ease in the country. Eventually, it became the easiest thing for both of us. But that's another story.<br />
They brought a meal of I don't remember what and plant. Yes, a plant. It was wilty and dying from falling over in the back of that amazing van. I took it, even though her mother insisted that she take it back and get us a new one. I wanted that plant. That one that had come all that with them and fallen over while they ceaselessly tried to find our house. I watered it and tried to revive it over the next few months. But the summer was too much for it. It came all that way. It fell over and got hurt. It got lost. But it made it to our home. I tried to heal it for about a month. One day, I came out to water it and found the leaves had finally fallen and shriveled up. What did it mean?<br />
Tulip came back from back from Montana and it turned out she wasn't pregnant. She had a stomach tumor and wasn't going to make it to the winter of that year. I told Elise and we mourned as long as we could for the imaginary horse. After she died, I sold Skywise and his filly. I kept the Blue for a while but at some point he ran away. I bet his descendants are out there somewhere. <br />
I don't know why I wanted to save that plant. I don't know why I sold Skywise. Where did the Blue go? Why was it vital to my young self for Elise to see me on him jumping over fences? I wanted to impress her. Why? Who can say. Just a kid. It's a beautiful memory though. here is a small level of complexity and emotion to it and it's one I've had on my mind lately. <br />
I wanted this post to be longer, but I've got to catch up on her blog as well. ^_^Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-73421280721313544072012-12-14T22:40:00.001-05:002012-12-14T22:40:56.896-05:00Chapter 53: I Don't Like Your TeaLet's start with a hypothetical totally fake conversation to make the main point of this (hopefully not anger filled) blog post. For the sake of the argument, I am going to be using two TV shows that I am familiar with (because they are few and far between).<br />
<br />
Scenario start:<br />
X: Oh wow, the last episode of "Suites" the other day was incredible! Did you see it?<br />
Y: No, sorry. I don't watch that show.<br />
X: Why not? Not like it's bad or anything. And it's so amazing! You should watch it.<br />
Y: I just don't like lawyer-drama shows. I think they're over-dramatized and I don't really like the main characters on that show. I have no feelings for them or drive to hope they win.<br />
X: That's stupid. You should watch it. So last night...*goes on to summarize the episode in the bad story-telling of an avid fan who still can't seem to remember what exactly happened first.*<br />
10 minutes later...<br />
X: So yeah, totally awesome. You should watch it.<br />
Y: *Eye roll* Cool. I watched the newest episode of "Fact or Faked" on line the other day.<br />
X: That show's so stupid. I can't believe you watch it.<br />
Y: I like how they show you all kinds of stunts and stuff and I'm into the paranormal a little, so it's interesting to me.<br />
X: But it's so lame!<br />
Y: Why?<br />
X: That kind of stuff just is.<br />
Y: Well, on the episode I saw--<br />
X: Ugh, so my boyfriend the other day said I eat too many chips and I need to cut it out.<br />
Y:.....<br />
End scenario<br />
<br />
How many times has something similar happened to you? What you like to watch is "stupid" or "lame" and the other person won't tell you why, just that it is. Or they go nuts when you say you don't something they do and you should because if you don't you're stupid. This is something that has happened to me more times here in Texas than I can even count. No one wants to hear what you like if they think it's stupid. No one likes a conversation they don't want to participate in. Know what? ME NEITHER! If I say I don't like a show, musician, band, or movie, I mean it. No one likes the jerks who say, "Well, you should watch it" or "it's amazing" after I have said that I'm no interested. Now for me, unlike other people, I WILL try something before I say no. Unless it's just utter crap from the start like the movie "Ted" (I have a million reasons, not just saying). On that note, if you want to tell me that what I like is crap, give me a reason. I give you tons of reasons why I don't like the show you do. "American Horror Story" for example. Badly written, unbelievable characters (people walk in and out of their house and they don't give a crap??), no story, and no likable characters. I have examples for all of those. You may notice I have mentioned likable characters twice now. Yes. You have to have likable characters. They can be ones we like to hate though. No one is perfect and they more imperfect they are the better, right? Not my point. So, give me a reason. It's like having a source. You need one to back up anything you claim unless it's just your opinion. Even then, telling me something is "awesome in my opinion" is not enough to get me to watch something. Tell me why it's awesome.<br />
Next point, don't talk to someone who is not interested in "Suits" for 20 minutes about it after they tell you they are not interested. I don't want to be a part of a conversation that is about something I don't care about that is not vital to my life. Or be part of one that puts you into a preaching chair where you know the episode story and I don't just so you can have 20 minutes to be my lord and master and look down on me to feel better about your self. I won't do it to you unless you say something I like is crap and I want to defend my likes. But if you tell me "I don't care, shut up" then expect the same thing from me when you prattle on so. Maybe the fact that you use it to annoy me makes me never want to watch it!<br />
