the instinct

God gave us the instinct to move

From the piercing needles of fire

And the urge to turn and run

From the catapulting threat of ammunition

We then

Disinfect the burn

Set the bone

Bandage the cut

But,

We defy the instinct to move

From the scorching hate of inequality

And ignore the urge to run

From the miscalculated threat of indifference

We are

Infected with the propensity to

Set ourselves superior to those

Cut from any other cloth

I am not really sure what I feel about this poem.  I'm not sure if I love it or if I hate it.  It gets a point across, but I'm not sure that it's the image that I was trying to portray.  Either way, I hope you get something from it, dear reader.  Feel free to share your thoughts below.

The Legend

Over the weekend, my grandfather turned eighty.  It's amazing really, when I think of all of the awe-inspiring things that he's seen in his lifetime: the depression, WWII, the space race, hitchhiking as a mode of legitimate transportation, etc.  He's been a teacher, a father, a grandfather, and an overly average golfer.  After living for eight decades, there's not much in the matter of material goods that he covets.  (I know, I've asked him for ideas.)  So, other than the usual gift card, tie, or golf club, what could we possibly give him to celebrate this great day?

After a few hours of thinking, I decided to give him something that very few people have--a poem dedication.  I framed it and we all signed it (wife, kids, grandkids).  Then after a delicious dinner, we gave it to him along with a bottle of whiskey (because we're Irish-Americans, and that's what we do).  I think he really enjoyed it, if the chuckles and the little bit of water gathering in the corners of his eyes were any indication. So, in honor of my Grandfather, the wisest and kindest man I know, I'm sharing his poem with you.  Because, then he can say he has a 'published' poem dedicated to him. 


***Please excuse the few inside jokes.  I'd explain them, but you don't have the proper clearance.***

The Legend

There lives a great man, steeped in Irish lore

A Philosopher of sorts, and they say

When laughter is heard at the end of Fillmore

It’s his wit, humor, and love on display

He was born in Wisconsin, Oh doncha know

His blood runs blaze orange with pure green and gold

And he walked to school in ten feet of snow

Uphill both ways in the rain, sleet and cold

We all have our faults, and so does he too

Who knew that peas could be burnt to a crisp?

And don’t blame him for the hullabaloo

Of that screwdriver that made him quite pissed

Now of this good fellow, let’s all give a cheer

Because without him, we would not be here

The Final Cry

One single star reflecting upon the coal black water
Looking down upon a hand transformed
For one second it disturbs the silent reflection
Of long flowing black hair covering barren shoulders
Dark eyes stare back at the falling tears she's shed
A raven shrieks in the distance
Sight blocked by a prison of towering tree trunks
Leaves crunch underfoot, and a twig breaks within arms length
She can hear them circling around her
Closing in, their torches burn
The skin can feel warm displacement of heat
A breath upon her cheek
One dark droplet falls
Breaking the mirrored surface
Ripples cascade across the sky
Only they can hear the final whimper
Escape the lips
As she is finally freed
From the beast within

I am...

Apparently, it is quite difficult to force oneself inside on beautiful, warm, sunny days.  My computer lies untouched and neglected while I sit outside or visit with friends.  I know what some of your are thinking, "but, don't you have a laptop?"  Yes, yes I do.  However, have you ever tried to type on a laptop in the sun for an extended period of time?  My eyes do not appreciate exerting that much effort for something that should come naturally to them.  That being said, I do have an entire notebook full of  'great' poetry and prose that can be shared in the near future.  (If I can actually force myself inside long enough to type it up.)

In the interim, here is one for today:

I am...

...woman both gentle and bold

...a heart emitting love even through emptiness

...a hand held out when a step is too high to climb

...a smile sharing sunshine when the wind is cold

...the power of seeing the world through clear eyes

...made into the image of God

...Eve who comforted Adam

...Mary who refused to deny Jesus

...Sacajawea who guided explorers

...Clara who healed the fallen

...Harriet who laid the path to freedom

...Elinor who guided a country through despair

We are woman, both gentle and bold

You Say Geek Like It's a Bad Thing...

      I accepted my inner geek years ago--sometime between falling in love with Hans Solo in 2nd grade, and staying up all night to finish reading the last Harry Potter book the day it was released.  So, I have no problem admitting that I love literature--every part of it.  I love words.  I love looking up their synonyms in the thesaurus.  I love reading about their etymology and studying their connotations in different cultures.  I even love the word connotation, but not so much the word synonym, mostly because it's rather hard to spell.

     I even love grammar, though it can sometimes be a fickle and inconsistent friend.  If you say something incorrectly, I will correct you.  Don't take it personally, I do it to everyone.  It's an automatic reaction, like yelling out when I stub my toe.  I mean no harm.  However, if you correct me, I will deny ever having said whatever it is you thought you heard.
     Are you a word-addict like I am?  Do you commonly spend nights awake in bed because you just can't put down the book you decided to start reading at 9PM (just one more chapter and then I'll go to bed, promise)?  Well, if you are, here are some books, websites, and blogs to geek out about.

