Storytime... (KISS)

...the twisted little way I have of writing...

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

The Beginnings of Crap

Intro:
Generally speaking it is thought that the internet is a very valuable tool for so many endeavours. It is a device, a concept in practice which affords a majority of the world the chance to express themselves, to hear, to be heard and to learn. The famous song: “It’s a small world after all” is one which comes to mind when thinking of the concept behind the internet. The xxx allows people who would not normally be bale to interact, to communicate information, knowledge and to Share with one another what they normally would not be able to share. Convenience is the name of this game; and the internet has made it convenient to find and experience new things. Writers and the literary community have seized this opportunity as their own to share with the world their words, works, names, and ideas. This brings us to the concept of e-books and their now, (or soon to be) wide-spread utilization. The concept of the e-book as it applies here is this: that a writer who would not normally be able to publish or distribute their work may do so, the other side of the coin (linked, hinged, double-edge sword, logical next step in a bad way) is that with this convenient distribution is that many more writers are in danger of having their works plagiarized. This is the debate here at hand.

Community:
On a whole, the literary world is full of

Controversy (history too)

Percieved by others

These people see these things

These people see these things

And the shared opinions are…
X
Y
Z
And by whom

In conclusion, my opinion is:

Monday, February 27, 2006

J/ Organizational

The organizational exercixe I did was outlininging, I wrote it out on paper and have yet to type it in, this is because I have had very little time lately and have been incapable of doing all my work. Finding the time to reiterate my homework has been placed on hold for a bit. I will type it and post it soon, but for tonight I have Homework due for tomorrow and am in severe need of sleep.

J/ Generative

The generative exercize I did was brainstorming, I wrote it out on paper and have yet to type it in, this is because I have had very little time lately and have been incapable of doing all my work. Finding the time to reiterate my homework has been placed on hold for a bit. I will type it and post it soon, but for tonight I have Homework due for tomorrow and am in severe need of sleep.
Ok so my Annotated Bib really isn't up to par at the moment but c'mon, that's a lot of readsing and I just got to the point where I understood this topic which I assure you is entirely new to me. I ask of you patience and forgiveness and I post for you till later: my bibliogrophy thus-far:

-Petition to Abolish the Digital Millenium Copyright Act http://www.petitiononline.com/nixdmca/petition.html accessed: 2/22/06
-Dinsmore, Alan; Sajka, Janina; Schroeder, Paul; Comments to Library of Congress, 2003: AFB Seeks Exemption for Literary Works http://www.afb.org/Section.asp?SectionID=3&TopicID=156&DocumentID=1840 accessed: 2/22/06
-Eamonn Neylon First Steps in an Information Commerce Economy Digital Rights Management in the Emerging EBook Environment D-Lib Magazine January 2001 Volume 7 Number 1 http://www.dlib.org/dlib/january01/neylon/01neylon.html accessed: 2/22/06
-Hilden, Julie; THE FIRST AMENDMENT ISSUES RAISED BY THE TROUBLING PROSECUTION OF E-BOOK HACKER DMITRY SKLYAROV http://writ.news.findlaw.com/hilden/20010810.html accessed: 2/22/06
-Jay, S; How To Protect Your eBooks From Piracy And Copyright Infringement! http://ezinearticles.com/?How-To-Protect-Your-eBooks-From-Piracy-And-Copyright-Infringement!&id=2737 accessed: 2/22/06
-Lloyd, Rich; Electronic Rights: What is a Book? © Copyright 2002 http://www.publaw.com/erights4.html accessed: 2/22/06
-McAllister, Neil; Thursday, August 2, 2001 Civil Rights or Copyrights? Hack an eBook, Go to Jail http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/gate/archive/2001/08/02/sklyarov.DTL accessed: 2/22/06
-McCullagh, Declan; August 6, 2001 The Struggle over Intellectual Property http://www.econlib.org/library/Columns/McCullaghintprop.html accessed: 2/22/06
-Moohr, Geraldine; THE CRIME OF COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT: AN INQUIRY BASED ON MORALITY, HARM, AND CRIMINAL THEORY http://www.law.uh.edu/faculty/gmoohr/Criminal.pdf accessed: 2/22/06
-Pimm, Bob; Authors' Rights in the E-Book Revolution October 2000 http://www.gigalaw.com/articles/2000-all/pimm-2000-10-all.html accessed: 2/22/06

Style Chapter 2 Summary

On Correctness.
This Lesson concerns itself with the notion of correctness and how it is a viable notion but not to be followed strictly. Such an approach is considered highly disagreeable and would be detrimental to the writing process as well as to culture, then, beyond this, it goes on to outline these three categories of so called rules which seems to me an illogical step and a practice in futility if indeed one is to not follow such rules. None-the-less: One rule concerns itself with grammar and structure these are the "Real Rules." Another is "The Standard English Rules," they are concerned with dialectical changes and general variations on the theme of demeanor. After this there are the "Inventive Rules" These are said to be frequently broken and tend to concern themselves with matters of writing finesse and are not noticeable. Folklore rules and Elegant rules are outlined here and they seem to be less than important according to the author's descriptions and commentary.
If enough people break the rules frequently enough, the rule has changed and such a change should be recognized - this is the final thought and i must say, I don't disagree. It is after all the people and their use in practice which actually defines correct.

Sunday, February 26, 2006

The Half-Story after edit/Embellishment

The Half-Story
...
...
Henry lived with his parents, it was a small two bedroom house and the basement wasn't the best of places to live. It was dank, dark and otherwise empty of furnishings. The dirt floor was shifted, loose and foreboding. All in all it was an unsettling place to be but Henry loved it and called it home. He didn't do it often but he tried to find a job and his own place to live or so he tried at least; every time his parents bugged him to. He really wasn't motivated to go. He had a warm-ish bed at night and a roof and food. He didn't need much more and so... he was set. Or so he thought.
Now one thing you gotta know about Henry. Henry liked the women-folk... Henry loved the women-folk.
Mrs. Peters, from across the street, now she was a bit of a batty old thing, but she never did like that Henry boy. She sat up at her open blinds all night watchin', thinking one day she'll catch him and be able to tell the whole town what an awful boy that Henry really turned out to be.
Now often, Henry brought women by, many different women, different shapes, different sizes, even brought boys by from time to time. But Mrs. Peters never caught him with his blinds open. Henry never left the blinds drawn, he was a bit shy you know, but what was so strange, what kept Mrs. Peters watchin' was the fact that of all the people she saw goin’ into his place, not-a-one ever left.
On a dreary night though, there was a light on in the cellar and she saw a sillowette in the window, It was a strong silhouette -- had to be Henry, and through the tiny cellar window with the blinds in front of it she saw the figure wielding a pick-ax, hackin' away at somethin'. Thinking she finally had him at his worst, Mrs. Peters promptly called the Sheriff. As she thought to herself "Finally!" she wondered at all the people Henry had brought into the house and all the justice she was finally gonna have dealt to that no good boy Henry.
When they broke down the door, they found not a soul upstairs and the basement door was ajar. Creepin' down ever so carefully, so as not to be heard or seen, the police found themselves face to face with what they were led to believe was a murderous family of deviants. Henry, Ma, Pa, and a cute little colored girl wearin' a hot pink little dress dirty and tattered were all there on the dirt floor of the basement. Shovels in hand; face to face, all parties tremblin', Henry looked at the officers and wielding his ax said plainly "Let me explain."

Saturday, February 25, 2006

Odes To Mikey

You would have done it that way too.
If life had gone the same way for You,
You had loved together like we,
You had lived and died together,
You had been so far apart,
You had loyaly waited by their side,
If You'd been waiting just to see them again,
You'd have done it that way too.
You'd do anything for them,
You'd linger moments too long to catch a glimpse,
If You'd forever been theirs,
If for them You'd challenge even God,
If You'd see them through torture,
And You'd Die at merciless hands to have another moment alone with them.
alone.
If You had loved the same way and life had taken the same path,
If You'd gone throught hell and heaven together and been so close as we,
Then You would have done it that way too.
Shutting out all in their honour, content to wait.
Love has it's ways, and You'd have done it that way too.
I hope you understand it from me.
I'm sorry; I'm in love.

alone.
-Shannon Hollender


I always walk away feeling like I don't belong, feeling empty feeling scared, feeling like you do. I Need release, I need your touch. My ambitions, I wish you knew. On the inside I shake and violent tremours in me awake, That tossing that turning, Combined with inside how I'm yerning. To be at your door and to be by your side. I question myself and knock down my own pride. I need the balls I once had, to go to you and tell you how I feel. And now... Now it's too late to have what I've always wanted to with you feel. Freedom, Friendship, Honour, You.
-Shannon Hollender

When you step out of this place, wonder why.
The harmonious tone of someone who cares' voice.
The glare of the lime light, you leave it behind.
The protection and comfort of your "home."

When you step out into the stret,
Darkness stern all around you leaves you frail.
Blairing police-sirens, running feet, ... the sound
Your sences, shocked, but they must push on.

Look upon the rain dripping down a rail.
Bleak emptiness in front of you
The comfort of home has already forgotten you.
Your path ahead; where grown men cry.
you push on. But Why?
-Shannon Hollender

Friday, February 24, 2006

Just about 350 words thus-far

The Half-Story

A story can be seen in terms of two movements --
the complication/entangling/knotting phase
and the resolution/untangling/unknotting phase.

Write the first movement of a story -- that is, take a character
and get him into some kind of trouble (or burden him with a problem).

Keep the following guidelines in mind:
Make your character interesting and original.
Try not to depend on telling us about your character or what he thinks.
Rather, let your character be revealed indirectly.
There are many ways to do this -- through his actions and behavior,
his setting (e.g., home, belongings),
his friends, what he reads, etc.
(This is called showing, not telling.)

Your half-story should be about 550 words.
Make 5 copies to bring to class on Tuesday.

