Chapter 67: The American Bad Guy

"American Criminal: from a Belly Dancer’s Point of View Who Has Taught International Students for More Than 5 Years."

If you are an American, you are a global criminal. You are the bad guy and you should be ashamed of yourself.

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.

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.

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.  Pray for forgiveness.

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.

If you are an American, always apologize for being white. Beat yourself up and beg the forgiveness of those around you.

If you are an American, you are stupid. You are not allowed to study other myths and write your own inspired by them. You may read Austen and Bronte, though.

But not while drinking tea.

If you are an American, you are not allowed to wear a hijab, Indian shoes, say, “gringo”, or eat anywhere more exotic than Olive Garden.

If you are an American, you must guard everything you say. Just because a certain colored skin man says a word to his friends doesn’t mean you can.

If you are an American, you will be laughed at when you travel to Ireland looking for your roots. You will be ignored in France. You will be the butt of jokes in Britain. You will be killed other places.

If you are an American, do not dance anything but hip-hop. Even then, do when no one with black skin is around.

Best to stick with a hoedown.

If you are an American, you must read only books written by white people. Do not pick up that Indian novel or that Caribbean anthology. If you do, you will be just one more stupid white trying to expand their horizons for no good reason.

If you are an American, do not do yoga or qui-gong or anything that was not invented in America. You will be seen as just a dumb person stealing a practice because you were too dumb to think of your own.

If you are an American, you must be scared of everything less white than you. You must hate it and try to eradicate it.

If you are an American, you must be guilty. You must be a criminal. Stay in America, do not touch an idea, dance, music, food, clothing that is not yours. Even if all you want is to let you imagination grow—do not. That is criminal. That is bad. You are bad and you are wrong. Do not change like the language you speak.

If you do all this, you will be a bad American.    

Chapter 66: Fantasy Men and the Women Who Write Them and the Other Way Around

Dungeons 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!"
Please... better than the Winchesters, Garth, Jo, and Bobby and Cas? Really?
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!
Or not...
Just popular because...well, I don't know honestly.
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!*
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.
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.
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 her. Those (always!) dangerous, dominating females of the fantasy genre.
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.
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*
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.
I use Evans because she seems to the only author doing genders right. The males look like they should be that 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.  

Chapter 65: Imagination: How to be Killed By a Headless Horseman

http://www.comicvine.com/headless-horseman/4005-53680/

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.

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”.

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 The Sketchbook “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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...

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.          

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!

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.

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.

Chapter 64: The One I Forgot

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.      

Chapter 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.

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...)

All quotes taken from the revised version of "Frankenstein" (1831) by Marry Shelly (original 1818). 

Alec Newman and Luke Goss in
Hallmark Entertainment's "Frankenstein", 2004

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.    

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.  

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.    

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.  

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.  

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.   

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.

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. 

Chapter 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!)

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.

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.

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.

Other than that, I don’t know.

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.

1.      “The Thief Lord” (Funke)

2.      The complete collection of Shakespeare (It’s a big one!)

3.      The complete collected tales and poems of Edgar Allen Poe (another big one)

4.      “Utopia” (Moore) I hate this book, but boy do I love it. Talk about a lot of writing in the margins!

5.      “The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood” (Pyle) I read it at least once a year.

6.      “The White Chapel Horrors” (Hannah)

7.      The complete Sherlock Holmes (Doyle) These are two big ones!

8.      “Maggie: Girl of the Streets” (Crane)

9.      “The Belly Dancer” (Cameron)

10.  “Dracual” (Stoker) But the one I wrote in is currently on loan to my bfff so it’s safe.

11.  “Gothic Charm School” (Venters) and it’s autographed!

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!”

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.

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.

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.

Why “The Thief Lord”? I’ve not the foggiest.  

Chapter 61: Cyclone, A Short Story

Here 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!

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Cyclone

The pressure from his fingers boeing inring 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

“That’s all I need,” she repeated.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t have one. I really don’t.”

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.

“A dollar. That’s all,” she said through mossy teeth.

Looking down, he saw the shiny black neck of a hand gun was pressed in to his side.

“I don’t have a dollar. I really don’t.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.