Famous Lines, part 2

  

     They shoot the white girl first. She posed flawlessly, obeying the photographer's commands with ease. This obviously wasn't her first time. I sat waiting for my turn, in excruciating silence. Silence, except for the clicks of the camera. The sound of the shutter sounded like a ticking bomb, counting down the moments until it was my turn. My stomach had the nervous feeling in it, and I was sweating even though it was cold in there.
      My back was beginning to feel sore from the metal folding chair when they finally called my name. I stood, and hoped nobody would notice me. But how would they not notice me? It was my turn.
     I kept asking myself why I had thought this was a good idea. The whole time, the photographer kept telling me to "Relax" and "Pose naturally," but the poses he was putting me in were weird. I couldn't figure out how to move my gangly arms and legs into a graceful position. I was painfully aware of every inch of my 6-foot frame. The positions they wanted me in were like putting a square peg in a round hole. Even my hair reflected my awkwardness. The photographer tried to arrange it several times to no avail.
     It felt like it took hours, but probably only took a few minutes. The experience was a nightmare. This is not the scene I dreamed of. Like much else nowadays I leave it feeling stupid, like a man who lost his way long ago but presses on along a road that may lead nowhere.

      

Famous Last Lines (And First lines, too)

First Line:
"They shoot the white girl first."
Is from 'Paradise' by Toni Morrison. "Paradise" was published in 1993. The novel is about a town in Oklahoma called Ruby and the nearby convent. The town is considered a refuge by its occupants and the men in the town hate the convent. The convent isn't really a convent anymore, it is more of a safe place for women. The novel is about the social hierarchy's that exist there and the difference between the women and the men. It begins with the men of Ruby massacring the convent. A theme in the novel is the town Ruby trying to be a Utopia and destroying things it doesn't understand, like the convent.

Toni Morrison was born in 1931 in Ohio. She has written several famous novels, including 'Sula', 'Beloved', and 'The Bluest Eye'. She is a Professor Emeritus at Princeton, and has won the Pulitzer Prize.

I probably would not read this book, because it does not sound like my cup of cocoa. I don't think I'm intellectual enough to enjoy it. The book sounds dark, gruesome and dystopian. These things are alright, but I don't like reading about them all at once. Also, I really don't like Oklahoma very much and I don't want to read a book set there.
 

Last Line: "This is not the scene I dreamed of. Like much else nowadays I leave it feeling stupid, like a man who lost his way long ago but presses on along a road that may lead nowhere."
This is from "Waiting for the Barbarians" by J.M. Coetzee. J.M. Coetzee is/was from South Africa. He was born in 1940 in South Africa, though he lives in Australia now.

The novel is about a magistrate of a colony in "the empire." Apparently, the empire is worried about barbarians and comes to the magistrate's town, where they bring back barbarians and torture them. The magistrate starts questioning imperialism, eventually having a relationship with a barbarian girl. This lands him in some doo-doo, and he comes face-to-face with the less glamorous side of imperialism.

I feel like I am more likely to read this novel than 'Paradise,' though it still sounds a little violent for my taste. It also reminds me of 1984 in a way.
Also check out this cover: I think the shades make it. Except it appears to be a different "Waiting for the Barbarians." So that was a let down. The correct cover is on the right.

Back to the Future

Ideas from yesterday:
I found it interesting that the marketing and artistic sides of the magazine are so split. In my mind, I hadn't separated the two sides into distinct categories. I also didn't know that they produced advertisements for the companies that advertise with them. I thought that most companies would have their own advertisement and give it to the magazine. I wonder if that is more common with bigger magazines and bigger companies. Finally, I was intrigued by the time frame. I didn't know that they decide on their cover stories a year in advance. I guess it makes sense, though. So they can get the seasonal pictures ahead of time. (Like getting a snowy picture during Christmastime for a cover the next December issue.)

Magazine: If I worked at a magazine, I could see myself at 417 Magazine because I like the Ozarks. I like the lake, and the Branson area, and the scenic/mountainous parts of Northern Arkansas. I could see myself writing articles at the magazine about restaurants and things to do in this area.

In 1 Year: I would like to still be in college in one year. I hope that track is going well, that I am getting good grades, and that I am making new friends in college.

In 5 Years: I hope that I am either starting a career or graduate school. I hope that I have close college friends, and I hope that my sister and I are still close. I hope that I'm further down south than I will  be for college.

In 10 Years: I hope to be enjoying my career. I hope that I am still close to my sister. I hope that my siblings and I are all happy. I hope my sister is a doctor and I hope that I if I am in a northern state that it is at least filled with beautiful countrysides and hills.