Henry lived with his parents, it was a small two bedroom house and the basement wasn't the best of places to live. He tried to find a job and his own place to live, at least, he tried every time his parents bugged him to. He really wasn't motivated to go. He had a warm-ish bed at night and a roof and food. He didn't need much more and so... he was set. Or so he thought.
Now one thing you gotta know about Henry. Henry liked the women-folk... Henry loved the women-folk.
Mrs. Peters, from across the street, now she was a bit of a batty old thing, but she never did like that Henry boy. She sat up at her open blinds all night watchin', thinking one day she'll catch him and be able to tell the whole town what an awful boy that Henry is.
Now often, Henry brought women by, many different women, different shapes, different sizes, even brought boys by from time to time. But Mrs. Peters never caught him with his blinds open. Henry never left the blinds drawn, he was a bit shy you know, but what was so strange, what kept Mrs. Peters watchin' was the fact that of all the people she saw go into his place, not-a-one ever left.
On a dreary night though, there was a light on in the cellar and she saw a sillowette in the window, wielding a pick-ax, hackin' away at somethin'. Immediately, Mrs. Peters called the Sheriff, and she thought: "Finally!"
When they broke down the door, they found not a soul upstairs and the basement door was ajar. Creepin' down ever so carefully, so as not to be heard or seen, the police found themselves face to face with what they were led to believe was a murderous family of deviants. Henry, Ma, Pa, and a cute little colored girl were sittin’ there on the dirt floor of the basement, all shovelin' through mud. Face to face, all parties tremblin', Henry looked at the officers and wielding his ax said plainly "Let me explain."


So that's the assignment and the story; though it seems unfinished, it is not quite embellished enough yet... (gimme time)

Thursday, February 23, 2006

Parents: The Anti-Drug... My Ass!

She kept discovering things that weren't there. Constantly I was berated because she was seeing me "sneaking about" everywhere she went. Apparently I was the one with a drug problem.
I'm 20 years old and I'm relieved to no longer be living with my paranoid overprotective mother. I've never in my life done any drugs (except for aspirin and prescriptions according to the recommended dosage) yet according to her I was the biggest user/abuser in the county.
She thought I was screwing all my friends and called them all the kind of people you warn your kids about. I could take the insults and the berating, but when she insulted my friends, good, honest, caring people; I began to crack. She wouldn't even let me go to the funeral of one of my dearest friends after he died in a tragic car accident! That was the only occasion I ever deliberately disobeyed her and skipped school, to attend his funeral.
According to her and I snuck out every night, and most every day. I had never left my bed throughout those fearful, sleepless nights. I was always so scared of her and what she was going to think and say next. I was afraid of her THOUGHTS! I'm a Psyc. Major in college now and I can tell you that that's not healthy or normal. She had me going to a psychiatrist and a social worker to "cure my drug problems" and to "help me overcome all my 'problems'" and even My Psychiatrist said She was the one who was nuts.
She was driving me nuts in the process.
Her accusations and paranoid lapses made me out to be a whore and an addict. This was a huge shot to the gut of my self-esteem and eventually to the rest of my life. I'm working really hard to correct my now paranoid, bi-polar and fearful nature.
In actuality I got straight A's until I started to crack. When that happened, the accusations got worse. It was a snowball effect, she'd accuse and I'd feel betrayed by truth itself, you can't trust that you know the truth and that the simple facts will be apparent. She'd always said she knew I was lying by the look on my face and I never was lying. I felt hopeless.
Once she found parsley in my bag, actual parsley, I can't cook and my friend was teaching me how to during our study-hall. I was going to make a great dish for my mom, maybe show her that I was really the good kid she didn't think I was. She assumed it was Marijuana and flushed it. She drug me to a counselor that night and proceeded to scream at me for an hour feeling justified. Nothing I could say would have changed her mind, so I sat there quietly taking the verbal beating while she felt like it was her right and obligation to get upset.
You never can be too sure. And now I've got some pretty severe problems because my over-protective mom did what you all think is "the right thing."
I beg you, please listen, don't say a word and just listen for a week. Not from behind closed doors, but to their face, listen and just once believe them. We're not all bad, rebellious teens. Some of us are just scared of you.
And I'm still scarred, trying to heal.

Feel free to contact me:
I'll even let you meet the family.

I don't want to remain anonymous!

AHinQuestion@Yahoo

Shannon Hollender

"Thank goodness for the kind of friend who will quietly listen to you then help you make it through" - Here's to you Mikey, If it weren't for you I'd be in that grave, with you.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Burning ... Truth

The cold dead stone I sit upon
Writehes warm under my touch
My sense of Truth does Burn away
And I ode this Solemn Song.
    Here the while to Ashes Grey curled
      to hues of Smoldering Blue
I manifest a sense of Guilt
    As scorch'ed is my world
      my Truth!
Upon the stone lies burn-marks Black
    And Golden! While pieces I Lack
      Alone I covet, in Solemn Sooth
My fire My freedom   My folly
    As burnes away my only Truth
      I sit and watch and mourn
Why do I not squelch the flame
    over which I am forlorn?
While out of reach Laughter Rings
    O'er games I'll never play
The Ashen smoke
    My only friend
        Surrounds me and warms me
It's prey.

"controversy"

So it seems I need to hone in on a bor specific topic... more specific?! ... ::scratches head:: well I guess I could go into why People in general want to get their books online without a fee... no... too obvious... how about how to control e-books so as to secure copywrite, and the author's paychecks.
COntrol of e-books it is.
...
Off to the first class...

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

The real story comes from your own mind - just like I planned it.

I am never one for words on the sopt. I write. I write for things to be interpreted. I write ambiguously for it to be analyzed, taken deeply and though the literal story may have many layers, constructing the puzzle in my mind -- creating a mind-fuck is my point. Read, interpret, feel. Or you're only getting half the story.

The Other Great Depression - Change of Intro

We’ve all got addictions, Love for instance. Traumatic Love is my addiction, blurring the lines between sanity and insanity, between rational or not, depression and euphoric bliss.
Love is my depression.
This is explored by: RICHARD LEWIS
in
THE OTHER GREAT DEPRESSION

The other great Depression - abridged

So I had to choose a prose piece and edit it to fit withon a 3 to 5 minute reading. I think this works but I haven't trialed the theory yet...
This is the after-edit
the link shows the pre-edit

Traumatic Love.
She was my heart’s desire. Even when I ran from the very commitment I delighted in, I was proud of her and she accepted me… Even when I ran.
Love is my other great depression, I mean aside form the other addictions and the drugs.

THE OTHER GREAT DEPRESSION
by: RICHARD LEWIS

http://www.publicaffairsbooks.com/publicaffairsbooks-cgi-bin/display?book=1891620932&view=excerpt

I'm near the end of my fear-of-intimacy rope. what I've experienced is fear. Fear Fear of being criticized. Fear of never doing enough. Fear of her leaving me, out of the blue, for reasons she can't explain. But mostly, fear that I'm with the wrong woman. I can't ever restrain myself from continuing to look for the real Ms. McCoy.

I had gone to see my therapist and spent forty-five revealing minutes going on and on listing every incredible quality my girlfriend had and showing rousing enthusiasm over how meaningful our relationship was. Then I went on and on about how odd it felt being comfortable in a real dynamic, loving commitment, instead of lonely

So the session ends.

Moments later I was in my car trying not to daydream too much

Then it happened. I was so thrilled with my session, so thrilled about how I had sounded—like an honest-to-goodness adult in a loving relationship—I felt alcoholic again. I was looking for trouble and drama.

It didn't take long. There she was. The windows of her jeep were a little tinted but it nevertheless made me crazy. All the sanity I had felt in my therapist's office was drained—
like a great orgasm after fiery sex with a stranger.
__I was hooked. Like any good addict, I wasn't thinking about the consequences.

I drove like the crazy person I am, weaving in and out of traffic. Total excitement. The rush was there. I shamelessly stared at this woman's car—
it was twilight and the shadows made her look even more beautiful through her passenger side.
__I prayed that she would open her window. I knew, though, that if she looked at me, if she smiled at me, it would be easy to ask her to pull over and worry about the shame and guilt afterwards.

Her electric window came down real fast. I was in a state of shock. I knew my insane car chase hadn't been in vain. But not for the reason I had thought.

The fantasy woman was my own girlfriend.

She looked at my guilty face and laughed. "So, just how long was it before you knew it was me? Call me when you get home, honey."

She sped away with a loving gleam in her eye and her understanding and acceptance of me never wavered even after we spoke later that evening. I, however, was in a quiet state of intimacy alert. There was an air-raid siren continuing to blare between my ears. It was less a siren than three words in response to this million-to-one, humiliating episode. My intimacy rope was indeed hanging me.

All I could hear my inner voice saying, over and over and over and over again, was "Marry her, asshole."

Monday, February 20, 2006

Refrigerator edit to under 550 words

ok so I didn't write much recently, but I do have to do some editing on that refrigerator to cut it down under 550 words. Problem is that I like every detail of the story, so this editing took me at least half an hour.

547!!! words.

It was cold and lonely, darkness crept upon her, she was trapped. The body lying next to her, dead still, suddenly shifted and she, paralyzed with fear, began surmounting the obstacle before her. She'd awoken into the cold night air. Trapped in that blanketing feigned security she felt leaving this: this comfort, pleasure, sanctity; was wrong; but she had to go. Indeed the large body rustled at her passing, she’d hoped she wouldn't rouse him, his howling growl of a snore confirmed it to her; she disturbed his slumber but had not woken him. As she picked her way by, one limb at a time moving so gingerly over his carcass, she dreaded what she knew lay ahead for her journey back. She was consoled when she left his hold, by the realization that he'd not noticed her departure. As her bare feet stoked the ground beyond, her body recoiled with a shiver, the scarce threads she wore for him were not good defense against the silent night air. She swiftly departed in the right direction instinctually. His hearing was keen, she knew, and she was still within distance that the sound of a rustle beneath her feat would indeed rouse him. Her eyes adjusted too slowly to the pitch-black, her feet found unforeseen trouble. She cursed the creature as she stumbled to the ground with an audible thud...
He woke, and in the night she could hear him reaching for where she had been. She held her breath and preyed her absence would not be noticed. He mumbled, he murmured, he fell back to sleep.
She scrambled into the darkness, on hands and knees she found the path easily and made her way across a seemingly endless field of black and cold. When she reached her destination, she clawed at the door but found no handle. Frustrated, exhausted, she cursed herself for having allowed it to happen. She preyed for the light to see the way. She needed guidance into the salvation; she needed relief, she needed to find the handle. Collapsing to the floor against the door, she longed for the gentle kind light she knew would not rouse him.
Light she remembered would flow from the refrigerator late at night when her father would get her midnight glasses of milk. She longed for that milk, for that refrigerator... At that moment it occurred to her, the refrigerator! She knew the refrigerator would not rouse him if she cracked the door gently. The room was a mess, more-so in the dark, she cursed herself for it. She eased the fridge door open, being nearby, just enough to see the door handle to the bathroom and she found sweet salvation. Relief achieved she re-entered the room contemplating her journey back to bed and her lover's side. She thought for a moment of how her father would bring her a cold glass of milk in the night when he roused her coming in from work. She poured her lover a glass of milk; her eyes still not adjusted to the night's darkness, she decided to leave the refrigerator door still open for its light, she almost floated back to the bed-side, to set the cup down. She returned to the refrigerator, and the gentle light closed... off.

