A Paraphrasement

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening
A poem by Robert Frost

As I traveled through the woods one dark and snowy evening, I came to realize that they belonged to someone else. Thinking back on it now, I do recall a man who lives in the village that has laid claim to these woods as his own. Hence I am trespassing on private property. He won’t know about it, however, as his house is somewhere in the village; and that is far away from where I am. So he wouldn’t mind (or know) if I stayed a while to watch the woods fill up with snow.

My horse on the other hand is not at peace with my decision. How odd he must think, if horses really do think, it must be for us to have stopped in such an isolated place. There is nothing all around us. No house. No barn. No sign of human civilization other than me and the cart he is pulling on his back. We stand with the forest on one side and the lake on the other; the later being completely frozen over due to the plummet in temperature. It is now the darkest night of the year and dawn is still very far away.

Shaking the bells along his neck, my horse seeks to grab my attention. Had he a voice he might ask, “Why are we stopping here? Are we lost?” For obviously there must be some mistake. The jingling of the bells is a pleasing sound and it is only after my horse stops shaking his powerful neck does the woods revert back into silence. Well, not complete silence, for the forest is never truly without noise. I hear the sweeping sound of the frigid air as it swoops down from the heavens and the soft patter of snowflakes as they fall on my shoulders, neck and head.

Sighing, I take one last look at the splendor around me. These woods are beautiful at night. They are endless, stretching as far as the eye could see and beyond. Their darkness is soothing, almost lulling me to sleep and I wonder should I wander into them how deep do they go and what would I find? But I push these thoughts aside because I have obligations to attend to. My horse is right in pulling me out of my reverie for there is much too much for me at home to even think about loitering. I urge my horse onward and we are gone. It’s still a very long way home but I must keep my promises. There are so many promises I must keep before I can rest.

The Poop

The Potion

The fatal hand had grappled with the mystery of life, and was the bond by which an angelic spirit kept itself in union with a mortal frame. As the last crimson tint of the birthmark -- that sole token of human imperfection -- faded from her cheek, Georgiana began to loose consciousness and then her eyes shot open. She looked into her husband’s eyes as he gazed miraculously at his achievement. The birthmark was gone, and suddenly perfection had been reached. His wife, who was once beautiful, now is the most amazing being on earth. The potion had worked. Aminadab, covered her eyes in disbelief. The sight was too much for her. It was as if her beauty was blinding.
Georgiana stood up, went to see her reflection and let out a shout. She could not believe it, but suddenly every slight imperfection, every wrinkle, every uneven line and color began to fade and her beauty was refined. She became a goddess. Aylmer stood there and could not believe it. His potion is working beyond its measures. They looked at each other and realized they have jut created the most powerful potion in the world.
The townsmen and women began to talk. They noticed that each day that they got older Georgiana stayed young, and Aylmer’s wrinkles began to straighten out. And soon, Aminadab’s back began to elevate and her hair was suddenly long and beautiful. She beautified and evolved into a woman, no one could even recognize her. They thought she had died, and a new woman became Aylmer’s help.
“We have noticed changes. Many changes. Tell us Sir Aylmer what is it, it that is occurring under your roof.” Aylmer laughed hysterically and evilly. The pride began to fill his heart with ecstasy and power. “What it is, that is occurring under my roof you could not believe nor afford. If you want to know, then you must pay for the knowledge. And if you want it to happen to you, you must pay some more.” The townspeople stood by his door and begged. “We will give you our cattle, and our sheep just tell us what it is. What miracles you are stirring in your laboratory.” Aylmer disclosed his information, and the town went wild. They began to compile their riches, their life earnings and trading it in to buy vials of the potion.
Lady Eanrshaw, who was blind and missing teeth and 12 moles, began to look like she was seventeen again. Goodman Christianson’s skin, which was black from the years digging for coal and balding head from old-age, had revitalized itself and he too looked younger and more refined. Everyone in the town became beautiful and young again. The women were flaunting their new found beauties and the men felt younger and more vibrant and socialized more than often. They had sold everything they own, and perhaps they did not have any goods but they had their beauty, and it made them so much happier.
Aylmer and Georgiana became the rules of their town, and when the news spread out of town to the villages nearby, the demand became so high and the price much larger there was years of waiting for people to be able to acquire the position. This new found miracle, however, soon was found to be a curse.
Georgiana woke up one morning and felt ill, by the afternoon she fell to the ground and her soul departed. People all over the town began to pass. Aylmer died. Aminadab’s soul has shriveled as well. After two years of striking beauty, the entire town had disintegrated. No one had lived. The dying need to be beautiful had killed three villages over one week.

*Story inspired by Hawthorne's "the Birthmark"

Finding Oz

Sofy Dzhanashvili
04/30/09
English 211W
Professor Henkle


Finding Oz
Many, many things can be found over a rainbow: munchkins, a wizard, some witches, imagination, a scarecrow, a tin woodman, psychedelics, a cowardly lion, a girl with red shoes and a dog named Todo.
"As they passed the rows of houses they saw through the open doors that men were sweeping and dusting and washing dishes, while the women sat around in groups, gossiping and laughing.”

Dorothy hugged her dog tightly and led out a soft sigh. No, this was no longer Kansas. Here, everything worked differently: lessons were learned through adventure, witches always came defined as either very good or very evil, lions were cowardly (but they eventually found their courage, of course) and all problems could be solved by closing your eyes and meeting an all-knowing wizard in the Emerald City.
"…and the next moment all of them were filled with wonder. For they saw, standing in just the spot the screen had hidden, a little old man, with a bald head and a wrinkled face, who seemed to be as much surprised as they were."

And he seemed as though he really knew what he was talking about. Did you hear? The wicked witch could be conquered by the power of belief. Quite the solution. Dorothy tapped her heels to the simplicity.
"The Scarecrow watched the Woodman while he worked and said to him "I cannot think why this wall is here nor what it is made of." "Rest you brains and do not worry about the wall," replied the Woodman, "when we have climbed over it we shall know what is on the other side.”

The one they had to follow was yellow. Miles and miles of yellow brick road stretched ahead of them, and Dorothy and her optimistic pals walked each step with delightful conviction, firmly believing in the rainbow that stood waiting at the end of the path. All that was needed was some endurance, perhaps, just the right amount faith. On the way, the Scarecrow wanted to get a brain, the Tin Woodman a heart, and the Cowardly Lion, courage, and they found all these things and repeated to themselves "the road to the City of Emeralds is paved with yellow brick." Red sparkling shoes, magic, a road and a few silly friends.
""Scarecrow: I haven't got a brain... only straw.
Dorothy: How can you talk if you haven't got a brain? Scarecrow: I don't know... But some people without brains do an awful lot of talking... don't they? Dorothy: Yes, I guess you're right.""

They kept walking. Not one of them stopped to reference a map or to ask a polite stranger for directions, for that was just utterly ridiculous to do in Oz, where there is a yellow-brick road and one may completely live off of fairy-dust and the amusing entertainment of munchkins. It was delusional, perhaps, but it was shared, so Dorothy firmly knew it was reality.
"'That proves you are unusual,' returned the Scarecrow; 'and I am convinced that the only people worthy of consideration in this world are the unusual ones. For the common folks are like the leaves of a tree, and live and die unnoticed.'"

Till today, they continue on their journey. You can watch them, walking towards this or that sunrise and glowing with passion, the pack of them: Todo, as jolly as can be; the lion, growing more courageous each day; the scarecrow, shocking all with his intellect, the tinman, with his heart of pure, pure gold, and Dorothy, magical Dorothy, her red heels never shinier, never more perfectly sparkling in the bask of the sunlight. She continues on, always believing “there is no place like home” and that she really is heading (somewhere) over the rainbow and that bluebirds fly and no, she never stops, never stops believing and never stops skipping in optimistic glee and wizards and magic and sparkling shoes and “there is no place like home, there is no place like home” and there, there she is spinning and spinning into miles and miles of endless yellow pavement.
"Roads," observed the shaggy man, "don't go anywhere. They stay in one place, so folks can walk on them.""

Quack for a dollar

To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

I am writing because it was the right time. This is the 3rd straight night I saw the same duck in my dream. I am confused, I wanted to find out what it meant seeing ducks all the time. Just last night I saw a duck that was white with a yellow beak. I named the duck, I don’t know why I named it but maybe my dreams will be more apprehensible if I name the duck. Langer the duck kept on jumping a white fence and running around in this Victorian style farm house. I have never been to a farm house nor did I ever touch a duck in my life; the avian flu scares me. This white duck constantly keeps on reappearing in my dream. I’m not scared of the duck, but it keeps on reappearing. It must mean something, should I go to a farm house or try to find this duck somewhere?

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

I had this dream about my past, I was running around a lake; I saw this girl duck that always flew by the lake around Corona Park. I nicknamed that duck Ophelia. The duck was coated with orange fur with white spots in the middle of her belly and left eye. She was very friendly, and every time my father would quack at me, I would find the duck around the same spot. Even if I hadn’t seen her for days, the next time I would see her, she still remembered me. Ophelia always walked around the lake eating something off the ground. I always would bring some bread to give to her. I like feeding that duck; it was relaxing. That vexing quack, quack, quack was arithmetically hypnotizing my mind.