Books:
The Mother Tongue by Bill Bryson - This book is an insightful and entertaining investigation into how the English language has formed, altered, grown, and become the language it is today.  Bryson is a hilarious and honest writer who makes you look at something you thought you knew as if it is something else entirely.

The Great Typo Hunt by Jeff Deck and Benjamin Herson - These two friends have traveled the United States armed with a permanent marker in order to free us all from our Typo Prison.  The book is full of pictures and stories of typos that they found on everything from restaurant menus to church signs, and they made sure to dot all the i's.

Will in the World by Stephen Greenblatt - There are not many facts known about the great writer William Shakespeare, but if anyone can stir up a bit of truth within all the myths, my vote would go to Mr. Greenblatt.  This books is full of what may or may not have been the life of Shakespeare, that is, if Shakespeare existed at all.

Websites/Blogs:


www.bookglutton.com/ - What's better than access to hundreds of public domain novels?  Um, nothing! Plus, this website allows you to have discussions with people via the internet.  Book clubs will never be the same.

www.savethewords.org/ - If you don't visit this website, these words may die.  No, seriously.

www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet - If you love poetry, check this one out.  I promise you will love it.


       

     

If you have any good one's to add, please share!!

Speeches

Loud as the echoes of silence

That bounce off near and far wall

To make the illusion of past eternities

Filled with the freedom to fall

Faery Tale by Signe Pike

"A Woman's Search For Enchantment in a Modern World"

I just finished reading this book, and I just couldn't put it down.  I laughed (out loud), I cried, and I utterly annoyed my husband by quoting it aloud.

Ms. Pike weaves an enchanting narrative in her personal journey to find the magic alive in our world.  The book is full of beautiful descriptions of places that most of us can only read about in storybooks.  You truly can see the dark forests, steep cliffs, and peaceful gardens she visits, and feel the soft rains and violent winds she describes.  The story itself centers around both her travels through Britain, Ireland, and Wales in search of Faeries, and her own personal struggle to move past her father's recent death.  The story is touching, uplifting, and healing for both writer and reader.

I won't say that I definitively believe in faeries after reading this book, but I can say that Ms. Pike has reminded me that within all the daily chaos there exists magic, mystery, and beauty.

I highly recommend this book!!!  If you'd like more details, please visit the author's website:
http://signepike.com/home/

What's a Classic?

Today, a friend mentioned to me that she would be using this summer to catch up on her reading of The Classics, and that got me thinking about too things.

1. What exactly makes something a classic?  AND
2. What books would be on my reading list?

According to Mssrs. Merriam and Webster, a classic is defined as, "a work of enduring excellence".  So essentially, any book that is both good and old would be a classic?  Something tells me that it's more complex than that.

At what age can a book join the Classics party?
I'd say that at the minimum a book needs to span more than one generation in order to be considered to have endured.  Since the average length of a generation is about 25 years, I'm going to say that any book on my list must be over 25 years old, so that means only books published before 1986 can be considered.

What determines excellence?  
Now this discussion could undoubtedly go on for hours, but to make things more simple, I'm going to say that in order for a book to be considered to have excellence it must have both universality and complexity.

Universality - It speaks to people over different times and places in history because it reaches towards something truthful within humanity that can be understood beyond its own social or cultural context.

Concrete Evidence of Universality: Movie portrayals, modern rewrites, other media or movements inspired by this writing.

Complexity - Something about the book must be creative, intelligent, or inventive.  It could be the writing style, the subject matter, the theme, the narrative voice, or really anything that shows the authors ingenuity.
Concrete Evidence of Complexity- Varying scholarly interpretation, intellectual debates (presently or at its implementation), the creation of a new genre, dialogue, or topic of study


My List (ever growing, ever changing)
Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
Dracula - Bram Stoker (As soon as I get over my fear of vampires.)
I Capture the Castle - Dodie Smith
Gone with the Wind - Margaret Mitchell
A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess (I will try again!)
The House of Seven Gables - Nathaniel Hawthorne (I think he's a genius writer.)
The Illiad - Homer
The Odyssey - Homer
Lord of the Ring Trilogy - JRR Tolkien (I know, I should have read them already.)
Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck

What books would make your Summer of Classics reading list??

Sail We Must

We must sail sometimes with the wind, and sometimes against it -- but sail we must, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.   

--Oliver Wendell Holmes

I keep this quote in mind today, while fighting through my writer's block.  If I just keep moving forward, I know there will be gems that surface along the way.  I know he is speaking of life in general, but I like thinking of writing as a sailboat ride through the ocean.  Sometimes, the water is calm and easy going with the sun shining at you from above and below, and sometimes you have to fight a tempest just to make it out alive.  What a journey!

Searching for Truth

I have always found my greatest moments of inspiration during the hardest parts of my life.  I've had for the most part a very blessed life, so I don't mean great moments of despair, but sometimes just the simple ups and downs of an average life.   Looking backwards, my writing seems to explode in times of transition: bad break-ups, deaths/illnesses of loved ones, living in a foreign country, my parent's divorce.  In these moments, life seems somehow more raw, more real, and I can find comfort in the predictability of my own imagination, when the rest of the world seems completely out of my control.

