Musings and Such

Love Life, Love Yourself, and Ignore Dirt

2011-08-27T16:26:00.000-07:00

I just came to the realization today that I am not going to listen to anyone's dirt-talk anymore. When I say dirt-talk, I mean the kind of words that can stab you, cheat you, make you feel worthless, your-opinion-doesn't-matter kind of dirt. I call it dirt because that's exactly what it is -- dirt from others.

Life is too short to blame people for things that I may or may not do. Accidents happen. People say mean things; this person did this, this person did that. I hate to admit it, but I used to read into this dirt more than I should have. I became sick of toying with the notion that friends may have been talking behind my back, even if it was within earshot or clearly within my vision on the computer. Childish, I know, but hateful. But even in my thirties, it's a horrible feeling to even remotely feel like someone might dislike me. Ever since I can remember, I struggled with pleasing everyone. Such worry has recently occurred yet again, and has made me question where I stand in this life.

1.) Is this going to change my life?

2.) Do I ever really see this person?

3.) Do I have to answer to them?

4.) Do I really care about this person's opinion to begin with?

All questions pointed to a big and obvious NO. Only I can change my life. I see myself every day, thus knowing how to trust in myself and do everything in a positive light. Only love and support will dance with me as long as I don't let anyone's dirt in. The only person I have to answer to is me. I will never treat myself in a sarcastic and unfair way. More than half the time, I don't care what people said or wrote; it's how they presumably said or wrote it, thus leading me to believe that they were ridiculing my ego in a sarcastic way. I used to care about how I lived from day to day from the view of other people. I really did try to be a role model in my family, only witnessing that I seemed to have always done something wrong. Nothing I can ever do will please anyone so I might as well throw in the towel.

I know now that the opinions of others just vitally and simply do not matter. Love life, love myself, and ignore dirt is my new motto. Though I choose not to, I could easily tell the people who have challenged my feelings in a bad way to simply piss off (leave me alone would be a more mature approach). I don't have the heart to because I could never stoop so low. I can only be the forgiving and loving person I have always been. I am more powerful than I have ever known. Perhaps being a mother has gifted me such a pleasantry. Those who have recently failed to try to get to know me are missing out on a beautiful friendship. Alas, it is their loss. Even if this blog is never read, even though I read other peoples' blogs, I can take comfort in knowning that I wrote it and that's all that matters to me.

Yes, the written word is a powerful thing, folks. However, my written word is even more important to me regardless of what any dolt might throw my way. I'm glad that I have finally realized that I am free to not take dirt anymore.

Ain't nothing gonna break my stride
Nobody's gonna slow me down
Oh no, I've got to keep on moving

~ Men at Work

To My Sweet Baby Boy

2011-08-25T21:09:00.000-07:00

My sweet baby boy

Fingers in my hand

Curled up in your cloud

With sighs that smell of angel's breath

You long had my heart

Before you first looked at me

You've melted my hardened soul

And tamed my wild ambitions

Sweet baby boy of mine

With innocence of wonder

That fulfills those big blue eyes

Those tiny giggles that could

Turn the entire universe into heaven

Those tiny tears that could

Surrender an army of soldiers

You've taught me the meaning of life

That happiness means just holding your hand

I love you more than you'll ever know

My sweet baby boy

2004

Confessions

2011-08-01T07:27:00.000-07:00

Jean-Jacques Rousseau's Confession in Book I, Part I:

His Fascination with his Caretakers

Imagine if you will, that your life is lived as a boy who continuously receives punishment for wrongdoings that he did not commit most of the time. Moreover, imagine actually liking the punishment conflicted upon you. It might seem strange to some, however, to Rousseau, the chastisements were very enjoyable. Sometimes he was reluctant to purposely be troublesome. He had to carefully select what kind of mischief he could get into so that his actions would not hurt Mademoiselle Lambercier's feelings; for, he cared about her too much. Though he was unaware at a young age, he was essentially raising his level of sexual excitement with every punishment she inflected on him.

As he grew into a young man, there came an unfortunate consequence that followed his past thrills. To be with women his age was not the most thrilling event for him because no other woman could hold a candle to the complicated, proper caretaker he knew of. It was as if the women in his life who were there for him as a boy remained to be his only desires. Additionally, no other female could have enticed his fantasies the way he once experienced.