And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks

I think the ducks around the lake in Corona are trying to tell me something. I cannot get any sleep at night. I could hardly focus on anything. Maybe the ducks are telling me that it is better to fly and wander around for nothing. Just last week, I had this dream about not getting accepted to a Quacktacular University. I had this dream about being 30 without a degree and just lying on the street corner begging for money or food. Whenever someone would pass by I would say “Quack for a dollar” “Quack for a dollar”. Sometimes I just want to sleep. Sleeping makes me feel so good. I want to sleep like the ducks in the lake, just floating and closing their eyes effortlessly. I don’t have to worry about taking care of a kingdom, revenge, working, thinking, aspiring. For however long I sleep at night, my mind is at rest. I don’t have to dream about anything; just a blank space in my head. Just last week, I slept at 11pm on Saturday and I woke up at 5 pm in the afternoon. Once I woke, up my anxieties began to take over me. This ghost kept on Quacking in my ears; quack this and quack that.

That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub

I saw my dad the other day on the street. I began to wonder what he was doing. He never liked just walking around without quacking about some misfortune. He hated the hustle and bustle of the common quacks, the common quacks were insignificant to him. We ran into each other, I didn’t say hi nor did he say anything back to me, all he kept on saying was Quack this and you must do this Quack for your father. I began to wonder if he is healthy. Is anything wrong with him? Then I just said who the fuck cares about old man Quackers. When did you guys become strangers? I think it was right after my mother died. I moved to the City to find a stable education about how to run a Quack empire. My father stayed at home and he got quacked by his brother…

Hyde

Westley Chow
April 30, 2009

Hyde
“Why did you have to go and do that? Why?” Deep from the inside, he speaks, “Why shouldn’t I have trampled over that little girl back there in the street? She was staring at me the entire time I was walking up the block. Either get out of my way or face the consequences. There’s nothing wrong with what I did, it was HER fault. I’ll do it again too if you keep resisting me.”
I can’t believe what I’ve become: a cruel, remorseless, evil demon hidden within the confines of this body. What will happen if people find out about you? They’ll throw us in prison or into a cage and hold us captive at the Asylum. I need to stay away from everyone before you cause any more trouble. The chambers, we’ll go down there till you calm down a bit and go to sleep. “You know as well as I do that it feels so good to let me out and claim what is mine! You’ve been stepped on your entire life, and I’ll take back what’s yours. What’s OURS! You’ve become a feeble weakling, walking in the shadows of others. You even crumble at the feet of your fiancée’s father. Maybe we should find him tonight and take care of the situation…” “No, Stop! You can’t! That’s wrong! Please get out of my head. You’re sick!”
Zealously walking back to the loft in Soho, I can feel his force inside me. He is mysterious, lusting, and violent in nature. I must keep him a secret from others at all costs, even though day by day, I can feel him growing in power deep within me.


Dear Dr. Hastie Lanyon,
Every day I wake up in fear, fear that has haunted me all my life. Even as a child, I heard his voice in the inner recesses of my mind. Always clawing at me incessantly, trying to convince me to do things that I don’t want to do, violent things: choking and bashing the bully in grade school, pillaging the town, abusing women, all so violent. Yesterday he made me trample over a little girl in the street without hesitation. He’s growing stronger inside me and I can’t control what he makes me do. The only way I know how to deal with him is to just embrace him. He calls himself Edward, Edward Hyde.
I’m writing this letter because you as a friend and doctor can understand when I say I don’t know what will happen next. My life began to go awry when I reached the pinnacle of my research. I’ve created a solution to stimulate the release of testosterone in humans. When taken, physical attributes such as speed, strength, power, muscular hypertrophy, aerobic and anaerobic capacity are all multiplied two maybe even threefold. There has never been research on this type of synthetic androgen, so therefore I am the very first test subject. I fear that I may be overdosing on the formula and suffering from the side effects. Consuming the solution brings about a deep ferocious devouring rage. It brings him out. Still, I must move into the next phase of research. I presume that injecting the formula will have a faster absorption rate and stronger effect than consuming it.
I may not come back from this one. If you receive this letter, presume that I am dead and that Hyde has taken over. Do not take the formula.
Your Friend,
Dr. Henry Jekyll

The Letter

To my dearest Noah,

I am writing you this letter to tell you something that I think will change our lives completely. Knowing how my parents are infuriated with me, and want me to move away in an attempt to separate us, I have decided that I am not going to leave. I sat down with them last night and we talked for hours. It was a late night of arguing, talking and even yelling but I have convinced them to let me stay. There is nothing more in this whole entire world that I wish for more than to stay here with you. I have lived here my entire life and I do not want to go away, and now that you have come into my life, that is even more of a reason why I do not want to get sent away. It just would not be fair for my parents, the two people that gave me life and are supposed to love me most, to force me to leave just to keep me away from you because that is what they believe is for the best. I told them that I will just not have that. Through my tears, I told them how we met and how every moment since then that I have spent with you has felt like Heaven on Earth. You have showed me what love is and in such a short amount of time. You have made me feel as if I am the most special girl in the universe, and you have opened my
eyes to new things. Without you in my life, everything would be pointless. If I leave who will read poetry to me, who will I make love to, who will be there to make me feel the way that I do ? I asked my mother, how would you have felt and what would you have done if your parents have forbidden you from seeing dad ? She did not know how to respond to that and knew that I had a valid point. And I asked my father, how he thought, you Noah, would feel if the only girl youhave ever loved and brightened up your days were to leave and you were to possibly never see her again ? He, too just looked away without saying a word. They both knew that I was right. They know that I am a smart girl, soon to be woman, and that I am responsible and wise enough to make my own decisions. Noah Calhoun, you are the reason why I breathe, the reason why I
love waking up each morning, the reason that I love life. When you hold me in your arms it is like all my worries disappear and all I know is you and how you make me feel. If you were to ask me one thing that I would change about you, I would be speechless. You are all that I have ever wanted, yet more than I had ever imagined existed. I am confident in us that when you finish reading this letter you will have tears in your eyes just like I do while I am writing this. But I know for a fact, that they will be tears of joy, happiness, and relief. I know that we were both very frightened when my parents were sending me away, but now all is well. I am proud to know you, ecstatic to be with you and grateful to have you as my one and only. I know that you feel the same and that things will continue to be as wonderful as they have been this past summer that we have spent together. I promise to not break your heart, and I hope and pray that you will not break mine. I am looking forward to our future together, and I just want to say one more thing before I end this long letter. I thank you for all that you are and all that you have made out of me. I love you, I have loved you since the moment I have met you, and I will love you for as long as I shall live.

Yours Truly,

Allie Nelson

Romeo and Juliet

As the capulets left the church where their sweet Juliet lay dead, to their knowledge, her parents still couldn't understand the unexpected death. They leave in their black limos, which should have been white since it was the day she was supposed to be married. Her so called fiance was devestated, for his sweet Juliet was no longer going to be his bride.

As hours went by, Romeo awaited till he was ready to see his deceased bride. He knew that at that moment he saw her it was going to be his last because he was not going to live without her, as he promised in his vows. He had already been banished for his actions of killing Juliets cousin, so death was upon him. He no longer cared to live if he couldn't live by Juliets side.

On his way to the church he was taking percautions so he would not be seen by anyone, yet he knew there was a search party awaiting him. He didn't care and all that mattered was to see his Juliet.

As he ran through the church doors, the police were seen chasing him. He was safe once the doors closed, as he continued his path to his love. The candles surrounding the aisle and where she lay made her seem more vibrant and beautiful as he neared. It made his decision for death even easier as he took out his poison as he layed next to her. He placed his lips uopon hers for their last kiss. The poison was raised to his lips and at that moment Juliet awoke. Romeo instantly drops the poison on the floor and froze instantly. Tears came down Juliets face as she explained to him what she did. He held her in his arms for he coudn't believe what she had done for them.

Suddenly there were knocks at the door, the police were trying to come in to get Romeo. With no time to spare Romeo grabbed Juliet, and they escaped through the back entrance of the church just in time. As the police came through the doors, they found no one in the church, and they realized the empty bed. Once they saw this, they notified the capulets of what they had seen. At that moment they knew Romeo had taken her.

The Capulets and the Monticules were called to the church to be notified of what had happened. In shock of the news that both of their children had disappeared, they came to realize that they had run off together. After all these years of their families hating each other, they saw the love Romoe and Juliet had for each other, over powered what they thought. The agreed to put everything aside, and settle their differences for the sake of their children.

Romeo and Juliet vanished away from everyone. Not ever knowing what their parents had decided to do when they found out the news, they never returned. They continued on their life together, for no one else mattered but each other.

Her Last Words

It is a beautiful, sunny Monday here at Villebrumeuse, a city just outside of Brussels, Belgium. Monsieur Val walks into his office like any other morning to read his patients’ files then begins his round of visits to each patient. Monsieur Val specializes in mental illness, insanity to be more specific. Insanity is not out of the ordinary for Monsieur Val to treat, but he has a particular patient, Madame Taylor, who is just plainly untreatable. Can that even be possible, to have an untreatable patient? Monsieur Val has had Madame Taylor for some time now with very meager progress, and he’s not surprised….with her past.

Monsieur Val steps into Madame Taylor’s room for her therapy session. It is always on the same day and time, Monday at 10 am. Madame Taylor asks “Good Morning, Monsieur Val. It’s such a beautiful morning, too beautiful to be stuck between these four walls. May we go out to the park and absorb some sunny rays?” Monsieur Val says “We may go out to our garden if you like. But you know that going out to the park is totally out of the question.” She answers “The garden would be sufficed then” with such despair in her tone.