For all those who do not have a title option: (like this)

I'm re-posting this entry for your convenience

For all those who do not have a title option:
Log in
click on your name
click on "settings" at top
click on "formatting" at top
go down aproxinately nine options to "Show Title field"
Change the option to "yes"
go to the bottom and click "save settings"
at top click "republish" (should be a dark blue button)
You should now have a title option.

Sorry if this seemed almost childish, I write out directions for my computer illiterate mother all the time and simply adopt the format. Don't take it to heart it is an insult to her not to you.
Hope everyone is having fun with this, I know I am.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

J/ Choose the "controversy"

J/ Choose the "controversy" you will be working with all semester. Write a one page, in-depth, detailed description of your controversy AND describe the characteristics of the community that you are examining your controversy as part of. This should be a community to which you belong.

For a brief and general description that will be elaborated later: The literary industry, namely novel writers and publishers are up in arms about recent movements by Libraries to post books to the internet, effectively creating online libraries for consumers and effectively allowing book piracy, and effectively eliminating the salaries of writers.
This, though I obviously have some leanings, in my mind is a controversy I am on the fence about and is a controversy that I am very interested and concerned about.
Especially since I have the tendency to want to be a writer and get paid for it in the future.
The groups involved and implied in this controversy span many different occupations and hold many different interests and opinions. I will be unable to exclude many groups – such as librarians, from this debate, though I myself am not a member. That being said I will do my darndest not only to present the opinions – both sides - of the groups to which I belong – namely writers, but to also accurately and thoroughly present and incorporate the opinions of other groups affecting this argument.
The characteristics of the two main groups inherent in the basic debate and main issue is the writers and their publishers, who have interest in profit for the ability to continue writing, as well as copy-write issues, and the writers who are finding a wide-open market willing to publish them, as well as those who are interested in making literature more readily available to the public than a public library already does.. Both sides have respectable honest causes – and both sides are with decent points supporting their causes. It shall be interesting learning more about this cause and its corollaries.

Post! List of shit to do

Ok , this is more of a reminder to myself than a blog entry.
This is my list of shit I need to remember to post on here or write, ...or type into the pc to post - Which is why I really don't use pen and paper to do the whole creative process thing. Which remendes me. I love love-letters. hand written, soft paged words of trash romance and sickeningly sweet word... random thought.
ok, list:
edit refrigerator story - 550 words after edit
annotate ch 21
Print, Read, and Annotate Hacker's section on "Assessing Sources"
Print, Read, and Annotate Behrens and Rosen's excerpt on "Creating Effective Summaries"
Personal Moral Philosophy Essay - rant on it


I also need to get to the post office and write a couple of letters. Wait... Strike that, reverse it.

Inspirational note to self: Crystal Mind.

Saturday, February 18, 2006

J/Comm: Writers/Readers House - House of Poe

Here residesd the Poe Club. Now don't be mistaken, we aren't all about Poe, oh no. What we are is group of literary lovers. We love to read; Books poetry and verse, and we quietly sit with our minds at night, writing, creating, and musing. Going insane happens often here and those who do are reveered as enlightened. Higher learning is almost a requirement to join but there are those who've been members since childhood, practically born into these situations. The members of our household tend to be either overly pensive or friendly and subtlly outgoing, nervously friendly. Meal times are - because of this - happy and jubilant times, times of quiet and noisy understanding; times of comfory and family togetherness. Those these are starving artists, the meals are bountiful, for these reasons, even if it's in their own minds.
This also is an accepting house. We welcome different people and different ideas, inspiration comes from everywhere. We are a thinking pot who loves to read, write, and learn about anything. What we dislike are close-minded people - they are welcomed - just disliked.

Friday, February 17, 2006

self-centric loss poem.

Figured I'd write a poem too, one because everyone else is writing poems, and two because I was wandering around staring at the sky noticing the ground wandering by.

I'm standing here naked, I'm lonely and broken,
Your love wanders past me, I've lost you, I know.
The cold air, it bites me, and life is so lonely
I long for your touch, lost so long ago.
The ground wanders past me, as time passes weakly
Your arms, sweet surrender, I know them so well.
Our passions unfolded, like pages of wonder,
I remember you held me, through pain and the storm.
The tide how it rippled, like soft summer mourning,
The way that you held me, so tightly, the pain.
Like roses that wilted, our love could not last,
You needed me, only, I faltered and fell.
So now darling, only, I hold you in my dreams
I long for your whispers, falling tragic, I mourn.
Your footsteps, I see them, they haunt me the more
Now I wonder, I lust, and you leave me behind.
The ground wanders past me, as you walk away,
The ground wanders, and tortures, and you leave me alone.
I'm sobbing, I'm crying, I need for your comfort,
I need you, your tortures, abusive, you soothe.
I know 'tis for better, but Darling, my only,
You arms, sanctuary, here Godless, I'm scorned.
And so my sweet darling, my everything holy,
I need you, I want you, the pain I pursue.
I remember you hit me, I remember the blood,
I remember the comfort I felt to be yours.
Like soft rain, I'm falling, the ground, my demise.
I'm drawn to you, hopeless, I joy in decent.
My world is now empty, and aimless I go,
Thinking only of my loss; As the ground wanders by.

You are what completes me, you're my inner-self.

the "Refrigerator" - First draft (590 words)

It was cold and lonely, darkness had crept upon her and she was trapped. The body lying next to her, dead still, suddenly shifted and she, paralyzed with fear, began to surmount the obstacle before her. She'd awoken into the cold night air and trapped in the blanket of warmth and love she felt that leaving this comfort, this pleasure, this sanctity, was wrong. She had to go. Indeed the large body rustled at her passing, she hoped she wouldn't rouse him, his growl and howl of a snore confirmed to her that she had disturbed his slumber but not woken him. As she picked her way by, one limb at a time moving ever so gingerly over his carcass, she dreaded what she knew lay ahead for her journey back. She was assured when she left his cradle by the realization that he'd not noticed her departure from his presence. As her bare feet hit the ground beyond, her body recoiled with a shiver, the scarce threads she wore for him were not good defense against the silent night air. She swiftly departed in the direction she knew she must pursue. His hearing was keen, she knew, and she was still within distance that the sound of a rustle beneath her feat would indeed rouse him. Her eyes adjusted only slowly to the pitch-black, but not before her feet found unforeseen trouble. She cursed the creature as she stumbled to the ground with an audible thud. He woke, and in the night she could hear him reaching for where she had been. She held her breath and preyed her absence would not be noticed. He mumbled, he murmured, he fell back to sleep.
She scrambled off into the darkness, on her hands and knees she found the path much easier and made her way across what seemed an endless field of black and cold. When she reached her destination, she clawed at the door and found no handle. Frustrated, exhausted and alone, she cursed herself for having allowed such a thing to happen. And she preyed for the light to see the way. She needed guidance into the salvation and the comfort, she needed relief, she needed to find the handle. Collapsing to the floor, leaning against the door she longed for the gentle kind light she knew would not rouse him, the kind she remembered would flow from the refrigerator late at night when her father would get her a midnight glass of milk. She longed for that milk, for that refrigerator... And at that moment it occurred to her, the refrigerator! She knew the refrigerator would not rouse him if she cracked open the door gently. Her room was a mess, and more-so in the dark, she cursed herself for it. She eased the fridge door open, it resided nearby, just enough to see the door handle on the bathroom door and she found her sweet salvation. Relief achieved she re-entered the room contemplating her journey back to bed, back to her lover's side. She thought for a moment of how her father would bring her a cold glass of milk in the night when he roused her coming in from work. She poured her lover a glass of milk; her eyes still not adjusted to the night's darkness, she decided to leave the refrigerator door still open for its light, she almost floated back to the bed-side, to set the cup at the bed-side. She then returned to the refrigerator and the gentle light closed off.

Ok so it's a "Sensitive Bastard" I want eh?

according to Bret, she wants: "a guy who does what he wants when he wants and does not base his actions on what he thinks the girl wants him to do..."
Now, my thoughts are in unfortunate accordance, I don't think he's exactly hit the nail on the head but he's damn closer than anyone else I've heard try to define it. My cautioning is that indeed, like Bret asserts: Provided the guy doesn't cheat or abuse, and like Brenna says: expresses their love by spending time with her and perhaps even the occationa "monday flowers"... Provided he does this, he is the man that women want.
I can tell you from a girls perspective, that exactly what I want and have wanted for years is just this. I found that care-free and relaxed romantic in my love. We got engaged and now he keeps trying to be polite and excessively nice in order to keep me... He's got me! What he needs to understand is what I think Brent realized - that what I fell in love with was the man who could be himself and still love me. And that's what women do that's what we want.