In this sense, writing is a personal experience.  The characters and topics are solely of my creation and imagination; therefore, they are predictable and comforting for me.  While the rest of life spins rapidly without much of my say, the stories and situations I create through writing are mine.  For a little time, I own them and they in return own a little of me.   That is, of course, until I share them, because at that moment they also become a little of you.

It is this interaction of reader and writer, I believe, that gives us the opportunity to realize not only that we are a small part of something so much larger, but also that we are all in this together.  That deep inner connectedness of humanity is what I try desperately to express in all my writing.  The story, the plot, the words, they don't mean nearly as much to me as a writer compared to the emotional inspiration that the reader walks away with after reading.   A great poem should leave you in contemplation, or a great story should make you question something you previously believed to be true.  In this way, writing is an intellectual conversation.

It has been said that to be a true artist you must have a tortured soul, and I think that is accurate, but not necessarily in the way we assume.  We assume a tortured soul is someone who is damaged or tormented by life, but I see it instead as someone whose being is constantly fighting adversity in order to obtain a bit of truth.  Much like climbing a mountain may leave you with scrapes and cuts, searching for human understanding can leave your soul feeling much the same way.

A truly talented and great artist sees the world in a way that no one else can see it, their soul is ever searching for a truth which is impossible to either grasp or identify.  Writing is a personal experience, an intellectual conversation, and an internal struggle.  The writer embraces the suffering, the ecstasy, the inequality, the courage, and the idiosyncrasies of humanity, so that we as readers can experience the world through the eyes of another, which sometimes can see more clearly than our own.   I think that the true goal of any writer, or artist is to find truth hiding in plan sight.

The great ones (Poe, Hemingway, Austen, Morrison, etc) actually find it.




A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allen Poe (possibly my favorite 'tortured' soul)

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow--

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand--

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep--while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

Poe is a truly amazing poet.  If you like this one, which I'm sure many of you have already read, please check out some of his others: Annabel Lee,  Sonnet-To Science, The Raven.  Also, if you haven't read The Tell-Tale Heart, you must!!!

The Heroines of Our Own Lives

If they had been a curious people they would have wondered at the immensity of life, but they were not.  So they spent their days bustling along merely surviving.  They never looked outward from themselves or inward at themselves to question reality, or to fight a selfless cause.  They survived, which is how some of us do it—live this life.  Not Amelia.  She could sense the greatness of each individual.  She could feel it in the salty aftertaste of a sweaty summer day, and in the tender caress of the wind whistling through her hair. 

An unlikely heroine, much like Jane Austen’s Catherine, or Harper Lee’s Scout.  She had done nothing spectacular in her short life so far.  She had seen no image of ghostly grandeur except the majesty of a newly fallen snow.  Nor had God come down from the heavens and spoken to her in a flash of glory.  No knight had ever magically appeared, fallen in love, and whisked her away to his palace.  She had been born with no exceptional talent for the arts, nor creative intelligence for invention.  But, regardless, life happens, as is custom, even for the most mundane characters of which stories are never written.  We are the heroines in our own lives, after all, even if no one else is watching the story unfold. 

It was a cold day in July when they met.  The air whispered through the ice cream shop sneaking in through a small crack of the door, which never seemed to close, no matter how hard it was slammed.  The sun tried feebly to shine warmth through the window, but failed to do anything other than touch the glass.  Amelia stood before the sink washing the same dishes she had washed only an hour before.  Her hand gliding over an ice cream scoop, Amelia heard the door open and close with a jingle of the bell and she glided silently to the front counter, as shadows often do.

He walked towards her blocking the sun behind him, casting a shadow upon her face.  Which she should have taken as some kind of omen, but in real life, omens are never noticed.  They speak wrongly as often as rightly, and most of the time we’ve moved past them before we’ve even realized they’ve existed.  Amelia cleared her throat, almost soundlessly, as she was habit to do.  There was no other event in Amelia’s life that mattered as much as this one.  If only she could have known this at that moment, she would have paid closer attention.  How convenient would it be to have a copy of our biography to use as a guide for our life?  Amelia thought of this later, but not today.

Today, Amelia served him the ice cream he ordered.  Two scoops, one chocolate and one vanilla as simple an order as he was complicated.  Their hands slowly touched as he handed her the three dollars, and again when she handed him back the fifty cents change.  There were no fireworks, but merely the dinging of cash register buttons, and the clinking of the quarters hitting coins already in his pocket. 

If it had been a movie, she would have accidentally spilt his ice cream and offered to get him a napkin to clean up the mess.  They would have laughed.  They would have connected.  If it were a book, she would have felt the innocent forces of love drawing her into the arms of her inevitable soul mate.  In a music video they would have tangoed across the black and white checkered floor to the crooning voice of Michael Bublé.  His arm would have rested on her back and her lips would have trembled as he dipped her backwards into a tantalizing and soft kiss. 

In real life, none of this happened.  Instead, she smiled casually, and he smiled back, immediately turning around and walking directly out into the now setting sun.  There was no spark; there was no hint of their future together.  They barely spoke, but the wheels of fate were already turning, regardless of whether they noticed, or not.

