The time came for swift change in property and financial division. Robert’s father, Mr. Edward, had passed away and was buried not three days ago, when feuds over his wealthy funds began. Edward was a tobacco farmer and had accumulated a great wealth. He had a great home where he lived with his large family. He was married to Elizabeth, the daughter of another tobacco grower, and they had four children. Bernard is twenty five years old and is the second youngest of the family. He lost his left leg in a carriage accident on the way to New York City for a theater job. His older sister, Mary, was with him at the time. She is twenty seven years old and lives with her husband, David. They live just a few miles down from where Edward had built his estate. Mary was a mother of three and often brought them to their grandparents to keep them entertained. When Elizabeth died of pneumonia, Edward secluded himself from his children but always welcomed his grand-children with open arms and a joyful attitude. He seemed bothered by the aging relatives around him.
Wilson, Mary’s twin brother, had died at the age of seventeen at a small gathering at the nearby lake. He drowned while trying to swim across it, after drinking a staggering amount. Mary had felt his demise and was not herself for many weeks after the incident. She refused to go near water of any kind and was often reluctant to bathe. When she met David, a beer brewer, she did not like him at all. He made a living off of what inhibited her brother from crossing that lake and she silently blamed him. When the benefits of marrying and bearing children with him opened her eyes a bit, she took the opportunity, and has been medicating herself since. Samantha, the middle child, enjoyed spending most of her time at the town library and came home only to sleep and eat. She aspired to be a great scholar and never turned down an opportunity to read a story. She read Edward’s will aloud at the ceremony, and the words she said had upset them all. All, except my dear friend Robert. Robert was deaf and had little contact with the people outside of the estate.
The first time I noticed that Robert took an interest to me was an uncomfortable feeling. I’ve been cleaning Mr. Edward’s home for the better part of six years, and in those years we’ve rarely had any disagreements. It was always “Yes, Mr. Edwards” or “No, Mr. Edwards”. When Elizabeth passed away, I worked a little longer times trying to keep the home steady and pleasant. I’d run errands for Mr. Edwards and take him into town, and tend to his grand-children when he grew too tired to play with them. I was coming back from a trip to town when I saw Mr. Edward and Robert writing on sheets of paper and passing them to one another. Mr. Edwards wrote something down, and as Robert read the scripture, he quickly turned toward my direction and waved with a smile. He couldn’t possibly have heard me; I was still many paces away, so it was clear that Mr. Edward had told him. I dutifully waved back to Robert and he jotted something down before running over to help me carry in the food goods from the marketplace. I attempted to wave him off, but Robert insisted, so I reluctantly handed him a basket of fruits and signaled that that was all. One must appreciate the gesture, Robert is a true gentleman. I still eyed Mr. Edwards, who briefly caught my glare, and smiled as he drew them away toward a galloping Robert.
I never gave it another thought, not until Mr. Edwards had passed away. Robert was the first person to figure this out. I was downstairs sweeping away the remnants of the previous night’s child’s play when I heard moans and sobs come from Mr. Edward’s room. I slowly went up to investigate so as not to embarrass anyone when I stumbled inside. I saw Mr. Edwards had passed away in his sleep. He passed on quietly and without pain it seemed. No matter how peaceful you can imagine a death for someone, there will be always be others who will give their soul to have them still around. It sure seemed that this is what Robert was trying to do. He was sitting against the opposite end of the bed, vocalizing his pain in incoherent attempts of calling for “papa”. He hadn’t seen me, so I had time to rationalize an approach. A task that was easier said than done. I was stricken with the death of Mr. Edwards. My future came into my thoughts and I wondered where I would end up. I didn’t know what to do, so I decided to console Robert for the time being.
The only times I ever heard Robert make any sounds was when he’d laugh. His laughter was in itself humorous as it sounded offbeat and completely original. My regret was that he could not hear hit. This time he spoke for the sake of anxiety and loss. His attempts of conversation by pen and paper went poorly. He couldn’t manage to write anything down without slanting into a depressive state and often wrote a word down that missed vowels and key consonants. After calming down, I brought him downstairs, where we waited for Samantha to come home from the library. In the meantime, we passed notes.
In our conversation, I managed to find out how he stumbled upon Mr. Edward. In the previous night Mr. Edward had written Robert a long note and told him to read it before going to bed. He dodged my attempts at finding out what the note was about. He simply wrote me, “Now I cannot give him my answer, so he will never know.” He crumbled after writing the double u. This was when Samantha walked in, surprised to hear her brother vocalizing. None of us heard anything from Robert, just his original chuckles and squeals. She came up to me and asked what was happening. I told her.
The next couple of days were busy with moving and preparations for the funeral. I spent a large amount of time cooking the funeral meals and cleaning up afterwards. When the ceremony began, I stepped away to weep. I cried for my future, I cried for poor Robert, and I cried for dear Mr. Edward. I was interrupted by a hand on my shoulder, it was Robert. He had a smile on his face and passed me a note. The note brightened my mood and made me uneasy all at the same time. He said, “It seems he had most faith in me. I don’t know what they’re arguing for inside. I don’t care. I want you to stay with me. Will you stay?” I stood up and made my way into the house. In the doorway I received shouts and insults from Robert’s siblings. Roars of disapproval resonated in my head and still haunt me today. Mary said, “You ain’t even family whore! Why do you deserve a share while I get nothing?” Bernard said, “Damn nigger! At least you got both your damn legs! You better run from here, y’hear?” Samantha said, “I’m not sure what was going through my Daddy’s head when he wrote this mess down but he better be damned sure about this!”
Robert interrupted the cacophony of noises by holding up a note he had written moments ago. They stopped and read the note. Their faces melted into glares of disappointment, but the comments stopped. They could have spoken under their breath toward Robert, but all had gone silent. He then turned to me and smiled; I couldn’t help but smile back. I never knew what he had said to them, he ripped the note up shortly afterward, but I’m sure glad he said something. It was the loudest moment of his life, and he didn’t hear a thing.
After that, the family came by frequently and eventually treated me better as well as their deaf sibling. He grew into a handsome young man and ran the business with me as his assistant. He shunned all adverse behavior and only dealt with the ones who he quoted as “civil”. As for my future and road in life, it appears that Robert had inherited the entire estate that Mr. Edwards accumulated and maintained. It was some time before Robert gained the courage to ask me in marriage, but when he did, it was the quietest ceremony in the entire world.
Afterword
This hybrid of Faulkner’s country racism and Nella’s Female African American struggle is an unlikely situation to happen anywhere in the US but if it were, this would be an accurate description of that. Nella often told her stories from a first person point of view, which I adopted and introduced into the racist and awkward style of Faulkner’s “country” fellows. I had great challenge trying to keep things in their time zones, as far as language and technology. The end result is a story about a boy deaf to ignorant ears who falls for the housekeeper. When this is seen by a very rich and powerful, and noble fellow, the unthinkable happens. I like these situations for their dramatic quality and real-world probability. I hope you have as well.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
The Ill: A short story about the Flu epidemic of the 1900's
My Father had been gone for three days when Mother started feeling the symptoms of the flu. We lived a short while from the city where we made a living with our small plot of land and neighboring stream. I was out on the stream, seated on a massive boulder. My pole, the one that Father had carved me for my birthday, was bobbing slightly as the running water tugged on the line. I hadn’t caught anything out of that stream since that new factory opened up down the road. I was just about to throw the useless tool into the water when Anton, my brother, came to me with tears in his eyes. He had a great deal of trouble trying to tell me what was wrong. He was 7 years old at the time. He often refused to wear a top and strode around in just his trousers. He has a scar under his left eye where he fell from the rock I was fishing on. He’s quite clumsy and quiet but this time, he was awash with emotion. He stood at the bottom of the behemoth stone and was barely able to call my name between heaving breaths. He was choking on his sorrow and I immediately thought the worst. When I landed near him he stammered through quivering lips and steamy breaths. Mother had the sickness. The sickness had been through the city the year before but this year was supposed to be better.
Mother goes to the city much of the time to sell the vegetables and bread we produce on our land. I am supposed to eventually take over Father’s job of finding buyers and other financial supporters. On the way back from selling her full batch of items, Mother told me about a sick man lying in the street, confusing the horses. She said that there was a group of people who looked at the man but made no effort to pull the dazed fellow to the side. She took it upon herself to help the man over to the building wall of the post office. She was at first angry with the man. She assumed he was incredibly drunk and had decided to nap in the middle of the horse paths. It was my mother’s irritated ego that drove her to move the man, not her compassion or good Samaritan ideal. My Mother was a tough woman that married my father when she was pregnant with my eldest sister, Moira. She brought our product to whomever Father found, and took great pride in her work.
A few days after she told us about the man in the road, she decided to send Moira to the city the sell the product. She wasn’t feeling all that well, but assured us it was nothing to worry about. I brought her water and her books until Moira came back from the city, after that I would go to the stream or complete any chores I hadn’t finished. The days passed and Mother was still not getting better. That’s when Father left to go find a real doctor. The doctors in town were professional but Mother didn’t trust any of them. She said she saw Dr. Rush peek through his office window across the street to the Big Town hotel. She called him a pervert and refused to be treated by him if she ever fell ill. Father took us to him anyway, and made us swear to not tell Mother. He’d take us out for two days to convince Mother that we’d been out and about looking for the correct treatment. After the first visit, which took a mere 30 minutes or so, Father took us out to the circus. We’d spend the whole day there and come back feeling no longer ill. Father had the right type of treatment for us. When it came to Mother, however, his treatment was met with full hostility. He later came that day with a small board that carried a pile of poop. He placed the board next to Mother’s side of the bed and told her that breathing the stink off of the poop would make her flu go away. I asked him where he heard that and found out that it was a popular rumor in the city. Anytime someone got sick, they sniffed the aromas of shit to make themselves feel better. I never understood the reason for it, but the treatment still hadn’t worked. This is what Anton was telling me.
As Anton and I made our way back home, we saw a horse we didn’t recognize and figured it was a doctor that father had sent here. We got inside and found Moira sitting across from a man in dark colors and he was holding a hat in his lap. The hat told me who he was and what he was doing here. My Father had died while looking for a doctor, he had succumbed to the illness that was being seen running rampant in the city. I asked about Mother and Moira stood up and hugged me. That was when I knew. The illness had taken away my hardworking Mother and my Father. I ran to Mother’s room and found the shit pile sitting next to a mound of blanket. The mound had the same eerie shape of the boulder by the stream, and this image immediately sank me to my knees, where I began to cry. I cried a torrent of tears and was unashamed about the whole thing. I never got to see the face of my dead Mother, and I didn’t want to.
When the man was done giving Moira helpful information about the flu, I asked him where they had found my Father. He told me that he had collapsed in the middle of the road a couple of towns away and was left lying in the road. Bystanders didn’t help him up and everyone had assumed the worst. There was a bank robbery the same day and the people who fled the scene had trampled on Father’s body with their kidney bruised horses. It was only because the officers had been trailing the men, when they pulled him to the side of the road for inspection. They assure me he was dead before the horses but I refused to believe it.
That was nearly three weeks ago and I decided to say something now because I am not feeling so well. I walked over to the stream again, but decided not to come home that night. I felt oddly at peace sitting by the boulder. I never made attempts to climb up to the top again. It felt wrong to try and I shooed away any birds that happened to land there, trying to call my attention with victory chants and calls, proclaiming themselves as king of the stream hill stone. I never threw stones but instead made great threatening gestures that were sure to frighten anything on top of Mother’s head. Moira has been stuck with both of their jobs and has spent little time with Anton and me. I told Anton of my secret plan to visit the circus but he told me that it had shut down. I never found out how he knew that, but for some strange reason, I believed him.