Not that I won't watch something, just that I probably won't until I have time to spare for something I don't really want to do. It's great that you want to share something though. Sharing things is great. It's how friends are made and all that. But when I give my reasons for not liking it, don't push it. Makes you look like an idiot. This has been a problem I've encountered the more I'm around people. You are stupid if you don't like what they do. Or if you like something they think is stupid. I know that what I like shows people something about me. For example, if someone likes harlequin romance novels, I know they are lonely, horny, and very open with their sex lives (most likely). And sad. And kinky if they like "50 Shades of Gray". I'm going to stay away from that person. I like fantasy; therefore people think I'm a nerd and socially awkward. But when people like badly written, typo-ridden, incorrect basic grammar, shallow plots, cliche stories, and large print to make the book look thicker, I raise an eyebrow. Yes, I get signals (ok, ok I judge) from that. But so do you about me.<br />
Point: Don't push your likes on people. Don't tell them they "should" watch/listen/read what you do. Don't say they are stupid because they watch stupid shows. But do find out WHY they like what they do--if you HONESTLY want to know why. When my sister swore up and down by "American Horror Story" I tried it out and hated it. I asked her why she liked it, she said because it was creepy. I explained why I didn't find it creepy and got told I was wrong and too critical. My other sister told me I was so critical and negative and looked for too much in things that it was no wonder I don't have many friends. *Sigh* I guess my expectations are just above everyone else's. (Please, please, note the sarcasm, you easily offended. This blog is stuffed full with it). But they really are. I plan to write a book my stay in Texas some day. It will be very grumpy.<br />
So that's the blog and that's my poorly constructed argument for now. I hate it when people tell me I'm stupid for not liking their band/book/movie/show and cannot back up their claims or opinions. <br /><br />PS. I love "Suits" and "Fact or Faked". :) Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-32255752266216723682012-11-06T18:54:00.002-05:002012-11-06T18:55:13.428-05:00Chapter 52: Those Who Are Good in Their Subject, Don't TeachI promised my best friend (read her blog everyone: Pieces of El) a blog post of rather vulgar proportions, but that will have to wait as I've been meaning to write this post for months (years if you want to be literal).<br />
You know the feeling.Walking into a new class room in college, whether it's community or university, always bring with it the hope: Please don't let me fail! I gave up that feeling long ago and not just because I've been on the honor role of ever college I've attended (please note the satire for your own health), but because I am scared to death that the person in the teacher's seat is not going to know how to do what they get paid thousands to do: Teach.<br />
I've had pretty much every experience in a class room I think one can have. I've had the passive jerk who really doesn't care (really, one teacher was writing As on the tests as we handed them in!); the one who wants you to do well but doesn't actually talk during class and gets angry if you leave the computer terminal to ask her a question; the over passionate one who hates it when you don't see things her way, the one who gives you a C because you disagreed with her lecture in a five page essay; the one who is an overachiever and gives you hand outs, PowerPoints, in addition to his lecture and the text book and then wonders why you got a B- on his 8 page test; the list goes on! I've been in college a while...<br />
Then we have this new breed of teacher who shows up semi late, gives you a bit more homework than is humanly possible to finish in the allotted time you have to do it, gives you essays every week because they don't take roll, and worst of all, they read out of the book but hate it when you have a question and tell you "It's in the text book". Or the one who is a literature professor and spends all of your Poe class time on how the dinosaurs went extinct and why you shouldn't believe in God. <br />
Right now, I hope at least one of those sounds pretty bizarre to you. I don't want to go into detail about either of them to avoid being a jerk, but these people really can't teach.<br />
I want to be a teacher. I want to teach reading and writing. I believe that if you can do that then you can learn anything else. But these few teachers out there are just really good at their subject matter. Except of course the one about Poe and the dinosaurs. Ok, I can't avoid it, I have to use their subjects to help make my point.<br />