Monsieur Val wants to try a new approach to Madame Taylor’s remedy. He asks her to write down anything she has thought about from her previous life before arriving to Belgium. It made Madame Taylor very pensive, but she responded in “Monsieur Val, I rather not go to that place. Although with this beautiful garden, I am still in a dark place, just as dark as the previous life I had before Belgium.” Monsieur Val asked, “But isn’t there anyone or anything you wish to have seen our touched”, and Madame Taylor asked for a piece of paper and pen and said “Will this letter be delivered?” in which he responded “If you wish.”

My Dear Little Georgie,
Do I even have the right to call you such a thing? No I don’t. You probably have no recollection of me, being that I was too consumed in my own world to have even bothered to let you into it. I would love to say that I did the best I could with you, after being left by your father. But you and I know that isn’t true either.
I would really love to say that all of my previous actions were for your benefit but I cannot. I was and continue to be consumed with myself and my own world. It may be hereditary, my selfishness, or it may not. The possibility for you to catch this inferior trait is very minimal, now that I am away from your existence, which in a way makes me very happy and relieved. The possibility for you to become a gentleman has far more greater chances and I would like to believe that my departure has something to do with it. For that I can only thank your Uncle Robert. This will be the only time will ever thank Robert, or any other Audley at that.
Your memories, awful ones, may come to haunt you from time to time. My only suggestion is that you try to remove all awful memories I have caused. Your life is now full of pristine position and opportunities. I only ask that you do not have ill feelings for me but rather thank me for how your destiny is now and will continue to be. I am Madame Taylor now, Helen Talboys died when your father disappeared and Lucy Audley died when brought to Brussels. Take care now and take advantage of your privilege.
Always,
Madame Taylor

Monsieur Val never sent the letter to little Georgie Talboys for his best interest. Madame Taylor suspected that the letter wasn’t sent. She didn’t want reconciliation from her son, only recognition. Recognition that thanks to her, little Georgie Talboys life is now privileged.

Step-kin

When Cinderella’s father died, the land he owned and all of his other belongings went straight to his new wife, Cinderella’s step mother. She was a kind woman who had two well-behaved, smart daughters, Drizella and Anastasia. They were especially excited to move into the new, rather large home because they would be gaining a lot more than just a larger house, but a new step sister too. Cinderella, Drizella and Anastasia became quite close, almost inseparable. They helped their mother around the house with the cooking and cleaning and when they were done with their household duties, they went off into the gardens and played.
As the years passed, all three girls became quite pretty and grew into mature young women ready to be married, as it was common in those days to marry your daughter off as soon as she came into her teenage years. Anastasia was the first one to fall in love. His name was William and she knew she loved him the moment they laid eyes on one another. They met one day in the King’s courtyard and spent everyday together.
Drizella, however, had no interest in finding love. She was more independent and wanted to make something of herself besides a petty little house wife for a man. She did however love her sisters’ happiness and wanted nothing more than to see those two get married.
Cinderella, although she was the most beautiful of them all, had a little trouble finding a man and holding onto him. She was quite the little run around within their town. She would be dating five men at a time; she even tried to convince the Grand Duke to take a chance on her. Her step-mother saw this as a phase and never really said much or did much about it. She was more concerned for Anastasia’s happiness and future. Then it happened, William asked Anastasia to be his wife.
One day, Cinderella became so extremely jealous over her sister’s proposal and happiness, that she decided to gussy herself up and head over to the courtyard while her sisters were out looking for that special wedding dress. While in the courtyard, Cinderella spotted William and proceeded towards him with malice in her heart. She flirted awhile and batted her long black eyelashes but nothing worked. He just seemed uninterested in her; “How could he not be interested in me?” she thought. She pressed against him as a last resort so he could feel her large perky bosoms against his sculpted chest, and went in for the kiss.
William was so startled he didn’t know what to do. When Cinderella pulled back from him, in the distance three shadowy figures stood. To her surprise, it was Anastasia, Drizella and her step mother. Acting as if she was the one who was violated, Cinderellla slapped William in his face and told him to get away from her. Anastasia threw her ring in William’s face and turned to her step sister and said “I’ll never forgive you for this and for as long as I am your step sister, I will make your life a living hell”.
The stress of the situation caused Anastasia to gain weight and completely lose her perfect figure which put a damper on her finding love ever again. Drizella, who became so enraged at the situation, developed stress wrinkles and became overly bitter towards everyone and everything. Cinderella’s step mother just plainly became impossible to live with and turned into this evil, manipulative bitch who devoted every waking moment to tormenting her step daughter.
Cinderella in turn, became the maid of the house and didn’t mind it so much because she knew how wrong she was and the pain she caused her family was unforgivable. She developed friends among her pets and animals around her home and never disobeyed or got in the way of her family’s happiness ever again; until she met Prince Charming.

10:15, Mr. Pilgrim

Jonathan Cavalieri
English 211W
Prof Henkle
April 30th, 2009
10:15, Mr. Pilgrim
For a while Billy had been certain that they were right, everything is predetermined and there isn’t a thing to be done about it. He also wondered why people found it hard to believe the things that were so plainly obvious to himself. Lastly Billy couldn’t figure out why, after all the events he had witnessed, and relived, had this moment not been shown to him.
Billy sat cross legged in the stiff leather chair waiting for the silence to be broken. The room was stiflingly plain, four walls and two chairs. In between the chairs lay a round coffee table, perhaps put there for a barrier though Billy.
“Mr. Pilgrim, your family made the appointment because they’re concerned about you. Your daughter in particular told me that you’ve convinced yourself that you can travel through time.” Billy cleared his throat,“it’s easy to be convinced of things that have happened to you” The doctor, a bearded man of around sixty, wrote a few notes in his clipboard and then looked at Billy. “Mr. Pilgrim, what is Tralfamadore?”. “Tralfamadore”, Billy went on, “is the planet that they take me to and place me on exhibit at a zoo.” “They? Who’s they?” Billy answered plainly, “The Tralfamadorians” “Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough, who are the Tralfamadorians?” With a sigh of frustration Billy reiterated that the Tralfamadorians are extraterrestrials that appear to humans in the shape of an upright toilet plunger with a hand atop and that they have kidnapped him and brought him to their planet,Tralfamadore, and put on exhibition at the local zoo. “I see, tell me more about this zoo?
Billy explained that Montana Widhack is not only a famous actress on earth, but also shares a cage with him at the zoo.
“What is her purpose there?” asked the doctor. “She is my mate, they keep her there for me, and I get to couple with her” replied Billy.
The doctor reached into his front coat pocket and pulled out a square white pad. He clicked the top of his pen and swiftly jotted down a few lines. “Mr. Pilgrim, if you really expect me to believe that aliens who can see in four dimensions brought you to another planet and placed you in an isolated cage with a beautiful actress in order for you to be her mate than I’m afraid you haven’t become unstuck in time, as you say, but unstuck mentally. I have no choice but to commit you an psychiatric faculty for an indefinite amount of time. I’m afraid that my only suggestion to you, which can only be taken in hindsight of course, would be not to have spoken a word of this to anyone.”
Billy sat defiantly in his chair absorbing the doctors conclusion. He uncrossed his legs, straightened his tie and waiting patiently to be unstuck from this moment in time.

The children were madly infuriatingly happy in the nursery. They danced, beat drums and sang. Mother, father and Nana were an apt audience for their glee. What was lost had come home again and an almost unhealthy joy pervaded the room. The lost boys were welcomed with open arms and were declared no longer lost. The treasure that accompanied this merry party was disregarded and had been kicked (quite by accident) into a corner of the room.
Peter Pan watched all this from the window, his toes several inches above the ledge, and an odd sort of smile on his face. It was not a smile of happiness or satisfaction of a job well done, in fact it wasn’t really a smile at all. It was an expression of uncertainty that faded when he bared his teeth... becoming an expression of jealousy. All those that had been his friends had abandoned ship readily, Wendy too. Had she forgotten already? Standing there in the protective circle of her mother’s arms she looked sweet and content in her bedraggled nightgown; laughing gentle laughter at the boys’ antics. Peter was so full of longing that he felt he would explode, unable to budge he just stayed and watched for hours.
Tinkerbell became increasingly anxious, all her pinching and buzzing in front of his eyes was completely ignored. She knew Peter better than anything else in the world and sensed that his weakness was about to become his downfall.
Peter entered the nursery at midnight (when he could no longer contain himself) and the eldest of the room raised their heads to watch. While most of the boys had fallen asleep Wendy had stayed up with her parents to speak of their adventures, John occasionally threw in a word but was drifting off as well. Silence had never been so loud...until Wendy ran to him, taking his hands in hers she whispered “Have you come to stay?”
And he had.
Years passed. The Darlings moved to a much larger home, the boys all succeeded in one way or another, becoming useful members of society. Peter threw himself into this brand of life just as recklessly as he had thrown it away years before. He surpassed the others quickly because of his gnawing hunger to be first and the best, the need had never left him. Wendy was courted but her suitors always mysteriously stopped calling, and when spotted around town were always reported to have bruises and swelling. She had been his from the beginning, he had wanted her first and Peter had no qualms about protecting his possessions.
Tink would come to the house every night at first to see if Pan had changed his mind. Her visits slowed before stopping altogether. She had seen the couple in sleep, Peter’s arm clutched around a growing Wendy, her face pale even in the relaxation accompanying slumber. Tinkerbell understood that it was too late for him now but not for her.
When the child was born Peter looked into the baby’s small red face and felt not pride but something else. He looked at his wife and saw her joy but no matter how hard he tried he could not feel the same. They were children no longer and this baby was proof of that. Peter felt a dawning horror and hated Wendy for it. He hated his child for anchoring him and most of all he hated his life. He felt hunger for travel and tree hammocks and embittered battles. He began to sit by the window every night to watch for his faerie while Wendy cried herself to sleep.
At last one night what was thought to be a star journeyed closer and closer. Peter, squinting, recognized his long lost companion. He stood, knees popping, and spared a last look at the bed. Wendy met his eyes, dull realization draining her, she gave a nod then turned to the wall. Disappointment overcame Peter, he had looked forward to some sort of battle at the end, but his wife was not going to give him further satisfaction.
Facing the window once more panic overwhelmed Peter. Where was his faerie? The light had disappeared! Lips soundlessly repeating 'no, no, no,' he yanked the window up with quivering hands and leaned out into the night.
There! Tink was entering through the nursery, just like old times, confusing little Michael's room for his. Peter hurried out to the hall to catch her before she made a mistake, behind him he could hear Wendy's frantic footsteps as well, perhaps there would be a fight after all.
Flinging open the door Peter stopped dead at what he saw. The chubby cheeked four year old he despised was making the same choice Pan had made decades earlier. Tink and the boy were hovering at the open balcony doors, preparing for flight. “Why not me?” Was Peter's question, standing limply, understanding finally that there would be no great escape from the choices he had made.
The faerie did not deign to answer, or if she did Peter could no longer understand the language. The duo left just as Wendy skidded to a halt behind her husband, they left with her screams ringing out behind them, they left Peter to what was his.