Mother goes to the city much of the time to sell the vegetables and bread we produce on our land. I am supposed to eventually take over Father’s job of finding buyers and other financial supporters. On the way back from selling her full batch of items, Mother told me about a sick man lying in the street, confusing the horses. She said that there was a group of people who looked at the man but made no effort to pull the dazed fellow to the side. She took it upon herself to help the man over to the building wall of the post office. She was at first angry with the man. She assumed he was incredibly drunk and had decided to nap in the middle of the horse paths. It was my mother’s irritated ego that drove her to move the man, not her compassion or good Samaritan ideal. My Mother was a tough woman that married my father when she was pregnant with my eldest sister, Moira. She brought our product to whomever Father found, and took great pride in her work.
A few days after she told us about the man in the road, she decided to send Moira to the city the sell the product. She wasn’t feeling all that well, but assured us it was nothing to worry about. I brought her water and her books until Moira came back from the city, after that I would go to the stream or complete any chores I hadn’t finished. The days passed and Mother was still not getting better. That’s when Father left to go find a real doctor. The doctors in town were professional but Mother didn’t trust any of them. She said she saw Dr. Rush peek through his office window across the street to the Big Town hotel. She called him a pervert and refused to be treated by him if she ever fell ill. Father took us to him anyway, and made us swear to not tell Mother. He’d take us out for two days to convince Mother that we’d been out and about looking for the correct treatment. After the first visit, which took a mere 30 minutes or so, Father took us out to the circus. We’d spend the whole day there and come back feeling no longer ill. Father had the right type of treatment for us. When it came to Mother, however, his treatment was met with full hostility. He later came that day with a small board that carried a pile of poop. He placed the board next to Mother’s side of the bed and told her that breathing the stink off of the poop would make her flu go away. I asked him where he heard that and found out that it was a popular rumor in the city. Anytime someone got sick, they sniffed the aromas of shit to make themselves feel better. I never understood the reason for it, but the treatment still hadn’t worked. This is what Anton was telling me.
As Anton and I made our way back home, we saw a horse we didn’t recognize and figured it was a doctor that father had sent here. We got inside and found Moira sitting across from a man in dark colors and he was holding a hat in his lap. The hat told me who he was and what he was doing here. My Father had died while looking for a doctor, he had succumbed to the illness that was being seen running rampant in the city. I asked about Mother and Moira stood up and hugged me. That was when I knew. The illness had taken away my hardworking Mother and my Father. I ran to Mother’s room and found the shit pile sitting next to a mound of blanket. The mound had the same eerie shape of the boulder by the stream, and this image immediately sank me to my knees, where I began to cry. I cried a torrent of tears and was unashamed about the whole thing. I never got to see the face of my dead Mother, and I didn’t want to.
When the man was done giving Moira helpful information about the flu, I asked him where they had found my Father. He told me that he had collapsed in the middle of the road a couple of towns away and was left lying in the road. Bystanders didn’t help him up and everyone had assumed the worst. There was a bank robbery the same day and the people who fled the scene had trampled on Father’s body with their kidney bruised horses. It was only because the officers had been trailing the men, when they pulled him to the side of the road for inspection. They assure me he was dead before the horses but I refused to believe it.
That was nearly three weeks ago and I decided to say something now because I am not feeling so well. I walked over to the stream again, but decided not to come home that night. I felt oddly at peace sitting by the boulder. I never made attempts to climb up to the top again. It felt wrong to try and I shooed away any birds that happened to land there, trying to call my attention with victory chants and calls, proclaiming themselves as king of the stream hill stone. I never threw stones but instead made great threatening gestures that were sure to frighten anything on top of Mother’s head. Moira has been stuck with both of their jobs and has spent little time with Anton and me. I told Anton of my secret plan to visit the circus but he told me that it had shut down. I never found out how he knew that, but for some strange reason, I believed him.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Bell Jar & Catcher in the Rye: Methods of coping with society
“Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now (Salinger 189). In The Catcher in the Rye, we follow Holden from where he was kicked out of school on his journey all the way home to his little sister. He stops at various locations and meets some old friends as well as some complete strangers, who he tries to make a connection with. The quote above is a representation of his status as well as an example of someone reaching out to him. Though the phrase specifically mentions men, women can be just as troubled. In Plath’s The Bell Jar Esther mirrors much of Holden’s experiences but the fact that she is female changes everything. Both novels have the protagonists face a world of phonies and each have a unique way of coping with those around them.
Intelligence is dwelled on in each book to not only build the character we are reading about but to also show that it doesn’t matter how smart you are. When Holden is speaking to his professor about the courses he failed, we see that he has no interest in school and the only class he passed was composition. His disinterest is so profound that he openly admits it with no regard to what society expects of him. “I can’t seem to get very interested in them although your lectures are very interesting. It is all right with me if you flunk me though as I am flunking everything else except English anyway (Salinger 12). Since the whole book was written by Holden from his asylum, we eventually see that writing has a therapeutic effect on him. In The Bell Jar, Esther is very goal oriented and has done very well in school. She studied botany because the idea of studying abroad on account of a grant and studying something that “seemed real to me (Esther)” (Plath 34) was what she loved. The only complaint she had was the way some of the course work presented itself. Though she passed with an A, she described Physics as being “these hideous, cramped, scorpion-lettered formulas…” (Plath 35). Intelligence is one of the first things to be addressed to show just how insignificant it is to the respective characters downfall. Both Holden and Esther end up employing their urge for knowledge in very different ways, but still end up on the same road down.
A common dream for most people is to be married and living happily ever after. For Esther and Holden though, it is quite difficult because they believe that cannot be secured in a world of phonies. Holden is quite young to be thinking of such things, but that romantic quality is still present when we see him in the hotel with a prostitute. When the prostitute begins to undress and get on with the business, Holden is not feeling it. He describes it as “Sexy was about the last thing I was feeling. I felt much more depressed than sexy” (Salinger 95). The fact that the prostitute doesn’t involve any romantic emotional quality only feeds on Holden’s idea of all those around him being phony. Similarly, Esther is confronted with a naked Buddy and explains that “The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.” (Plath 69). Esther believes Buddy is a phony because of his hypocritical letters he sends her from his TB clinic. Notice within the statements that Esther’s is more observant while Holden is strictly internal. Both however, are searching for that fullness and end up being very disappointed when it is put in front of them.
When one adopts an identity, it is meant to be a defining attribute of who you are and what you stand for. It is often agreed that identity shifts during the teenage years. There is experimenting with new visages, quirks, clothing styles, and so on. This is a natural part of figuring out who you are. Holden and Esther simply put on a mask. When Holden is on the night train to Penn Station, he sits next to the mother of one of the people he went to school with. When a conversation ensues, Holden gives the lady a false name, his reason being “I didn’t feel like giving her my whole life history. Rudolf Schmidt was the name of the janitor of our dorm.” (Salinger 54-55). Like that wasn’t enough, he goes on giving the woman false information about their son, who in Holden’s eyes was “Penceys biggest bastard”. I can understand not wanting to spill the beans about who you are but continuing with false information only distances yourself while promoting an identity you only created for that occasion. If Holden was himself with the lady he might’ve discovered something interesting, like where the ducks go during winter. Esther’s case is slightly different. When she goes out for drinks she says that her name is Elly Higginbottom and that she’s from Chicago. Before she spoke, she was very observant of how the people were behaving around her, and she didn’t feel very safe. Just after putting on her mask though, she said she felt safer. Where Holden lied for conversation, Esther does it so that she feels more secure with the people around her.
Both of the novels are Bildungsroman which echo each other very well. The Bell Jar is clearly a female version of The Catcher in the Rye. Esther is smarter, more observant, and in touch with reality. She lies from time to time, but her lying is there as a sort of shield that helps her cope with those around her. Overall, she has accepted to follow what society expects of her only to still fall in the end. Holden, on the other hand, isn’t very intelligent. He questions some aspects of his environment and lets only the real mundane parts bother him, like the whereabouts of the ducks. He lies to everyone around him and seems to enjoy putting himself out there. The two are nearly identical because of their downfall, and the fact they are a different gender changes the flow of each story dramatically.
Intelligence is dwelled on in each book to not only build the character we are reading about but to also show that it doesn’t matter how smart you are. When Holden is speaking to his professor about the courses he failed, we see that he has no interest in school and the only class he passed was composition. His disinterest is so profound that he openly admits it with no regard to what society expects of him. “I can’t seem to get very interested in them although your lectures are very interesting. It is all right with me if you flunk me though as I am flunking everything else except English anyway (Salinger 12). Since the whole book was written by Holden from his asylum, we eventually see that writing has a therapeutic effect on him. In The Bell Jar, Esther is very goal oriented and has done very well in school. She studied botany because the idea of studying abroad on account of a grant and studying something that “seemed real to me (Esther)” (Plath 34) was what she loved. The only complaint she had was the way some of the course work presented itself. Though she passed with an A, she described Physics as being “these hideous, cramped, scorpion-lettered formulas…” (Plath 35). Intelligence is one of the first things to be addressed to show just how insignificant it is to the respective characters downfall. Both Holden and Esther end up employing their urge for knowledge in very different ways, but still end up on the same road down.
A common dream for most people is to be married and living happily ever after. For Esther and Holden though, it is quite difficult because they believe that cannot be secured in a world of phonies. Holden is quite young to be thinking of such things, but that romantic quality is still present when we see him in the hotel with a prostitute. When the prostitute begins to undress and get on with the business, Holden is not feeling it. He describes it as “Sexy was about the last thing I was feeling. I felt much more depressed than sexy” (Salinger 95). The fact that the prostitute doesn’t involve any romantic emotional quality only feeds on Holden’s idea of all those around him being phony. Similarly, Esther is confronted with a naked Buddy and explains that “The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.” (Plath 69). Esther believes Buddy is a phony because of his hypocritical letters he sends her from his TB clinic. Notice within the statements that Esther’s is more observant while Holden is strictly internal. Both however, are searching for that fullness and end up being very disappointed when it is put in front of them.
When one adopts an identity, it is meant to be a defining attribute of who you are and what you stand for. It is often agreed that identity shifts during the teenage years. There is experimenting with new visages, quirks, clothing styles, and so on. This is a natural part of figuring out who you are. Holden and Esther simply put on a mask. When Holden is on the night train to Penn Station, he sits next to the mother of one of the people he went to school with. When a conversation ensues, Holden gives the lady a false name, his reason being “I didn’t feel like giving her my whole life history. Rudolf Schmidt was the name of the janitor of our dorm.” (Salinger 54-55). Like that wasn’t enough, he goes on giving the woman false information about their son, who in Holden’s eyes was “Penceys biggest bastard”. I can understand not wanting to spill the beans about who you are but continuing with false information only distances yourself while promoting an identity you only created for that occasion. If Holden was himself with the lady he might’ve discovered something interesting, like where the ducks go during winter. Esther’s case is slightly different. When she goes out for drinks she says that her name is Elly Higginbottom and that she’s from Chicago. Before she spoke, she was very observant of how the people were behaving around her, and she didn’t feel very safe. Just after putting on her mask though, she said she felt safer. Where Holden lied for conversation, Esther does it so that she feels more secure with the people around her.