He wrote this when he was a much older gentleman, to recount his younger days. He did not realize the impact his caretakers had on his life until he had matured. For whatever it was worth, his confession was not to be ashamed of. He wouldn't have had it any other way.

Phaedra

2011-07-29T10:30:00.001-07:00

Phaedra's Downfall: An Unfortunate Result of Forbidden Love

Phaedra's Greek name meant "bright". Ironically, her name did not match the hue of her darkened days. Even though she was secretly in love with her step-son, Hippolytus, she had to carry out her pure, womanly manner each day; for, not one soul was supposed to find out about her sinful feelings. Her forbidden love for him caused her severe frustration. Such frustration is delivered in scene III when Phaedra blames the gods (especially Venus) for her ruined life by stating to her nurse, "The gods have made me mad." The continuous increase in lust she experienced each day was more than she could take, and it eventually drove her to her death.

Phaedra's feelings were uncontrollable, and as a result, poor Hippolytus was the blame and had to suffer for her death because his father, Theseus, was incredibly angered by his wife's death. Hippolytus never asked for any of the feelings his step-mother had once secretly conjured. He paid a hefty price for something he did not do by his fathers' orders. It just seems that both were at the wrong place at the wrong time during their lives. One can't help but feel sorry for both Phaedra and Hippolytus.

A Change of Heart

2011-07-23T00:39:00.000-07:00

I've been craving a greasy, McDonald's double cheeseburger ever since the very first day I started this bloody gluten-free diet three months ago. Have I been successful? I think so. Though the pounds have not melted off like glaciers basking in the Mississippi sunshine, the weight has certainly not revisited my body. I'm losing it slowly, and that's the way I intend it to always be as long as I am to not eat gluten. So did I pass up the opportunity to shove a delectable, greasy double cheeseburger into my mouth? Yes and no. I think perhaps an evil force that dwelled inside some parallel universe told me to buy those two burgers; however, I am glad that it did. You see, I wasn't the only person craving those burgers.

I made the purchase and skipped out the door in a gleeful manner (Okay, I really didn't skip. Instead, I just walked at a fast pace for fear of seeing someone I know catch me ruining my diet after all the weight loss bragging I've been doing). As I was halfway to my moderate car, a black Dodge Neon, I saw the saddest sight; a scruffy, sight-for-sore-eyed man who was aged beyond his years. He could have been a Marine veteran, or someone who has lost his home like many people are experiencing during this difficult time. He may have been someone's father, and at one time, was someone's son. Or perhaps he was an angel who was sent from heaven to test my kindness. Above all, he was a man who was obviously hot in this summertime heat, hungry, homeless, and very alone. Feeling dreadful about seeing this guy, my heart tugged at my conscience and said with a sigh; guess you don't need those burgers after all, Jena McFatty. All saliva activating in my mouth came to an abrupt halt.

I approached the vagrant cautiously while trying to maintain a positive attitude. I didn't want him to feel embarrassed around the people on the street. I simply greeted him and asked if he wanted some lunch. He was taken aback and asked, you don't want it? Of course I didn't. I handed him the paper sac that contained those steamy, hot burgers that would have put at least an extra undesirable inch on both my thighs. He blessed me and I just gave him a nod and walked back to my modest, little car. As I drove away and looked to see what he was doing, he had already had a huge bite of burger in his mouth. Another trash is another man's treasure they say. Yet, that old man appeared to have had gold in his hands.

If I could have done more, I wish I could have. He'll never know what a huge favor he did for me. I don't think I'll be craving a double cheeseburger, or any other kind of burger for that matter, for a very long time. Maybe we'll meet again or maybe not. Regardless, I really hope upon all hope that he soon finds his way, wherever or whenever that may be. If this was a sign from above, then they've done quite well in helping me know the difference between "want" and "need".

A Short Story about Verbal Abuse that Ends Well

2011-07-09T16:37:00.000-07:00

Visiting a Familiar Place

The last ounce of light desperately squeezed its way through the thick trees as she quietly shut her closet doors. Smells of musty, yet fresh fungi adhered to dead logs along the enchanted trail of the forest. Their colorful layers led the girl in a directional path toward Fairy Village. Birds and insects serenaded her along the way with their songs. This young girl's make-believe place soothed her fear of the one person she had known and loved for eight years—her own mother. She treaded cautiously to avoid being discovered.