Holden

So I had to go away for a little while again, on account of the fact that I was pretty out of sorts a couple months back. This time, the place was actually all right. The food wasn’t too hot and there weren’t any girls that you would want to neck with, but there wasn’t a single phony in sight, unless you count the doctors. After all, everyone else in that place was nuts, as real as you can get. The doctors didn’t actually want to hear what you said or anything. Mostly they just wanted to hear themselves talk. But a strange thing happened to me this time. The last time I came out here to relax, all I could think about was how crumby everyone was, but in the end I just ended up missing everybody. Even old Stradlater and Ackley. But this time, I did some real thinking. I guess I grew up or something.
In the first place, the only person who came to visit me was my brother D.B. In the past, I was always on him about how he’s prostituting himself, writing for the movies. School in September didn’t work out for me. I went to this Catholic joint on the Upper West Side, since prep school is lousy for me. Anyway, I was still feeling lonely on account of telling things and missing everybody and then having to come out here again. So this time when D.B. came to visit, I actually listened to what he had to say. I found myself listening to a lot of things people said. The doctors were phonies, but it didn’t mean that they didn’t have some valid points to make. For instance they’re always telling me that there’s a difference between hearing and listening, and I really got that this time.
Mostly D.B. talked about writing and how even though he knew it made him a big phony, he couldn’t help but feel proud when people wanted to make his words into movies. I figured that made sense. If I wrote a bunch of great stories with things to say and people noticed, I would want to tell as many people as I could. Writing for the movies didn’t really change D.B. He was still my big brother, and he was a pretty decent guy, coming to visit me even though I was a real snob the last time I was out here. He would always bring me stuff to read and some decent food to eat. We even talked about Allie and how he got leukemia, and about that goddamn baseball glove with the writing on it. We even talked about that. To tell you the truth, it felt good to talk about that kind of stuff, and it made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t felt since I was about ten years old or something.
When I get out of here in a couple weeks, I’m going to be on my game. I’ve missed a lot of school. I don’t think I’m going to really apply myself too much or anything, but I will show up, which is more than I can say I did in the past. I have to stay really sharp because like it or not, Phoebe is going to be growing up, and I have to be around to make sure she doesn’t go out with any phonies, although I’ve found most phonies are just covering up for something else, like not being sure of themselves or something. Sure there are a lot of things about growing up that aren’t too hot, but if I never grew up I wouldn’t know D.B. the way I do now or know why Jane keeps her kings in the back row. There are actually a lot of things about being a kid that aren’t too hot, either, like you don’t understand anything that’s going on around you or that’s happened in your life. You can’t erase all the fuck’s in the world so little kids won’t see. Phoebe’s always been a pretty smart kid, so there’s no stopping her from finding out. A lot of people will be disappointed to hear me say this because I got to be some kind of goddamn role model for all this madman stuff, but the truth is that all that Peter Pan nonsense about not growing up is bullshit. I’m still the same person. I’m not happy all the time or anything, but now I realize that people are pretty much always going to be people. And that’s the truth.

Chapter 4.

Yaakov Schwartz
Eng 211 Henkle
04/30/09


1. And Cain came upon his brother and said, “Hey, what are you doing there?”
Abel ignored him. Cain came up behind him and said again, a little agitated this time, “I said what are you doing there?”
2. “None of your business,” Abel said, without turning. He was hunched on the ground, focusing intently on the task in front of him.
“Is it idols?”
“No. What are idols?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me what you’re doing,” Cain offered.
3. “No deal,” Abel said. He picked up a sharpened twig and applied it to the object in front of him.
“Just tell me.”
“No.”
“If it’s idols the Lord will be very wroth.”
“It’s not idols.”
Cain paused. “Better not be,” he mumbled under his breath.


4. That night at dinner Cain appeared at the table in a sulk, but Abel seemed quite satisfied and bounced a little as he chewed, as if he were holding in a piece of exciting news.
5. “Well,” Adam said after a lull in the conversation, “Have either of you two boys given any thought as to what you’re gonna do with your lives?”
Abel, who had anticipated the question, eagerly jumped in.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m gonna be a shepherd. I found some unhewn logs and arranged them into this corral, see, and I’m gonna keep the sheeps in there during the night. And during the daytime I’m gonna take ‘em all around to graze grass. 6. And the best part is, I can cut their fleece for wool and make clothing out of it- it’s the most comfortable clothing you’ve ever felt. It’s nothing like these stupid leaves we’ve got to wear all the time. And tomorrow, I’m gonna make Mom the most beautiful dress in the world.”
7. “It will be the only dress in the world,” Eve laughed.
8. “That sounds like quite a plan, son.” Adam said approvingly.
9. “Yeah, and when the flock multiplies, we can start having sheep for dinner.”
10. “And what about you, Cain?” Adam said, turning to his oldest son. Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do?”
Cain shot Abel a nasty look.
11. “I don’t know,” he said. “It seems like all the good jobs are taken.”
“Now, now,” Adam said, “they always need tillers of the earth. That’s one job that you can securely rely on.”
“But I don’t wanna be a tiller of the earth.”
“Well until you come up with something better to do, I’d appreciate it if you try. Look at Abel- he’s always hard at work on some project or another. He may have just invented a new type of clothing. 12. The fruits of his labor are commensurate with the amount of effort he invests, you see.”
13. “Fuck Abel.”
“Now, you listen here, boy, we will not have that language at this table, you hear?”
“Abel, fuck you!” Cain cried, abruptly rising from the table and running away.
The three of them froze.
14. “Sounds like someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Abel said after a minute.
“Shut up, boy.”


15. And the Lord God saw what had happened at the dinner table and knew of Cain’s jealousy, but didn’t care, because Abel was everybody’s favorite and Cain could be such a pain in the ass sometimes. 16. And Cain was not satisfied with his task, and walked along with his hands in his pockets, kicking at the dirt petulantly. 17. Abel applied all his energy to mastering the art of being a shepherd. 18. He experimented with barn doors, new shearing techniques, fed his sheep different types of grass at different times of the day, and eventually, had raised himself quite a flock. 19. Cain, on the other hand, had reconciled himself to the fate of being a tiller of the earth, but because his heart wasn’t in it, managed to grow small and puny vegetables.

20. “What are you looking at?” Cain asked grumpily. He was standing on a ladder which leaned up on a tree, and he was inspecting its fruit closely.
“Nothing,” Abel airily replied. “Nice lemons.”
21. “They’re grapefruits,” Cain angrily shot back.
“Well how was I supposed to know?” Abel asked innocently.
22. “Perhaps you are right, my brother. I probably should have given you the benefit of the doubt. I’m just on edge because I’ve been busting my ass over these grapefruits all season ’cause they’re part of the offering I’m gonna be bringing to God.”
23. “Part of the what-now?” Abel leaned forward with interest.
“Of the offering I plan on bringing to God at the end of the season. He does good by me, and I want to show him my gratitude.”
24. “Oh, I see,” Abel said agreeably, “well, I gotta run, but I’ll catch up with you later. Bye!”


25 And so it came to pass that Abel, motivated by the idea of outshining his brother, went about preparing an extremely lavish and extravagant offering to God. 26. He got to work that very day building an altar of polished stone, and shearing his best sheep in preparation for their slaughter.
27. Adam was exceedingly pleased with his sons’ efforts, and was not stingy in his praise for Abel.