The Fate of Jacob Marley

A bursting forth of chains from frozen ground
Rapidly they wind from ankles up to wrists
Until each piece of flesh is tightly wound
All he can do is fruitlessly resist

A long silence followed by a soft voice
A child's sincere whispering in his ear
Confinement is an interesting choice
When usually we prefer freedom here.

Indignantly he shouts - THIS IS NOT MY FAULT!
A lonely tear cascades down the child's cheek
Wasn't it control and riches that you sought,
Building fortress walls by exploiting the meek?

Link by link you forged your heavy chain,
Expecting others to burden your pain

Crossing Arms

The first child says

You must cut the sandwich horizontally

Why?

Because my father does so

Or I refuse to eat it

The second child interrupts

No, you must cut the sandwich in fourths

Why?

Because it's easier for me to carry

Or I refuse to eat it

The third child cries

No, you must cut the sandwich diagonally

Why?

Because it makes everything more equal

Or I refuse to eat it

The fourth child screams

No, you must make one for each of us

Why?

Because we should not have to share

Or I refuse to eat it

But there are only two pieces of bread

And I am frustrated

Without a compromise

Most of my children will go hungry

Rusty or Rested

Alright, so I'm back from a week long vacation and what I'm trying to figure out is if it improved my creativity or put it into hibernation.  In other words, did a full week of not thinking leave me with a week of stored creativity, or rusty from lack of use?  I suppose I'll have to give it a few days to figure out the results of my labors, and then I may know the answer.

On our trip we travelled through Alabama and Louisiana by both train and car.  I must say that many parts of those states are very beautiful, but their beauty is very much dampened by the foreclosure signs, and broken down houses which permeate the landscape in most of the small towns on our route.  The nostalgia fills the air like humidity, it's almost magical and makes you feel like if you stood there and closed your eyes, wishing really hard, you could whirl backwards into the good ol' days, which coincidentally really weren't that good either.  Yet, the people I met there had a sense of pride for their homes, and their towns, regardless of how much they've fallen apart, or failed to reach their true potential.  That kind of loyalty takes a special person.  Someone who loves life despite its pitfalls, and realizes that poverty isn't a word just used for someone who is lacking money, but someone who is lacking hope and spirit.  And in those last regards, they are wealthy.


...


He sits on the porch step
Of the house that he once slept in
Strumming the opening chords
For a song with lyrics he's forgotten
But he remembers that tune
Like it was only yesterday
Like they're all still sitting beside him
Humming along
The notes pop off the strings
Floating for a few blocks and then
Disappearing, melting into the treetops

Thomas Hardy-The Man He Killed

Today I am posting a poem that is not my own.  Thomas Hardy, with his poem 'The Man He Killed', makes us look at the casualties of war as the individual with a family, a life, and a hope for a future.  In light of all the anger that is erupting in Egypt right now, I felt the desire to read this poem today and thought I would share.

Hardy talks about how he and this man under peaceful circumstances may have shared a drink, or two, but because they are standing face to face in a war, they are enemies and one of them must go down.   He describes this man as if he is looking at himself across the battlefield, which begs us to ask the age old question: In war who are we destroying, the enemy, or ourselves?



The Man He Killed 
By Thomas Hardy


Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have set us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin*! 

But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place. 

I shot him dead because--
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although 

He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like--just as I--
Was out of work--had sold his traps--
No other reason why. 

Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.




*A nipperkin would have been similar to saying you were having a pint at the local pub, just a different glass size.

across the sky

if i whisper to you, my love

could you hear

from so far away

with both our heartbeats

thumping through your veins

and millions of miles to swallow the sound

My 10 Favorite Book to Movie Adaptations

I am struggling with writing again today.  There is something about winter that freezes my creativity.  In the summer when I can go outside for a change of scenery, I have no problem getting inspired, but on days like today with the howling wind at my door and the threat of snowfall on every morning, I would much rather sit on my couch and watch my favorite movie.  Therefore, I've decided to dedicate this post to my 10 favorite book to movie adaptations.

Decision Process (from most important to least):

1. How much do I respect the book 
2. How much do I respect the movie 
3. How well does the movie represent the book 
4. If two books came out with an equal scoring, they were directly compared based on how much I like the book, because being a literature person, I always put books first

(As a note, a movie could only make this list if I had also read the book, or at least read enough of it to create an opinion.  Therefore, the absence of the Lord of the Rings Series, and the Bourne Series, are on purpose, even though I like the movies.)

10. Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

     I honestly didn't have a lot of faith in this movie when I first heard that it was coming out.  It didn't sound believable that they could create an elegant and noble Aslan that didn't look completely ridiculous, but I'll admit that this adaptation is much better than I anticipated.  The book itself is quite childish in its writing, as C.S. Lewis was trying to reach a much younger audience than his friend Tolkien, but this movie was admittedly kind of epic.  I'd almost say (gasp) that Disney made this story quite a bit more exciting.