When she was inside her little corner of her bedroom, amongst the shoes and wire coat hangers, she never felt discriminated against simply because she existed. She was safe from the storm of her parents as the fairy folk reassured her each time she visited. The small girl often became frightened of the possibility of being pulled out from her world by her hair when she would hear her mother's high heels in the hallway. If she was discovered, the consequences might or might not be severe. She tried to shut out the fact that she bought home a bad test grade from school, and tried her best to mask the fear of being cut down by her mommy's hateful words.

She closed her eyes once again, and concentrated on the bird song, the deep scent of pine and honey flowers, and the misty glow of the tiny fairies. She was now in her happy place where no monstrosity could conflict humility and shame on her just because she was not as intelligent as her mother wanted her to be. Regardless of the salty tears that made their way to her lips, she could taste the golden cup of sweet nectar that the fairy queen had given her. She took a generous drink as flute music and lively drums drowned out the mad, womanly voice in the room next to her. What are you, stupid?

These fragile creatures made an obvious point to let her know that she was welcome in their world. There was no hatred there. They were aware that she was saddened from her travels. When they inquired about her dismay, she refused to give an answer. She did not want to break something so valuable to her. To do so may have destructed the empire she had created in her head. In being silent, she protected her imaginary friends. They appreciated her notion in keeping them safe. To honor her goodness, they placed a wreath of baby's breath on her head. This entitled her to become invisible to the unknown evils of her mother. You just wait until your father gets home! She hoped with all her heart that the magical wreath would have made her vanish from her mother's sight. If only it could have made her mother invisible. But, as it usually happened, the girl was discovered sitting in her carpeted closet. And as it always was, her spirit was broken by the poisonous words of her mother.

Luckily, she grew up not thinking that everything her mother called her was true. How can you be so dumb? Look at me when I'm talking to you, you idiot! She knew in her heart that those fairies saved her from years of humiliation. But ultimately, she had saved herself by creating a shield to guard her feelings from her mother's scornful tongue. Every now and then when life gets complicated for her, she revisits that place in her mind and she can't help but smile. Fairies indeed... people have a peculiar way of dealing with frustrations don't they?

Now that she has children of her own, she vows to never call them terrible names. Her children are healthy, hates taking baths, full of laughter, never cleans their rooms, mischievous, loveable, and filled to the brim with careless mistakes. In her opinion, they are all individually perfect. She wouldn't want them any other way.

Oh, and they never hide in the closet. They have no reason to.

Hypnotizing

2011-06-06T20:55:00.001-07:00

Catherine Paine: Her Story

2011-06-06T19:16:00.000-07:00

The following short biography is about a fictional character of mine named Catherine Paine. The Starlet hopped into my mind one day, begging me to put her on paper. So here she is to tell her story, ladies and gentlemen... all the way from England.

"It was a dull, drizzly day in a tiny hospital off the Cornish coast of Bude when I was born. The year was 1945, a time when World War II was finally coming to an end, much to our relief. Having no siblings, I lived a solitary life on a dairy farm that consisted of checking my parent's rather boring mail each day, and rummaging about the garden as I searched for snails. I always did love those little buggers. When I would get entirely bored, I would walk over for a wee chat with old man Pate at his barn. I'd even talk to his calico cat named Jinx. Ironically, he talked back to me.

My parents were separated most of my childhood as my father was a traveling salesman. Selling cameras was a tiring and lonesome job for him, but his work put tea on my mum's table. My mother was quite a looker, and look she did. That is, all the way to the British Parliament's bedroom. My poor father¾if he would have found out, he would have had a conniption fit. He died when I was 13 and never knew. Some things are better left unsaid. But enough about them; onward about me!

During my high school years, I became aware that everyone took a liking to me. I remember the first time my life changed in a flash. I was in one of my bored states, and so decided to go to the pub with my mates. Mind you, I had no business there, drinking a pint of apple cider. I was only 16 years old! Alas, a mature and well developed 16 year old girl at that. Well, much to my surprise, a bloke in a suit showed up and asked me, "How would you like to be a star?"

I've always dreamt of becoming an actress. I remember thinking, goodbye farm world and hello stardom! At last, my dream had become a reality. I was so shocked, I was about to lose my knickers I tell you! I screamed at that manager, "Yes, yes, yes!" Talk about being in the right place at the right time, eh?