My American Literature professor... He hates the Bible and Christians and all other religions but in case you missed it the first 5 weeks of class, he wants you to read "The Age of Reason" and write papers about how right Mr. Paine is. I have nothing against the Thomas Paine... except that he can't write an argument. No, I don't agree with him, but do you know why? He has no sources. He claims This City was not called That then and so on. How do we, the readers, know? He says things out right that are PURE opinion. He's not a credible source. Also, a lot of his arguments about the bible are false when you do a close a reading. I thought of at least three while just listening to audio. Any way, Paine isn't the point here. My teacher thinks Paine IS God and all he spent the first six or so weeks doing was bashing religions and spreading hate. We were reading VERY early American literature but he NEVER talked about them in class. It was all about carbon dating and such. Weird. I wanted to discuss literature. Now that we are finally reading stuff from the American Renaissance, he threw in a bit about Washington Irving while we were reading some of his stories (I did an essay on Sleepy Hollow). The best class by far was today when we discussed in detail "Ligeia". This is the FIRST time we've talked literature in his literature class. Huzzah. He's paid to be a teacher and all I'm getting is indoctrinated with his hate and opinions. What happened to teaching?<br />
Now, my French teacher. Er, my French... whatever she is. She reads from the book (which we do as part of our homework), goes through the slides so fast that I cannot take in 50% of it, and then gets angry when we have a question. Very much, "Why don't you know that?" in an annoyed French accent. I don't know that because it's in the chapter we're learning now! Duh. I mean, right? I cannot grasp why she thinks we come to class just to hear her repeat something we were supposed to have to learned last semester (which she says a lot). If I learned it then, why would I be here now? If she's supposed to be a teacher, why does she treat us like we're stupid when we ask questions. That's what class is for. She's supposed to teach. Teach means, according to my new love the OED: to show, present or offer, to direct, to guide. And then we have all the nice examples to OED gives you of when the word was used and all that. She doesn't do any of that. Neither does Mr. Deist-Supremacist.<br />
Point: I am more scared of not being taught and handing in a half-witted attempt at what the teacher wants to hear (or struggling through what I've dug up on my own in the French case) and not learning than I am of having a real teacher and getting a bad grade for not learning. I mean, I'm not learning here either, but I'm getting a good grade (in the literature case). Or in the French case, I could be learning and getting an ok grade verses not learning and getting an ok grade. I don't care about the grade! well, I care about my GPA, but I am paying out the nose for this school! Literally, every penny I have made over the past year is going to this school right now. I want to be taught, damn it! Sorry... I had to. It's so wrong that I have to work three jobs, run myself to death, not sleep well, not eat healthy, get fat, have no social life or friends, AND no education! W...T...F?<br />
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The End ^_^ <br />
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Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-20531155170694364472012-09-26T17:20:00.001-04:002012-09-26T17:20:31.868-04:00Chapter 51: Utopian Hypocrisy So with the election coming up, I decided to get a little political... and not so much. A lot of people feel that our president will lead us to communism if he is elected again; our last free election as we know it! Maybe he just wants to bring more order to the US. People must be governed, right? Isn't communism just a tight grip on order so the people and nation will be equal and strong? Here is my theory about Order with examples from out ancestors, the English, in my favorite time period, the Renaissance, and my most favorite book to argue about: Sir (Saint) Thomas More's "Utopia".<br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.671873825835064" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How is it order if it is oppression? Forced into roles. Fermer says God is a God of order, but true order should be delightful then. The Utopians say that natural health is the highest form of pleasure(quote). So natural things should be order. Like a woman in pants. She has legs, that is natural. (Hic pg 268) Saying a women should not dress like a man because it is not how God intended is illogical. Man created pants and said that is what a man ought wear not a woman (Quote Hic, maybe). Enforcing man’s inventions onto God’s design--by the logic and norms of the Renaissance Europe--should have been labeled as rebellion and therefore part of disorder. As described by Coriolanus in his “Unrest in the Midlands” rebellion is the worst sin: “How horrible a sin against God and man rebellion is cannot possibly be expressed...” (Coriolanus 556), which Fermer established as against God since he is a God of order.