Personal Moral Philosophy Essay

I Title This With a Preface. – Dear Friend,
I really hope you don’t mind swearing too much, otherwise I’m f-… screwed.
My personal moral philosophy boils down to a few basic but convoluted guidelines. Anyone who knows me well, knows well enough to have heard the schpeal like this: “Don’t f*ck with my friends, don’t f*ck with my freedom, and don’t f*ck with my happiness!” This is enough for the common, under-analytical world. Here however I feel I need to expand.
These three main principles guide me through life and each day they effect me deeply. A more thorough way of explaining them is to … The first of these guidelines hinges upon my deep personal belief in undying loyalty. I sat here thinking if the word unwavering would sit here better, the answer is no. There is a distinct difference and though mine is a fierce loyalty, it is indeed a rational one. The second of these guidelines amounts to my intense dependences upon and belief in personal strength. It is the fortitude for myself to stand against adversity, strength to be depended upon by others, the independence and personal freedom necessary to be capable of being dependable. This personal law is a corollary in that it is strongly associated with and yielded from the other two laws. This, the third law, thereby deserves mention in detail as well: It is my determination to never stop enjoying life, and to never stop feeling joy at my own independence and free spirit.
I shall start with this the latest and work my way back. Being this way, determined to enjoy life, and doing these things, making others happy, make me happy and though this is the only self-interested value I hold: my happiness. It is that I take pleasure at seeing others happy that it is spawn from – hence my intense loyalty. Being free, being a loyal friend, helping others and making them smile, for some reason barely understood by myself, makes me entirely happy and the rules are this: don’t prevent me from doing these things. The question hence, is: Why?
Though I do not consciously think about them each day, these principles are ingrained in everything I do and how I interact with the world around me. I have always found pride and comfort and security in my ability to help others, in my importance and the fact that others believe me useful and that I make a difference. Mine is a fear of not mattering. Mine thereby is more basically a fear of sorrow and unhappiness at feeling insignificant. I take comfort in alleviating others of their sense of insignificance because I believe no one should suffer such pains and because it makes me feel significant.
There, I’ve named my vices, and elaborated upon them I’ve even gone out on a limb by being blunt, brutally honest and a bit to the point common about them. I’ll not lie I’m honest even with myself about how they are not exactly the best of “virtues.” But they are mine and to me that counts for something. The strongest objection I think I’ve encountered with being the way I am is not the obvious answer: the naked self-interest lurking beneath the surface – though as I’ve made a flailing attempt to explain: is induced by the desire to ensure that no one suffers the same way as I have and fear – but rather that strongest protestation is this: that ultimately pursuit of my happiness will in this way lead to my inevitable unhappiness. That trying to make everyone happy, trying to please everyone, will fail. This I know.
This brings me to my next point which is that I have no answer to that, I have no response to it; I know it is true. My mores are resultant from these aforementioned beliefs and fears. It is in my nature and no matter how hard I try to pursue a more productive less painful fate; I simply cannot derail my train of convictions. To make others happy I must be loyal, dependable and fun to be around. I strive to be entertaining, friendly, approachable, trustable and I strive always to be able to reinforce what I say and promise and assure to others with actions. I do the best I can to conform to what I feel I need to do and simply cannot – not by means, but by physiological inadequacy - do less for this cause. I suppose it is as was said in class – I’m a psychological egoist.
These values are an important part of my life. They guide and shape me in all of what I value, cherish and respect, they give me a reason to hold my head high and they give me quite often the confidence and the strength to carry on through the roughest times. So I stick with them. They have worked their way into my very being, I cannot ignore them, shake them or even violate them in any way without a lot of double-talk side-ways reasoning and lies. I am bound to them. So I stick with them. They confuse me, they make me understand things. They help me understand who I am, who I was, and why I’ll become who I become. So I stick with them and hope that you have at least understood – if not enjoyed even a portion of what I just said.
Apologetically Yours,
~Shannon

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Straight-Jacket and Engagement (215 word edit)

I remember the feel of the straight-jacket, the smell too. It hadn't been washed in days. The room around me was screaming and I had visitors. They were paraded in to see me and quickly rushed away, then he came through. I knew this one, he was one of the three who'd put me there. I smiled and we talked ever so briefly, he had to keep moving so I followed him as far as I could go. I kissed him before we were torn apart, and shocked we both stood there staring at each other. He was pushed to move on. But later that night, he came back for me, this time we had some time alone. I felt like I was getting to know him for the first time. We talked for the regulated half hour and then he was gone. I was back in my hell and was again alone. Somber sober, sane and alone. To my surprise, he came back for me again, it was my time to leave and he took me with him. He took me home and stayed for hours of conversation. This was the first time I got to know him. We found out we were perfect for each other. Five dates, one month later. He proposed.

And by the way that did happen to me, it's true. And we're still together and so very happy!

The straight-jacket was a costume - I was working King's Dominion's Fearfest.
The kiss was on the cheek.
The half hour was my break
Any more questions?

one of those days

Did you ever have one of those days where you pass out at 2 in the morning trying to do your reading homework and wake up just in time to throw on pants and a shirt and run to class caffeine in hand, to realize that you have forgotten to wear your letters and have not yet written the extensive three page essay you had due. Meanwhile, after writing it in the half-hour break you get Macon Coffee screws up and looses your order making you late for class, haven't eaten in a day and a half so you feel rude yet justified for eating in class after showing up late. Then when asked to read in front of the class you later discover two that at least two of the people in the class roll their eyes at your writing and whisper about you behind your back. From there you have to go turn in your essay only to have to deal with a phone-call from your irksome mother who refuses to let you go or support you in any of your endeavours and absolutely finds it necessary to bitch in you ear. After this (and finally getting to put your letters on) you discover you have a parking ticket which you proceed to take a picture of the space you are in, go to work to report that you will be late to because you have to go fight said ticket, which said picture gets you out of - barely.
- by the way the very first spot in front of Thomas Branch where it just starts to get yellow - IS ILLEGAL - there will be a sign soon!
After havign to almost push you car to another spot - because it won't start,
you get to work an hour late, still have to go to the post office and send Valentines-Day cards and a birthday card for your Grandfather who is 81 ^-^ and once you are at work you realize that after talking your way out of your second ticket, you still need to go to the post office and get postage for the cards you were planning on dropping in the mail in the morning. The day still isn't over, but lets see what happens.

My Clown, My Love, We're All Fools.

I saw you last night you were plain for once. No bright colours, no make-up, no tools, toys, or objects of distraction. You seemed naked standing there in your Hawaiian shirt and those blue-jeans; I wanted to run to you, I wanted to hug you again, I wanted to protect you from the world this time. You've made me smile, you've given me refuse, your games make me so happy. Here you stand, my broken clown, here you stand; Alone.
The midnight air between us seems as stale as the cigarette smoke in the Hotel sheets. I cannot move I cannot speak. There you stand a sudden stranger, and I feel so lost and alone. And I'm scared.
The passion we just shared and I don't know you.
You're staring at me. You grab your coat. I want to tell you to stay but I cannot stop you from leaving.
The door shuts behind you and and I move. I dress with those stuffed animals we won earlier watching me from the corner. Their gaze gives me shame, and I find you in the parking lot, smoking, pacing, talking alone.
Another cigarette between us over quiet conversation.
You turn to leave, I grab your hand, I know why you don't want to stay. "Believe me Darling..." I say but you turn. "Don't be shameful..." You pull from me and I hold on tight. You flinch and a hand hides your eyes.
...   I hear your tears; And I pull you, my familiar stranger nearer to me, I am holding my own insecurities. I hold myself when I hold you. Your body surrenders and slumps into mine and we slowly sink to the ground. "Hush, Shhh... There, There... Darling... Answer me this, I want to know..." I sigh I know asking is hopeless... she... . You choke on your tears and I hug you to my breast. We're a pitiful sight from the outside but I love you and I don't care. I don't care how it looks, I don't care about sin, I don't care at all about her. "Tell me, do you love me?" I say. You reply, you're shaking "yes." "Do you want me" and the tears we both choke back, we both know that answer, you say "yes." "Will you keep me as your own... as your only?"..."yes." "Then be mine." You shake your head, we fiold into each other, we cry.
Loyalties divided, your heart wants me, but your morals are dedicated to her. I hold you and we cry.
I help you calm down and I help you up and we make our way back to the Hotel. One more night we have together, one more night forever. "I'll follow you anywhere, I'll wait." I say. "Perform, do you tricks, be anyone's clown, I'll wait for you to be my love. I'll be there to keep you from crying."
You turn and we hold each other through the night.
I saw you last night, you were plain for once, you were mine and here you are now. There's a needle in your arm and blood on the floor and the bright colours flood in the flourescent light.
Here you stand dead and alone. Here I stand; Alone.
I drown my sorrows to this day, and I still cry every time I see a clown.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

J/2/Communities

Needed the time to answer it thoroughly so I didn't get to type it up any sooner.

J2/ Growing up, you belonged to several communities, but the most obvious one was probably the community that you lived in...your neighborhood. As a young adult, you are moving away from that community and entering others. Help your classmates and me visualize the communities that you belong to as the neighborhood where “You” currently reside. In other words, if “You” were neighborhood, comprised of different houses with residents inside of them which represent the different communities that you consider yourself part of, what would it look like? From the list of communities that you wrote down for Journal 1, choose 4-6 communities and describe them as houses on “You” street. In order to help us truly understand the nature of these communities—their members, their shared beliefs, and the tensions/controversies within them—you may want to begin by freewriting about the following questions (adapted from Thomas Deans):
*What factors define the group (geography, age, interests, ethnicity, shared history, values, etc.)?
*How did this community come into being? What is its history? How does that history shape current practices and attitudes?
*How do you gain membership to this community? Can anyone join? Is it by invitation only?
*What are the rewards/costs of membership?
*Describe any characteristic language practices of this community. Do members use special terms/language? Do they assign new meaning to terms?
*What characteristics or “patterns of sameness” characterize community members (dress, rituals, behavior, values, etc.)?
*What tensions/controversies/areas of disagreement exist within the community? How are these areas negotiated or represented to outsiders?
*How might definitions of this community differ if they were told by insiders and outsiders respectively?
*How did you come to be a member of this community?