Book: 3    Movie: 3

9. Circle of Friends

     If this list was based solely on the movies, this one would rank much higher.  It must be that I can sympathize a bit with an Irish Catholic upbringing, although mine was not nearly as strict as poor Bernadette's, who cannot even go off to college on her own.  I adore Minnie Driver's portrayal of the main character and her sweet innocence.  The movie itself has beautiful views of Ireland and intricate character interaction, which are described in detail in the book, and are precisely why the book was so boring to read.

Book: 2    Movie: 4

8. The Notebook

     This is one of the most amazing books that I have ever read.  Nicolas Sparks completely captivates you into believing that you are the first person to ever read this notebook full of a love about two real people and their life together.  It's like you are sitting in your grandmother's attic and you just found a handwritten journal.  His writing is almost poetic in its descriptions of Noah's devotion for Allie.  The movie, although a wonderful Saturday night chick-flick, does not do the book sufficient justice.  The movie hollywoodizes a relationship that is very sincere and realistic in the book.

Book: 4   Movie: 2


7. Where the Heart Is

     When I went through the scoring up on top, I was actually surprised by how high I actually ended up ranking this movie.  The book itself was heartwarming and a great summertime read.  The movie is in much the same category.  Natalie Portman is wonderful, as always, and the story leaves you uplifted and happy.  Like any mainstream book, the movie adaptation is mostly accurate, but not perfect.

Book: 4   Movie: 3

6. James and the Giant Peach

     I loved this book growing up.  The idea that you could sail across the world in the pit of a giant peach with a spider, grasshopper, silkworm, ladybug and other insect companions was instantly mesmorizing.  The movie adaptation only worked because it was animated; it would be ridiculous to watch with real actors.  

Book: 4   Movie: 4

5. Sense and Sensibility

     I think that Jane Austen was a genius of her time.  Her humorous satire about the stupidity of modern society, and her mockery of most humans in general is something that I have always respected.  We all see the ridiculousness in our everyday lives, and Jane Austen makes fun of us all.  In Sense and Sensibility, she mocks the loudmouthed, gossiping neighbor who everyone tries to avoid except when the situation is advantageous for them (Mrs. Jennings), and the wealthy snob who really has no heart or soul at all, but assumes they are better than the world (Fanny Dashwood).  The movie adaptation is not entirely accurate with the book, which is why I didn't rank this higher, but I love Emma Thompson (who stars and wrote the screenplay) and Kate Winslet (who I knew as Marianne, before the world knew her as Rose), so in this case, I am quite forgiving.

Book: 5   Movie: 4


4. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

     All of the Harry Potter book/movies could have been collectively on this list, but I chose this one in particular, because I think it is the best movie adaptation of its respective book.  It captures the plot, as well as the emotions and fear that are starting to surface in the series as the story progresses.  Gary Oldman is seriously sinister as Sirius Black without even having more than a few lines, and then just as believably he transforms into a loving uncle.  However, as in many movies, the book is just a little bit better.
Book: 5   Movie: 4

3. To Kill a Mockingbird

     Arguably, this is one of the best children's books of all time.  It captures the pain of injustice, misunderstanding, and ignorance through the trial of an innocent black man, Tom Robinson, in the deep south during the 1930s.  Atticus

Book: 5   Movie: 5

2. Jane Eyre

     The moment I read this book my senior year of high school, I fell in love.  It wasn't the romance that I enjoyed (since that only takes up about one eighth of the actual plot), it was the mystery and the Gothic imagery.  I was intrigued by the sinister Mr. Rochester, the mysterious laughter echoing the halls in the night, the screams that poured from the attic tower, and Jane's visions of her dead uncle in the red room.  They were all morbidly intriguing and yet, where I would have cowered in my bedroom, Jane searched for the answers to logically extinguish her fears.  Yes, in the end she does end up with the man, but he is no prince charming, and he is dependent upon her, rather than the other way around, which was a quite ambitious idea in 1847.  This movie adaptation has a nice mix of mystery and darkness, in order to keep it interesting.  It focuses a little bit more heavily on the relationship between Jane and Mr. Rochester than the book does, but that's to be expected when trying to reach a modern audience.

Book: 5   Movie: 5


1. Pride and Prejudice- BBC Version (Not that crappy one with Kierra Knightly)

     For anyone who knows me well, I don't think it will come as a surprise that this tops my list.  Reading this book is what solidified my choice of English as my major.  As previously stated, Jane Austen's satire is hilarious, if you actually take the time to look for the humor in each of her characters.  Mr. Bennet is my personal favorite, as he is constantly pointing out the folly in his neighbors, and quite frequently his ridiculous wife, but at the same time cannot see his own mistakes.  Also, Elizabeth Bennett is sarcastic, witty, and unforgiving, but also loyal.  (I could go on about Austin for a long time, but I'll save that for another post.)

     This movie is quite long (almost 6 hours), and I will admit that I usually am doing a million other things while I have it on the television.  I wish I had six hours of free time, but that doesn't usually happen.  However, this movie is almost perfect with its adaptation.  There will always be small decisions by cast and crew that will affect motivations of characters or interpretations of situations, but nearly every moment of the book's plot is present in this movie.  If you watched this movie and had a conversation with someone who read the book, they may not notice that you hadn't actually read it as well. 