28. And the end of the season came, and on the day on which Cain harvested all his fruits Abel was ready and waiting for him. 29. And as Cain piled his fruit on the makeshift altar he had hastily constructed to burn it the day before, Abel asked him smugly, “Is that all you’ve got?”
30. And Cain said, “Why? You think you’re so much better than me?” And Abel simply pointed to his altar, purposely constructed across from Cain’s. It was laden with sheep and garments and even some vegetables Abel had grown on the side, all of which he was completely sanguine about burning, so that the Lord might accept his gift and love it more than his brother’s.
31. “Hey? What’s the big idea?” Cain sputtered, as the lit match he held in his fingers started to singe his fingertips.
32. “Come on, big brother,” Abel teased. “Can’t handle a little competition? I know, let’s make this interesting. You bet the farm, I’ll put up my flock.”
“Oh, shut up,” Cain said miserably, and dropped his match on his offering and waited for it to burn. 33. Abel ran quickly to his altar and set it ablaze, and the Lord glanced down at the two offerings, and it was no contest. Abel’s offering was accepted by God, and burned brightly, the smoke rising in a pillar to the heavens. 34. But Cain’s offering burnt not, and merely smoldered and produced a nasty smell.
35. “I told ya, I told ya!” Abel sang, “We should have bet, I’da been rich!”

36. On that day Cain knew for sure that his brother was a prick, and wondered if God might be one, too.
37. “Why are you annoyed?” God asked him, “Why has your countenance fallen? Surely if you improve yourself, you will be forgiven. 38. But if you do not improve yourself, sin rests at the door. Its desire is towards you, yet you can conquer it.”
39. “Fuck that,” Cain said, for he was a shrewd businessman and preferred to simply eliminate the competition.

After The Funeral

After The Funeral

It’s truly a shame that only my family attended my father’s funeral. Willy Loman was a good man and deserved more. He deserved a more honorable home going. I think that his funeral was a mockery. That place should have been jam packed. He never wronged anyone. He never really helped anyone, but he never wrong anyone. There were many times I attended people’s funeral who I couldn’t stand. I was honored to be at those people’s funerals. I can remembering wishing them dead for so long, I had to go to their funeral just to make sure.
My brother Biff should also be ashamed of himself. At the funeral he showed no emotion. I even caught him looking at his watch a few times. I could tell he truly didn’t want to be there. Biff and my father had a real tough relationship. But at the end of the day, he was still our father. I mean, there were times when I got pissed off at pops. For starters, he named me Happy. What was him and mom smoking? I got teased faithfully growing up. The kids in school never called me Happy, they called me Gay. I remember crying to my teacher and telling him that the students were calling me Gay. I expected Mr. Anderson to punish the kids who called me that, but instead he says to me, "Well gay does mean happy", and then laughs hysterically. I should hate my father for that, but I don’t. I’ve gotten over it.
But the strained relationship between my father and Biff was first caused by one single incident. After years of being in the dark, Biff finally told me that pops was having an affair with another woman. Biff was so upset and disappointed with pops, that his life completely changed. He no longer had the aspirations to go to college and pursue a career in baseball. All the advice that my father gave him over the years, he emptied them out of his head. Of course I took the news a little different. There’s comes a time in a man’s life when he has to do what he has to do. If you’re not getting the satisfaction that you want at home, I don’t feel there’s a problem with going elsewhere to get it. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother with all my heart, but if she was handling her business, pops wouldn’t have had to sit down his starter and put in his reliever.
I know just what my father was feeling. I get those urges as well. Biff should’ve understood what my father was going through. But he was never popular with the ladies like I was and still is. So in a way it wasn’t surprising that he got so mad at pops. But the beef I have with Biff is, that happened so many years ago. Just get over it. I’m sure moms knew about pops other women. She didn’t hold any grudges. She understood that pops love her, but he lusted for other women from time to time. She was always there for him just like a wife is supposed to be for her husband.
Biff doesn’t understand that. He could be real close-minded and stuck in his ways. After all that, he had the audacity to ask me to go away with him. The nerve of this fool. I ain’t going nowhere. Brooklyn has been my home since I was born and it will always be. I’m going to stay here and continue my father’s legacy. The salesman didn’t die. The salesman lives in me, as well as the unfaithful husband.

Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood

Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood
“The Letter” as narrated by Marjane Satrapi
I never read much during this period. My favorite author was Ali Ashraf Darvishian, a local Charles Dickens (weird name) who’d I’d often see in one of his book signings. His stories were sad but true: the tale of Reza who became a porter at age ten; the tale of Leila who wove carpets at age five; the tale of Hassan who washed cars when he was only three years old—that last one made no sense to me but as the saying goes: the difference between real life and fiction is that fiction has to make sense.
For this I felt ashamed to sit in my father’s Cadillac. This reason, I realized, stemmed from the difference between social classes. In Iran we criticized the West for its imperialist ways even though we here too benefited off the hardships of others; only difference is that here, those others are our own people. Iranians. In the world there are but two people: the rich and the poor. My family was not rich but neither were we poor. Our class was just better off than some. That’s I got to thinking about our maid at home.
Her name is Mehri. One of fifteen children, her parents gave her up to provide for her a better life. When I was born, Mehri took care of me. When I was bored, Mehri played with me. When I finished eating, Mehri ate my leftovers. When I was bored, she told me stories. She the closest thing I had to a big sister in the entire world. That was why when she fell in love with the boy next door and asked me to write love letters to him on her behalf, I could not say no.
I would write the letters for her each week for six months. Mehri was very poetic but could not read or write; a product of the class system, so I would write what she said. Over time, the two began to exchange notes more often and I couldn’t write fast enough. It got to the point where I finally told Mehri to stop writing and go talk to him. She didn’t want to. She was shy. So I went to speak with this boy on her behalf. His name was Hossein and it turns out he too was a servant. Unlike Mehri, Hossein was an only child and was given up by his mother when his father left one day and never came back. Hossein lived and worked for a stern master who would often beat him for the smallest things. I asked him what he thought about Mehri and he replied, “Oh, how I long to be with her, but I can’t leave the house.” To that I asked him, “Would you like to meet her?” And he said, “Yes of course.”
So being the good little sister I am, I arranged it. That day, it was a Friday, my mother and father took Mehri and me out when it was time for them to leave. “Mehri, take Marji home and fix her some chicken,” my mom said to which Mehri replied, “Yes, ma’am.” I waited until my parents were out of sight before I grabbed Mehri and told her to come with me. We returned to our apartment. We went around the back where nobody could see us. There, I knocked on the backdoor to the apartment where Hossein lived. I told him to wait for me there when I returned with Mehri. Hossein opened the door and the two of them met face to face.
They hugged. They started talking. I think they forgot I was even there and was the one responsible for bringing them together. I didn’t mind. I liked seeing Mehri happy for once. She may smile a lot but deep down I knew she was lonely. How can she not be? No one can be happy taking care of somebody else forever. Even mom will get tired of me one day.

The italic sections are actually next to the paragraph proceeding them, but I could not figure out how to use columns here.

Writer's Block

I find striving to be politically correct when writing nearly impossible and attempting authenticity even more daunting. Ultimately I desire my writing to be genuine, which is a fallacy when attempting to be politically correct. After all, there is nothing inherently neutral about setting a pen to the page.

I read a lot of books today
And now I have a lot to say
Good books, big books
Brimming with ideas, books:
A memoir, a novel, some poems, a play
Good books, bad books
Lots of books, books

I read them all day
But now it’s almost light again
Wicked, very tired dark-

All right, yes.
You may turn off the light.

I have a character that forms an erotic relationship with an older fellow female classmate in high school. Opal, the protagonist’s friend, is a more than loosely based caricature of a girl I knew and loved well. But issues with being politically correct abound because neither the character nor I identify as lesbian.

I take in a deep breath,
Bare arms spread out on the honey wood floor,
Naked legs tangled in yours,
A sheet lost between us.

The ticking clock steals my sleep and
I can’t help but wonder
If we’re losing anything else
In this entanglement.

Furthermore, I know my character, and she was sexually abused. Can I recreate an authentic experience, since I was not abused? Will the gay community object because of the possibility of the implication that homosexuality arises from abuse, even though I myself do not endorse this viewpoint? I can leave out the abuse, but this is not true to her character, and it will no longer be genuine.

Knee socks off; skirt on, but not for long. The particles of mid afternoon dust settle on the furniture as the backs of my legs stick to the couch in the stifling heat of the windowless room. Sometimes I think I will suffocate while I wait. I imagine he would still unbuckle his belt.

For some time, I have wanted to write about the plight of day laborers, but can I champion a cause I personally could not be further from, spare seeing men waiting for work on Northern Boulevard when I have been stopped at a red light? A big issue I have been grappling with is that nearly all of my characters are white. I do not know if I have the right or ability to authentically replicate the experience of someone of another race, but I do know that I don’t want to intentionally exclude anyone. Marxism is important to me, but if this does not reflect in my writing, am I a bad Marxist? Isn’t Marxism inevitable in the writing of a Marxist?

Queens is the feeling of a cold, hard stoop and the way the gritty brick feels so good as it tattoos itself onto the backs of your thighs.

Over-thinking can never lend itself to genuine writing. Perhaps the real question I should be asking is if anyone reads anymore to begin with, and if I am wasting my time predicting backlash which may never come.

Thinkitwishitdreamithopeitmakeitwinitworkitloseitwinit

Feel it?