Both of the novels are Bildungsroman which echo each other very well. The Bell Jar is clearly a female version of The Catcher in the Rye. Esther is smarter, more observant, and in touch with reality. She lies from time to time, but her lying is there as a sort of shield that helps her cope with those around her. Overall, she has accepted to follow what society expects of her only to still fall in the end. Holden, on the other hand, isn’t very intelligent. He questions some aspects of his environment and lets only the real mundane parts bother him, like the whereabouts of the ducks. He lies to everyone around him and seems to enjoy putting himself out there. The two are nearly identical because of their downfall, and the fact they are a different gender changes the flow of each story dramatically.
King Lear V.S. Macbeth
The two protagonists are sympathetic characters who share sympathetic qualities found in certain criteria. Both are unique in their ways but I find Macbeth to be more sympathetic if not equal to Lear. Both characters seek power but behave differently to acquire it. Though Fate is addressed in one of the plays, it is clear that they both also contribute to their demise regardless of what is said, Macbeth in particular. The anagnorisis of the characters, or self-revelation, is strongly apparent but more meaningful in Macbeth. Poetic Justice is also applied to both characters, though the extremes are different, the result is all the same. Macbeth and King Lear both demonstrate the qualities that identify with a sympathetic character but the actions are most pronounced with that of Macbeth.
The right to rule as king is a given for both characters, the only difference is how this power is attained, and used. Macbeth does not possess the right to be crowned as king. The only reason he was even remotely interested was when the witches spoke the prophecies (1.3 lines 46-48). After having one come true, he assumes responsibility to make the rest come true as well. Macbeth is not fit to rule as king because the king is appointed by God. Macbeth was appointed by the devil. Also, the king is meant to help people and rule with honor. Macbeth, however, kills the king in his sleep thus framing him a coward and dishonorable. In stark contrast to Macbeth, King Lear is right to rule. He is rightfully appointed and people obey him with pleasure or passively because he is appointed by God. Similar to Macbeth however, Lear shows signs of being unfit to rule. He is rash in his decisions and draws radical pre-mature conclusions. When one of his daughters, Cordelia, stumbles in her words of love for him he immediately banishes her and Kent for sharing his opinion. In the first place, King Lear was going to divide the kingdom between his daughters, a mistake and not very king-like behavior. It is clear then, that both are unfit to be king, which leads us to their fall.
The characters have an extreme difference to their downfall, the main difference being the amount of violence that went into it. Macbeth is solely responsible for his own downfall. He clearly describes his inner desire to kill the king (2.1 lines 33-49) and allows himself to be manipulated by Lady Macbeth. She is constantly telling to do things. She tells him to kill the king (1.7 lines 48-57), wash his hands (2.2 lines 44-45), and to be calm so to not arouse suspicion (3.2 lines 27-29). Furthermore, he becomes continually paranoid. This paranoia feeds his need to consult the witches on additional issues (4.1 lines 66-77). If he hadn’t come across the witches in the first place, Macbeth probably would not have gone through such an elaborate plan to claim the crown or send men to kill Macduff’s family (4.3 lines 205-208). After wrongfully banishing Cordelia and Kent, Lear’s mental state continues to deteriorate. When Albany arrives to speak to Lear, Lear goes off again on his distaste for Cordelia’s behavior (1.4 lines 252-267). He continually does this throughout the play, becoming more and more insane. Not only is he confronted with Cordelia but also a possible assassination scheme. Though the characters contribute to their downfall, they are not completely lost in their “mind”.
The characters come to term with their problem and their anagnorisis is poignant and insightful. Macbeth’s anagnorisis is brief but very worldly and thought provoking. Throughout the play, Macbeth is consulting witches and plotting a coup with his wife. His character quickly degrades and any sympathetic qualities become lost to his dependence on the prophecies his growing paranoia, and his impulsive need to solidify his position. His anagnorisis is very pessimistic, describing life as a shadow, or “a tale told by an idiot… signifying nothing” (5.5 lines 17-27). Although he resumes his previous behavior, Macbeth is looking at life and ponders his position. He wishes a better death for his wife, who helped drag them both down. There are moments of guilt that Macbeth expresses, like when he killed the King, but nothing as revealing as this. At the end of the play, Lear is remorseful over the hanging of Cordelia and goes on wondering why all other things should have life at all (5.3 lines 304-309). I find it interesting that he doesn’t address the other events of the play. After cursing Cordelia throughout the play, you’d think he’d be glad to see her hang. Lear’s love for his daughter is no mistake and though he appears completely mad and senseless in the end, he has a final moment of remorse for the person he cursed the most. Though they can have these insightful moments in the play, this doesn’t stop Justice from being administered.
Poetic Justice is definitely met. During Macbeth’s paranoid episodes, he sends murderers to the Macduff castle. The slaughter of Macduff’s family is evil and is met with revenge. Macbeth and Macduff duel leaving Macduff the victor (5.11). The king’s death is also avenged through the paranormal death of Lady Macbeth. Lady Macbeth is haunted by images of blood and succumbs to an illness that the doctors cannot identify (5.1 line 30). If you consider Harsh language as a weapon then I suppose Lear met his doom to that extent, otherwise it is quite tricky to place an absolute moment of poetic justice. King Lear appeared to grow bored with his huge stature and decided to take radical steps as a King. First he attempts to divide the kingdom, banishes a few people, and quickly recruits another who is in plain disguise. All is done without a second thought. I believe the Poetic Justice comes in to close up his trail of bad decisions much like Macbeth.
Though it is clear that none of the two are fit to be king, because Lear is mad and Macbeth is a homicidal paranoid. Both also commit a huge amount to their downfall; Lear cannot get a grip on himself and Macbeth is obsessed with keeping his kingship with murderous intent. The two have a small blessed moment where they reflect on life in general and decide there is no meaning to any of it. This pessimistic view is then quickly followed by their collapse. The two also get their share of poetic justice which they most rightfully earned. The one who comes out the most sympathetic would have to be Macbeth. His instant arousal in the prophecies and submissive behavior toward Lady Macbeth clearly label him as being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Works Cited
Shakespeare, William. “The Norton Shakespeare Volume 2: Later Plays”. New York: W. & W. Norton & Company, 2008. Book.
The right to rule as king is a given for both characters, the only difference is how this power is attained, and used. Macbeth does not possess the right to be crowned as king. The only reason he was even remotely interested was when the witches spoke the prophecies (1.3 lines 46-48). After having one come true, he assumes responsibility to make the rest come true as well. Macbeth is not fit to rule as king because the king is appointed by God. Macbeth was appointed by the devil. Also, the king is meant to help people and rule with honor. Macbeth, however, kills the king in his sleep thus framing him a coward and dishonorable. In stark contrast to Macbeth, King Lear is right to rule. He is rightfully appointed and people obey him with pleasure or passively because he is appointed by God. Similar to Macbeth however, Lear shows signs of being unfit to rule. He is rash in his decisions and draws radical pre-mature conclusions. When one of his daughters, Cordelia, stumbles in her words of love for him he immediately banishes her and Kent for sharing his opinion. In the first place, King Lear was going to divide the kingdom between his daughters, a mistake and not very king-like behavior. It is clear then, that both are unfit to be king, which leads us to their fall.
The characters have an extreme difference to their downfall, the main difference being the amount of violence that went into it. Macbeth is solely responsible for his own downfall. He clearly describes his inner desire to kill the king (2.1 lines 33-49) and allows himself to be manipulated by Lady Macbeth. She is constantly telling to do things. She tells him to kill the king (1.7 lines 48-57), wash his hands (2.2 lines 44-45), and to be calm so to not arouse suspicion (3.2 lines 27-29). Furthermore, he becomes continually paranoid. This paranoia feeds his need to consult the witches on additional issues (4.1 lines 66-77). If he hadn’t come across the witches in the first place, Macbeth probably would not have gone through such an elaborate plan to claim the crown or send men to kill Macduff’s family (4.3 lines 205-208). After wrongfully banishing Cordelia and Kent, Lear’s mental state continues to deteriorate. When Albany arrives to speak to Lear, Lear goes off again on his distaste for Cordelia’s behavior (1.4 lines 252-267). He continually does this throughout the play, becoming more and more insane. Not only is he confronted with Cordelia but also a possible assassination scheme. Though the characters contribute to their downfall, they are not completely lost in their “mind”.
The characters come to term with their problem and their anagnorisis is poignant and insightful. Macbeth’s anagnorisis is brief but very worldly and thought provoking. Throughout the play, Macbeth is consulting witches and plotting a coup with his wife. His character quickly degrades and any sympathetic qualities become lost to his dependence on the prophecies his growing paranoia, and his impulsive need to solidify his position. His anagnorisis is very pessimistic, describing life as a shadow, or “a tale told by an idiot… signifying nothing” (5.5 lines 17-27). Although he resumes his previous behavior, Macbeth is looking at life and ponders his position. He wishes a better death for his wife, who helped drag them both down. There are moments of guilt that Macbeth expresses, like when he killed the King, but nothing as revealing as this. At the end of the play, Lear is remorseful over the hanging of Cordelia and goes on wondering why all other things should have life at all (5.3 lines 304-309). I find it interesting that he doesn’t address the other events of the play. After cursing Cordelia throughout the play, you’d think he’d be glad to see her hang. Lear’s love for his daughter is no mistake and though he appears completely mad and senseless in the end, he has a final moment of remorse for the person he cursed the most. Though they can have these insightful moments in the play, this doesn’t stop Justice from being administered.
Poetic Justice is definitely met. During Macbeth’s paranoid episodes, he sends murderers to the Macduff castle. The slaughter of Macduff’s family is evil and is met with revenge. Macbeth and Macduff duel leaving Macduff the victor (5.11). The king’s death is also avenged through the paranormal death of Lady Macbeth. Lady Macbeth is haunted by images of blood and succumbs to an illness that the doctors cannot identify (5.1 line 30). If you consider Harsh language as a weapon then I suppose Lear met his doom to that extent, otherwise it is quite tricky to place an absolute moment of poetic justice. King Lear appeared to grow bored with his huge stature and decided to take radical steps as a King. First he attempts to divide the kingdom, banishes a few people, and quickly recruits another who is in plain disguise. All is done without a second thought. I believe the Poetic Justice comes in to close up his trail of bad decisions much like Macbeth.
Though it is clear that none of the two are fit to be king, because Lear is mad and Macbeth is a homicidal paranoid. Both also commit a huge amount to their downfall; Lear cannot get a grip on himself and Macbeth is obsessed with keeping his kingship with murderous intent. The two have a small blessed moment where they reflect on life in general and decide there is no meaning to any of it. This pessimistic view is then quickly followed by their collapse. The two also get their share of poetic justice which they most rightfully earned. The one who comes out the most sympathetic would have to be Macbeth. His instant arousal in the prophecies and submissive behavior toward Lady Macbeth clearly label him as being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Works Cited
Shakespeare, William. “The Norton Shakespeare Volume 2: Later Plays”. New York: W. & W. Norton & Company, 2008. Book.
The role of dolls in the Bluest Eye and Invisible Man
“Adults, older girls, shops, magazines, newspapers, window signs – all the world agreed that a blue-eyed, yellow haired, pink-skinned doll was what every girl child treasured” (Morrison Pg 20). In this part of Morrison’s bildungsroman novel, The Bluest Eye, the narrator is a nine year old African American girl named Claudia who is expressing her distaste for dolls. The doll motif is strongly present throughout the novel and demonstrates the various characteristics of two main characters, Claudia and Pecola. The doll seen in Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man plays a similar role by addressing issues concerning identity, racism, and class status. In both novels, the dolls offer a glimpse into the thoughts and views of those who wield them. They become devices that quickly envelop a character, allowing us to observe them, as well as recognize the critique on social issues and stereotypes.