     (Side Note: Six hours of Colin Firth doesn't hurt either)

Book: 5   Movie: 5

Perception

It has always intrigued me how people can see themselves so differently than how others see them.  When the woman sitting next to me at this coffee shop looks in the mirror, what does she see?  Is the image staring back at her, the same one that is now looking at me?

I see

A beautiful face filled with poise

A wrinkle--a story of laughter or love

A gray hair from a foe defeated or an obstacle met

A sparkling eye full of secrets that no one may ever discover

A novel of her life etched into her being

Does she only see,

A face

A wrinkle

A gray hair

and Secrets

I have seen so many friends go through bouts of self-doubt, when really they wouldn't be nearly as wonderful to me without their imperfections.  Love yourself, and if you can't, know that I love you, even if I don't know you yet.

I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware, I sit content, And if each and all be aware, I sit content. - Walt Whitman 

Angel

Here is today's post, as the other one posted today is actually yesterday's post.  I don't think this one needs much explanation.  It's better if it means whatever you want it to mean.

In this harsh world together, we survive

Whatever may be evil's design

Before a scream even leaves my lips

A hand embraces mine

Tempests

So, I wanted to post this yesterday, but I decided that it would look pretty with a picture.  Unfortunately, I couldn't get my external hard-drive to work, so now it has both no picture, and is a day late.  Que sera, sera!

I wrote this one while watching Sunrise Earth, which is satisfactoraly inspirational during a cold winter.


Tempests

The waves of the ocean beat upon the shore

The rock stands strong before the sea

Shielding the moss that lives behind it

From feeling the brunt of the tyrant

Yet, time whittles away the earth to dust

The wind blows the dust far and wide

Even a heart of stone is easily destroyed

When faced with too many tempests

Life Stands Still

Excitement at the start, Oh what a thrill

Adrenaline as your heart speedily pounds

Completion of a race shows life stands still

All muscles in your body have that chill

Your ears sit ready to hear the gun sound

Excitement at the start, Oh, what a thrill

After the gun your body prepares to kill

Itself, as it painfully starts to gain ground

Completion of a race shows life stands still

The middle feels like going up a steep hill

Your body finds the strength to be profound

Excitement at the start, oh, what a thrill

Keep running, don’t give up, this is not a drill

Life is in the fast lane, speed must be found

Completion of a race shows life stands still

Nearing the end your energy just spills

Everyone else moves slowly around

Excitement at the start, oh what a thrill

Completion of a race shows life stands still

My Wisconsin

I'm feeling a bit of state pride today, so I thought I'd include the below piece that I wrote while I was a bit homesick and wishing for Northern Wisconsin.

The Beach

I need to get away.  Travel to a calm beach with peaceful waters and the kind of sand that warms your feet while you walk.  I see the sun shining down on my face with a cool breeze blowing just strong enough to keep the air sweet.  There are a few people randomly on this beach, I am not alone, but these people do not know my past, my present, or me.  They only care about living life and having a good time, with no stress and no responsibility.  My decisions do not affect them and therefore they do not act like they do.  If I choose to walk along the beach, they do not care because my walking does not affect their happiness.

            As I sit on the warm sand my hair blows calmly in the breeze.  Occasionally falling across my face and tickling my nose, so that I have to brush it away.  The smell of the water encompasses my lungs and fills my body as if suppressing my intent to scream, squashing it into a million little insignificant pieces.  If I dig my toes into the sand little pools of water appear as if by magic, but then disappear quickly with the melodic rhythm of incoming waves.  A hawk circling over head calls repeatedly to the vast forest as if waiting for its long lost lover to reply. 

            I turn and notice that a man sits quietly down the beach to my right, he seems at first to be living life sweetly.  He is reading a book, which one does not matter, and he has a smile on his face.  Sitting calmly on a yellow tepee chair his nose crinkles as he laughs to himself. As he crisply turns the page I notice the sun reflect off of a watch on his left wrist. I feel a sudden impulse to take the watch that ticks like a bomb and hurtle it into the darkest shadows of the lake. He quickly checks his Gucci leather banded abomination to once again remind himself that his happiness comes contained in little saran-wrapped time slots.

            I think about how much I enjoy this freedom and peace.  Once I have sat on the beach long enough that my skin is turning crimson, or that my eyes burn from the suns rays, and my enjoyment has ceased, only then will I slowly stand up, and dust the sand from my comfortably wrapped skirt, pick up my belongings, and head out to find another place where tranquility and peacefulness rule.  I smile to myself like a young child who has just realized that they get to play outside for just a little bit longer.  The breeze blows calmly across my face and smells of evergreens and tranquility.  