Community: Tom-Boy
What would it look like? A tree-house, but bigger – there are a lot of us and we welcome more competition. Indoor plumbing is so optional!
What is the nature of this household? We live next-door to the Hospital – Nuff said.
What is the nature of this household’s members? We all work hard and play even harder. No one can acuse us of being pansies, whimps or… worst of all… girls!
What is the nature of this household’s shared beliefs? There is a strong vein of independence and general toughness that runs through each of us – but as we all are women - Tough women! – We generally are compassionate towards the feelings of others. I mean… as we grind their noses in the dirt of defeat…
What are the tensions/controversies within this household? When is it appropriate to use those so-called manners things. Are skirts even allowed through the front door? Do I really have to say I’m sorry? I so beat ‘im fair an square!

Community: House of Carney
What would it look like? Ours is a warehouse. Visitors are the focus of our existence so the house is large and open and there are a ton of lights and pretty things that attract the masses. Small fee to enter, but it’s worth it for a whole night of fun.
What is the nature of this household? Our house-hold is a bit of a clean-freak’s nightmare and a coordinator’s wet-dream. The rules of the house are do your part and fend for yourself and you drn well better be pleasant about it.
What is the nature of this household’s members? We like to stay open-minded and we enjoy a good crowd. We love conversation and are all the time pursuing the all-mighty dollar. Not afraid to work hard or open our hearts we are good, honest con-men. And we are dependable.
What is the nature of this household’s shared beliefs? We all believe in having a good time working hard and owning up to whose turn it is to buy the reefer this time.
What are the tensions/controversies within this household? Ok… Who stole my stash? I was saving for three months for that? And You! Go take a shower for God’s sake!!!

Community: Curly Girl Household
What would it look like? Fun! Our house is a domesile of many doors, many windows and many facilitating ladders. No fence, big garage and thick walls for noise-control. Our house though busy in its appearance is always kept in order. We hate “frizz.”
What is the nature of this household? Based on working with everyone’s hectic lives and working things in through the cracks, it feels like our household runs non-stop. In reality it’s not hard to find occasional free-time and it’s not hard to enjoy life here.
What is the nature of this household’s members? Unfortunately there is a membership requirement; all members must have curly hair. What can I say? We all work together on managing our “assets.”
What is the nature of this household’s shared beliefs? We believe in having a good time, squelching the belief that we’re all aloof or disjoint and finding the perfect balance between wild and confined. And who left a rat in the drain? Seriously girls!
What are the tensions/controversies within this household? For one, my product is mine. Don’t take each other’s things – ok? Advice, yeay, we all give that freely, but don’t tell anyone what to do or you are soooo asking for it!

Community: Music Appretiation House
What would it look like? A big sound-room, recording-studio/radio broadcast station. Our back-yard has such a pretty tower!
What is the nature of this household? Loud. Everyone id doing their own thing, good thing there are a lot of sound-proof rooms. If only we could get the rap fans to enjoy listening in one of those too.
What is the nature of this household’s members? We like to party, we like to dance, and we like to sing. But most of all we are social creatures who just like to work together on making music together.
What is the nature of this household’s shared beliefs? We believe in freedom of expression and the fact that some people need to learn the meaning of phrase: “Perfect pitch means listening to you is painful!”
What are the tensions/controversies within this household? Ok, You. – Shut up so I can hear myself sing… Oprah? Why are they listening to Oprah at this hour of the night? Don’t they know it’s morning?... And who let that cat in here? I’m trying to practice!... Who stole my song?... Those are my lyrics! You so plagiarized that!

J/1/civic engagement fostered by community commitment

J1/ In “Community, Commitment, and Individuality,” Bellah et al argue that community involvement leads to and fosters civic individualism/civic engagement. Think about the example of Angelo Donatello, who found that embracing his individual heritage as an Italian-American compelled him to join not only a local chapter of the Sons of Italy but also inspired him to become a civic leader in Boston. Think also about Cecilia Dougherty, whose sense of civic engagement—her desire to help the “have nots have power that reflects their numbers” (pg. 84)—extends from her awareness of her private life, i.e. the values instilled in her by her parents as well as her struggles as a widowed housewife with four children. Make a comprehensive list of the many communities—large/small, formal/informal, serious/silly—that you consider yourself a part of. For each community, reflect on what has led you to participate in these communities. Did you join a particular community because it reflected the values you were raised with (such as a religious youth group or)? The values/interests you are beginning to embrace on your own (such as a “simple living” club or a “literary society”)? The values/interests of your peers (such as a ‘greek’ organization or a “Maroon 5” fan club)? To what degree is your membership in these communities an extension of private and/or social aspects of your personality? Please explain.

Community: Student
What has let to my involvement in it: Federal law. After that my parents wanted me to go.
To what degree is my membership and extension of private a/o social aspects of my personality: Being a Student is an extension of my personality privately because it has afforded me the opportunity to do what I'm doing (and enjoying) now and that is writing. Being a Student is an extension of my personality socially because it has given me so many friends I wouldn't have had or known otherwise. The experiences I've had learning have really become priceless.

Community: Tom-Boy
What has let to my involvement in it: I've always hated being left out and left behind, so i became the roughest, bravest, meanest rough-and-tumble there was to be found on the play-ground. It's something I saw as useful and I got a lot more respect as a could-do-er tan I did as a couldn't-do-er. So I continued to always be head-strong and forward and insistent upon "I'll do it, I can" and "don't you dare treat me like some sort of lady! I can, don't tell me I can't." Plus it's been loads more fun that way. Especially whe you're the hot-chik working in the Mechanics shop or when you're the tiny little thing doing more or carrying more than the boys are capable of. It's a sense to pride, of accomplishment and of self-reliance and independence, and it feels free.
To what degree is my membership and extension of private a/o social aspects of my personality: Being a Tom-Boy is an extension of my personality privately because it helps me remember what all I can do and what all I have to be proud of and this too has helped me through the lower moments. Being a Tom-Boy is an extension of my personality socially because it has given me more respect and reverance. Both towards and from others.

Community: Atheist
What has led to my involvement in it: A lot of thinking I did in Grade and High School. This combined with the repellant effect of die-hard religious types. Of which I dread becoming so I'll not harp on or badger about what I believe and why, becuase I'm not trying to convince anyone. I just believe what I do.
To what degree is my membership and extension of private a/o social aspects of my personality: Being an Atheist is an extension of my personality privately because it has allowed me to look at and respect all religions. I enjoy learning as much as I can about all religions and I enjoy thinking about what their belief-systems look like from their point of view and from my atheistic point of view. It's a very enlightening and enjoyable experience. Being an Atheist is an extension of my personality socially because... well it's not. I do my best to not alk about it because I believe that it is a private thing for me. I've only seen it lead to lost friendships and broken relations so I do my best to listen, not badger, and to avoid mentioning it - sorry to mention it here - please don't hold this against me or form an oppinion on me I don't do the same about you.

Community: Debator
What has led to my involvement in it: I was an articulate but otherwise disjoint and nervous speaker. I wanted to improve so I joined. And am grateful - I've learned so much and had so much fun!
To what degree is my membership and extension of private a/o social aspects of my personality: Being on the Debate Team is an extension of my personality privately because it has allowed me to become more succinct and concise in all my communications - which has boosted my grades and my confidence. Being on the Debate Team is an extension of my personality socially because it has allowed me to meet mny new and wonderful people, travel outside the country and con $62 worth of merchandise out of a bunch of random Canadians in a matter of two hours. - thank you also Carney Heritage...!

Community: Carney
What has led to my involvement in it: I needed a job when I was thirteen and so I went to the fair-grounds a week before the fair began, while everyone was setting up their stands, found a job and have been doing it ever since. It's been seven years and I love it still.
To what degree is my membership and extension of private a/o social aspects of my personality: Being a Carney is an extension of my personality privately because it gave me the confidence and the comfort to be outgoing, to smile and to not get so upset when one person doesn't like me. There will be more chances, so many more. Being a Carney is an extension of my personality socially because it has led to my outgoing personality and my ability to slip into and out of social situations with ease - when I want to! - and it has allowed me to be the dichotomy I am - the extroverted introvert.

Community: APO Fraternity Member
What has led to my involvement in it: I was a member of FBLA and Key Club in HS. These were enjoyable experiences and APO is built on similar principles so I figured: sure, why not? I joined also with the hope of better understand how to interact socially in new and unfamiliar situations. I thik I've gotten worse, but I am trying new things and so at least there's that.
To what degree is my membership and extension of private a/o social aspects of my personality: Being an APO Fraternity Member is an extension of my personality privately because it allows me to care for and about others and gives me an excuse to be nice. Not that one needs such, but I do, I feel like if you do something nice out of the blue - like I tend to do - people assume you want something - which is not the case with me. Being an APO Fraternity Member is an extension of my personality socially because it is everything I am not but want to become.

Community: Book Lover, avid reader/writer
What has led to my involvement in it: When I was young, I retreated from an abusive world into the page. At first I found little I liked to read - little that really spoke to and connected with me, so I wrote my own. I like to think I got better at it over the years. I still write and from time to time I find an engaging book which really does say something to me. I love to read and Love to write. Thus I'm an Avid Literature Fan.
To what degree is my membership and extension of private a/o social aspects of my personality: Loving Literature is an extension of my personality privately because it is what shaped who I am deep down, inner and outer. This habbit has given me a betterunderstanding of self and a lot of other qualities I will not bore you with here. Comment if you really want the laundry list and the explanation. It's awefully somber and personal. Loving Literature is an extension of my personality socially because it had throughout the years given me the ability to connect with, understand and talk to my friends about their problems. It gave me a wiser disposition and ften times I have been told I am more mature and wiser than my years. I hope this is still true but have always dobuted it accuracy. What really happened is it allowed me to recognize pain and confusion in others, allowed me to articulate problems and solutions more readily and allowed me to empathize. This is the majority of who I am and I owe it to the page.