Stereotypes, in relation to dolls, are the single most addressed issue in The Bluest Eye. When Claudia is given a doll for Christmas, she is initially confused and wonders, “What was I supposed to do with it? Pretend to be its mother” (Pg 20). Claudia then explains that she is only interested in interacting with humans. The doll helps us realize that not all little girls want to even pretend to engage in maternal procedures. Claudia then bluntly states that, “Motherhood was old age” (Pg 20). We recognize her reason for wanting to wait for such behavior, but the fact that she does not even want to pretend raises more questions.
Claudia attempts to do so anyhow, at the scolding of her mother. However, the doll is white with blonde hair and blue eyes. Before she receives the doll there is a sort of preparatory phrase, “…this is beautiful, and if you are on this day ‘worthy’ you may have it” (Pg 21). It is clearly said in this phrase that the accepted form of beauty in the country are the characteristics represented by the doll. Any other doll was out of the question. When she mentions a Raggedy Ann Doll, she says that she is “physically revolted” by its appearance. The white doll is more life-like but Claudia is still disgusted with it. However, she is intrigued to finding the so-called “beauty” that it was supposed to embody. Her investigation reveals her inner desire to confront and maim this stereotype.
Claudia’s violent tendencies towards the doll are not necessarily the precursor to something more dreadful, but perhaps something more animalistic. When dogs, for example, are neglected and seeking attention from their owner, they chew on things (Masse). This chewing helps relieve tension and stress. Claudia could be tearing apart the doll for the sole purpose of getting her mother to recognize her, whether that she is beautiful or to spend more time with her. Early on, Claudia and her sister are introduced to Mr. Henry as pieces of furniture so this lack of attention is present. When asked what she really wants for Christmas, her answer is simple; she wants attention. Claudia could also be doing this to express her anger towards what is directly considered beautiful, little white girls.
Pecola, on the other hand, is enveloped by the stereotype. She wishes for blue eyes and engages in behavior that troubles those around her. She is fascinated by the Shirley Temple cups, another item that is “beautiful”, that are in Claudia’s home. So much so, that she drinks “three quarts of milk” simply to satisfy her need to see Shirley materialize in the absence of the white liquid (Pg 23). Pecola longs for blue eyes, but perhaps she also wishes to be white. The doll stereotype may not be convincing to Claudia, but is getting the best of Pecola. Perhaps she thought drinking so much milk would turn her white and blue eyes would be soon to follow.
The effect of the doll is present throughout the novel but is strong in the scene where the girls are by the ice cream shop. Maureen is talking about Pecola’s father and is threatened by Claudia. When Claudia goes to swing at her, she instead hits Pecola. Maureen is white but she is a brunette, not the famed form of “beauty” represented by the doll, but still way up there. Therefore, she is self-proclaimed “cute” (Pg 73). Since Claudia’s anger is towards the “beautiful” she hits the next best thing, someone who wants to be beautiful. Pecola wishes for blue eyes constantly and is distraught with being “black and ugly”. This self-loathing is not accepted by Morrison.
In an interview of Morrison, she speaks about a conversation she had with a friend when she was younger. When her friend said that God did not exist and she had proof, which was that she prayed for blue eyes and never got them, Morrison is visibly upset by her statement. She then mentions two things that came to her when she looked at her friend, “She would be awful if the wish had been granted… For the first time, I noticed […] how astonishingly beautiful she was.” (The Black List). Morrison embodies these thoughts in Claudia, and her reaction to Pecola’s self–loathing, though it was an accident, the action is a subliminal blow to those who engage in such behavior. Though self-loathing is not a flattering aspect of any personality, the image can be turned around to comment on one’s identity.
In Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, The protagonist is a young African American man who is trying to find a steady workplace and community in New York City. He is sent on wild goose chases, altered in hospitals, victimized, and mistaken for a two-faced pimp. The doll seen in IM is a symbol of the African American’s effort to seek equality and standing in a predominantly “white” environment. The racist element is present and demands the reader to look past it, so that lack of control and class status is seen as well.
The doll, unlike the one in The Bluest Eye, is a Sambo doll. The caricature nature of the doll is offensive and undermines the identity of African Americans. The nature of racism is always present in the world and the doll shows this by not being destroyed. When IM is sent fleeing down a sewer, he is forced to burn the things that help shape who he is so that he may find a way out. When he comes to burning the doll, “it burned so stubbornly that I reached inside the case for something else” (Ellison pg568). The explanation, though brief, is a powerful mention that racism will always be around to affect everyone in one way or another.
The lack of control and class status is addressed by Erik M. Dell when he mentions IM’s hospital scene. “He is the black man on the strings representing the Sambo doll sitting in the hospital bed/box” (Dell). In this scene, IM wakes up in a hospital surrounded by doctors who are trying to “cure” him for an unmentioned ailment. The doctors, who represent white people, are connecting IM to wires to perform the shock treatment. "Look, he's dancing, someone called […] They really do have rhythm, don't they? Get hot, boy! Get hot! It said with a laugh" (pg 237). The image parallels the scene where IM encounters Clifton and his dolls, comparing that the doll is lower in status and is controlled by someone else.
When IM meets Clifton in the street and finds him selling Sambo Dolls, he is upset by the scene. When the man makes a break for it and the surrounding crowd dissipates, IM is left standing with an old woman. He promptly attempts to crush one doll left behind when the lady says “Oh, no!” (pg 434). Not having the doll stepped on or destroyed shows the importance that degrading behavior will always be present.
Both dolls have qualities that express a demeaning attitude towards African Americans. They both have visual qualities that do this. The doll in The Bluest Eye is a national symbol of beauty that does not recognize African Americans in context but is widespread enough that it ends up in African American hands without any second thoughts. If color were added, the closest representation would come to the Sambo Doll, which is offensive. The second aspect that makes the dolls powerful symbols are their respective physical characteristics.
The Sambo doll has strings attached to it meaning that the doll, or African American, cannot move unless someone else is controlling them. This is a common theme seen throughout Invisible Man; the hospital scene, Ras’ mob, and IM’s manipulation of Rinehart’s persona. The doll in Morrison’s novel is described by Claudia as “a most uncomfortable, patently aggressive sleeping companion” (pg 20). Of the two, I believe that Morrison’s doll is more effective in the describing of African American mentality and will.
Morrison’s doll does a superior job of addressing social issues because when Morrison was talking about her influence to write the book, she mentions that the stories of a young black woman are “virgin territory” to her, which is rich with possibilities for storytelling. I agree with this statement and believe her doll motif is one of the more powerful poetic devices used to address the issues that trouble the African American girl. While IM’s doll is wholesome and addresses society, I prefer the specific nature of the doll in The Bluest Eye.
Works Cited
Dell, Derek. “Dancing Dolls on strings: A look at Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison”. AC Associated Content. 21 Apr. 2008. Arts & Entertainment. 28 Nov. 2009
In this article, Dell briefly examines the Sambo Doll’s symbolism which I found to be fitting to describe the role of the doll. His comment on control was especially preffered because of the resemblance between the marionette and IM’s “strings”. Class status is integrated as well, which helped me usher into the identity portion of my argument.
Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. Random House Inc.: New York, 1952.
Masse, Annette. “So Why Do Dogs Chew Things? Here is How to Keep Your Dog From
Chewing Up the House”. Articlesbase. 23 Jul. 2008. Pets Articles. 28 Nov. 2009
I feel like this is an important source to include because of the parallelism in behavior that Claudia exhibits to a doll that a dog might to a shoe. Dogs chew on things to make their masters notice them and to relieve stress. Claudia tears apart her Christmas present and briefly shares an intimate desire for attention. It’s not my intent to compare Claudia to a Dog, but the pattern of behavior is similar, which makes it worthy to mention.
Morrison, Toni. “The Black List, Vol. 1: Toni Morrison (HBO)” Portrait Interview. 18
Aug. 2008. Youtube. 26 Nov. 2009.
I decided to use this source to explain Morrison’s intent of having Pecola accidentally hit in the face. While she is speaking, you will notice that she is visibly upset by her friend. This influence may have prompted her to include a brief action of how she does not approve self-loathing.
Morrison, Toni. The Bluest Eye. Penguin Group, Plume. New York, 1970.
Morrison, Toni. “Challenges as a female writer – Toni Morrison”. Video Interview. 20 May 2009. Youtube. 26 Nov. 2009.
This video is my final approving source for siding with Morrison’s doll. Her mention of African American Women having a multitude of possible stories is remarkable in its specificity and intent.
Stereotypes, in relation to dolls, are the single most addressed issue in The Bluest Eye. When Claudia is given a doll for Christmas, she is initially confused and wonders, “What was I supposed to do with it? Pretend to be its mother” (Pg 20). Claudia then explains that she is only interested in interacting with humans. The doll helps us realize that not all little girls want to even pretend to engage in maternal procedures. Claudia then bluntly states that, “Motherhood was old age” (Pg 20). We recognize her reason for wanting to wait for such behavior, but the fact that she does not even want to pretend raises more questions.
Claudia attempts to do so anyhow, at the scolding of her mother. However, the doll is white with blonde hair and blue eyes. Before she receives the doll there is a sort of preparatory phrase, “…this is beautiful, and if you are on this day ‘worthy’ you may have it” (Pg 21). It is clearly said in this phrase that the accepted form of beauty in the country are the characteristics represented by the doll. Any other doll was out of the question. When she mentions a Raggedy Ann Doll, she says that she is “physically revolted” by its appearance. The white doll is more life-like but Claudia is still disgusted with it. However, she is intrigued to finding the so-called “beauty” that it was supposed to embody. Her investigation reveals her inner desire to confront and maim this stereotype.
Claudia’s violent tendencies towards the doll are not necessarily the precursor to something more dreadful, but perhaps something more animalistic. When dogs, for example, are neglected and seeking attention from their owner, they chew on things (Masse). This chewing helps relieve tension and stress. Claudia could be tearing apart the doll for the sole purpose of getting her mother to recognize her, whether that she is beautiful or to spend more time with her. Early on, Claudia and her sister are introduced to Mr. Henry as pieces of furniture so this lack of attention is present. When asked what she really wants for Christmas, her answer is simple; she wants attention. Claudia could also be doing this to express her anger towards what is directly considered beautiful, little white girls.
Pecola, on the other hand, is enveloped by the stereotype. She wishes for blue eyes and engages in behavior that troubles those around her. She is fascinated by the Shirley Temple cups, another item that is “beautiful”, that are in Claudia’s home. So much so, that she drinks “three quarts of milk” simply to satisfy her need to see Shirley materialize in the absence of the white liquid (Pg 23). Pecola longs for blue eyes, but perhaps she also wishes to be white. The doll stereotype may not be convincing to Claudia, but is getting the best of Pecola. Perhaps she thought drinking so much milk would turn her white and blue eyes would be soon to follow.
The effect of the doll is present throughout the novel but is strong in the scene where the girls are by the ice cream shop. Maureen is talking about Pecola’s father and is threatened by Claudia. When Claudia goes to swing at her, she instead hits Pecola. Maureen is white but she is a brunette, not the famed form of “beauty” represented by the doll, but still way up there. Therefore, she is self-proclaimed “cute” (Pg 73). Since Claudia’s anger is towards the “beautiful” she hits the next best thing, someone who wants to be beautiful. Pecola wishes for blue eyes constantly and is distraught with being “black and ugly”. This self-loathing is not accepted by Morrison.