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I mainly want to focus on the hypocrisy of the writings with my main points coming from Utopia with backups from the texts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Order plays a big role in “Utopia” with the people of the land blindly following along with no questions. Clearly, a few people in Renaissance Europe didn’t want to just follow along as is evident in the “Unrest in the Midlands”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sir Thomas More’s “Utopia” is supposed to describe a place where everything is perfect and is never in chaos. But what does that mean exactly? Are the people happy? If so, why? What do they find so pleasurable about their government and commonwealth? according to the editors, the word “utopia” means “no place”. As a reader, I can only guess that More knew this was painting a picture of place that would never exist. Why it would never exist is what I plan on exploring. Is it because it’s just too perfect and humankind could never achieve that level of peace, government, and perfection? Or is that such a place should </span><span style="font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">not </span><span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">exist? Whether they meant to or not, Renaissance England seemed to be striving to achieve such a peace and government through control of the one thing that people would most likely listen to if more than their lives--maybe their soul-- on the line; the church. Order means, according to Webster, “a condition in </span><a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/which"><span style="color: black; font-size: 16px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">which</span></a><span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> each thing is properly disposed with reference to other things and to its purpose; methodical or harmonious arrangement”. Harmonie. Properly. Order is this thing that magically means “the way it is supposed to be”. Wherever that came from. Logically, for order to work, someone must suffer, because being a species, mankind will individually choose or want to do something else besides what he is told. That’s what the brain is for. Therefore, a society where everyone is equal and in “order” is one of the utmost hypocritical societies. The biggest example of order and hypocrisy: the hierarchy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The first rung of hierarchy is, of course, the monarch. In Renaissance England, a common belief was that the monarchy was divinely chosen by God to rule. Orlin shows us that government was “necessary to thwart the chaos” and “hierarchies were understood to have been created by God” (Orlin 143). That meant that the citizens had better obey their king (or queen) on punishment of being accused of treason. Wrightson explains this in the beginning of his writings “Degrees of People” where he says “they began by making distinctions, by classifying and ranking”. Orlin even says everyone acted on agreement that “monarchy was the best form of government” (Orlin 139). This is not only prominent in the readings we had but also in “Utopia” by Thomas More. In class, we discussed how everything is hierarchical--from government to the common household-- and therefore we see that a man is over his wife just as the king is over his people and God is over his church. Even in the “Debate About Women” the author states that the “most significant justification is religious and biblical”. If one was to obey, one was simply following biblical commandments. This is seen also in the ten commandments in commandment number five where it states that the father and mother should be honored. In the “Unrest in the Midlands” we see many accounts of uprisings and rebellions for various reasons who were very determined: “But said he wee will never yield but goe through with yt.” This kind of stubborn rebellion was not to be tolerated from subjects. This is a good example of what I said earlier about not all humans wanting to go along with “order”. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Orlin brings us into the homes of Renaissance England quoting Robert Cleaver when she says, “A household is as it were a little commonwealth.” This goes back to the household hierarchy of a wife obeys her husband and the children obey their mother. But it was hard to accept that a husband and a wife might have to have equal power in this little commonwealth or “joint ownership” as Orlin calls it. She says that men of the time were “reluctant to acknowledge that children and servants were generally supervised by wives” (Orlin 147). That was almost a disruption in the English hierarchy. A good example of the hypocrisy that was so invisible to the English so desiring order. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But these dominating husbands are just yeomen or farmers; all below their lord or king and must have also conformed to the “social stratification” of the day (Wrightson 40). To elaborate on how these men were just workers in the hierarchy, Wrightson goes on to say that the husbandmen “could generally be dismissed as having ‘neither voice nor authority in the commonwealth” (Wrightson 36). So what may appear to be higher up on the authority chain wasn’t actually that great. A yeoman had to pay taxes to his lord (the man whose land he worked and rented), abide by his rules, and also live by the monarchy’s laws and social norms. But not all hope was lost. A working man could raise his status. Wrightson gives the statistics that 963 gentry families were elevated. Of course, sixty-four were removed from the country as well (Wirghtson 26). So a man could break the order? That doesn't sound right. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But what if a rebellion was started? In the “Unrest in the Midlands” reading, we saw a lot of scared nobles and servants try to deal with uprisings and rebels. In Utopia, however, you were exiled or made a slave: in other words, brought very low on the hierarchy scale.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Let’s now turn to Utopia and it’s hierarchy, which actually does not differ in some ways from England’s, but is perhaps more misogynistic in others. The Utopian’s religion does not play a part in their hierarchy nor does misogynism as they have female priests as well, unlike Europe. The Utopians elect their leaders as we see in “Of Their Magistrates” every year to avoid him enslaving anyone. Though these magistrates don’t seem to have a hand in forcing the people to do work or live a certain way (because the Utopians are only too happy to do so) we do see them dol out harsh punishment for anyone who is rebellious, which we see when we now turn to how the church of England interacts with the people and how that affects the hierarchy of command when someone dares disturb the order. They are also elected from anyone who wants to try out for the job. It’s good that any man could rule, but is raising someone so above the others “equal”? No, but it is “order”. But they’re supposed to go hand in hand. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The second rung of hierarchy is the Church. Unlike England, the Utopians had many religions. Some praised the moon, the sun and others planets (More 127). The hypocrisy comes in where More writes, “There be that give worship to a man that was one of excellent virtue” but this goes against what was mentioned earlier in the book about not worshiping any man above another. Also, when discussing dress, More says that all Utopians wear a grey cloak and no one is to be adorned better than anyone else (More 78). But the book states clearly that the priests are of “exceeding holiness”, are not punished for their crimes, cannot be touched by other men, and have robes adorned in feathers (More 136-37). This goes against everything the Utopians believe about equality and not putting one man before another. But More describes it over and over in each section as being necessary. Of course, we cannot agree more that there must be laws to follow to have some kind of order. But how can such people live? More takes care of that by saying in several sections how each Utopian is happy to abide by all of these laws. The church for the Utopians is there to grant such things as confessions (More 138) and ceremonies. It was not like the church of England that was controlled by the monarchy but was just as revered and respected. Probably out of fear though. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Probably most of what the English church preached was written by someone from the monarchy or government. Things like “The Book of Common Prayer” and the “Book of Homilies” were what the editors called “authorized” sermons and prayers. These were written to be read at frequent occasions such as weddings and Sunday services. These “authorized readings”, I find, were most likely written to shape and mold the people to a spiritual way of thinking so as to be easily controlled. Orlin said the bible was often cited in political arguments to invoke the “divine right” of the monarch to make the people do as he pleased with the threat of God’s wrath hovering over a disobedient person (Orlin 140). Further down the page the hypocrisy is shown when she says, “the church became the monarchy's most effective instrument for spreading political propaganda” (Orlin 140). And since the ignorant people of England were not all literate, the best way to get out the monarchy’s dictatorial rules was through “state-authorized sermons” (Orilin 140) as mentioned above. What these statements bring to light is that since the monarchy viewed the church as a tool, we may be able to assume that they didn’t believe in it at all. A good example is King Henry’s break with the church so that he could divorce his wife and marry another. The rules of the game changed depending on what the monarch needed from his or her subjects. Obviously, there are differences in the Utopian church and the English church, but hypocrisy is evident in both. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On the third rung of hierarchy, we have the family. As pointed out in my introduction, the man, no matter his station in the grand hierarchy, is always the head of the house. In Utopia there is no such thought. However, I will point out later how base they think their wives any way. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The commonwealth way in Utopia is that everyone works. In the section “Of Their Cities” we see that all of the towns are set up so that everything is equal and every man has a claim to anything anywhere in the city: “there is nothing within the houses that is private or any man’s own” and that is so that if you have seen one then you “knoweth them all” (More 65, 67). This way of working is what we today would call a socialist community. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">England at the time suffered from great social inequality much like America today. Class was everything in those days and it was hard to elevate oneself above what he was born into. Wrightson says “the gap which separated them from their social inferiors was in some respects greater than that which removed them from their immediate superiors” (Wrightson 37). Husbandmen were too lowly to have a political voice, labourers and craftsmen were also hardly admitted to participate in village administration as well (Wrightson 36). Of the lower levels, he says that only “wealthier craftsmen” were used for legal things such as being a witness for a will. In Utopia, you could not move up the social ladder. Though you may be a magistrate but that’s under special circumstances. Everyone was supposed to be equal. In England though, if a man was fortunate enough, he could move up in rank by acquiring that which the Utopians despise: wealth, fame, or acts of bravery and servitude to ones king (Wrightson). However, in the home weather that man was rich, middle, or lower class, he was the head. Even in perfect Utopia this is true because each household had a wife and two “bondmen” (More 63). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The wives in England, according to “The Debate About Women” and the authorized wedding ceremony in the “Book of Common Prayer” were to be married so that they could preserve their virtue and serve their husbands. One theory I had about why women were treated so lowly back in these days is because thoughts like in “The Debate About Women” were floating around: “woman [was] the channel through which evil, pain, and laborious work entered the world” and when not bound to a man she was “as attractive snares and sources of temptation” (Debate 7). Yes, it was a woman’s fault if I man could not help his lust in her presence. It was as if women were base creatures; certainly not on an equal level with her man despite the belief that marriage was supposed to be a partnership. At least in England, the wife had some authority of the servants or slaves and the children. In perfect Utopia, however, the women are not quite as equal as the syphogrants would have you believe. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">First spoken on page 73, More says that “all women, which be the half of the number, or, else if the women be somewhere occupied, there most commonly in their stead the men be idle”. At first this confused me, but the notes in book says that in Utopia, work is considered things like farming “which allows [More] to dismiss the domestic labor virtually all women did” (Notes 224). So there we have it! The one place a woman had authority does not count. Another modern matter is that of the woman’s physique. The Utopians assume all of their women are virtuous and thus the man gets to decide to marry her based on her physical appearance. Meaning, no matter how virtuous or good she is, if she’s not pleasing to the eye then she’s not for him incase “anything in her body afterward should chance to offend and mislike them” (More 108). I suppose this desire for a perfect woman could match the English ideal of the “superiority of virginity” mentioned in “The Debate of Women”. In the same way, the Utopian husbands are allowed to “put her away” later in their marriage if some “bodily mishap” happens to her (More 109). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At first I thought the slaves were treated well enough in Utopia but really, the Utopians treat their slaves very unfavorably. Where do they get these salves? From neighboring countries, from wars where they’d rather take prisoners alive for slavery than kill them (124), and from offenders living in Utopia. Oddly, there are a lot of ways to be an offender in this perfect haven, but that’s not for this theory. I saw a connection between the wives the slaves though. First, we’re shown how the Utopians don’t understand how man can enjoy the sport of hunting. They think it base and not glorious as the English do. So when they feast, the meat they eat is “washed by the hands of their bondmen, for they permit not their free citizens to accustom themselves to the killing of beasts” (More 78). The job is so dirty that they make their slaves do it. But later when we’re at the table of the Utopians enjoying a feast the women are charged with the “office of cookery... and dressing the meat and ordering all things thereto belonging” (More 80). Look at “all things thereto belonging”. They must be there when the animal is slaughtered and oversee the cleaning of the meat; the defeathering, the skinning, the removal of organs--all to do with “all things thereto belonging” of the preparing of meat. The amount of hypocrisy here is astounding! Are the women so low in this society that they must do the work </span><span style="font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">with</span><span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> the slaves and work that is not permitted for other citizens to do? After the women work with the slaves in this base activity, “all the old men (whose places be marked with a special token to be known) are first served their meat” (More 81). What about the older women? Are they not of equal age and wisdom? Apparently not. In a land where all is supposed to be equal, the women are still put low; even as low as slaves at certain times, who, as we know, are the last rung on any hierarchical ladder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The last rung: the slaves. In Utopia, you don’t become a slave unless you are taken during war in which you are snatched from your homeland and made to work. A little like in England, but slavery wasn’t a big issue at this time. What was a problem was the workers revolting and rebeling. In Utopia, you were most likely to be killed if you rebelled. In England, they stomped on you until your spirit was broken. What was so bad about people trying to be free and treated fairly? Simple: it broke the “natural order” of things. As well as the monarch being chosen by divine right, if you were born into a certain class, you should know that it was God who put you there and you were to obey according to your status. </span></div>