Community: Curly Girl
What has led to my involvement in it: I was born with Blonde ringlets. Over the years I've gotten smarter and my hair has gotten darker. My fun-loving personality though (and co-incidently my ringlets and curls) have not seen any change. I tried to hide my curls for years and hate friz still. But now - since my Freshman yr - I've begun to acccept my curly hair and work with it and wear it proudly. I stand tall a proud member of the Curly Girls club. Fun-Loving curly-haired women of the world - Unite! {D
To what degree is my membership and extension of private a/o social aspects of my personality: Being a Curly Girl is an extension of my personality privately because ever since I began to accepy my wild hair, I began to be more comfortable with who I am and what I'm about. I used to be afraid to show that side to the outside world without everything in place, now I've learned to work with the fly-away's and the frizz of life and even found a sense ofpersonal control and love. Being a Curly Girl is an extension of my personality socially because it has let to others looking at me diferently and has led to a more fulfilling less sstructured, less all-around social life. This has given me the opportunity to be comfortable in the world and comfortable in new and scary settings.

Community: Chior
What has led to my involvement in it: I have for a very long time been involved in music and vocal programs. Grade-school on I've enjoyed vocalizing and music and so it was only natural that I continue to enjoy this aspect of life - making music - here at R-MC. And I do. I enjoy every minute of it.
To what degree is my membership and extension of private a/o social aspects of my personality: Chior is an extension of my personality privately because it has given me the confidence and the ability to sing in the best and worst of times and music itself has helped me through much of the gloom. Chior is an extension of my personality socially because it gives me an outlet in which I am able to sometimes be outgoing, absurd and fun. It is informal, creative, and yet so very structured. The atmosphere itself leaves a person condusive to learning, sharing and enjoying.

Lesson 1 - Style/Clarity

First Lesson year in review:
I was never quite so good at annotation and the like, so this will be done to the best of my ability: in brevity.
The chapter, which opened with quotes in writing, clarity and style, focused more specifically and in detain on the problems inherent with writing: namely clarity and the curse there-of. It went into a kind of history lesson in presenting both sides of the coin on the whole "is style more important than clarity?" debate. Style here being one of the hardest habbis to break free from and which originally meant wordy and complex in structure and nature.
Ultimately, or so I got from this chapter is the fact that a writer must always be concious or and conformant to their adience in accordance with their purpose.
Hope that's long enough. It was either that or copy word for word everything I highlighted and those of you who've seen my highlighting know: no one wants to re-read the chapter here... Long and the short of it is this: I suck at paraphrasing.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Here's an Idea I wanted to share:

I want to share this piece with you as it poses quite an oppinionated argument with some staggering figures to contend with... I present it here in the form in which I received it, only minor format changes were made:

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IT DOESN'T MATTER IF YOU ARE REPUBLICAN OR DEMOCRAT!

KEEP IT GOING!!!!

2008 Election Issue!!

GET A BILL STARTED TO PLACE ALL POLITICIANS ON SOC. SEC.

This must be an issue in "2008 ". Please! Keep it going.

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SOCIAL SECURITY:

(This is worth reading. It is short and to the point)

Perhaps we are asking the wrong questions during election years.

Our Senators and Congresswomen do not pay into Social Security and, of course, they do not collect from it.

You see, Social Security benefits were not suitable for persons of their rare elevation in society. They felt they should have a special plan for themselves. So, many years ago they voted in their own benefit plan.

In more recent years, no congressperson has felt the need to change it. After all, it is a great plan.

For all practical purposes their plan works like this:

When they retire, they continue to draw the same pay until they die.

Except it may increase from time to time for cost of living adjustments..

This is calculated on an average life span for each of those Two Dignitaries For example, Senator Byrd and Congressman White and their wives may expect to draw $7,800,000.00 (that's Seven Million, Eight-Hundred-Thousand Dollars), with their wives drawing $275,000.00 during the last years of their lives.

Younger Dignitaries who retire at an early age, will receive much more during the rest of their lives.

Their cost for this excellent plan is $0.00.
NADA....ZILCH...

This little perk they voted for themselves is free to them.
You and I pick up the tab for this plan. The funds for this fine retirement plan come directly from the General Funds;

" OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK "!

From our own Social Security Plan, which you and I pay (or have paid) into, -every payday until we retire (which amount is matched by our employer)-we can expect to get an average of $1,000 per month after retirement.

Or, in other words, we would have to collect our average of $1,000 monthly benefits for 68 years and one (1) month to equal Senator Bill Bradley's benefits! Social Security could be very good if only one small change were made.

That change would be to:

Jerk the Golden Fleece Retirement Plan from under the Senators and Congressmen. Put them into the Social Security plan with the rest of us .

then sit back.....

and watch how fast they would fix it.

If enough people see this, maybe a seed of awareness will be planted and maybe good changes will evolve.

Three Cows!




Three Cows in a buick!

Well, Ok, perhaps it's a volvo. None-the-less there are most certainly three bovine snouts evident in that image. I feel I may need to rant more on this later... perhaps even engage in some creative story to recreate the events that may have transpired... But for now, as I have to go to class, I leave you with this: The mere implications of why and how one would go about fitting not one or two but three cows into the back-seat of their car is Beyond Me!

Monday, February 13, 2006

Virtuous Carney, last edit I think.

That carnival paper again, It fits the 250, 125, and 50 words thing But now she says don't use any dialogue... It makes one wonder if it's really worth it to do anything before the actual deadline/duedate on this campus.

The Carney watched the family of three approached and knew what he had to do. Apple in hand, yelling two hits for a dollar, selling forgiveness to inattentive parents.
First shot… I suppose you should understand the game - it operates off a catapult theory… went straight to the ground. Rubber, a catapult and a mallet in the hands of an eight year old amounted to six inches of lift and distance. Second shot -- straight to the ground. A free try followed the first two in suit.
Another free shot was offered, but the firing method was taught this time.
Standing back, swinging straight over his head, eyes on the target and leaning forward; the con-man asked the boy to look at the target and asked if there was anyone who picks on him, makes him feel bad, dosn't like him. Someone he didn't like either. …the light-bulb lit up in the boy’s head… Imaging their face right there on that target. The boy swung with all his might.
The parents simply watched as their son brought down that mallet for the fourth time... and sent that rubber catapulting twenty feet across the table. The parents, with looks of embarrassment and hurt stared at their child, at each other... They both put their arm around that boy probably for the first time in his memory and as they walked away they talked to the boy and were for once, concerned about him.

A carnival.
First three hits went straight to the ground. Rubber frogs, a catapult, and a mallet. The eight year old could not get much distance. Given a fourth free shot, the boy agreed to do it differently.
Standing back, swinging high, eyes on the target and leaning forward, the con-man asked if there was anyone who picks on him or makes him feel bad. The light-bulb lit up in the boy’s head and he swung with all his might.
The boy hit and sent that frog soaring twenty feet. The parents, looking embarrassed looked at their child, at each other, then put their arm around him and walked away talking to their child. For once, they were concerned about him.

A carnival. Rubber frogs, a catapult, a mallet. Eight year old boy. Free shot. Taught to win. Con-man asked the boy to take out aggression at being bullied. He swung with all his might.
He sent it flying. Parents put their arm around him and walked away talking to him.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Straight-jackets and Engagement Rings