In my mind, authenticity does not have to be achieved from shared experience. I like to think I understand my characters. So even though I have never had an abortion, I know what Arlie is thinking when she has hers. But will I offend someone who has actually gone through the experience, and can I write Arlie’s story authentically?

Arlie thought of the body/soul mate myth often. She used to equate it the way it was told to her: in the beginning of time, all the bodies were cut in half. Ever since, the bodies searched in want of unity. Sex in this equation becomes the means of reminding the two bodies that they are meant to be one. In the new version, Arlie thought of bodies as whole first and shattered upon the discovery of love of another body. Sex in this equation is executing an impossible desire to connect two separates.
It was no surprise that Arlie thought in terms of bodies. She had been taught to train her body since she was a little girl. There were certain places to relieve one’s body. There were certain sounds to avoid making. There were certain parts to hide. There were other bodies that could grow inside your body.
Arlie thought of her baby as a baby drifting about with other unborn babies. At first, she’d urged herself not to think of him as a baby. Fetus, she’d say to herself. But she had never liked the idea because it sounded like something foreign. In this way, her mind had given birth although her body had rejected it with the assistance of the doctor.
Her baby was a baby floating about with the others in the sea of aborted babies. Arlie made a distinction here, too. Although she thought of the sea of babies as aborted to the exclusion of others (such as those miscarried) she still said “unborn.” In this vision, the babies are anonymous- no faces, no distinction in figure or gestational stage. She cannot tell which one is hers.

Maybe my mistake is thinking of my characters as real entities, but it is almost impossible for me to accept that Opal andArlie have not become real. The creative process was the pregnancy, and the page their birth. I once heard somewhere that J.D. Salinger would tell other people at the dinner table to pass the salt to Holden. While I am not about to secure condiments for them, I do spend a lot of time thinking about how my characters would hold a fork, answer question, or sit during a movie.

He’d started coming to The Museum of Modern Art on his lunch breaks after his divorce because there were no longer cucumber sandwiches waiting to be served to him in an Upper West Side classic four. Sometimes he ate a packed sandwich along the way, but more often he took lunch in the museum café and was thus developing a gut from the pastries and fried chicken.

I am an author. This bizarre process, I imagine, is what writers do. I can draw the portrait of a character I believe in and, out of necessity, will have to be brave enough to journey outside the realm of my own experience and trust that readers will be able to separate me from my characters. If there are readers left out there, I do not want them to waste their time on a character that is acting out of turn because I am afraid of offending someone. After all, if I don’t believe in Opal and Arlie and the rest, who ever will?

Jimmy peeled away Karina’s stiff uniform shirt to reveal a bright Easter egg of a bruise flanking her abdomen. He placed his index and middle finger to the green and crimson flecked splotch and was surprised by the warmth it emanated. He cradled Karina’s head in his hand and could see down the bony ridge of her spine which was purple in several places, with a scratch spanning the small of her back. He wondered, of course, who had done it and how it had happened.

Entering & Leaving Paris

Daisy checks into her hostel, The 3 Ducks, and enters the quarter where she will be one of 6 people, sharing the same room. She is overly excited about embarking on a new adventure, meeting new strangers, and making new memories in a city she has never stepped foot in before. “What better city than Paris to walk aimlessly in?” says Daisy, a girl with only 19 years of life experience. Can 19 years of life experience hurt Daisy in her quest of finding herself, which are her intentions in Paris? Or can her 19 years of pure naiveness help her discover what life’s lessons she was lacking all along? Daisy has all the time to determine those questions being that she only bought herself a one-way ticket to Paris, and only has a life savings of $2,000 American dollars.

I’m trying to read French Vogue at Charles de Gaulle airport as I await my flight to Barcelona, Spain. I had just spent the best/worst New Year’s Eve of 2005. Best and worst because as I was in front of the Eiffel Tower with my girlfriends celebrating the coming of 2006, I can’t help it but cry and think of the family I left behind in order to accomplish my dreams of visiting Europe. As I’m crying, I’m also feeling angry. My family succeeded if their plan for raising me was to make me feel totally inadequate for the huge world that awaits me, or not. Here I was, in one of the most awesome cities in the world, and I’m crying like a baby because up to that moment I was never able to walk as far as my invisible umbilical cord allowed me to at the 22 years of life I had.

It’s week three for Daisy’s Parisian adventure. In order to make her $2,000 stretch and last into Euro dollars, she spends €2 for a ham & cheese baguette for dinner time, but only eats half. Lucky enough for her, The 3 Ducks offers free breakfast every day. Another perk of that hostel was that there was a bar there. Here’s something else Daisy will discover, the art of drinking alcohol, something she never did back in Orange County, Florida. Daisy became friends with her roommates, Dorota and Ewa who were Polish tourists. Once they realized that Daisy never drank, they ran down to the hostel bar and ordered a round of Zywiec beer. Daisy didn’t like the taste, but after 3 pints, she didn’t seem to mind it as much.

Who am I kidding, of course I had the best time in Paris. I have wanted to visit Paris ever since I was a little girl because of my all time favorite cartoon, Madeline. Yeah, maybe my crying had something to do with my previous drinking. I always get emotional when I drink. Note to self: don’t mix your drinks. Also, the girls and I finished smoking our “cigarettes” we brought all the way from Amsterdam; the one we couldn’t finish smoking at Red Light District. I was able to see priceless art, impeccable architecture, and view amazing landmarks in only 3 days. What more can I ask for?

Daisy has been in Paris for two months, 3 weeks now. She knew that in order to make it in Paris she would have to get a job. She began bartending at the hostel’s bar and got to live there for half the price she was paying previously. She also started to take French classes in the day in order for her to strive in this new city. She made a decision to never go back home the moment she arrived to Paris. She has nothing to go back home to, she had left her abusive home behind and her scars along the way.

I’m boarding the plane now, Barcelona awaits me. I will be honest, I think I’m starting to lose myself here. Before I left home I was so sure of myself and my plans to major in International Business. When did I ever want to study that major? I think I was home, sheltered and closed out from the world for too much time, for far too long.

Pet Peevs

Sofy Dzhanashvili
04/23/09
English 211W
Professor Henkle

Pet Peeves

I’ve always had an incredible fear of animals. All of them. I started hyperventilating when a giraffe licked the window of the car when Becca and I went to the drive-through safari in Six Flags. A full-blown episode of crying and shaking. It’s not surprising that it was my window that was chosen to be licked. That is just how it happens.

If one leaves their computer on parents can check the conversation they were having. The process: 1) “Choo is dis boy Michael?!?!?! Vy chee say he like kiss you?” 2) heavy tension fills the bedroom and eye contact is avoided 3) “Leave me alone and let me have my life! Leave me the fuck alone and stop reading my IMs I swear I’m gunna run away I swear I’m gunna run away leavemethefuckalone.” 4) bedroom door is slammed. One may now continue to wallow in self-pity.

It started when I saw my mother being clawed down by my aunt’s enormous 90 lb. Hound, who had a reputation for taking a nice bite out of many house guests. I heard screaming and ran into the TV room where my mom was on the floor and the dog was everywhere everywhere and my uncle was holding the fireplace stick and there was chaos and I was crying and then everything started to spin spin spin around me and then I fainted.

Tinted windows are key. There is a certain color scale at which it is illegal to have a certain type of dark tint. Once the window reaches a somewhat dark gray, one is likely to be pulled over by cops and forced to pay a fine of over $200, which, especially if you and your boyfriend both don’t have jobs, really sucks.

The squirrels on Jewel Ave. are rabid coked-out rodents. I cross the street each time I see one.

If he is not Jewish, don’t introduce him to your parents. This will happen: murder. If not that, than something pretty close. Maybe your father will come down holding a kitchen knife and your (Dominican) boyfriend will drive off and you guys will be forced to continue the relationship in secret like in Romeo and Juliet except neither of you kill yourselves (at least not yet) and it’s not a Shakespearean play and your good at hiding things anyway so it’s the same old usual story.

I don’t find puppies cute. When they get older, they will become wild and unpredictable.