As the years went by, and awards and millions of pounds were thrown at my feet like roses, I began to search for new ways to tickle my fancy. I started to hang out with the wrong crowd and started snorting cocaine. Yes sir, I was headed for disaster. The 80 year old English farm girl you are looking at now had come a long way since that time.

A few best mates of mine I've known since high school suggested that I go to a drug recovery centre called Sunnyside Up Rehabilitation Centre. I thought they were absolutely mad. Why would I want to go to a place where the bloody name suggests that they serve eggs all day? Much to my dismay, I slowly learned how to become my old self again. I started to appreciate the things I had already earned. But most of all, I was given a fresh, new slate. My "true" friends and family were not as distant as before. I became a clean woman once and for all. It was also the first time in my life, being in my twenties, that I realized I had as much money as the Queen of England.

Since I was a well known celebrity, it took a dreadfully long time before the world accepted my faults, and that was always okay by me. I didn't expect people to come running with open arms as I betrayed everyone that loved me. I mean, I can't say that I blame them for staying away for a bit. Alas, the forgiveness eventually took form. I was quite thankful for that, I tell you. Charities were always visited by my gracious presence. I donated plenty of my time and money to many important causes such as: Education of Britain, Feed the Homeless Foundation, and Drug Prevention Alliance.

I can honestly say now, that I am glad I had experienced life to the fullest. There isn't a vacation I haven't went on, and I have met many splendid people along the way. Though I never married or had children, I have never been alone, really. It was somewhat bumpy in some parts of my younger journey; but, I have learned that having those bumps is the only way we can help to better ourselves as we age. One of the best parts of my journey is happening right at this very second¾that I can sit here with you in my £800 Louis Vuitton pumps whilst sharing a bottle of Dom Pérignon in my Cornish mansion that overlooks Widemouth Bay. Darling, it is absolutely wonderful to have you as my guest on this marvelous, cloudy day. I have been blessed through and through. Here... have another one on me, mate. Cheers."

I'll Fight You for the Library by Taylor Mali

2011-06-04T16:38:00.000-07:00

I just love this former teacher's wit and honesty. Inside his humorous poem lies a huge chunk of truth that just grabs the audience's attention.

You tell 'em Taylor. Children come first!

Teacher's Story: Helping Teddy

2011-06-02T19:32:00.000-07:00

*Because the nature of this story is a fictional email, sentence structure and grammar may not be perfect.

As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard.
Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be unpleasant.
It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making blood X's and the putting a big "F" at the top of his papers. At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise. Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners... he is a joy to be around." Teddy's second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."
His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."
Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class."
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem, and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my mom used to." After the children left, she cried for at least an hour.
On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs.Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class, and despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets."
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in life. Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he had ever had in his whole life. Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer¿. The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.
The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter that Spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom. Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together. They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference. Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you!"

~ Author Unknown
________________________________________________________________________

Now for my take on this short story:

I firmly believe that if a light isn't switched on in a child's mind, then someone or something has constantly been shutting it off for him or her. It pained me to read that the teacher took delight in giving Teddy red marks. It also made me realize how imperfect we all can be, and how quickly most of us realize our faults so that we can become better people. This short story goes to show that teachers are truly more than what their title provides. The old adage, "never judge a book by its cover" tends to bite at me as I read on. You don't know a person's ordeal lest they confide in you. Alternatively, it is good to know that she learned a valuable lesson from her misjudgment.

I am a proud mother of a child with supersonically, hyper-speed ADHD. He thinks he knows absolutely everything and has a horrible temper. Today, he constantly interrupted me while I was trying to complete math assignments online. Even though he runs me ragged, all the stress of being a parent to a child of his status melts away with just one hug from his little arms. Like the used perfume and jewelry that the teacher received, it's the little things that mean so much. I stand up for my son unconditionally because I believe in him, no matter what wrong he's ever done. In return, I'm always learning special things from him. He is the sole reason why I want to be an educator; to encourage children with ADD/ADHD to know that they are as perfectly special as anyone else. And unless you can convince me otherwise, I will never give up on my students unless it is impossibly beyond my control.

Having said that, I am glad she didn't give up on Teddy. It makes me wonder what would have become of him had she not had a change of heart. If I could change the way a child views his/her world, be it academically or socially, it would be all I could ever ask for. It is no secret that teachers do not get paid handsomely. However, at the end of the day, it would be comforting to know that I did my job to the best of my ability and changed a child's perspective for the greater good. That in itself is more of a reward than anything else in this world.