So there I was, bound in chains, wearing my straight-jacket, covered in blood... thinkin’ “Romance. This is Romance.” Now I know this sounds a bit "out-there" but I assure you it happened and there is a perfectly logical explanation for the events that took place: I met him in the tiny back-room where those three guys "auditioned" myself and two of my female companions. We already had the job though. The three of us were seasoned and our experience almost guaranteed us the jobs. We were good at what e did. So they asked us to improvise and they gave us stimulation, scenarios and situations and in the end they made us scream. It was fun. We wanted to impress them, I did especially. One of them, I didn't recognize him from before, he was new and I liked the way his twisted little mind worked. He asked me to turn around, he wanted to see my hair, his eyes wanted to enjoy my ass. When the idea of corn being creepy and a bit of a mood thing came up I chatted with him about this short animation I though of and liked (check it out here.) I struck up conversation after conversation and we talked about strange things like my killer corn-stalks and the creepiness of clowns. I remember wanting to talk with him more. I got hired. It was almost a month later when I saw him again. It was my first night n the job and I was finally getting the chance to work with everyone and as they fitted me for my uniform and walked me through my duties, I saw him across the room and couldn’t help but smile. I remember the shirt he was wearing because I got his attention and motioned at his shirt with a mile and a ‘thumbs up’. I liked his shirt. (Useless details I know, but I smile to remember it and it’s the details that are so important in life.) He pulled me aside, away from the blood and the crowd and asked me if I'd be comfortable with getting naked in front of him; A strange request normally but not in this job. He said he wanted to go out and have a beer with me sometime, asked if I’d travel half-way around the world for a weekend of paid "fun" with him. I told him my lunch-break was at 6. Inside my mind I was jumping for joy, reasons unclear but I remember liking him a lot after all was said and done and wanting to spend as much time with him as I could. He had charm, he had wit, he was honest and fun and his motivations could not have been sexual in any way considering the circumstances. We were both there on the job; his was artistry, to build, to create. His job was to take our ordinary bodies and make them into extravagant and extraordinary expressions of mood, Our job was to invoke feelings in our clientele such that they would return and would pay more. That lunch-break came and I was so excited I could barely contain myself. I left the asylum and sat on a barrel at the front door eating my turkey sandwich. (I know it doesn't make sense, it's not supposed to.) I was so nervous he wouldn't show, but sure enough out of the crowd emerged that hansom brunette and he had with him a gaggle of other people I simply couldn't pay attention to or see. I remember them only because I remember thinking to myself: "Huh! He has people with him... Of course he has people with him, I'd follow him too if I could!" We went back to the break room where it was unlikely we would have had to deal with anyone else. We tried to talk, but another employee kept badgering him; so eventually we went outside to chat some more. Blood pouring from my face we discussed everything we could think of from board-games to movies to people-watching. Long story short (too late! [a reference to the movie Clue if you must know]) he said he'd drive me home that night (I'd gotten a ride to work that evening with the two afore-mentioned friends whom had accompanied me to the “auditions”) and I could hardly wait for the day to end. I went back to work and was so loony with joy that my co-workers couldn't stand me... Well, it’s not like they could stand me before, hence the straight-jacket and the blood. But with a bottle of tequila stashed in a corner slowly disappearing, and with young corruptible minds coming through constantly, the night flew by. Still one of my favourite moments was when I lost my head only to jump over the fence after it. The screams and the fun! I was pacing and smiling, talking to myself... the boss came by and asked if I’d been drinking… I answered yes, and he said “good it’s help your character!” I sipped more and in the crowd not far behind him came that man. I was just so nervous that I could barely focus. They all liked it though, crazy seems to work for me. So when he came through I frolicked up to him in my straight-jacket and planted such kiss between his neck and his cheek that we both took a step back. Looking at each other we smiled and I said unwittingly: "Did I really just do that?" I was staring off into the almost tangible thought hovering in the air beside him. I shrugged my shoulders and skipped away, off to corrupt another young and impressionable mind. Sober as a button I was happy as a lark. Apparently, so was he. So that night my girls were tired but they came with me to meet him in Italian: the loft-style preparation and break-room. We all chatted for a bit and I told the girls to go home; they were obviously tired and he'd agreed to give me a ride home. Nervous and anxious I sat there on the couch, staring at my phone thinking "What am I getting myself into?" I turned the phone off, then turned it back on then off again then on again… I called an old friend of my, no answer, and I waited, considering what might happen that night, I decided I felt comfortable. When I climbed into his white jeep I glanced about and could not help but feel slightly awry at the amount of tools and random bits contained there. His vehicle was a wood-workers dream; trust me I dream about it still... And as I sat there I thought about how I was either awfully dumb or awfully smart for putting myself into the situation I was in. Alone, at night with a strange man I'd only spent a grand total of under an hour with. It was nearing midnight as we pulled into the fast-food joint by my place. A couple of chocolate milk-shakes and a couple of burgers later we arrived at my door, food in hand resolved to chat for a bit about anything we could. We spent six hours together that night. We chatted up a storm and found that we had so very much in common. We asked each other prying questions and were comfortable with delving into each other's minds. We opened up to each other and answered questions I found out later, that neither of us had ever really told about before. Moreover, we really enjoyed the company and the mind of one another and as we talked we fell more and more for each other. He stayed the whole night, we talked. We played a version of twenty-questions, though it was more like loaded questions. We became aware of so many intimate details about one another and it was wonderful. Sitting there in my favourite chair, he beckoned me to him and as I sat on his lap we kissed, it was passionate, deep, meaningful... Perfect. When he had to leave that morning, we both longed to stay together longer. We had done nothing more than kiss and talk that night, thought the option had come up. We swapped contact info and for the next month or so we continued to play our version of "twenty-questions" over e-mails. Learning more and more about each other we were attached to our e-mails and we were both enthralled by each other. When he came back to town I was ecstatic. I was so over-run with excitement that I broke a sledge-hammer, as he puts it, beating the crap out of a car. Four days and three dates later, after talking about death and how funny it was that I was in a straight-jacket when we first started getting to know each other... he proposed. So there I was, bound in a straight-jacket, chains and a collar, a bottle of Tequila in one hand and a severed head in another staring at that man thinking "oh my god! He actually thinks this... is romantic!" Strangely, I did too and we both still do.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Random Thoughts on love

When a person falls in love it is a state of being which is no different than aggrivated insanity. The only notable difference between the two, Insanity and love is that love is legal. I've been in love such that I've been unfortunate enough to count myself as one of the unfortunately unlucky ones to have "fallen in love" and to have become enlightened by it. It is a place in the heart where your soul tells you that it is perfectly ok to lie, to dream. Where deviation from the norm is in fact normal. The only natural state of which people pursue learning about. As if it weren't something serious enough there are those who joke about people who are... A state of being where every rule both does and does not apply all at once. You can show me any stable argument, and definite decision about love itself, and it can be proven untrue. Love in this way is ever fleeting. Chance is a large factor in all things which are life altering. Ask yourself "who am I with now?" and then think if you had been a year older... would you still be where you are now, even if you were the same person? We are who we are for what we think and what we believe in. Our convictions have not only shaped ourselves, but also influence everyone we touch in our time. Now what of the inpact even a single loved one can have.

Friday, February 10, 2006

Inner Voices

Still can't get my thoughts together on the assignment so I'm skipping to this for a little bit, I'll go back to that when I have the mental capacity for it.
Meanwhile I'll free-write on what's going on in my mind... Fair warning, that's a scary and sociopathic place.
~Should I tell them? No! No I shouldn't tell them! They've really no right to know! And besides who cares for Honesty anymore? It's all about benefit, gain... and the like. Who got what from whom, How to get more, how to better another.
:But I do! I Care for Honesty... remember Shannon? Honesty is Policy! You live by that one! Those scum-bags might be slobs of people, mockeries of human decency, but that's not you! No!
~To Hell it ain't! Anymore I've learned to play their game!
~You pride yourself on being always better even if it landed you in a worse spot. ~You're in a bit of a pickle, you don't really have much to go off of other than the fact that at least you stuck to your values... Honesty is policy my friends Honesty Is Policy!!!
:Like anyone will ever know?!
~We're telling them now aren't we?
:No, We're performing, it's all a lie and an act. And a bad one at that!
~Keep telling yourself that darling and someday one of us won't know the truth anymore.
:Just like you and your little lies?
~Don't you dare drag those into this!
:Oh Ho!? Little miss goody two-shoes has shame after all. You regret it don't you
~No! And neither do you I suppose?
:No.
~So we're agreed neither of us will honestly answer each other even.
:...
~But what if they ask... You know, You have to tell them if they ask... It's in the contract we signed.
:What contract? Oh... right... that one. Don't remind me.
~SO What do we do now Brain?
:Same thing we do every night Pinky...
~Oh now don't start that again… and besides… sitting on the roof with a gun and silencer will not fix this particular problem.
:It's worked before.
~And???... What do you suppose we do? Kill them? Then what happens Genius?
:... It worked before
~... You've got that kind of option here hmmm?
:I see your point.
~So what do we do then Einstein
:Hey! Don't take his name in Vein! The poor slave rest his soul!
~You're avoiding.
:I Know.
~...
:Ok ok... Look... We'll just agree to avoid the whole subject and argue about it and imply about a murder that never happened instead... How's that sound? It'll chew up 30 minutes, no one ever has to know where the body is because we won't mention it. We'll get vicious and nasty and end it either in a big fight where it looks like my struggling sub-conscious is about to rip itself apart... or we'll end it in agreement... Sound like a plan?
~...
:Agreed?...
~...
:Ass-hole!
~Prick!
:That's the spirit! But what about Tim, you know you can't keep ignoring the fact that he wants you.
~Shut up, you know this is going right back to what we both want to avoid!
:But on a more serious note, what are you going to do about him?
~Well mentioning the obvious is the very topic I at least intend to avoid. I say we stuff him in a duffle bag and keep him in the closet with the midget dom until he agrees to behave.
:You and I both know he'd enjoy that.
~Good point.
:So how do we shove away the man who likes to be shoved?
~Same thing you do with all their types, it's worked before with him.
:Anth too.
~Exactly.
:So We play the game, lure him in and be infatuated? It seems such a risky thing to do! I don't want him (neither do you) and I certainly don't want him thinking he has even a shadow of a chance.
~Risky as it may be, consider: 1. You have a very good set of breaks on you and every intention of using them, 2. It's what works with his type, and 3. Worse comes to worse you could beat the shit out of him if he got too pushy... Face it Babe, you're a lot tougher than you look.
:I secede.
~You ass-hole, you know I know better than you play on words!
:…
~So we are in agreeance?
:Regretfully.
~Good! And look at that, It's five o'clock. 30 mins is up!
:Have fun!
~Love y'all! Bye!

And all those who put up with reading that shit... Don't put another thought in that body. It's not worth looking into... {-D

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Assignment 03

1) Write a brief persuasive essay (5-8 paragraphs) on "Why you can or cannot teach someone how to be a good writer". Include at least one argument from all of the following: the heart, from values, from character, and from reason. You may also include logical fallacies if you think they will be effective in helping you persuade your reader. Identify each "appeal" [argument from... and fallacies] immediately you use it like with brackets and in a different color [like I am doing now]. Be sure to identify your audience before you write your essay. (i.e. Audience: Dr. Malesh OR Audience: The Chronicle of Higher Education OR Audience: My Mother to whom I am explaining why I got a "C" in my writing class).

[Audience: My High School government and Politics Teacher – who would understand the references and arguments presented here.]
You can teach a person to be a good writer you just can’t teach them to be really good. Writing involves a certain amount of intuition and attentiveness to the flow of a piece. If a person cannot tap into that certain creativeness, that artistic truism, then they simply won’ have that edge. Of course one begs to differ that even when one does have that “talent” for lack of a better word, their writing may still be worthless. This is true but it brings the argument back to the original point: Even if a writer is trained to the umpteenth degree, they are unlikely to produce anything that has that extra edge, that spark, the flair, that life because there is one thing that simply cannot be taught and that one thing is a natural in-born talent.
This brings us to our point. A person can be taught to write, they can even be taught to write well but they cannot be taught raw natural talent. Formal training in one’s ability to write and manipulate language in the page consumes roughly one-fifth of a person’s educational life-span. This according to some random statistic I heard as a child and thought about ever since. Even if it’s not true, the implications of such a claim are a formidable enemy to digest. According to this notion, four hours a day – the same time allotment as eating – are spent on writing, grammar, spelling, and the like; every day f a person’s life from about age five to about age twenty-one. It’s no wonder so many rules regulating the page become instinctive. [personal values/conviction] The more interesting fact is that if a person then decided to pursue such avenues in their life’s work they then proceed to double or even triple these commitments. The implication here is that with all this time and effort poured into learning about proper form, style, composition, word-choice, word order, grammer, spelling and so on and so forth, there are bound to be those whose skill with the manipulation of language reaches levels such that their skill may be marked as “unsurpassed.” Indeed great writers can be trained, and their merit shows in their ability to get hired and to get paid.
This however does not count for those who are great writers and had little to no formal training. There are those whose affinity for the written language is what can only be classified as innate. Their ability to compose and to conjure cannot be blamed on years of meticulous training and study. There are those such as Shakespeare who exist in the literary world. They are the writers who possess intuition, creativeness, artistic flair and vision, they have what can only be described as talent, and though many have tried, it is a recognizable difference which cannot be replicated in any semblance of complete form.
[reason] There are those also, speaking of presidential writers, who cannot seem to get it right no matter how many years of training they have. No one will ever measure up to Shakespeare, though many have tried and will continue to. And as educational institutions continue to crank out degree-bearing infants calling themselves writers, the world will continue to idolize the select few “talented” and the few and far between truly genius writers. There will one day be many Michael Gersons (presidential speech writer for Bill Clinton) but there will continue to be few to no Poes.
Even if a writer is trained heavily, dedicates their life to writing better than the rest and obtains degree upon degree, they are unlikely still to produce something which has both precision in it’s form as well as that extra edge that classifies them as having talent because that spark cannot be taught and it is natural in-born talent which is the only thing that separates great from better. [heart] A person can train to be a good writer and that’s the point, it is there that they will stop if the don’t have that passion, that heart. The ability to move people with written words requires this and so much more. [character]It takes dedication and a love of writing to succeed at, and though writing involves intuition and heart. Even if a person can tap into that edge, if they then do not apply themselves to learning proper form, their talent will have been wasted. And of course it comes down to this: What is “talent” without skill, what is skill without talent: worthless. This is true but it brings the argument back to the original point.