In an interview of Morrison, she speaks about a conversation she had with a friend when she was younger. When her friend said that God did not exist and she had proof, which was that she prayed for blue eyes and never got them, Morrison is visibly upset by her statement. She then mentions two things that came to her when she looked at her friend, “She would be awful if the wish had been granted… For the first time, I noticed […] how astonishingly beautiful she was.” (The Black List). Morrison embodies these thoughts in Claudia, and her reaction to Pecola’s self–loathing, though it was an accident, the action is a subliminal blow to those who engage in such behavior. Though self-loathing is not a flattering aspect of any personality, the image can be turned around to comment on one’s identity.
In Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, The protagonist is a young African American man who is trying to find a steady workplace and community in New York City. He is sent on wild goose chases, altered in hospitals, victimized, and mistaken for a two-faced pimp. The doll seen in IM is a symbol of the African American’s effort to seek equality and standing in a predominantly “white” environment. The racist element is present and demands the reader to look past it, so that lack of control and class status is seen as well.
The doll, unlike the one in The Bluest Eye, is a Sambo doll. The caricature nature of the doll is offensive and undermines the identity of African Americans. The nature of racism is always present in the world and the doll shows this by not being destroyed. When IM is sent fleeing down a sewer, he is forced to burn the things that help shape who he is so that he may find a way out. When he comes to burning the doll, “it burned so stubbornly that I reached inside the case for something else” (Ellison pg568). The explanation, though brief, is a powerful mention that racism will always be around to affect everyone in one way or another.
The lack of control and class status is addressed by Erik M. Dell when he mentions IM’s hospital scene. “He is the black man on the strings representing the Sambo doll sitting in the hospital bed/box” (Dell). In this scene, IM wakes up in a hospital surrounded by doctors who are trying to “cure” him for an unmentioned ailment. The doctors, who represent white people, are connecting IM to wires to perform the shock treatment. "Look, he's dancing, someone called […] They really do have rhythm, don't they? Get hot, boy! Get hot! It said with a laugh" (pg 237). The image parallels the scene where IM encounters Clifton and his dolls, comparing that the doll is lower in status and is controlled by someone else.
When IM meets Clifton in the street and finds him selling Sambo Dolls, he is upset by the scene. When the man makes a break for it and the surrounding crowd dissipates, IM is left standing with an old woman. He promptly attempts to crush one doll left behind when the lady says “Oh, no!” (pg 434). Not having the doll stepped on or destroyed shows the importance that degrading behavior will always be present.
Both dolls have qualities that express a demeaning attitude towards African Americans. They both have visual qualities that do this. The doll in The Bluest Eye is a national symbol of beauty that does not recognize African Americans in context but is widespread enough that it ends up in African American hands without any second thoughts. If color were added, the closest representation would come to the Sambo Doll, which is offensive. The second aspect that makes the dolls powerful symbols are their respective physical characteristics.
The Sambo doll has strings attached to it meaning that the doll, or African American, cannot move unless someone else is controlling them. This is a common theme seen throughout Invisible Man; the hospital scene, Ras’ mob, and IM’s manipulation of Rinehart’s persona. The doll in Morrison’s novel is described by Claudia as “a most uncomfortable, patently aggressive sleeping companion” (pg 20). Of the two, I believe that Morrison’s doll is more effective in the describing of African American mentality and will.
Morrison’s doll does a superior job of addressing social issues because when Morrison was talking about her influence to write the book, she mentions that the stories of a young black woman are “virgin territory” to her, which is rich with possibilities for storytelling. I agree with this statement and believe her doll motif is one of the more powerful poetic devices used to address the issues that trouble the African American girl. While IM’s doll is wholesome and addresses society, I prefer the specific nature of the doll in The Bluest Eye.
Works Cited
Dell, Derek. “Dancing Dolls on strings: A look at Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison”. AC Associated Content. 21 Apr. 2008. Arts & Entertainment. 28 Nov. 2009
In this article, Dell briefly examines the Sambo Doll’s symbolism which I found to be fitting to describe the role of the doll. His comment on control was especially preffered because of the resemblance between the marionette and IM’s “strings”. Class status is integrated as well, which helped me usher into the identity portion of my argument.
Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. Random House Inc.: New York, 1952.
Masse, Annette. “So Why Do Dogs Chew Things? Here is How to Keep Your Dog From
Chewing Up the House”. Articlesbase. 23 Jul. 2008. Pets Articles. 28 Nov. 2009
I feel like this is an important source to include because of the parallelism in behavior that Claudia exhibits to a doll that a dog might to a shoe. Dogs chew on things to make their masters notice them and to relieve stress. Claudia tears apart her Christmas present and briefly shares an intimate desire for attention. It’s not my intent to compare Claudia to a Dog, but the pattern of behavior is similar, which makes it worthy to mention.
Morrison, Toni. “The Black List, Vol. 1: Toni Morrison (HBO)” Portrait Interview. 18
Aug. 2008. Youtube. 26 Nov. 2009.
I decided to use this source to explain Morrison’s intent of having Pecola accidentally hit in the face. While she is speaking, you will notice that she is visibly upset by her friend. This influence may have prompted her to include a brief action of how she does not approve self-loathing.
Morrison, Toni. The Bluest Eye. Penguin Group, Plume. New York, 1970.
Morrison, Toni. “Challenges as a female writer – Toni Morrison”. Video Interview. 20 May 2009. Youtube. 26 Nov. 2009.
This video is my final approving source for siding with Morrison’s doll. Her mention of African American Women having a multitude of possible stories is remarkable in its specificity and intent.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
New Tank
Angela and I stepped off the tram and made our way to the Deep Creatures shop. The air hadn’t been recycled lately, so there was the foul stench that filled our nostrils on the way here.
“I think they’ve done some remodeling. I hope they have a wider selection this time.”
I glanced into my notebook and loaded up DC’s inventory and scanned it.
“Tube worms, tailor crab, vampire octopus, and a new breed of angler.”
I refreshed the page and more creatures were added.
“I guess they’re updating as we speak.”
Angela had already gone through the door, and beckoned me to follow.
Thirty years ago, my father came to this same store, right when they started business. The public release of pressurized tanks had changed the fish market forever. He bought massive tanks that would fit inside our basement and installed only black lighting. Deep-sea fish are incredibly unattractive and creepy. Whenever I’d go down into the basement it was as if I had taken an expressway to the deep. The tank glowed with bioluminescent lights and every so often a maw of teeth would approach the glass and scare the hell out of me.
Today, Angela, my stepsister and biologist, discovered the tank and was immediately upset that it wasn’t being used.
“This could hold a giant squid!” she’d say. And go on and on about what other monstrosity could be held in there. The beauty I found in goldfish and catfish, she saw as feeder fish, and nothing more.
“Come in! Come in!” she hollered to me, “They have Goblin shark!”
I stepped in and felt the same way I did 30 years ago. Surrounded by darkness, pulsing lights, and teeth of the creatures from the deep.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Smug Fisherman of Cove Sea
The fisherman, Slug, set off in his boat alone. He listened to the radio tunes of the nearest town and smoked from his pipe. Funny colors spewed from his mouth and pipe. They were the distinct colors of euphoria and were said to be good luck to the finding of fish. Slug had prepared for a two-day trip out on Cove Sea. His boat held various fishing equipment, but the most it held was his pipe smoke. Out on the sea, the man relaxed on the deck and listened to the waves hit against the bow. Other fisherman passing by mistakenly thought that Slug was lost at sea. They often interrupted him in his content state.
“This is Golian season friend! It is not safe to be out in a boat your size!”
Slug would simply giggle to himself and casually wave away the intruders. His mind was set on catching the largest fish out in the sea. The fact that it was Golian season made it all the more exciting, for the pipe smoke was said to keep them at bay. He continued floating about Cove Sea. Every so often he looked over the edge of the boat to see if fish had begun to investigate his presence. Whenever a glitter of scales would catch his eye, he would take another hit from his pipe and enjoy the smug feeling it brought to him. This time, he slept a good fifteen minutes.
He was awakened by the sound of air rushing past water. Still in his smug state, the man looked to where the sound originated from and watched. Many pods of dolphins were racing past his boat. They were in a hurry. Slug laughed to himself again and stood.
“You think you’re the only one out here looking for some fish!” He relit his pipe and felt the smugness return to his head before continuing.
“Well, there are many fish in the sea. Make sure the Golian don’t find you first.” He smiled at the
now distant splashes, the colorful smoke seeping through his teeth.
When night came, he picked up his fishing pole and stood in the middle of the ship. He prepared the bait, fixed the line with proper lures and weights. He spat into the sea and tossed his line out. The water was very deep. He blew smoke onto the line as it sank toward the bottom. Soon, the line had become perpendicular to the position of the boat. He anchored the pole and once again began to smoke from his pipe. Feeling at the top of the world. When he looked down, he noticed that the pole was slightly bending. Something was on the hook! He began to reel up his prize. The normal resistance of a fighting fish had now become an easy reel up. This confused Slug. He looked over the edge and noticed a strange glow coming from deep below. The glow was growing in brightness and size.
“Oh dear.” Was the only thing he could manage to say.
It was said that the Golian were the gods of Cove Sea. They were massive fish that lived in the deepest waters and only rose to the surface to feed. Witnesses claim that they glow and will eat anything smaller than themselves, which was mostly everything. Slug’s boat must’ve looked appetizing because the glow and size were still growing. Before he could escape, his boat was lit in a sort of spotlight. The spotlight quickly became a maw of teeth that slammed around Slug and his boat. The smoke had given the man a delectable taste, so the glow’s presence loomed around a little more, hoping for more smug fishermen, before dying down in intensity and being swallowed back by the waters of Cove Sea.
“This is Golian season friend! It is not safe to be out in a boat your size!”
Slug would simply giggle to himself and casually wave away the intruders. His mind was set on catching the largest fish out in the sea. The fact that it was Golian season made it all the more exciting, for the pipe smoke was said to keep them at bay. He continued floating about Cove Sea. Every so often he looked over the edge of the boat to see if fish had begun to investigate his presence. Whenever a glitter of scales would catch his eye, he would take another hit from his pipe and enjoy the smug feeling it brought to him. This time, he slept a good fifteen minutes.
He was awakened by the sound of air rushing past water. Still in his smug state, the man looked to where the sound originated from and watched. Many pods of dolphins were racing past his boat. They were in a hurry. Slug laughed to himself again and stood.
“You think you’re the only one out here looking for some fish!” He relit his pipe and felt the smugness return to his head before continuing.
“Well, there are many fish in the sea. Make sure the Golian don’t find you first.” He smiled at the
now distant splashes, the colorful smoke seeping through his teeth.
When night came, he picked up his fishing pole and stood in the middle of the ship. He prepared the bait, fixed the line with proper lures and weights. He spat into the sea and tossed his line out. The water was very deep. He blew smoke onto the line as it sank toward the bottom. Soon, the line had become perpendicular to the position of the boat. He anchored the pole and once again began to smoke from his pipe. Feeling at the top of the world. When he looked down, he noticed that the pole was slightly bending. Something was on the hook! He began to reel up his prize. The normal resistance of a fighting fish had now become an easy reel up. This confused Slug. He looked over the edge and noticed a strange glow coming from deep below. The glow was growing in brightness and size.
“Oh dear.” Was the only thing he could manage to say.
It was said that the Golian were the gods of Cove Sea. They were massive fish that lived in the deepest waters and only rose to the surface to feed. Witnesses claim that they glow and will eat anything smaller than themselves, which was mostly everything. Slug’s boat must’ve looked appetizing because the glow and size were still growing. Before he could escape, his boat was lit in a sort of spotlight. The spotlight quickly became a maw of teeth that slammed around Slug and his boat. The smoke had given the man a delectable taste, so the glow’s presence loomed around a little more, hoping for more smug fishermen, before dying down in intensity and being swallowed back by the waters of Cove Sea.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Rewrite a section from a book
The following is an rewrite for a section of a book. this was an assignment for class. The book is David Bischoff's STAR TREK THE NEXT GENERATION: GROUNDED. This is a pocket books publication, number 25 in the series.