</b><span id="internal-source-marker_0.671873825835064"><span style="vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Thus I conclude my reasoning for why order is not possible without abounding hypocrisy. For order there must be a hierarchy because there must be someone to tell the rest of us what to do, and there must be slaves (workers). Order must be unequal. Or as many a tyrant has said, “People must be ruled”. So what’s the answer? Anarchy? Maybe, but even then, </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">isn't</span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> there order in disorder? </span></span></span><br />
<span><span style="vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Sorry that was long and disorderly ;) But these theories take forever to hammer out. Now, to get back to homework. Thank you and good day!</span></span></span><br />
Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-82476829124850472872012-09-12T17:33:00.000-04:002012-09-12T17:33:31.404-04:00Chapter 50: A Guilty WriterOne thing you have to understand about anorexic people is that when they eat they feel unfathomably guilty. If you haven't been there then you cannot imagine. Have I been anorexic? No, but I was around it a LOT for a few years. Three people very close to me at one time were suffering from it. But this post isn't about anorexic people. I'm so sick of that subject. <div>
This is about guilt. A guilt that one cannot even think of until it's gripping you and pulling you under the icy waters. Guilt is a place I live often. That suffocating, confusing place. Yes, confusing. You don't know what to do because so many choices just make the condition worse. So in order to avoid more guilt and aggravating the condition, you do nothing. Which brings on more guilt. </div>
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"What have you done? Killed a pet?" you may be asking. No, sweet friend. That would be too easy to admit to. My crime is self pleasure. </div>
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Get your mind out of the gutter.</div>
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I don't like doing things that make me happy. Thank God dance practice has a foot in both fields: pleasure and need. I dance for income. I must stay in shape. I love music and moving to it. I dance. But even that isn't pleasure 100% of the time. I just am not allowed to do things that make me happy. Who says so? Ummm, well, me? I guess. </div>
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There is not answer really except "me". I'm sure I've touched on this topic before but now I want to address something I felt very keenly today. I did almost all this weeks worth of homework over the weekend (yikes, that was painful) so that way I would have some time today to do anything I wanted. I scrawled on my calendar, "Get tambourine, play piano, write. Have fun!" What a load of shark bait. I could never do that. The only reason I am writing now is because my dear little sister got sick of me whining and put me in front of my computer and said, "Write!". I promised LFL that I would finish a rough draft this Summer. Didn't happen.</div>
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Because I have writer's guilt! </div>
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What is this new word? It's when you take time (whether you have worked hard to make that time or not) to write and play with your work and decide, "No, I cannot do that. I must do something worth my time." </div>
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"WHAT?" I can hear my heroin screaming at me. "You promised me by July my story would be told." I shrug and say, "I had other things to do... I don't know what, but I just did."</div>
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She's heart broken and I feel guilty for not writing her story. On the other hand though, I felt guilty every time I sat down to write. "Do something else. Study French. Work on something. Clean your room." Blah-blah-blah! The things you can do aside from write like you want to never ends! If I write, I am wasting time. "But you said you'd finish it by the end of July?" you ask. "How is that wasting time? You want to be a writer don't you?"</div>
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Yes, I don't know, and yes. </div>
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Why is something I want to do a waist of time? Why? Because it gives me pleasure. Where did this mind set come from? My dad? My mum? The way I was raised? Or is it just some freak genetic gene? Or is it that writing NOW will not pay off until 5 or 6 years down the road? Am I so wrapped up in instant gratification that I cannot even give my stories a chance? What about Glenn? My faithful, brave Glenn. My first Hero. Don't he and his king dragon, Armongar, deserve a chance to fly? I freakin' made a map and a language up for that story. It had histories (a little too much I think sometimes... I'm not exactly Robert Jordan or Tolkien), people, creatures, and a myriad of stories to be told. </div>