In 50 Years: I hope that my siblings and I have all married. And if one of us hasn't married, it is by choice. I hope to have one or two children, and I hope I have enjoyed my career.  I hope that I have written a cheesy romance novel (see bucket list written in 7th grade) and I also hope that I have visited the UK and Ireland.

Newspaper Inspired Piece

Headline: "Where can you find mermaids? In a school of course."

     Pearl came home from school in tears. The bus had barely squeaked into drive when Aunt Bertha demanded to know what was wrong.
     "I wish I could go back home! I hate living here! I'm so tired of living a lie all the time!!"
     "Oh my dear, what happened?"
     Pearl explained the new p.e. unit at school, which would take place at the high school pool. They were to be bused over once a week, and have a swimming unit. Naturally, there were mixed reviews. None, however, were so severe as Pearl's.
     "You'll just have to be exempted."
     "How? Everyone will just think I'm a wimp. . ." And then the teasing, and forever being the weird girl that was afraid of water or something. . .
                               .  .  .
     The politicians hugged in front of the flags for the camera. Mr. Frances whispered into Mr. James' ear.
     "We found one." And Mr. James' camera-smile quickly became genuine. After the various media outlets got their pictures, the men proceeded to the conference.
     James Frances' moment to shine had finally arrived. He had used every intelligence resource in the government. Officially, the team he led in the CIA was intended to collect information in the states. In all technicality, he was within his bounds. However, it is unlikely that the taxpayers would be pleased with the exact intelligence he was collecting. Perhaps because of unbelief, or perhaps because of a belief in more important things to gather intelligence about, but most Americans do not want the CIA spending time searching for mermaids.
     In a small dark room, where a group of middle-aged men sat gathered around a table, Mr. Frances began his powerpoint presentation.
     "Where can you find mermaids? At a school, of course."
     He clicked to the next slide, which pictured a middle school in the Midwest.
     "We have been searching old newspapers, and this girl is connected to several anomalies. . ."
                            .  .  .
     Pearl walked into school about a week later with no peculiar feeling about the day. In first period, she was called to the principal's office. Her old 7th grade English teacher, Mrs. Arens, was there as well. Mr. Powers had something very strange to tell her.
     "You need to come with us, Pearl. You are not safe here. We know what you are, as does another branch of the CIA. Unfortunately, the branch that knows is corrupted and essentially will kidnap you. We don't want that to happen."
     It all seemed rather suspicious. Pearl told them so. How did she know that they weren't just trying to kidnap her easily? Why was it o.k. for them to take her away and not the other branch of the CIA. They told her she could walk away and take her chances. They spent half an hour trying to convince her otherwise, but she remained unconvinced. As she turned to leave, Mrs. Arens put a needle in Pearl's arm, and then carried her into the nurse's office. Once there, she made up a fainting story for Pearl.
     When she came back, Mr. Powers groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.
     "What are we going to say if and when the CIA snatches her away from her family with no explanation?"
     "We'll just have to watch her as best we can."
     "Fine. But we flip for who gets to tell headquarters that she refused our protection."
He said, while reaching for a quarter.
     He had had a frustrating couple of months. On top of actually being a principal (it's hard to fake) for squirrely middle schoolers, he had been dealing with his almost powerless agency. Unlike the CIA, they couldn't do things with no questions asked. They were under the law, which made protecting anomalies like Pearl rather difficult. At least they were allowed to drug those that refused protection so that they would forget the last 1/2 hour. Thinking of that, Mr. Powers realized Pearl should be awake by now. He walked into the nurse's office and offered her an alternate story about her fainting when she got into his office. He then made up a reason that he needed to see her.
     He went back into his office and said to Mrs. Arens, "Alright, seeya after school. It would be better if we could get one of our people teaching one of her classes. . . or a janitor at least. . . but oh well."

     Pearl sat poolside at the high school. She wore a sweatshirt and jeans, so hopefully she wouldn't get wet. Mrs. Arens was there, helping to supervise. Pearl wondered if she ever taught, because she saw her around school so much outside of her classroom. . .
     It had been an embarrassing few days. Everyone thought she was afraid of water, and now she was a fainter, too. After awhile, she went into the locker room to use the restroom. She was washing her hands, trying to hurry before she changed into a mermaid, when her mouth exploded into pain. By the time she registered that it was a hand over it, her other limbs had been secured.
     The next thing she knew, she was shackled in the back of a dark van.

Six Word Memoirs

For myself: Reading is more important than sleeping.

For my older sister: Let's climb buildings. You tell mom.