The door slowly gave under the pressure from outside. Creases began to appear along its seams. At the sound of the doors groan, the signal of a failing barricade, Data took a step back. The muk had detected a small opening in the crease and began to pull itself through. The groan became a scream, as the doors metal was slowly pulled apart by the persistent viscous being. Data quickly scanned the room; with no other plans of escape he adjusted his phaser for combat and decided to hold his ground. The muk had made it into the room but stopped short of where Data stood. It began folding in on itself, creating complex chains and utilizing particles it had come across. Data scanned the muk and noticed that it had created a cavity of air, and at one end were two hardened sections. The muk rose and collapsed in on itself, forcing the air through the sections. In this way, the muk spoke to him.
“I have pierced your computers I have a mode of communication now if I like you are Data.”
The words came out monotone, following no sense of speech pattern, or proper enunciation, but
Data understood it otherwise. The being was formidable, and it was learning. Quickly.
At this, the muk grew into a humanoid shape, mimicking Data’s combat stance.
“Rights? I grow. I become. That is my right, and that is my way. I hunger I devour. This vessel…”
It turned its ‘head’ in a full circle, slightly distorting the sound of its voice.
“is mine. All these vessels I sense about me… The Great Metal Planet. They shall be mine as well. You are good life too. You will help me destroy the bad life.”
ORIGINAL
The door burst open.
Data stepped back. The stuff poured in like thick, dark molasses clotted with dirt and quartz. Its skin shone in the light.
It poured in, collecting into a pile before Data smelling of minerals. He adjusted his phaser and aimed.
There were no other exits from this room. He would have to make a stand here.
However, instead of roiling toward him, the clay stopped. Slowly it drew into itself, lifting up from the ground and transforming into a humanoid shape. It looked like an animated statue.
It began to speak, though guttural and monotone fashion.
“I… have… pierced your computers. I have a mode of communication now if I like you are Data…”
“That is correct. And do you have a name?”
“I am good life. I sense that you are partly good life as well…”
“I am principally inorganic in nature, if that is what you mean.”
“You seek to destroy me. Why?”
“I seek to neutralize you. You have threatened my ship. However, now that communication has been established, perhaps an understanding can be reached. The Federation I represent has a high regard for life in all its varieties.”
“I am free… I am…unfettered. The universe stands before me and my reflections-ours. Good life shall triumph and grow and nurture the Holiness. Bad life shall be extinguished. This is Truth and Wholeness. Purity shall pervade the Cosmos.”
“I do not quite understand what you’re saying, but let me explain to you that the Federation recognizes your rights as a living being.”
“Rights? I grow. I become. That is my right, and that is my way. I hunger I devour. This vessel…is mine. All these vessels I sense about me… The Great Metal Planet. They shall be mine as well. You are good life too. You will help me destroy the bad life.”
REASON FOR CHANGE
First of all, I like star trek and all that science fiction stuff very much. But when things aren’t very well explained, or when a few crucial details are amiss, the story just seems to appear as another “contract filler”. A book written just because the company needs a new story and the author, no disrespect intended, rushed his way through it. I decided to be more visual and give more explanation to this specific section. I know the original way it was written leaves room for imagination, to move the story along, but I think it is important to be descriptive when introducing a character.
The door slowly gave under the pressure from outside. Creases began to appear along its seams. At the sound of the doors groan, the signal of a failing barricade, Data took a step back. The muk had detected a small opening in the crease and began to pull itself through. The groan became a scream, as the doors metal was slowly pulled apart by the persistent viscous being. Data quickly scanned the room; with no other plans of escape he adjusted his phaser for combat and decided to hold his ground. The muk had made it into the room but stopped short of where Data stood. It began folding in on itself, creating complex chains and utilizing particles it had come across. Data scanned the muk and noticed that it had created a cavity of air, and at one end were two hardened sections. The muk rose and collapsed in on itself, forcing the air through the sections. In this way, the muk spoke to him.
“I have pierced your computers I have a mode of communication now if I like you are Data.”
The words came out monotone, following no sense of speech pattern, or proper enunciation, but
Data understood it otherwise. The being was formidable, and it was learning. Quickly.
At this, the muk grew into a humanoid shape, mimicking Data’s combat stance.
“Rights? I grow. I become. That is my right, and that is my way. I hunger I devour. This vessel…”
It turned its ‘head’ in a full circle, slightly distorting the sound of its voice.
“is mine. All these vessels I sense about me… The Great Metal Planet. They shall be mine as well. You are good life too. You will help me destroy the bad life.”
ORIGINAL
The door burst open.
Data stepped back. The stuff poured in like thick, dark molasses clotted with dirt and quartz. Its skin shone in the light.
It poured in, collecting into a pile before Data smelling of minerals. He adjusted his phaser and aimed.
There were no other exits from this room. He would have to make a stand here.
However, instead of roiling toward him, the clay stopped. Slowly it drew into itself, lifting up from the ground and transforming into a humanoid shape. It looked like an animated statue.
It began to speak, though guttural and monotone fashion.
“I… have… pierced your computers. I have a mode of communication now if I like you are Data…”
“That is correct. And do you have a name?”
“I am good life. I sense that you are partly good life as well…”
“I am principally inorganic in nature, if that is what you mean.”
“You seek to destroy me. Why?”
“I seek to neutralize you. You have threatened my ship. However, now that communication has been established, perhaps an understanding can be reached. The Federation I represent has a high regard for life in all its varieties.”
“I am free… I am…unfettered. The universe stands before me and my reflections-ours. Good life shall triumph and grow and nurture the Holiness. Bad life shall be extinguished. This is Truth and Wholeness. Purity shall pervade the Cosmos.”
“I do not quite understand what you’re saying, but let me explain to you that the Federation recognizes your rights as a living being.”
“Rights? I grow. I become. That is my right, and that is my way. I hunger I devour. This vessel…is mine. All these vessels I sense about me… The Great Metal Planet. They shall be mine as well. You are good life too. You will help me destroy the bad life.”
REASON FOR CHANGE
First of all, I like star trek and all that science fiction stuff very much. But when things aren’t very well explained, or when a few crucial details are amiss, the story just seems to appear as another “contract filler”. A book written just because the company needs a new story and the author, no disrespect intended, rushed his way through it. I decided to be more visual and give more explanation to this specific section. I know the original way it was written leaves room for imagination, to move the story along, but I think it is important to be descriptive when introducing a character.
Gone Fishin'
My fancy line had been out in this big ocean of opportunity for over an hour now. I can see the candidates down there, circling, tasting, and teasing. At the opposite end was a younger fellow with a simple toss and reel, and he was having no trouble getting the candidates to get hooked on to his offers. I buy the best lures money can buy, and this guy gets them all with pieces, not even whole but pieces, of worm. Worms? This just doesn’t make sense to me. Fish hunt by smell, taste and sight. They like things that reflect light, because it is similar to how light bounces off them. Yes, fish eat fish. They smell and taste just the same as I do, which is why I spray my lures with this green stuff. When I drop my lure down there, it should be like a noisy dinner bell to them. That’s what the guy behind the counter swears to me anyway. How the hell does a worm get into water anyway? It lives underground! And how would a fish know that is it edible? I decided to make my way to the opposite end of this body of unrelenting fish and ask the young man a question.
“Why do you use worms?” I’d say.
“Because fish eat ‘em.” He’d say.
“Well, what about this stuff?” I’d show him my lures.
“That’s too heavy and flashy.” He’d compare his to mine. His lure was, well, not a lure, simply a hook, with some lead weights and the remnants of a worm. I decided to cut my line and adopt his method of fishing. Three minutes into the new form, I caught a hefty bass with two other hooks in his jaw. The younger man laughed to himself in honest surprise and slapped my shoulder blades.
“I’ve been tryin’ to catch this beast for about a week now, see my hook in ‘em?”
Though I should’ve felt excitement and an overwhelming sense of pride, I was angered by this cath. It didn’t feel like my own catch. I took the hooks out, and put the fish in the man’s bucket.
“Hey, he is yours you know! Take him!” he sat up to switch the fish into my own bucket.
“If you give him to me, I’ll just throw him back.”
The boy had the fish out and stared at me through me sunglasses.
“Alright” he said, “Then throw him back, I got to get my things packed up. You take care now.”
I put the fish in my bucket and watched the boy leave, carrying a basket full of fish and sporting a good tan. I thought about throwing the fish back, but not without a little talk.
“Why don’t you eat my lures instead of his?” I kicked the bucket. The startled fish slammed into the sides and then slowed, aware of no enemies within it’s domain.
I continued the kicking and the question for a good twenty minutes. I could see it was growing tired.
“You hungry?” I picked up the bait spray and dumped the whole contents of it into the water. The fish didn’t react much.
Dusk was approaching. I decided to let the fish go.
I picked up the bucket and dumped everything into the water and watched the fish slowly orient itself. I thought it was dead for a moment. Then, I noticed other fish, smaller fish, had crowded around it. They looked like a welcoming party. I didn’t know I was in for such a surprise. The little fish darted toward the big fish became consuming it. The water splashed about with fish fighting over fish. The battle lasted well into night, and I had actually pulled out my torch to watch it all. Nothing seemed to be left of the big guy. I made my way home and thought about that day ever since. It was the best fishing trip I ever had.
“Why do you use worms?” I’d say.
“Because fish eat ‘em.” He’d say.
“Well, what about this stuff?” I’d show him my lures.
“That’s too heavy and flashy.” He’d compare his to mine. His lure was, well, not a lure, simply a hook, with some lead weights and the remnants of a worm. I decided to cut my line and adopt his method of fishing. Three minutes into the new form, I caught a hefty bass with two other hooks in his jaw. The younger man laughed to himself in honest surprise and slapped my shoulder blades.
“I’ve been tryin’ to catch this beast for about a week now, see my hook in ‘em?”
Though I should’ve felt excitement and an overwhelming sense of pride, I was angered by this cath. It didn’t feel like my own catch. I took the hooks out, and put the fish in the man’s bucket.
“Hey, he is yours you know! Take him!” he sat up to switch the fish into my own bucket.
“If you give him to me, I’ll just throw him back.”
The boy had the fish out and stared at me through me sunglasses.
“Alright” he said, “Then throw him back, I got to get my things packed up. You take care now.”
I put the fish in my bucket and watched the boy leave, carrying a basket full of fish and sporting a good tan. I thought about throwing the fish back, but not without a little talk.
“Why don’t you eat my lures instead of his?” I kicked the bucket. The startled fish slammed into the sides and then slowed, aware of no enemies within it’s domain.
I continued the kicking and the question for a good twenty minutes. I could see it was growing tired.
“You hungry?” I picked up the bait spray and dumped the whole contents of it into the water. The fish didn’t react much.
Dusk was approaching. I decided to let the fish go.
I picked up the bucket and dumped everything into the water and watched the fish slowly orient itself. I thought it was dead for a moment. Then, I noticed other fish, smaller fish, had crowded around it. They looked like a welcoming party. I didn’t know I was in for such a surprise. The little fish darted toward the big fish became consuming it. The water splashed about with fish fighting over fish. The battle lasted well into night, and I had actually pulled out my torch to watch it all. Nothing seemed to be left of the big guy. I made my way home and thought about that day ever since. It was the best fishing trip I ever had.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
How to make easy money, in theory.