The two of Us

I happen to know, for a fact, that she is right for me. I can’t put my finger on exactly when I came to this realization, but she is. There isn’t much else to say, when you’re with someone you’re with someone. I can’t put my finger on what it is about her I like so much.
She was innocent enough, left wondering why I was staring at her. She nibbled on her pierced bottom-lip and it caught my attention. That must have hurt. No, don’t say that. Too generic, predictable if anything, say something about her shirt, don’t focus on what is beneath it. She’ll notice. They look nice though.
She loves records. I love records. She loves reading. I love to read. She plays video games, we play video games, and it gets really competitive at times.
I invited her over for the first time. I told my mom she was just a friend. We stayed up in my room and the first thing we did was play Super Smash Bros. on my GameCube. She said she had a Nintendo 64 and used to play it with her younger brother. I let her win a few times.
I hate it when she is driving and text messaging at the same time. She does it in front of me when I’m in the car, knowing I hate it or absent-mindedly forgetting that she is at the wheel of a car. What more can I do other than complain? I still notice her eyes wandering down to that shiny touch-screen. She taps a few letters and glances back up. I close my eyes. How much does she do this when I’m not around? But you take the good with the bad and I will take her any day. Texting and driving isn’t even that bad on the second though, she would totally make fun of me if she read this. On the se
A movie is always the way to go. Whether you’re looking to squeeze a boob or go all the way, a dark theatre is air conditioned and quiet. We decided to go see “Chicken Little.” A kid’s movie is innocent enough; our first date would be one to remember. We walked to the movie theatre talking the whole way there about everything. I was sure that this could only get better. I had to keep this one around.
She is open to everything I like. Over the years, we’ve truly grown on each other. I remember one time we went to see that Johnny Knoxville movie where he pretends he’s retarded. It was a lot like an episode of South Park. We were the only ones in the theatre, seated in the rear comfortably with our legs across the seats in front of us when another, much older, couple walked in.
It was a cute movie. We couldn’t stop talking about it afterwards. The walk back was long but we were used to it. There was no better way to get to know someone, when you’re in a car you might be focused on the road or the other persons driving ability, depending on where you’re at.
The woman smiled at us. They seemed like a nice couple, I guess we did too because we both smiled back as if to say, “We came here ‘cuz it’s quiet and dark too!” They looked to be in their early 30’s. Maybe they had kids of whom they left at grandmas or with a sitter so mommy and daddy can have a good time. They could have just started dating but they seemed way too comfortable with each other to be at that stage. They brought the grand total of people watching the Johnny Knoxville movie in Franklin Square to a grand total of four.
We had so much in common yet we were so different. We walked towards my house as if we were part of some invisible wedding procession. I wish we could go back to those days of carelessness and uncertainty but those days are long gone. We grew up. She listened to Bright Eyes so I introduced her to Elliott Smith.
The movie started. We continued to munch on what was left of our popcorn. The couple on our right didn’t get anything but they were in a similar position, cuddled up in the far rear of a movie theatre, entwined somewhat uncomfortably on seats that refused to recline. They found a way, however. Amanda noticed at first, she whispered in my ear, “Look!” All I saw was her left hand moving rapidly up and down. She was giving him a hand job, either that or his crotch suddenly caught on fire and she way trying to put it out. It must have been some fire. “Why the hell else would someone come out to see a Johnny Knoxville movie based on an episode of South Park?”, I thought.

The Soundtrack of My Life

“Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.”
~Victor Hugo

Everyone in this world has something, at least one thing that they are most passionate about. I have many things I happen to love and feel strongly about but my most important thing is music. Music is the love of my life and I think it always has and always will be. Music is universal and has many different dimensions. It is a form of art that is adored far and wide and has always been around. Music can do so much. It can soothe the soul that is in pain. It can be mood altering. It understands the joy that one feels when in love. After all, most songs are about just that, love gained, love lost, or unrequited love.
She was twenty-two. She was a sweet girl who loved life, and all that it comprised of. She had friends, her parents were great, offered her everything they could, she had good grades, and was beautiful too. But the one thing she was missing was someone to love and cherish, for she felt lonely and did not know what was wrong. Until the day she met the love of her life, and everything seemed perfect after that. Nothing could have ruined her mood, and all she seemed to do was spend time with this new boy that she had always dreamed of that had finally found her. She would always listen to the radio, any station really and she would find songs that would make her even happier.
Over the years my taste in music has changed. I watch home videos of myself when I was a kid of about four and five years old and see myself dancing to the likes of the Gypsy Kings and the song that was very popular in the late eighties, “Lambada” by Kaoma. By the time that I was a pre-teen, at eleven and twelve years old, I loved the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears as well as other pop artists. Then when I was a young teen and going through my, what I now call, “I hate life” phase, I was mainly listening to hard rock bands such as Pantera and Metallica. Over the years following that phase that I do not like to reminisce about, I started to listen to other things too, such as Sarah Brightman and Shania Twain while recently I have been mainly into the new trend of techno and hip hop. While my music tastes have obviously changed over the years, my love for it all has still remained. I am a faithful music lover and this I know will always remain the same.
The years passed, wonderfully with him, they got married when she was twenty-eight and had graduated from her master’s program. On their wedding day, she wore the most beautiful dress, and looked like a princess straight out of a fairy tale book. It was the most perfect and special day of her life, as it should be for a girl, her wedding day, and their song was “Your Love is My Love” By Whitney
Houston. It was a song she had always loved ever since she had first heard it, and knowing how Whitney Houston was one of her favorite artists of all time, she knew it was the right song for her and her new husband. Thankfully, he agreed.

On Religion

Religion in Brazil is extremely diverse. Although 70% of the population "declares" themselves as Roman Catholics, the other 30% consists of other religious sects but mainly the public practice of Afro-Brazilian religions. A famous example is Macumba, which is a form of superstitious and luck related rituals that derived from the European influence of witchcraft. The name itself has several definitions, a musical instrument or an African deity, but usually one prefers to opt for the simple definition of the word 'magic'. Most people in Brazil consider it "black witchcraft" but again these practices are clearly seen in public through acts.

Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus or Universal Church of the Kingdom of God, was located primarily in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and has now apparently spread throughout the world. My grandmother, Mary V. is a faithful member of the church for over 10 years. Mom says she converted from being the "life of the party" and a "MILF" around her late 40s to a dull church follower. Mary was brought to the church by mother's former friend Donna, a pothead for as long as I can remember. Mary also prefers being called V, even from her granddaughters.

How it works? Simple, if you want something, you consult with the Macumba specialist and they give you herbs and tell you to either bath it in or drink it as a tea reciting some kind of spell words and then it’s just a matter of time. Brazilians themselves are ignorant as to what Macumba really is but these rituals are a common practice of every household. Planting lavender in their front yard for luck, sprinkling spilt salt over their left shoulder, wearing red underwear on New Year's for love and so on. There are also spells for money, bad luck on others, and even death. Faithful followers go as far as performing peculiar rituals on November 2nd, the Day of the Dead.

I live with V for over 3 years now in Brazil and growing up I became a church girl (the literal sense of the term of course) alongside my sister Kyra. Unfortunately, there is a U.C. of God in literally every town we visit.

Another Afro-Brazilian religion is Candomble, a popular sect concentrated mainly in large urban centers such as Salvador, Recife, Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Rio Grande do Sul and Santa Catarina. Candomble is also known for being the survival of West African religion.

Do not drink, smoke, lie, party, fuck, cheat, envy, abuse, steal, disrespect… Allowed: Dizmo, 10% of every penny you earn should be neatly placed in a special envelope and given to God in return for his blessings or else. Oferta, money one is to offer when the pastor brings out a velvet bag and sells CDs, bibles, or simply says "Can anyone here offer $1000? $500? $250? $100? $50? In the name of God, $25? Amen".

The south usually focuses more in a different sect called Umbanda which is more like a ritual that blends Spiritism, Indigenous and African beliefs. Because these religions were believed to be pagan or satanic practices, followers were persecuted throughout Brazil's History, but today if you simply walk around an urban city you will find cute offerings of food, candles and flowers in public roads for the Orixa spirits.

And of course every church has a schedule. On Monday one prays for prosperity. Tuesday is for curing the sick. On Wednesdays we worship the Holy Spirit. If you have family problems, come on Thursdays. Friday is for liberation, from what? The devil, duh. No church on Saturdays, but make sure you come to say thanks on Sundays. V said we have a lot of problems so go everyday. I always have to remind her church is closed on Saturdays...

The Federacao Internacional de Umbanda e Candomble says the religion revolves around Nature's soul, so in a way it can be known as Animism, as if that would make the whole thing less weird.

My sister Kyra loves the Biblical School. Who knew kids enjoy coloring Jesus portraits all day. I hate taking home shrines; they require me to return them the following week (smart way of making people come back). V doesn't get along with the other church women, she is too holy for them.

Basically, rituals consist of people being possessed by the Orixa spirits and they are offered animals, minerals and food while trancing. During these odd rituals, people are also healed and sometimes they place spells on enemies. The Orixas today are compared to Catholic saints since their physical image is the same but a black slave version of each saint. Now imagine what the Virgin Mary looks like. Furthermore, Candomble spread mostly after the end of slavery but was originally banned by the Catholic Church. If you seek some adventure, visit Brazil's original Candomble terreiro (temple) in Bahia. Keep in mind; Afro-Brazilian religions are mostly oral so each terreiro has a different set of ideas and rituals. Have fun...

There are always 3 Cultos in a day. One at 7am, one at 3pm and one at 7pm. They usually last 2 hours and because of my afterschool schedule today; V took us to the 7pm ceremony. The hardest part is staying awake for 2 hours of lecture after a long day in school. My sleep was rudely interrupted by the pastor clearing his throat in the mic, and saying some idiotic remark, "stay awake and feel the spirit folks", which caused V to shove me until I was up again. But there is no chance in sleeping through Fridays. The lights go off, everyone stands up, put their hands on their head, close their eyes and start repeating prayers with the pastor. Oh, and some fortunate people go through exorcism. Then the fun part: a few lights turn on, we speak to the evil spirits as they tell us their plot to kill the person they possess then... "Sai! EM NOME DE JESUS, SAI!" (Translation: demons are sent "home"). Sometimes I wish I was young like Kyra so I can spend my 2 hours coloring...

Pain

Westley Chow
April 23, 2009

Pain

01. School
Three papers due today. This sucks. Work out tonight? Yeah, I need to clear my mind. I probably won’t be sleeping tonight. What will it be this time? Coffee and ginkgo, haven’t done that in a while. My body’s aching, especially my neck. My eyes are getting sleepy. Get used to the pain, numb it out. You’ve only finished one paper.

“Why should I want to train you? What is it you seek to do?” I tell her that I’m looking for a way to deal with my pain. This is true. “I can see that on the inside there is pain that you deny.” No, it’s something I’ve learned to manage.