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I blamed writer's block for the longest time. "I don't know what to write!" Liar. I have pages and pages of outlines for LFL and DG. I may not be feeling inspired to write but that's why they call it a draft, right? I have no excuse but my mysterious guilt. And it must must MUST be dealt with. My stories may not be worth anything in the world, may never bear fruit, may never bring me fame and fortune and everything that goes with it... but I need them and (forgive my arrogance) they need to be told. If you have never seriously written, then you cannot understand the life a character can have. The presence. I was on a writer's message board once and no one else on there saw their characters the way I did. (Am I creeping you out yet? Heehee!) </div>
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I don't know if I have a talent for writing or making stories. All I know is that they are the one thing in my life that I feel like I can hold up and say, "Look what I did! Isn't it awesome?" I just love them. All of them. My sci-fi novel, my gangster book (may be a disaster!), my fantasy trilogy, my vampire mysteries, my few but loved short stories. Why the guilt? I'm no psychologist so this is up to you guys. But to day I am struggling against that guilt and going to write on LFL even if it's the ugliest, stupidest, most wretchedly written "chapter 8 draft" ever! </div>
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Thank you! </div>
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Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406075341769911210.post-54117618223634613112012-09-10T14:49:00.002-04:002012-09-10T14:49:40.720-04:00Chapter 49: Yeah, That Was PainfulThe amount of reading and the lack of writing a creative major has to do is astounding. In a not good way. I have already read (I've been counting) more than 500 pages of Renaissance and 1500s American literature. And written one poem. I could go on and on about how angry I was about this two weeks ago (or yesterday, which sure feels like two weeks ago) but I'll make it short because of how I feel now.<br />
Yes, reading pages of middle English is hard and the weather reports of Geoffrey Bullough on just how frozen the Thames was in the of our lord 1631 does get exhausting and put me to sleep. Now, understand that I love reading. I really do. I will read almost anything. That's why the sleeping spell of Renaissance literature came as such a surprise and made me so angry. I love that era and wanted to learn about it. At the same time, though, I'm screaming: "Why do we care about the dialogue between a citizen and a countryman!" I was losing it.<br />
Now, if you can imagine combining that with John Smith's "History of Virginia", Thomas Morton (guy was crazy!), William Bradford, Thomas More's "Utopia" and others, you can see where I am coming from. Also, add to that pages of historical context. Phew! I complain a lot and was trying to tell myself it really wasn't that much reading. After all the essays and blog posts I had to write in response to them all, I took a step back realized: Yeah, that WAS a lot of reading. And I did it all!<br />
Weeping the whole way.<br />
Here's where it gets better though!<br />
After reading all this literature, I have all kinds of facts running around in my head (none of which I will be able to recall by the time the test rolls around, of course), people I've become way to acquainted with (I really didn't want know how that guy had intercourse with a cow, sheep, and goats...), and times and trials of rebellions and strange lands. I know a lot now. And this is only two weeks (almost three) into the semester. Think of how much smarter I am now that I've read about things that probably no one else in the world (excepting a few weirdo people) has read ? I have to look at this as a writer. Not a tortured students who wants to preach her own words (why else do we become writers?). Though that is the ultimate goal. I have things to say as well, but now I can say them so much better. I have sources, historical facts, knowledge, stories, and examples to draw from.<br />
Kids, do not underestimate the power of knowledge. Being able to figure things out in science and math is great, but knowing things is too. This brings me to a point I try to make every day of my life: When you are arguing something have sources and backups. Maybe it comes from me being a research nut (and yet I hate reading sometimes? What is up with me...) and a writer and lover of truth, but I hate people who base everything on opinion. It happens more and more these days with internet debates sneaking their way into the few precious human to human encounters we have these days. Everything is about opinion and logical fallacies that go unnoticed because no one knows any better.<br />
Right, well, I'm out of time for now, but I'll be back with more. My point being I learned to appreciate knowledge. Again.<br />
And it's RenFest season!! Abigail Linhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09001582835756654042noreply@blogger.com0