Twinkle,Twinkle

Twinkle, Twinkle little star

How you shine, from afar

For years your love will shine to me

Long after you’ve died in misery

The American Dream

Hasten, Hurry, Rush

Scurry

Muscle through the street

Crash, bang, smash

Screeech

Don’t stumble off your feet

If at first you don’t succeed

Dust off your shoes and

Keep

Going, running, moving

Shoving

Maintain the current speed

Looking Down From Above

Eyes glisten in the moonlight

Piercing through the night sky

To puncture a hole in the floors of heaven

Searching for the answer to a question

That cannot be uttered

Looking out, beyond, above, 

Toward the hope and despair we call tomorrow

Breathing heavily,

Slowly,

Relax and let go,

Its okay,

She whispers into the ear of her son

The little giggling boy she holds

In her arms,

Again tonight

He is older now—but still

Too young for this

Pain, this

struggle, this

anguish

Holding his hand she whispers,

“I know you can hear me, be at peace”

And

Somewhere in the night a car speeds

Down a busy highway

Oblivious of the darkness waiting ahead

Begin at the Beginning

A clean piece of paper is one of the most refreshing things in the world.  It symbolizes endless possibility.  There are no forgotten promises, heartbreaking regrets or unforgivable mistakes.  A blank piece of paper has so much potential to become whatever it may.  The next great American, French or Russian novel, the details don’t matter.  Any piece of paper could be an opening page to something great. 

Here are some of my favorite beginnings:

"SUFFOCATE HER!" the midwife told my mother when I came into the world."

(When Heaven and Earth Changed Places, LeLy Hayslip)

"First the colors. Then the humans. That's usually how I see things. Or at least, how I try." 

(The Book Thief, Markus Zusak)

"They're out there." 

(One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey)

"Come, said my Soul, such verses for my Body let us write, (for we are one)" 

(Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman)

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." 

(Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austin) 

Each of these pieces of literature is honored and cherished in its own right, but as a reader, I'll put down a book if I'm not intrigued from the start.  The first parts of a book are the introduction to a world created and dictated by the author, and if they cannot give it light, then there is nothing for me to see.

Carpe Diem

We are the writers of our own destiny.  As my wise fifth grade teacher once said to me, "You can't fear everything.  If you spend your life hiding under your bed, even that could collapse on you."  You are so right, Ms Rogers.  Thank you for teaching me to Seize the Day!

Written:1/4/2011

A funeral pyre stands in a field

It is empty but for one lone maiden

Waiting for love’s true kiss

In an everlasting sleep

She will wait forever for a prince

Who will not come seek her

The lone raven in a nearby tree

Sings out the same sad song

Its ancestors have sung

For a century or more

Her prince could be dead or

Never existed

She slept through her life—feeling no pain

Feeling nothing at all

Until one day..

Her heart breaks of loneliness and boredom

Her prince charming is stuck in the top most tower

Of a castle far far away

He dies at the same moment 

Infinitely awaiting her rescue

Serenity

I decided to post some prose today, since I haven't done that yet.  I haven't written a lot of prose lately, because it involves a lot more time.    Also, poetry usually comes more easily to me, which may have something to do with the scattering of ideas that is my usual thought process.  Below is the essay I wrote for acceptance into college with some much needed recent revisions.
___________________________________________________________________

Serenity

The quiet breeze is peacefully blowing through my hair.  I can smell the pine needles all around me.  My hands are sticky from the sap, which clung to me as I climbed to the top.  I love this tree.  It is the one place I can go and know it will be completely quiet, except for the constant buzz of the busy bees and the occasional call of one whippoorwill to its mate.  This tree and I are good friends and like all good friends she is always where I can find her.  Even though it can be hard to walk through thick woods to get to her, I know that sometimes you must go through the rough spots to get to the wonderful things in life.

It is pure joy as I get to the foot of her trunk.  Then as if we are performing a graceful dance, I climb her branches to the top as she sways in the breeze.  The hum of silence is our music.  As I climb I know that the perfect spot is up there waiting for me.  A little nook in the tree that is shaped just right.  A relaxing place to sit, rest my arms, and set my head.  As I get closer to this spot accomplishment starts to set in.  I have climbed this tree at least twenty times every summer, but it feels just as great to get to the top each time.  I must be careful not to knock off any bark or needles, because I care for my friend.  When I finally reach the spot I am aiming for, I feel a sigh of relief throughout my body.  I sit and think.  I think about life, love and friendship.  I love this tree.  She is my best friend; no matter how much I talk, complain, gossip, cry, laugh, or reminisce, she always listens.  This tree has taught me the greatest lesson in life.  Be a kind and loving being.  Whenever everything seems to be going wrong for someone, it is my job to be their tree, to stand where they can always find me, and to listen unconditionally.

Devil

There is evil in the world and there are people that do unspeakable things.  Why?  I don't think I will ever understand.
__________________________________________________________________

He sits

Fingers tap tapping

He breaths

Lips in a twisted grin

He contemplates

The distruction of their sanity

The control of which he has been given unfailingly

For night and day

He sits

His lips sip sipping

He swallows

The coffee burns his throat

It is his personal penance

For what he knows he will do

The destruction of a soul

Is difficult work indeed

Finding My Inner Chaucer

Today I am suffering from a severe case of Computer Cursor Hypnosis, which typically manifests itself in the act of repeatedly watching the cursor on a computer screen blink while waiting for something profound to appear.  When I find myself in this unfortunate situation, I have a few known cures.  One consists of a large pint of chocolate ice cream, or a bottle of wine coupled with repeated viewings of BBC's Pride and Prejudice (mmmm, Colin Firth) until symptoms disappear, but it's not always entirely effective.