02. Training
The competition is in four weeks. I should be peaking in two. My ribs are bruised, plus I was choked out twice today; my throat hurts. No it doesn’t, get used to the pain. Take tomorrow off? No, my opponent is preparing for a war, so must I. If he comes in unprepared, he’s as good as dead. I’ll take everything he has and make it mine.

“Pain exists in two forms; exterior, that which is caused by forces we can’t control, and interior, which we can. Both though can be managed through will. You must learn the techniques: breathing control, hypnosis, and conditioning.” As she’s telling me this, the skin on the bottom of her feet is being burned off by the blistering coals. Her facial expression remains emotionless. “Does it scar?” I ask. “What pain doesn’t? Pain cannot be overcome, but it can be put in its place; a place where it can work for you.”

03. Work
You’re being written up because you haven’t hit your sales goal in three months. Damn it, balancing school and work is too difficult. I’m waking up at five and coming home at eleven. Get used to the pain; you must be willing to do what others cannot. This is what creates a champion. Should I just single myself out and just work part time? No, don’t show weakness. Endure the pain and stay on course.

This gets more difficult every day, but in truth it’s only as difficult as I allow it to be. If I perceive the task to be impossible, then it will be. To the ones who embrace it, difficulty is meaningless. There are no limits except for the limits I put on myself. I must learn to accept the unacceptable. If I can control the forces on the inside, then limitations will become irrelevant. Pain can be pleasure, and pleasure can be pain.

04. Out
Another drink? Yes, bring more unpredictability to the night. This is bad for me, but I enjoy it. Why do I like destroying myself on the weekends? Just admit it to yourself, your life revolves around pain. You’ve conditioned yourself so that it’s become a colossal motivator. Have I really? It’s true, you’ve cheated death several times. You use no limits as your limit, and no way as your way. Is this normal? What is normal?

“You need to leave. You must be sent away.” Why? “It’s time; you’ve learned what you wanted to haven’t you.” Thank You. “You shouldn’t thank me. I now fear for you. You came asking for help in dealing with your pain, but your pain is beyond my abilities, perhaps yours as well. For your pain is leading you down a path you desire.”

BAD HABIT

He hit me again, only this time he pre warned me before he stretched out his massive muscular fingers and swiped my face with them. How do I always end up here? Why do I always end up here? It always turns out the same you know; we fight, I hurt his pride and then he hurts me. I pack my stuff and head over to Liz’s house where she lectures me, yet again, on how I am going to end up like the girls in the news, dead, and it scares her to death.
Smoking is probably the deadliest habit one can become addicted to. Statistics show that there are 1.1 billion smokers in the world today, and if current trends continue, that number is expected to increase to 1.6 billion by the year 2025. The filter In the cigarettes is probably the most disturbing piece of “cotton” ever made. It is made up of thin fiber plastic and each time you inhale, guess what, you inhale all of those tiny fibers. So, it is kind of ironic that it’s called a filter.
She threatened to call the cops numerous times, and I always went with it, all proud and strong but something always pulled me back from the third one that I would punch into the phone. It wasn’t because I was scared he’d kill me because he could have easily done it a million times and it wasn’t because I was so completely head over heels in love with him. I think it was because that in some weird, twisted way, I always thought it was my fault and I wouldn’t want to punish him for my mistakes. “Lau, this isn’t the first time he has done this to you. When are you going to learn? When you’re lying in a casket and all of your friends and family are crying over your dead beaten body?” She was so right and I could clearly see that and yet I acted naïve and played the whole “He doesn’t mean it when he hits me. Sometimes it gets too out of control”. Wow. Did I just say that? I just sounded exactly like the girls on television that I always get so annoyed at for letting a man put a finger on them.
The nicotine that is within the cigarette is the addicting part of the cigarette. The average cigarette contains 8 or 9 milligrams of nicotine. Statistics also show that there is enough nicotine in four cigarettes to kill an adult if ingested whole. So when you are smoking because of stress at work, because you are sad and unhappy or even if you are one of those “weekend” smokers, it is true you are not going to die right then and there but you are killing yourself slowly.
Now my phone is being blown up by this asshole. I can already imagine how this whole scenario will be played out the minute I answer my phone. It would probably go a little something like this; “Baby I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I did that to you. I could never forgive myself ever again. Please come home. I need you to come home”. And I would probably say ; “I know you didn’t mean it and it I started the whole thing so I’m the one who is sorry”. Not this time. You know what they say, three strikes and you’re out. I turned off my phone and decided to finally just let him go.
Do you like whales? All people I bet love whales. They are the big friendly animals of the sea. Did you know that cigarettes contain Ambergris, or in other words, whale vomit. Whale vomit is what the manufacturers use as another addictive item within their cigarettes. There is also radio active lead added to the creation of the cigarette. Fun huh? Another by product used in cigarettes, Hydrogen cyanide, was used as a genocidal chemical agent in World War II. Cigarettes are pretty nasty yet, people still smoke them to make themselves feel better. Another ironic statement; I guess I should really quit smoking.
As I left my best friends house, I reassured her that I was never going back to him again. Her voice was shaky as she tried to convince herself that I was telling the truth, but she and I both knew that I wasn’t that strong. On the drive to my parents house, I started to shake pervasively, thinking about how I was going to explain the black eye, and bruises on my arms to my mother. I also thought about him, and how he really needs me In his life and that if something ever happened to him, I could never forgive myself. I pulled over on the side of the road, and although many people wouldn’t need to argue both sides of this case, I found myself in the worst predicament of my life. I was terrified to go back, yet I was horrified to leave. Next thing I know, my foot is pressing down the gas and an hour later, I am parked outside of his house. He walked out with a bouquet of my favorite flowers, and all I could think of at that moment that all of this seemed way too familiar.

I over slept today. Why, because I just wanted to sleep. Not because I was tired, sad, lazy, upset, exhausted, bored, hopeless, or filled with empty realization about life. I wanted to sleep because I was filled with excitement. I know that is such an odd thing to say. The previous lines that you read are correct; I decided to over sleep because I was filled with enthusiasm and vividness about my life.

She told me if I go to Corona Park with her tonight and run around the lake, all of the worries that I have will go away. She kept on insisting that running and feeling the summer breeze is the only way I could sleep at night peacefully. The only thing that she kept on repeating to me was, “I wish I could do something to help you sleep better at night”. Then she told me “please just try it once, I promise that you will feel a lot better if you run around the lake, there is something special about that lake. The other night I saw this bee and its hive members humming around. She kept on telling me that it was such a curious predicament, little bees surrounded by the fading sun.

The only that I do have is patterns that I have to follow. One pattern that I can’t seem to escape is knocking on wood. That was the problem with me I think. I don’t really have any issues in life. I just do my daily things in life as usual. These daily things in life has become so usual to me, it is like drinking water. I wake up in the morning around 5 am. I walk up to the white curtains that are hanging on the window next to my bed. I open the curtains and let whatever light from outside come in. I open the window to let the wonderful fake oxygen in. I walk up to my bookshelf and kiss the picture I have of Esther. I put my pants on. I put on my shirt. Then I put on my spectacles. Then I walk to my kitchen put some coffee in my pot. Then I walk into to my bathroom to brush my teeth. First, I brush my left side 14 times, then the right side 14 times, then rinse out the taste of synthetic toothpaste. Then I walk back to my kitchen, grab a cup and drink some coffee.

She didn’t know what to tell him. She wanted to tell him that everything is a puzzle. She didn’t know what to tell him, life was a puzzle. She didn’t know what to tell him. She wanted to go back to the start. She wanted to tell him that lets go back to the start. She had decided to tell him that we should go back to the start. There were no questions. There was nothing to answer. She asked him what if they find out. What if they realize it? What if he and she are never together again? She wanted to feel his warmth. Would you please answer the question Nathan?

Then I sit. I sit and look at my hands and count the wrinkles on each hand. I sit and count the number of lairs I have on each forehand. I sit there and look at my palm and see how clean and smooth it is. Then I walk up to my bathroom and take a shower. I wash my body. I put on my clothes and walk back to the kitchen. I take my daily pills. I take one for better oxygen enhancement. I take one pill for my ailing liver. I take one pill for my morning calories and protein. Then I listen to a song from Johnny Cash. This one song from Mr. Cash is just unreal. I wish I could sit here and explain to you what I was talking about but I can’t. But it is part of my daily ritual. I have to listen to the song to feel this day is as usual as possible.

Her cheeks glow with vivacious fuse. She is more glamorous then the red carnage. She is more enthralling then the passionate asphalt of NYC. She is the reason why you leave this house in the morning and she is the only reason you enter the house.

I sing all the lines. I don’t know what to do or say. But I sit there for a good 30 minutes of my day. I walk the line. But I wish my life would have more stories to tell you. I wish I could tell you. She didn’t know the answer either. What was the question he was asking her? She was just looking at him.


She wanted him to tell her what it was. She had decided to let him know, that he was always invited to her consign. But she didn’t know why he never crossed the lines. In her mind she didn’t know why he never did try it once. She was beginning to wonder if it would ever be answered. She began to realize, that time will lead to some answer. She began to think how long must you wait for it. How long must you live without it. Will everything be the same the way it was. The way it was before the question came to be. The way it was when he and she never decided to ask any question. She didn’t know what to say, but could you say something?