Random Acts of Silliness Part One

2011-04-30T19:53:00.000-07:00

There comes a time when you have to let your hair down and invite the laughter in. I find that simply reading forums will give me a smile, or in some cases, a good old hearty "lol". From time to time, you may see some random bits of advice on this blog. In some cases, the posts are so humorous, one can never tell if it was meant to be serious or not. For example:

Vicks? Really? Oh my stars. I've had Vicks come near my eyes during a bad cold and that was enough to make me cry. For the sake of the questioner, I sincerely hope they do not try this tactic lest they desire burning eyeballs!

"Lol" definitely comes to mind.

The World Is To Much With Us by William Wordsworth

2011-04-23T22:01:00.000-07:00

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune,

It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My take:

The philosophy behind Wordsworth's poem indicates that man has developed into a materialistic being rather than holding nature as the highest order in the world. He offers the reader two sections: the first, being that the world has become simply an item that man has fashioned at his will, suggesting that "little we see in Nature that is ours". The second section implies that nature is "out of tune", and should be held at a higher standard that what man conveys it to be.

Wordsworth is deeply moved by such a transition that he implies that he'd "rather be a Pagan suckled in a creed outworn". Wordsworth is essentially suggesting that he'd rather go back to the old nature religion, when man had everything served to him by Nature's bounty. But, having wars in the name of God can only do harm to the earth, causing pollution and death, and ultimately disgracing the accord of Nature. He is implying that he would rather be a Pagan so he can be in touch with Nature, the one thing that provides for us, rather than to live in a world based on hate, money, and immorality.

Dark times exist today because some foods contain cancer causing agents. Milk contains hormones that are making our children (especially young girls) to develop more rapidly than they should. Indeed, this is very dark. Just like Wordsworth's poem, this coincides with the man VS nature aspect. Both are battling for dominance, and so far, man is winning. Wordsworth is obviously saddened by this as one could imagine. I know I am.

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

2011-04-18T12:41:00.000-07:00

Unconditional Love

Although Gregor Samsa used to be a perfectly normal man, he wakes up one morning only to find that he has evolved into an insect. This horrifying, physical change of his ultimately changes his view of the life he will never live to see. What makes it so bad about his transformation is the fact that he is unable to love his family like he used to. He cannot hug his sister, talk to his over-bearing father, or tell his mother how much he loves her. Even his taste in food and drink has changed. Indeed, he is living in a personal Hell.

They say love is unconditional. Yet, in Gregor's case, his family does not want to look at him. They forget that he is their family member due to his grotesque features. Even though his mother and sister obviously care about him as they make the effort to feed him and see that he is somewhat comfortable, they are quite stirred by his presence. Gregor can overhear their opinions and sense their feelings toward him. He eventually realizes that things would be better if he dropped dead after eavesdropping on a conversation coming from his callous hearted father. Coincidentally, the next day, he passes away.

This novella depicts the writer's life so fittingly because Kafka lived in a time where the people of the world were bitter and hateful. Kafka has never mentioned what kind of bug Gregory actually was; but, one can conclude that the truthful image Gregory was portraying was that of his very own image. The solemn melancholy of the insect transformation invaded Gregor's life as it did the same for the writer. The two men felt like they were nothing more than unloved insects, awaiting rejection, which is one of the major downfalls of families everywhere.

Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats: Misunderstood Happiness

2011-04-14T12:10:00.000-07:00

The Grecian Urn was actually a Greek vase that symbolized Keats' presumptions of eternal life. During this time, Keats was an ill man during the creation of this poem, which in part, influenced him to create this ode. In the beginning of his speech (and of course, one can rightfully assume that it was indeed Keats giving the speech), the speaker's voice is rather uplifted with a flow of light-hearted emotion as he conversed on. All happiness aside, the nature of the ode was actually a bit melancholic with hints of the supernatural world.

A loss of life ideal is evident in this reading. He talks about the urn’s immortality and the pictures on the urn, which happened to be perfectly still (stillness is comparable to death). He realizes that he will never be able to live forever, yet, the urn will. Because of this knowledge, Keats is obviously obsessed with having the ability to become immortal.