So, on days when I don't have five hours to sacrifice for my art, I try to beat the Brain Freeze Blues by taking an author I love, and using their writing style to create something of my own.  The below is my version of the beginning of The Canterbury Tales* which I wrote at one such moment in college.  It follows a similar rhyme scheme, and without using too archaic of language, I also tried to bring in Chaucer's voice.  In the original, I love how the naive Pilgrim captures the truth of people through their supposed intentions versus their actual actions.  I hoped I've accurately captured a bit of that here.

*If you haven't read the actual Prologue before, but would like to, you can find it at CanterburyTales.org. They provide both a Middle English version and a nice translation into Modern English.

Madison Melodies

In the midst of March’s mad mysterious weather,

When the surface of the Earth sparkles with snow

From the frozen tears of God’s February skies

And the ground still groans in anguished slumber

And any number of animals, small and tall

Wander down between the willows for warmth at night

At this cold heartless time of year is when

People challenge themselves to do others charity

On such days when the sun slumbers and forgets to shine.

It was on just such a day as this

That I sat at a bench atop of stairs

In the merry Memorial Union of Madison

Waiting for the bus to take me to Tennessee

I had opened my heart to help habitat the homeless

On my journey I was to be joined in my generosities

With other people who wanted to help the weary

One by one they occurred upon the spot I sat

Before I begin brandishing this collaborative biography

I’ll observe this as an opportunity to talk of each person

For I feel it is only affable for me to inform you

With a description of their dress and disposition

And to state their status and studies for your speculation

The first of the group was a Professor of Science

Talent and tenacity got him tenure at the university

Although students sought to avoid participating in his courses

And were angered by his unmanageable assignments

He had organized this humble trip to help society

His money was not spent on modern materialism

Using his cash on only his own necessary needs

Such as quenching the thirst of his throat

Fumbling for a Franklin he purchased himself refreshment

Then displaying himself and his designer suit and tie

Sitting with his knees crossed and nose raised high

Reading for rehearsal his written words and phrases

For the lectures he delivered from Yale to Berkeley, undoubtedly,

I inferred it contained his definition of immense intellect

Being that his name was blatantly BOLDED on the front page

Elite witnesses of his wisdom felt immense awe

The less educated fell catatonic from confusion

This is, however, hearsay, I have not heard him speak myself

With him he happened to bring his son

A med student by all prosperity and appearance

His own intervals of intelligence being unparalleled

Were defined by their tendency to steadily decline

Despite the assistance of mentors presented to him

His look was in likeness to his father by mere obligation

But peeking from below his straight pressed pant leg

His sense of independence or insecurity was deceived

I could not identify any difference of these looks on his face

His eyes always squinted in focus like by perpetual sunlight

But his shiny shoes displayed a white sock with a swoosh

Common knowledge spoke of his late night escapades

Where his book bags remained barren compared to his bed

Which was wide open; a fair way to relieve school’s stress

And of his stench when he happened to pass by me

It could smell only of last night’s sweat and swaggers

Sitting nearest to the professor and his son

Appeared another of high regard, a woman learning law

Casually with sultry effort, she readjusted her position

She placed one leg over the other to lean close to the professor

Considering my location across from her chair

I dare not deduce what was said during their discourse

I only assume by the rapid movements of their lips and looks

And the mutual intellect, that their breath whispered wisdoms

Her strong and shifting hands went to the tip of her short skirt

Comfortably she adjusted it, either to get or deter attention

I cannot comment on her intentions confidently

Her mouth promised to provide a sound both pretty and petite

But when she spoke it outstretched to every open space

She was known to enjoy the company of her professors

This vigilant studying in all virtue, verified her high evaluations

Even after all the hours she applied to her education

As a philanthropist few could be favored above her

Evening upon evening she entertained the elderly

This would indeed assist her with obtaining high regard

And her applications for schools would not object

(Please excuse any oddities, it has been a while since I've re-read this, and it still a work in progress.)

Fear and Loathing in Love Poems

So, I'll admit it; I hate love poems.  I find them to usually be forced and painful to read, yet, there are some that I can appreciate for the beauty of their verse.  Take Mrs. Barrett Browning's How Do I Love Thee as a precious example of the expression of love through poetry.  If you haven't read it, please do so by clicking on the title above.

I personally find it quite difficult to embrace my inner romantic in order to write a love poem that can actually capture the emotion, without causing a little bit of my lunch to rise back up into my throat.  Don't get me wrong, I love my husband dearly, but I find that love is a much more multi-dimensional emotion than even Mrs. Browning can express, and I think she is probably a much better poet than I am.  Love is all the warm fuzzy feelings we get, but it is also the daily ups and downs.  It is the fights over who was supposed to start the load of laundry, and the shared moments of quiet understanding.  It is this chaotic tranquility that defines love, and the cynic in me finds most love poems far too flowery to portray this emotion accurately.

I am human though, and can be as hypocritical as the next person, so of course, I do have a favorite love poem.  As in most things, I think the Bard says it best.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.