Making money just demands a lot of effort on your part. An easy and virtually inexpensive way to do this is to find out what people want to read. Do a keyword search, set up a blog, write down your 2 cents, create an adsense account, and tend to the site as often as you can. When you generate enough attention to your site, you will find yourself making dough just off of sharing your opinion. it'll be slow at first, but everyone eventually finds a taste for something. ever notice how when you turn on the TV you will check a specific channel? Try to apply it to blog. If interesting enough (again refers to effort), your blog alone could generate the kind of attention you want. money in pcoket, ready to go. :)
oh, good way to get that attention initially is to use really smart and intuitive keywords on your blog. good luck! enjoy.
oh, good way to get that attention initially is to use really smart and intuitive keywords on your blog. good luck! enjoy.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Sleeping Beauty (revised+complete)
They tried their best to keep me comfortable. The doctors I mean. My wife was there. So was Mother. Andrew, my son, held my hand, but that sensation too came to pass. I knew I was dying. Surrounded by family, and all I could think about was when I’d wake up again.
The last thing I remember is the light. The light was so bright, and warm. I was sure it would be the last thing anybody would see. I remember how I eyes refused to close, no matter how much I willed them to. It was as if I was retreating further and further into my own body, losing control of all functions. Feeling no pain, no cold, just grateful warmth around me.
23 months ago, Marie, my wife, suggested I get a check up. I was feeling a little bit under the weather. So I reluctantly agreed. They took my blood and ran it through a fancy machine, and out of this fancy machine came an un-fancy result.
Cancer.
They gave me 7 months…
Marie had us try everything. Experimental treatment. Chemo. Even black magic. In the end I ended up losing 90 pounds, all of my hair, my job, my ability to walk on my own, and all hope. I knew I was dying.
Marie refused to give up though. Before my hearing had abandoned me on that bed, I heard her agreeing to something. Signing something, whimpering and saying, “All I want is for him to live… no matter what. No matter when.”
That’s when she looked over me and whispered into my ear. She told me how I would wake up and everything would be better.
Slowly, she backed away, and that’s when I lost it. I couldn’t hear anything in the room. I looked around frantically and realized how hard it became to breathe. The numbness started in my legs and gradually worked its way up to my face. I didn’t want to say anything. I knew there would be no point. No point in delaying the inevitable. I felt my body expel the last bit of air from my diseased form. That’s when I began to focus on the light. That blinding hospital lamp. Convincing myself that that was the famed light at the end of the tunnel. I knew I was dead.
At least I thought I was. Marie was right. I woke up. Unfortunately she was also wrong, everything was not better.
My name is Vincent Wohl. Born in Virginia 1994. Died in Michigan 2041. Resuscitated in United Nations capital No. 52 formerly known as California 4623.
I am known as “Sleeping Beauty”.
I came into the world slowly. The first thing I remember was the bright light. The light ebbed away to reveal a field of sunflowers. In all directions, just endless fields of sunflowers, and a sky so blue it was as if a painter entered my reality and decided to do some decorating. I was standing. At my feet was a pond and inside the pond was Marie. She was so beautiful. She levitated above the water, lying down on air. Breathing calmly.
I decided to make my way over to her. I took a step and found that the same air holding Marie held me as well. I didn’t know any better really. I thought I was in heaven. And for the sake of my sanity, I let myself believe that.
When I was close enough to her, I laid myself down next to her. She was in nearly transparent sleepwear. Her hair flowed in the air, suspended by an unseen force. Her head looked like an anemone. I reached out to touch her, to see if she was really there. She was. Her skin was smooth, clean, and warm. Whatever force was flowing through her began to make its way through my fingertips and up into my chest. It felt alive. I could feel it traveling through my system, intricately working itself into all parts of me. That’s when I felt myself take a breath. My chest expanded to three times its normal size, and it held for the longest time. My sigh was matched by Marie’s exhale. She was awake. She sat up to hug me.
That’s when things changed. After Marie hugged me, she pulled back and told me how proud she was of me. She told me to live my life. Told me all the things you’d expect to hear before a farewell. I knew I would never see her again. She stood and turned. Before I had any say, she dove into the pond. It was strange… Soon as she was submerged, the pond became an ocean. The ocean glowed with the same force that occupied my body.
The sky started to turn into night, and I had a strong urge to dive in after her. The uplifting air slowly dissipated, and I was lowered into the water. Like a lobster into boiling water, I tried to fight my way out. That’s when I heard the applause. My ears resonated with the noise. Skin slapping against skin. It was such a foreign sound. I felt cool and comfortable. I opened my eyes. They didn’t take everything in immediately. Yellow petals, multiple suns, and blue outlines. I thought I was in the field again. I heard warbled voices, and saw floating shapes. I thought I was sucked into purgatory or something.
“Vincent Wohl? Can you hear me?”
I turned my head and uttered Marie’s name.
Again, the foreign noise paddled my eardrums, louder this time. I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I felt fantastic. There wasn’t the throbbing pain of diseased lungs, no more headaches, not even gas. The room I was in was clean, crisp, and cool. I looked down at myself. I looked like I had been going to the gym. My torso was beautifully toned. My hair was cut short, my nails were done, even my toes felt like they had received some treatment. I was beginning to wonder how this all came to be when a man walked into the room. As soon as he made eye contact with me, he shook with glee. A massive smile spread across his face.
“You’re awake. It’s a pleasure to meet you Sir, I’ve been watching your resuscitation period from the moment you were found in that underground lab.”
I gave him a quizzical look. His accent was foreign, from what I could tell. He had brown skin and short black hair. He wore strange black arm gloves that worked into a one-piece suit. He didn’t look like any nurse I’ve seen. I realized I was staring at him, so I spoke.
“Where am I?”
The words came out of a sore throat. It felt as if I hadn’t spoken in a long time. Using my vocal chords again felt like trying to ride a new bike.
Soon as the words came out, he was in awe. Before he could answer me, he rushed out of the room and was gone.
I felt very uneasy. Everything about the room I was in looked foreign, yet somehow familiar. I sat up. All the equipment I was hooked up to was gone. Instead there was what looked like a monitor built into the wall next to me. It glowed with readings. I realized the readings were synonymous with my own life signs. When I breathed in, I saw a section of what looked like a heart speed up slightly. I didn’t see any electrodes on my body.
“It’s a Life-Monitor. State of the art health surveillance system created just for you.”
I turned around and found myself staring at a woman. She looked like a doctor. She had all kinds of gadgets hanging around her neck and waistline. She looked more like a miner, minus the headlamp. Her eyes met mine briefly, and then moved behind me.
“Your immune system is very different from ours”, she lowered her voice suddenly “quite inferior really, so we have to watch you very carefully.”
She went on with the details of my resurrection. She referred to herself as the “Prince” and how I was the first one to be brought back. Her name was Dr. Priscilla Patel. A leading doctor in the UNC 52.
When she was done explaining, I could only ask one question.
“Why?”
She looked puzzled and waved her hand in front of her. Her glove emitted lights and I noticed the hologram she was projecting was my medical file, and the health plans that were attached to it. One of them stood out to me, it was a word I only heard or read about in science fiction. Cryogenics. The sudden realization hit me hard, harder than I ever suspected.
“It… it worked?”
I sat on the floor of the room. She sat in front of me. Attempting to establish eye contact, she told me about the wars that took place after my passing. She told me how the UN gradually took control over the world. How entertainment has grown to a level previously unanticipated. In the ruins of Michigan State, archeologists found the remains of the facility that practiced cryogenics. The whole excavation was being covered by Discovery channel and when my tank was discovered untouched, they sent in a team of the world’s best doctors and anthropologists to bring me back. I took a second look at my body.
“Does this mean I am cured?”
She smiled. Broadly.
“When we successfully restored your body to normal temperatures, you were kept in a medicated coma for a few weeks while we enhanced your physique and replaced those organs that were cancerous. Even though you were in a suspended animation, the cancer slept with you.”
She waved her hand again. A video of the surgery played itself out between her and I.
“Here is where we were able to replace your lungs. Can you see it?”
She twisted her fingers and the video shot forward a few hours.
“This is where we began treating your marrow. We wanted you to ‘catch up’ as much as possible.”
I leaned to the side of the video to look at her.
“Catch up?”
She stood and ushered me to the opposite end of the room. We walked past a set of doors and a pool stretched out ahead of us. I felt like I was back in the fields with Marie.
“This is where we conduct our first experiment.”
Patel pointed to the pool.
“Jump in, go for a swim. Your new muscles will need to be exercised so they can remain where they are now. They’re very similar to human tissue. While you swim, I’ll go take care of business.”
“But… wait. What am I doing here again?”
Patel came close and leered at me. I blushed.
“You look good for being over a thousand years old. Enjoy it for a little bit.” She turned to leave but quickly turned around.
“As a little favor for me, try holding your breath for as long as you can. I want to see how long the new hemoglobin lasts under strenuous exercise.”
With that, she went through the doors. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t believe the science fiction touch on everything. Was this really happening? I looked at the pool and thought about my first dream since dying. Was I still dreaming? I brought up my hands and for the first time I wondered what else they had changed. I walked to the edge of the pool and took a look at my reflection in the water. There I was. I looked younger. Leaner. I stripped off my clothes and dove in.
The water was heated and I could almost get a sense of how vast the pool was. I swam around for a few minutes. My body didn’t seem to tire at all. I remembered what Patel asked me to do. I looked down to get a sense how deep the pool was, I couldn’t see the bottom. So, I took a deep breath and I dove.
I went down at a slow speed. My ears started to pop. I kept going. My diaphragm buckled slightly, but I didn’t feel the urge to get some air. I stopped short of the bottom and sat there, staring up at the surface. I sat there for so long that I started daydreaming about being a fish. I was sure this was a dream. Swimming along the bottom of the pool for a long time, I moved slowly and majestically. Pretending to be a whale, I went for the darker side of the pool, the deeper side. The light was dimmer down here. I still didn’t need a breath. I pretended to hunt for giant squid and other whale treats of the deep. I smiled at the freedom my new body allowed me. I then started thinking about my family.
It had been hundreds of years. I knew they were gone… I didn’t know how to react. Do I cry? How could I start over? Where could I possibly go? If there was anyone who was truly lonely and disconnected, it was me. I felt like thawed aged meat. Was it worth it for me to even go to the surface?
The sudden thought of being alone made me sick, sicker than cancer, sicker than dying, sicker than sick itself. I looked around and wondered if Marie was down here with me. I started to swim again, this time, with my eyes closed. I imagined Marie being in front of me, letting me chase her around the bottom. She turned and smiled. This was a dream. This was where I wanted to be. I blew out the air that slept in my chest and took in the water. I didn’t feel any different. I just got really tired, incredibly sleepy. Marie made a sympathetic gesture and turned back to me. I gave up chasing her and decided to lie down on the bottom. I looked up toward the surface and saw the dim ceiling light. Marie came from the bottom of my view, smiling big. I smirked and brought her close to me. She kissed me, and we laid there until we both fell asleep.
The last thing I remember is the light. The light was so bright, and warm. I was sure it would be the last thing anybody would see. I remember how I eyes refused to close, no matter how much I willed them to. It was as if I was retreating further and further into my own body, losing control of all functions. Feeling no pain, no cold, just grateful warmth around me.
23 months ago, Marie, my wife, suggested I get a check up. I was feeling a little bit under the weather. So I reluctantly agreed. They took my blood and ran it through a fancy machine, and out of this fancy machine came an un-fancy result.
Cancer.