Keats is adamant about not confronting the ultimate fate that he is to pass away very soon. The urn, being a materialistic item, obtains no such realization. It is for this fact that Keats is a tad bit jealous of the urn's privilege to live for eternity as he will not. He points out that like art, nature can never stand still. Thus, the Grecian Urn's beauty will live on as the world will continue to change.

As the poem stretches on, the tone becomes sadder. Keats eventually admits that his love will never blossom like nature allows flowers to do. He points out that unlike true love, art is not real. It is for this very reason that this poem is sometimes misunderstood. Keats could take something so horrifically wrong and turn it into the most beautiful flower¾a complete genius.

I found a grim poem that I wrote...

2011-04-12T07:08:00.000-07:00

...about 14 years ago, I think. Looking back, I can remember hate consuming every pore of my being. I had never been as hurt as I was back then. Life has moved on, and thankfully, tomorrow is always the promise of a new day.

i Bad Breakup i

Stab you

Slice you

Kill you dead

You're such a bigot

In my head

Always was sitting in your shadow

Wasps stinging as the throat swallows

Have to get away from this

You're an ignorant piece of nothingness

You bit my hand when it fed you

Now your hand will burn

Thrown away this life¾this underground

The silence is killing me

So why don't you fight?

Sick of your tunnel vision

Sick of your lies

Sick of being your second life

I hate what you've done

Let us die

An Ode to Gaia: Greek Goddess of the Earth

2011-04-05T06:59:00.000-07:00

     Our Mother Earth has been nurturing us for
     many, many years. She feeds us from Her body,
     gives us solid ground for travels, and Her waters
     keep us alive. We are born from Her, and when
     we pass on, we shall become one with Her body again.

She is our Healer, our Joy, and our Fears.
She is the Balance of Life. Our Earth Mother is
the wonderment of all there is and all that will
ever be.

Gaia is All.

Show that you care this Earth Day 2011 on April 22 by helping our Home in some way. You can visit the official website: www.earthday.org/. There, you can donate or just show your genuine support.
Go Earth! :)

I can't help but feel so sorry for Madame Bovary.

2011-04-03T14:06:00.000-07:00

       For those who have read Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert, then you already know that Emma Bovary was a beautiful woman who constantly lusted for a glamorous life she was never meant to have. In her most cherished stash of possessions, she owned fashion magazines so she could keep up with the latest trends. She felt that she did not belong to the society she married into. In her mind, she lived in a fantasy world that consisted of romance, materialistic riches, and superior status.
       She had a rather difficult time in maintaining happiness throughout her life. Being a woman in an era when men took charge over virtually everything was a challenge. She couldn't exactly go to college and make tons of money after graduation. Her motivation in living a better life could only be won by winning the charms of well-to-do men. It was a tedious task in hiding love interests, while pretending to be a loving wife.
       The closest she ever encountered to living the glamorous life is when she and her husband attended a ball, where she momentarily mingled with noblemen and women. The contrast of peasants who gawked through the large windows reminded her of where she originally came from. This upset her, especially being in the presence of her ordinary and embarrassing husband, Charles Bovary. When normal people moved on with their lives, Emma continued to obsess over that memorable night. But what really constitutes as normal? I doubt anyone knows the answer to that question.
       It is no secret that most everyone on this planet desires a fulfilled life. While most people climb up the ladder of success or importance in order to achieve greatness, some people do not know when to stop climbing. When this happens, people fall. Poor Emma Bovary tried to climb so high, but she could not even manage to get to the top. I find that such longing for a comfortable life hasn't really changed much throughout the years. We are all destined for greatness... it's a matter of how we get there, I suppose.

Brain Farts in Writing

2011-04-02T06:57:00.000-07:00

I’ve been working on a ghost novel since December 2009. As I am a ridiculously slow writer, I have only managed to spit out three chapters. The story that lurks inside my mind permeates every cell behind my skull; yet, I cannot seem to allow these words to escape onto the white pages in front of my fountain pen.

Today I wrote an amazing sentence that contained a mere five words. It was all I could manage to muster.

I realized shortly thereafter, that when I am unable to search for the words that I intend to write, sometimes the words eventually find their way to me—even when they arrive with minimal luggage.