Virtuous Carney (in brievity) - needs editing

Here's some editing I did to that carnival paper I wrote, It had to be cut down it 250 words then to 125, then to 50...

The Carney watched the family of three approach and knew what he had to do. And at two hits for a dollar, the parents bought themselves forgiveness for inattentiveness.First shot, I suppose you should understand the game - it operates off a catapult theory, went straight to the ground. Rubber, a catapult and a mallet in the hands of an eight year old amounted to six inches of lift and distance. Second shot straight to the groundA free try followed the first two in suit.“A fourth free shot, but you have to do it my way ok?""ok""Stand just so far back, swing straight up over your head, when you do swing to hit don't forget to keep looking at the target and lean forward, but here's the thing... You see that target?""Uh-huh" "Is there anyone who picks on you, makes you feel bad, doesn't like you? Someone you don't like either?" Watching the light-bulb go off in boys head: " Imaging their face right there on that target. And hit 'em one for me."The parents simply watched as their son brought down that mallet for the fourth time... and sent that rubber catapulting twenty feet across the table. The parents, with looks of embarrassment and hurt stared at their child, at each other... They both put their arm around that boy probably for the first time in his memory and as they walked away they talked to the boy and were for once, concerned about him.

A carnival.First three hits went straight to the ground. Rubber frogs, a catapult, and a mallet. The eight year old could not get much distance. Given a fourth free shot, the boy agreed to do it differently.
"Stand there, swing up over your head, lean forward when you swing, see that target?" “Does anyone picks on you at school? Imagine their face there. Hit 'em hard."The boy hit and sent that frog soaring twenty feet. The parents, looking embarrassed looked at their child, at each other, then put their arm around him and walked away talking to their child. For once, they were concerned about him.

A carnival. Rubber frogs, a catapult, a mallet. Eight year old boy. Free shot. Taught to win.
“See that target?" “You get picked on at school? Imagine their face there. Hit hard."He sent it flying. Parents put their arm around him and walked away talking to him.

Today's lesson: Intolerance is Love

Today's lesson:
Intolerance is love...
Reprimanding a child, insisting they not smoke because it is bad for their health and refusing to let that child do something which is harmful to them is love.
Now here's the thought:
When my mother insisted I think for myself and make my own decisions (good or bad) was that intolerance? No! Does that mean that she didn't love me?
Her not letting me join the drama club, (something which was enjoyable, engaging and beneficial to my disposition as a developing young mind) was this somehow an example of intolerance and love?
Was she an uninformed parent who did not know what this intolerance of the bad, tough love, and the importance of being firm was...
Or did she take it to such an extreme as to think that allowing her chile to engage in public speaking practices at a young age would corrupt her child?
If this was the case...
Why did she take me to the Carnival, drop me off, telling me to go get a job?
Were Carney Folk somehow better than the School's Drama department?

So thinking for myself as she had taught me, in an atmosphere of corruption (entertaining the masses at that) for a paycheck was somehow more agreeable in her mind than learning to be comfortable with the idea of performing as trained to by a federally regulated organization for the recompense of donations to a public institution dedicated to the benefit and betterment and protection of children...

No wonder I'm so screwed up!

Fore-thought and a bus

In my American Literature class today, Professor Peyser mentioned something about children being taught to look both ways before crossing the street.
I reminesced for a moment and thought to myself:
"Look both ways before crossing the street... I looked both ways, I saw the bus comming... Not my fault I got hit."
I think perhaps this explains some things...

For all those who do not have a title option: (like this)

For all those who do not have a title option:
Log in
click on your name
click on "settings" at top
click on "formatting" at top
go down aproxinately nine options to "Show Title field"
Change the option to "yes"
go to the bottom and click "save settings"
at top click "republish" (should be a dark blue button)
You should now have a title option.

Sorry if this seemed almost childish, I write out directions for my computer illiterate mother all the time and simply adopt the format. Don't take it to heart it is an insult to her not to you.
Hope everyone is having fun with this, I know I am.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Virtuous Carney

Seeing as I have an assignment for another class to write about an experience of mine, I might as well draft here. Edit it later.He couldn't stop touching himself, and whenever the girls passed I watched him rub his obscenely large stomach and crane to watch their swaying ass go by. I was there sure, But I'm not the focus of this tale, Neither was he really. Ok well maybe he was, I'm not sure. I was only a bystander, one of many in the passing throngs of crowded together bodies. I simply watched. And here I'll tell you what I saw, it is for you to decide what I saw, because it is that what that this is about. Was this pervert and swindler, this immoral vagabond a corrupter of youth? Or was he a virtuous soul among the world of the traveling dead? I merely saw. You listen.So there he was. He was sort of standing in his booth mostly leaning there. Whistling to himself at every girl who passed, they were all young, and most of them were not pretty but what matter to him? He was a traveling Carney and getting lucky was one of the few pleasures of the job. A new stop a new girl, and if he flattered enough of them eventually someone would play his game. All he could gain from it was cash and all it would cost him 's a few lies. He was a charmer, a swindler, a con, a bastard, shallow and callous. Not that he liked to be or really was that way, it was his job-description. And it was a mask he wore well. The children liked him for his boisterous laughter, the girls liked him for his smile, his breath and his charm, the guys liked him for his women and his hard edge. Even the grand-parents liked him, he had a sweet and honest smile and would often give them free games and good conversations. But he knew how to work that crowd, at least so it seemed because they kept coming back year after year after year. He was even invited to the funerals. Such is the life, when you're such the charmer and so liked, you bear the burden. So it goes...The child, this one in particular, he was passing by with his parents. You know the type, they are never there for the kid, don't pay attention to him, send him off the school in the morning, sit him in front of the TV in the evening feed him and put him to bed at night. Routine parents. Uncaring, inattentive, lacking compassion and most of all missing out on their child. Yeah we all know the type. Bastards...Trying to buy their child's love and seem affectionate they broke the routine and brought him to the big annual Fair. You could see it in the child's eyes, this was a severe digression from the normal routine, and he loved it, starved for attention, a smile from our swindler beckoned the boy in. On the first pass of the booth those shameful half-parents guilted themselves into allowing Jack to play. Jack was the boy you know.And at two hits for a dollar, the parents bought one of the many pardons they sold themselves that night.First shot, I suppose you should understand the game - it operates off a catapult theory, sent that projectile straight to the ground. Rubber a catapult and a mallet in the hands of an eight year old amounted to six inches of lift and distance. No good. After all, to win one needed timing as well as a good six feet. Simple for an eight year old with the affinity or at least and interest in learning and trying.He knew this boy was one of the lost generation, after years of working the crowds over he could tell these things now without even talking to people. So he talked to Jack, Jack needed the attention, he was a growing boy....Second shot straight to the ground"Jack m'boy another shot for the heck of it, you're a sweet boy" (the parents winced at their own faultiness and shame)and try three followed the first two in suit."How 'bout I give you a fourth free shot, that's like having had a whole game for free... How's that sound?""Sure! Please!" well mannered Jack was for having not been raised."Thing is, if I give you the shot you have to do it my way ok?""ok"And truth be told that man walked the kid through step by step how to win that game. For a Carney to tell his secrets is not the amazing part of this tale I assure you, it's what happed in the process that makes one question our intuitive little con's motives. Was it worth it, did he know what he was doing? Of course he did, but the real question to ask, to answer, to think about is "why?""Now Jack, stand just so far back, swing straight up over your head, when you do swing to hit don't forget to keep looking at the target and lean forward, but here's the thing... You see that target?""Uh-huh" he said mallet poised in the air, attention starved eyes burning holes through the big man with the big belly."Is there anyone who bully's you at school, anyone who picks on you, makes you feel bad, anyone who doesn't like you who you don't like?" It was a sight to see; literally watching the light-bulb go off in boys head and at that sight: "Them, Imaging for me, if you will, their face right there on that target. And hit 'em one good one just for me."Glancing at the parents our con shifted hesitantly at the implications of corrupting a under-value-nourished child. The parents didn't seem disturbed by it, they knew something about what he watched on TV at home and the simply watched as their son brought down that mallet for the fourth time... and sent that rubber object catapulting twenty feet across the table. Astonished, ashamed, amazed the parents with looks of embarrassment and hurt stared at their child, then at each other. Jack thanked him for the game and was praised for having such a good athletic set of arms on him. They both put their arm around that boy probably for the first time in his memory and as they walked away the did something our shallow charmer knew would happen or he wouldn’t have given away that game to that child for free, they talked to little Jack and were for once, concerned about what was going on with him. Our Carney smiled, shifted his attention to the next swaying ass to go by and called to the crowd for another pocket to open.
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