They gave me 7 months…
Marie had us try everything. Experimental treatment. Chemo. Even black magic. In the end I ended up losing 90 pounds, all of my hair, my job, my ability to walk on my own, and all hope. I knew I was dying.
Marie refused to give up though. Before my hearing had abandoned me on that bed, I heard her agreeing to something. Signing something, whimpering and saying, “All I want is for him to live… no matter what. No matter when.”
That’s when she looked over me and whispered into my ear. She told me how I would wake up and everything would be better.
Slowly, she backed away, and that’s when I lost it. I couldn’t hear anything in the room. I looked around frantically and realized how hard it became to breathe. The numbness started in my legs and gradually worked its way up to my face. I didn’t want to say anything. I knew there would be no point. No point in delaying the inevitable. I felt my body expel the last bit of air from my diseased form. That’s when I began to focus on the light. That blinding hospital lamp. Convincing myself that that was the famed light at the end of the tunnel. I knew I was dead.
At least I thought I was. Marie was right. I woke up. Unfortunately she was also wrong, everything was not better.
My name is Vincent Wohl. Born in Virginia 1994. Died in Michigan 2041. Resuscitated in United Nations capital No. 52 formerly known as California 4623.
I am known as “Sleeping Beauty”.
I came into the world slowly. The first thing I remember was the bright light. The light ebbed away to reveal a field of sunflowers. In all directions, just endless fields of sunflowers, and a sky so blue it was as if a painter entered my reality and decided to do some decorating. I was standing. At my feet was a pond and inside the pond was Marie. She was so beautiful. She levitated above the water, lying down on air. Breathing calmly.
I decided to make my way over to her. I took a step and found that the same air holding Marie held me as well. I didn’t know any better really. I thought I was in heaven. And for the sake of my sanity, I let myself believe that.
When I was close enough to her, I laid myself down next to her. She was in nearly transparent sleepwear. Her hair flowed in the air, suspended by an unseen force. Her head looked like an anemone. I reached out to touch her, to see if she was really there. She was. Her skin was smooth, clean, and warm. Whatever force was flowing through her began to make its way through my fingertips and up into my chest. It felt alive. I could feel it traveling through my system, intricately working itself into all parts of me. That’s when I felt myself take a breath. My chest expanded to three times its normal size, and it held for the longest time. My sigh was matched by Marie’s exhale. She was awake. She sat up to hug me.
That’s when things changed. After Marie hugged me, she pulled back and told me how proud she was of me. She told me to live my life. Told me all the things you’d expect to hear before a farewell. I knew I would never see her again. She stood and turned. Before I had any say, she dove into the pond. It was strange… Soon as she was submerged, the pond became an ocean. The ocean glowed with the same force that occupied my body.
The sky started to turn into night, and I had a strong urge to dive in after her. The uplifting air slowly dissipated, and I was lowered into the water. Like a lobster into boiling water, I tried to fight my way out. That’s when I heard the applause. My ears resonated with the noise. Skin slapping against skin. It was such a foreign sound. I felt cool and comfortable. I opened my eyes. They didn’t take everything in immediately. Yellow petals, multiple suns, and blue outlines. I thought I was in the field again. I heard warbled voices, and saw floating shapes. I thought I was sucked into purgatory or something.
“Vincent Wohl? Can you hear me?”
I turned my head and uttered Marie’s name.
Again, the foreign noise paddled my eardrums, louder this time. I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I felt fantastic. There wasn’t the throbbing pain of diseased lungs, no more headaches, not even gas. The room I was in was clean, crisp, and cool. I looked down at myself. I looked like I had been going to the gym. My torso was beautifully toned. My hair was cut short, my nails were done, even my toes felt like they had received some treatment. I was beginning to wonder how this all came to be when a man walked into the room. As soon as he made eye contact with me, he shook with glee. A massive smile spread across his face.
“You’re awake. It’s a pleasure to meet you Sir, I’ve been watching your resuscitation period from the moment you were found in that underground lab.”
I gave him a quizzical look. His accent was foreign, from what I could tell. He had brown skin and short black hair. He wore strange black arm gloves that worked into a one-piece suit. He didn’t look like any nurse I’ve seen. I realized I was staring at him, so I spoke.
“Where am I?”
The words came out of a sore throat. It felt as if I hadn’t spoken in a long time. Using my vocal chords again felt like trying to ride a new bike.
Soon as the words came out, he was in awe. Before he could answer me, he rushed out of the room and was gone.
I felt very uneasy. Everything about the room I was in looked foreign, yet somehow familiar. I sat up. All the equipment I was hooked up to was gone. Instead there was what looked like a monitor built into the wall next to me. It glowed with readings. I realized the readings were synonymous with my own life signs. When I breathed in, I saw a section of what looked like a heart speed up slightly. I didn’t see any electrodes on my body.
“It’s a Life-Monitor. State of the art health surveillance system created just for you.”
I turned around and found myself staring at a woman. She looked like a doctor. She had all kinds of gadgets hanging around her neck and waistline. She looked more like a miner, minus the headlamp. Her eyes met mine briefly, and then moved behind me.
“Your immune system is very different from ours”, she lowered her voice suddenly “quite inferior really, so we have to watch you very carefully.”
She went on with the details of my resurrection. She referred to herself as the “Prince” and how I was the first one to be brought back. Her name was Dr. Priscilla Patel. A leading doctor in the UNC 52.
When she was done explaining, I could only ask one question.
“Why?”
She looked puzzled and waved her hand in front of her. Her glove emitted lights and I noticed the hologram she was projecting was my medical file, and the health plans that were attached to it. One of them stood out to me, it was a word I only heard or read about in science fiction. Cryogenics. The sudden realization hit me hard, harder than I ever suspected.
“It… it worked?”
I sat on the floor of the room. She sat in front of me. Attempting to establish eye contact, she told me about the wars that took place after my passing. She told me how the UN gradually took control over the world. How entertainment has grown to a level previously unanticipated. In the ruins of Michigan State, archeologists found the remains of the facility that practiced cryogenics. The whole excavation was being covered by Discovery channel and when my tank was discovered untouched, they sent in a team of the world’s best doctors and anthropologists to bring me back. I took a second look at my body.
“Does this mean I am cured?”
She smiled. Broadly.
“When we successfully restored your body to normal temperatures, you were kept in a medicated coma for a few weeks while we enhanced your physique and replaced those organs that were cancerous. Even though you were in a suspended animation, the cancer slept with you.”
She waved her hand again. A video of the surgery played itself out between her and I.
“Here is where we were able to replace your lungs. Can you see it?”
She twisted her fingers and the video shot forward a few hours.
“This is where we began treating your marrow. We wanted you to ‘catch up’ as much as possible.”
I leaned to the side of the video to look at her.
“Catch up?”
She stood and ushered me to the opposite end of the room. We walked past a set of doors and a pool stretched out ahead of us. I felt like I was back in the fields with Marie.
“This is where we conduct our first experiment.”
Patel pointed to the pool.
“Jump in, go for a swim. Your new muscles will need to be exercised so they can remain where they are now. They’re very similar to human tissue. While you swim, I’ll go take care of business.”
“But… wait. What am I doing here again?”
Patel came close and leered at me. I blushed.
“You look good for being over a thousand years old. Enjoy it for a little bit.” She turned to leave but quickly turned around.
“As a little favor for me, try holding your breath for as long as you can. I want to see how long the new hemoglobin lasts under strenuous exercise.”
With that, she went through the doors. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t believe the science fiction touch on everything. Was this really happening? I looked at the pool and thought about my first dream since dying. Was I still dreaming? I brought up my hands and for the first time I wondered what else they had changed. I walked to the edge of the pool and took a look at my reflection in the water. There I was. I looked younger. Leaner. I stripped off my clothes and dove in.
The water was heated and I could almost get a sense of how vast the pool was. I swam around for a few minutes. My body didn’t seem to tire at all. I remembered what Patel asked me to do. I looked down to get a sense how deep the pool was, I couldn’t see the bottom. So, I took a deep breath and I dove.
I went down at a slow speed. My ears started to pop. I kept going. My diaphragm buckled slightly, but I didn’t feel the urge to get some air. I stopped short of the bottom and sat there, staring up at the surface. I sat there for so long that I started daydreaming about being a fish. I was sure this was a dream. Swimming along the bottom of the pool for a long time, I moved slowly and majestically. Pretending to be a whale, I went for the darker side of the pool, the deeper side. The light was dimmer down here. I still didn’t need a breath. I pretended to hunt for giant squid and other whale treats of the deep. I smiled at the freedom my new body allowed me. I then started thinking about my family.
It had been hundreds of years. I knew they were gone… I didn’t know how to react. Do I cry? How could I start over? Where could I possibly go? If there was anyone who was truly lonely and disconnected, it was me. I felt like thawed aged meat. Was it worth it for me to even go to the surface?
The sudden thought of being alone made me sick, sicker than cancer, sicker than dying, sicker than sick itself. I looked around and wondered if Marie was down here with me. I started to swim again, this time, with my eyes closed. I imagined Marie being in front of me, letting me chase her around the bottom. She turned and smiled. This was a dream. This was where I wanted to be. I blew out the air that slept in my chest and took in the water. I didn’t feel any different. I just got really tired, incredibly sleepy. Marie made a sympathetic gesture and turned back to me. I gave up chasing her and decided to lie down on the bottom. I looked up toward the surface and saw the dim ceiling light. Marie came from the bottom of my view, smiling big. I smirked and brought her close to me. She kissed me, and we laid there until we both fell asleep.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Why I watch Dark Knight a lot.
I've always been intrigued by the super hero ego. How could a person make a life long commitment to saving the lives of other people? What would push someone to do such a thing? Superman is Kryptonian, but poses as human to fit in with the rest of the people he feels the need to protect. Bruce Wayne not only went through a traumatic experience, losing his parents to a mugging, but he is also set for life! I mean, what better way to feel productive in society? You have lots of money, unlimited amount it would seem, and nothing but time to figure out what to do with it. Bruce would never have to call in sick because he doesn't really have a job. All he has is an almost palpable need for immediate justice to those who need it. Let's say you are rich and straight as an arrow. You believe in justice but have the resources to become an iconized vigilante. Would you do it? Why risk your own neck when you could maybe hire someone to do it for you? Cause you would seem like the exact opposite of say, a mob boss? Some of the decisions these super heroes make are a little strange. For example, Why didn't Peter Parker join a sports team? He has the potential to be one of the greatest athletes of all time, but chose a life of crime fighting and being dirt poor. Most of hese guys have a lot in common. One; a traumatic experience shaped them. Two; An incorruptible personality (nobody ever goes "bad"). Three; The will to continue, no matter what, even if it doesn't directly affect them. and Four; they're noble and usually quite modest about their new found "Job".
It would seem this could go both ways... you have super villains and anti-heroes.
The joker, it appears, has an extremely troubled past. a twisted personality. the will to cause chaos. a comfortable sense of homocide. It is the exact opposite of the heroes listed above, but in a way. it is the exact same. the joker is brilliant, but sick. He isn't neccessarily rich, but appears to have unlimited resources in the form of corruption, chaos, murder, and the mutual fellows like him. All of it is rich material for the great stories we all love.
It would seem this could go both ways... you have super villains and anti-heroes.
The joker, it appears, has an extremely troubled past. a twisted personality. the will to cause chaos. a comfortable sense of homocide. It is the exact opposite of the heroes listed above, but in a way. it is the exact same. the joker is brilliant, but sick. He isn't neccessarily rich, but appears to have unlimited resources in the form of corruption, chaos, murder, and the mutual fellows like him. All of it is rich material for the great stories we all love.
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