2011-03-31T18:25:00.000-07:00

My recent favorite play is Sure Thing by David Ives. It would be my ideal play to write (if I were to write one) as it was inexpensive; having one table, one bell, and two actors provided to be profoundly effective. Initially, I thought it was a bit annoying because the bell kept ringing. However, I quickly started to realize what message the play was deciphering to its audience. Every one of us has said something we might have regretted at some point in our lives. Sometimes I wish I could have a handheld bell like that in my life to alert me of the stupid things I may say to people. If I could get plenty of chances to say the right thing all the time, the positive possibilities would be endless! Some of the things that that were scripted had me laughing out loud because of the different personalities the actors were playing.

I found a cool little video that someone uploaded to YouTube. Some of the scripting is different in order to keep up with recent times (like mentioning the DVD instead of a VCR, for example). I hope the link works and Blogger doesn't inform me that it cannot be listed here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XliV9M7-If4

Playwrighters vs Bookwriters

2011-03-25T15:32:00.000-07:00

Who has the easier job of writing? I wouldn't really know the answer to that if there was one as obviously; I am in no position to call myself a professional writer. All can only offer is my opinion.

As the American playwright Tina Howe once said, "I'd finally found a form where I could practice my imagination but not be bogged down by all those damn words." I could not disagree with her more. I wrote a play once for college. It was one of the most tedious and nerve-wracking experiences I've ever encountered. Writing a play is quite a challenge for me because I tend to use a lot of imagery when I write. Too much description is unnecessary since there are no readers. The public can see the creation rather than read it. It never fails that I have to go back and erase large pieces of a play (if ever I write one, which is rare). I tend to lean on the story side of things in a play, making it seem more like an essay or something out of a library. Though I don't ever mind a challenge, I would be slightly nervous about writing a play if it meant putting food on my family's table. In my opinion, it takes more exertion to write something that will eventually be seen. It is for this reason that I have always admired playwrights.

They simply rock.

Freedom Writers: Proof that the Pen is Mightier than the Sword

2011-03-19T10:36:00.000-07:00

I watched this movie this morning due to earning some extra credit in class and I have been welling with tears ever since. I'd like to share some thoughts about the movie(contains a few spoilers).
Teachers have their own problems to deal with and can sometimes bring them to class. However, some of them choose to sacrifice their issues so they can listen attentively and act on the behalf of their pupils. They realize that it is not always about the academic subject at hand. To say that 23 year old Erin Gruwell, who taught at Woodrow Wilson High School, went above and beyond the call of duty in her profession is an understatement. She never gave up and is admired and inspired by many as a result of her perseverance.

Teacher compliments aside, Freedom Writers is a very frightening yet inspiring movie. Although the movie sometimes seems to be overly dramatic in contrast to real life, actual issues were scripted into the movie based on the student's journals. Her students maintained the ideology that they were living in a war zone and had to protect their rights through violent tactics. For example, one teenage boy told his teacher, "We ain't afraid to die, protecting our own. At least when you die for your own, you die with respect."

There is a moment in the movie where fights break out all over the school so Gruwell runs out to see what is happening. The peace sign mural behind her symbolized that peace was much needed in the lives of those students. Again, she had to come up with a way to reach her students. English alone could not open their eyes, so she incorporated lessons that the teenagers might appreciate and understand within the English lessons. Unfortunately, she tried on several occasions only to be branded, "you don't know what you're doing". Still not giving up, she moved on to different methods until she eventually changed the lives of her students one by one.

One of the most important ways she reached the students was when she recounted Hilter's regime. She compared his violence to that of the gangs in the very classroom she stood in and proved that violence is very real and nothing to be proud of. The pictures shown from that era was enough to drive the toughest of students to tears. And to think that that particular lesson was started from a racist drawing being passed around the classroom. It was the epitome of history repeating itself, which was something that needed to be stopped.

Everyone knows that it's not recent news when one hears that teachers do not get paid enough for what they have to put up with. It is a wonder that this brave woman never left her career due to stress as others would be fleeing out the door with their last paycheck. It takes great dedication to the job and a world of patience to prevail as a successful instructor, something Gruwell is blessed with. It is enlightening to know that teachers such as she are deservingly displayed in their profession. If most college graduates go into the realm of teaching and become just half the teacher she is, then America's children would be willing to learn more¾without violence.

Before the Proposal

2011-03-18T12:52:00.000-07:00

If I was impure, would you still love me?
If my life wasn't fulfilled with riches, would you still value me?
If I was moving at an invariable speed, would you still grace me?
If I told you that I am troubled, would you comfort me?