For my older brother: You want to play some nerts?

Don't quote me on that. . .

Some of my favorite quotes. . .

  
  

(from "Rise Again" by NEEDTOBREATHE)
    

Writers as Readers

When I read, its location, location, location. Just kidding, location isn't all that important. I just need to be able to tune out whatever noise is going on around me. Otherwise, I need a somewhat comfortable temperature, and a snack if I'm hungry, and also a chair. I don't read while standing, and reading on the floor is not ideal. I've read a lot of places. Because I have older siblings, I've had many boring experiences during my sibling's various activities. I have read through many practices and long car rides.

The authors I imitate are the authors that I like. I don't think about imitating them when I write, but I probably imitate them nevertheless. Also, there are authors that I don't like, and I try not to imitate them. Mostly authors that try to be descriptive and flowery, but don't pull it off. A lot of Christian romance novels are like that. I don't know about other romance novels, but I guess they are probably similar. I don't appreciate sentences like this one: "The townspeople of Hagenheim craned their necks as they peered down the cobblestone streets, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Duke of Hagenheim's two handsome sons." Alright, so that sentence really isn't that bad. The problem is that sentences of this type have a building effect, coupled with over-dramatic heroines, etc, etc... The point is, there are certain species of author I hope not to imitate.

I have read several books that I could not put down. When I was younger, I loved to read and had time for it. At that point in my life, almost everything I read was something that I could not put down. I just like to read, so any book worth reading is hard for me to put down. However, in recent years something called school happened. Now I have to be more disciplined. The days are gone when I could come home from school or practice and read until dinnertime. There have been books that are harder to finish, like most nonfiction. I enjoy reading the genre if I am reading something that is interesting. Nevertheless, nonfiction has always been harder for me to sit down and read for hours.

I do think that people who read a lot pick up new ideas and techniques for writing. Reading also trains your ear. After your ear is trained, you know what 'sounds good' to your reading ear. Once you know what sounds good, the different sentence structures will naturally follow.

Memorable Passages

When I think of memorable passages, the first thing I thought of was the last paragraph of the opening chapter of The Scarlet Letter. The scene opens up at a prison, the beginning of the book. I love that Hawthorn chose to begin his book by presenting a rose to the reader from the setting of the tale. I think its a lovely way to start a rather melancholy narrative.
He describes the rosebush saying,
"This rose-bush, by a strange chance, has been kept alive in
history; but whether it had merely survived out of the stern old
wilderness, so long after the fall of the gigantic pines and
oaks that originally overshadowed it, or whether, as there is
fair authority for believing, it had sprung up under the
footsteps of the sainted Ann Hutchinson as she entered the
prison-door, we shall not take upon us to determine. Finding it
so directly on the threshold of our narrative, which is now
about to issue from that inauspicious portal, we could hardly do
otherwise than pluck one of its flowers, and present it to the
reader. It may serve, let us hope, to symbolise some sweet moral
blossom that may be found along the track, or relieve the
darkening close of a tale of human frailty and sorrow" (Hawthorne).

I don't know how to explain why else I like this, I just like it.

The next thing I thought of when contemplating memorable passages was a line from C.S. Lewis' "Mere Christianity." The book is merely on Christianity. I can't think of a summary that usurps the title. I like this particular passage because it is funny and very British.

He says, "Christianity is the story of how the rightful king has landed, you might say landed in disguise, and is calling us all to take part in a great campaign of sabotage. When you go to church you are really listening-in to the secret wireless from our friends: that is why the enemy is so anxious to prevent us from going. He does it by playing on our conceit and laziness and intellectual snobbery. I know someone will ask me, "Do you really mean, at this time of day, to reintroduce our old friend the devil-hoofs and horns and all?" Well, what the time of day has to do with it I do not know. And I am not particular about the hoofs and horns. But in other respects my answer is "Yes, I do." I do not claim to know anything about his personal appearance. If anybody really wants to know him better I would say to that person, "Don't worry. If you really want to, you will. Whether you'll like it when you do is another question" (Lewis).Is there really any explanation needed? I love his sense of humor. The final passage that I thought of is something I read quite recently. It is from Miracles by Eric Metaxas. Again, I love his style. He begins by describing water and how amazing water truly is. And then, out of nowhere, he says, "It is not inappropriate to marvel at this" (Metaxas.) I found this memorable because it was funny, true, and rather out of the blue. Speaking of out of the blue, I don't know how to change the font back. . .