Sometimes beneath it all, I am stone.

With a heart that's been cracked too many times.
Sometimes when it rains, you'll know I'm crying.

I may not show it, but I'm crying for you.

If was in need of your strength, would you lift me up

Past the dark clouds that surround this empty soul?
If I was imperfect such as the way I live my life,

Would you look past my impurities?

Sometimes beneath this old porcelain flesh,

Dark vines of hatred spawn for unwanted guests.

Could you chase out the demons that live beneath my chest?

Do all these things and I will love you forever.

All Things Must Cease

2011-03-17T09:28:00.000-07:00

I've been working on a ghostly novella for quite some time now. It is based on a dream I had a few years ago. The title, of course, is subject to change. Below is a little summary of what I've been working on. Any comments and gentle critiques are needed! Thanks for reading.

Two grinning carved pumpkins rest peacefully beside the front door of our brick-red porch. Here I am, sitting Indian-legged on the cool steps of our family's brand new home, admiring the flickering orange glow the candles produce. A shiny black crow is frantically pecking at the stale French bread I tossed onto the grass as I take a seat on the cool, hard steps. I am amused by the bird’s expeditious nature of eating and I smile. He is indeed a funny little fellow.

All is silent for a short while until I hear the popping of the neighbor's burning foliage in their front yard. I watch the flames from across the street make jumpy gestures such as dancing faeries at an elegant ball. The crickets, with their violin legs, are merging with the melody with the wind in the trees. Our neighbors are in a festive mood as their gleeful laughs are audibly traced just next door. Even the grimacing jack-o'-lantern that guards their half opened window does not seem to mind. In his own way, he is also laughing.

Bewildered by the gradual elevation in volume, I stare at the warm sun setting in the Tennessee horizon, casting shadows across the Smoky Mountains. This is perfection. Soon, that deep orange star will be visiting other parts of the world, and then it will be time for tricks and treats in this city called Sevierville. I stare at the very last ray of light that manages to finally hide itself behind the tallest mountain, miles away from our house. It’s as if I am able to control the setting sun with my mind, making it go slowly down, down, down.

Fondly smitten of the thought, I stand up and pad my way to the kitchen where my mother is preparing her most delicious confections: Mom's Mountaintop Toffee. That sweet, delectable treat has passed down from mother to mother in our family for decades. Upon arrival, a new scent enters my senses and I am pulled back down to the reality that I never survived that crash.

I can faintly taste the coppery blood on my lips yet I do not have the strength to lick them clean. The shards of windshield glass is piercing the white of my eyes, forcing them open to look at my bottom jaw which has been nearly ripped apart from my face by a jagged, sharp rock. My chest is torn open, revealing cracked ribs; my emaciated stomach, exposing itself to the smallest amount of pale moonlight that is emitting through the cracks of this deep ravine. Though the coolness of autumn is bearing down on my scattered remains, I am partly warmed by my blood which drips down my throat. Ants and scorpions numb my wounds. With each nibble, they carry tiny pieces of me away to their underground world, never to be seen again.

I want to scream for help but no one can hear my cries through the gurgling of my torn vocal chords. My once strong voice is as hushed as the dead of the night. It’s so cold down here. My strength to stay alive had already diminished as the light in my mind rotted away long before my horrid realization had set in—I am not at my parent's house on my beloved porch. I am dead.

The Antique Store

2011-03-16T23:36:00.000-07:00

I am allergic to dust mites in the worst way possible. Yet, my ailment does not stop me from enjoying every sublime piece of vintage art that is covered in dust. Old things bring me back to a time before I even existed. It's as if I was there and reincarnated into the person I am today, only to remember the musty smell of a China cabinet from the fifties era. Hey man, I was there with a poodle skirt, okay? However that may be, here I am at the ripe age of 32 and climbing; climbing my nearsighted eyes up and down the rows of familiar Better Homes and Gardens magazines from the sixties. Even old glass bottles of Aspirin and Vicks VapoRub from the 1920's call for my attention. I am in complete aw over all the delectable and breakable things this stuffy store holds. With a sneeze and a congested nose, I turn toward the door to leave, and I wonder why in the world I didn't bring any money with me. All things considering, at least I have my pocket of travel sized tissues from the year 2011.