Pillow Talk

The man sat on the side of the twin bed and rubbed his hand across the scruff on his face. He felt numb. Another day gone, but he had already given up counting them. What was the point? He eyed the bible across the room. With a sigh, he laid down on the thin mattress. He closed his eyes and waited for lights out.

Marcus dreamed about home that night. The first thing he saw was the old whitewashed farmhouse. Next he saw the red barn and outbuildings. He saw his father giving vaccines to a cow. Then Marcus seemed to float to the next field. There he found his old riding horse, Bertha. They looked at each other before the scene shifted. Suddenly Marcus was on top of one of the hills. He saw the entire farm below him.

The cell filled with light. Marcus rubbed his eyes, disoriented by the sudden return to reality. Throughout the rest of the morning, he kept returning to the dream, returning to Carolina. The longing for home swelled in his chest, making him want to cry. But in the wake of the dream, he felt that he was full of light. Though temporary, the dream had filled him with hope and joy.

That afternoon his mother visited. She parked at the visitor's entrance. Perhaps the government's landscapers were well read in classic literature; a solitary rosebush grew near the edifice. Cassandra noted the irony of the plant as walked in. The rose's beauty contrasted the ugliness of its surroundings.

Marcus told his mother about the dream. He asked for pictures of the farm. She agreed to mail them. They talked about his appeals, and news from back home. His attorney still hadn't found anything.

Three months after the dream, Marcus was doing much better than when we first met him. He was still anger-filled at the injustice of his situation, yet there was a steady peace within him as well. Marcus was in the prison chapel when he was told he had an urgent phone call. He walked down the hall, praying it wasn't about his parents. The voice on the other end was ecstatic, repeating itself three times before Marcus understood. He sank to the floor in disbelief.

Caged Bird Inspired Piece

Hunting

 I know a place,
A hidden forest glade
Its hard to find
Sometimes

You're there when you get to the field in the hills with a stream in the corner,
with oaks and sugar maples all around.

When the field is green,
the sun never beats,
it rests in dappled specks through the leaves in the trees
and the stream's always cool
and there's always a breeze

When the leaves fall in shades of yellow and crimson,
there's  fog in the morning,
and a haystack formed from the golden cut grass,
and from the bases of the maple trees, buckets collect sap

Winter is similar, with moonlit snowfall,
and spring arrives softly with returning bird song,
and a thin green veil that slowly spreads over all.

This is the place to go.
The place to go hunting,
You'll find it in the woods,
And you'll know it when you find it.

Once you arrive,
ready your weapon and wait
and watch and wait
you may not see one right away.
What you are hunting is wispy,
they will dissolve into the trees before you can fully focus on them
The harder you look, the more hidden they will be.
Usually

Suddenly you'll open your eyes and there it is
hurry, before it disappears.
You can dress it here or later,
it doesn't really matter.

Walk back through the woods,
and emerge back into reality
and there, resting in the crook of your arm...

contained in a notebook of your choosing,
(I prefer spiral bound),
you have one.
A poem.

Dream Threads

I came into consciousness with the usual disorientation that comes when waking in a strange place. There was severe bruising on my left arm and a deep laceration that I couldn't even feel. This is the first thing I saw when I awakened. I turned my head and saw the IV in my other arm. I had no idea why or how I was there. Then I remembered: walking in the field, the darkness, the sudden spotlight in the sky. . .


I ripped the IV out and got up. Luckily, the door was unlocked. I left the room and walked down the hallway. It was similar to a hospital, but the equipment was slightly different in design and materials. Everything was angular, and the parts that looked like they should be made of metal were of a deep purple substance that glittered.


With a few quick maneuvers when I heard footsteps or voices approach, I remained unseen until I exited the hospital. I walked down the steps that were suspended in midair and found myself on a crowded street. The people there. . .they looked like people. . . but something about their coloring. . .it seemed off. Suddenly, a boy with red eyes, back hair, and green skin turned around to face me. Then he ate my nose.

If I were in charge of the world. . .

If I were in charge of the world
I'd cancel sore throats,
test essays,
bad vision, and also uncomfortable shoes.


If I were in charge of the world,
there'd be German shepherds,
and twin kittens, and
pet ponies for every little girl.


If I were in charge of the world,
you wouldn't have mean.
You wouldn't have tears.
You wouldn't have bad backs.
Or exhausting band trips to Oklahoma.
You wouldn't even have Oklahoma.


If I were in charge of the world,
a piece of chocolate lava cake with ice cream,
and hot fudge and extra sprinkles would be a vegetable.
All days would be a good hair day.
And a person who sometimes forgot their i.d.
and sometimes forgot to charge their phone,
would still be allowed to be
in charge of the world.