Journal # 20

The Cycle of Life

From the moment of conception, a life beings.  We are swaddled in the darkness of wombs, weather we be cuddled in the damp soil of the earth, or the mother of our beginning. We are birthed. Breaking through the soil and winding up into the waiting sunlight, or sucking in our first breathe, cherishing the feeling of lungs being filled for the very first time. We analyze our world. Opening up our leaves to the waiting sky, or opening our very eyes to view the place we will inhabit for our short eternity. We go out. We rise-- in height, in spirit, and in maturity, stretching to the deep expanses-- whatever we can reach. Our bodies and  tender branches elongate,   and we reach for anything--everything-- that we can. We take in the air, the water--our life source--flowing from the rivers and into our trembling hands. We are nurtured, weather it be from our parents or the gentle rays of the glowing sun. Our vessels grow. They reach for the sun, hands open wide, legs  and roots firmly planted into the earth. We are young. Energy flowing from our thirsty veins. Strength coursing through our corded muscles. Life bursting from our skin and into the world around us. We live. Create a name for ourselves. Make our existence known. But  as we reach the end of this phase in life, and we have drunk the nectar of youth and our taste buds can no longer relish it's tang, we stop growing. We recede. The process  is slow, grueling. Continuous.  Just as we grew, so our bodies sink. We continue our life, nurturing our wasting bodies, doing with what we have. Limping our way through our earth, saddened by the truth revealed to us: We cannot stay here forever. Our souls will tire of our weary bodies. We will ache for more. For a place beyond this place where paradise waits for us. Some of us will pull. We will exhaust our selves tearing away from  our destiny. We will make it worse. The strain and the ripping and the tearing will break us. We will go fighting. Calling out to the sun. To the Earth. To our mothers. Cursing them for letting us live so that we will die and glitter into nonexistence again. And some will glide into Death's embrace with their arms open. Melancholy and trembling. But willing. They will not be alone. As they go into the realm where life meets death, they will pass by others. Walking. Waiting. Remembering.  Just like them. All have lived, and just as so, all must die. All have felt the warmth of the sun upon their skin, the taste of youth and the flowing water of  rivers. All have inhaled the sweet oxygen of life, and have heard the calling of the crow each morning. And just as so, all must hear the beckoning of Death when she comes. So we remember our lives. The birth of our existence, the life we lived, and the recession we experienced. And with frail  limbs and bodies, we return to the Earth of which we were birthed. We have lived. We have died. And our existence has blinked away and left a beautiful impression. A legacy. An impression of who we once were.

Journal #19

The Boston Massacre

The  day was cold, ghosts of  shots filled the  air
 The sounds of screams filled their hearts with despair
The  men marched down with  their muskets in hand
The phantoms of death lay over the land
 all that was left was a crimson nightmare

The mob then closed in, consuming the reds
The fate of lost lives hung over their heads
fists flew in the air and hit 'guilty' men
Defending has now turned into a sin
No one can undo the blood that was shed

The bodies lie still, so covered in snow
with fear in the air, the sound of a crow
 calls out in the night, with sun coming soon
Reminding us all of  unending doom,
 And the dark future we already know

With morning comes pain, and tension severe
If only the king knew what happened here
His greed has become the death of us all
This outwardly act is only a call
To show that freedom is no longer near

So here we lie in the truth we have found
The time to rebel is coming around
Standing for the king, we no more will do
Bright future is here, of past we are through
We now will stand firm  and hold our own ground

Journal # 18

As I pondered the multitude of eyes beaming at me from the magnificent creature, i felt a shiver jolt up my back. My hands began to shake uncontrollably,  mouth  slack, my mind buzzing and twirling, trying to comprehend what i was seeing. I could imagine the smell of my blood filling this very room, with only one swipe of the monsters talons. In minutes it could happen. I could see myself, screaming for help, eyes bloodshot, body bruised and ripped. The  thought made me  blanch, and the metallic taste of pure fear washed over my trembling tongue. The monster was truly  a sight to behold.  It's long , curved, snakelike back tremored with unease, and the dim light of the room hit it's dazzling scales, enslaving my very eyes to it's sight. The arcane creature had a sloping head, set with four eyes, electric blue, and glowing like the midnight sun. It's maw was fitted with doezens of sharp teeth, and it's jaw was strong enough to snap me like a toothpick. They seemed to paralyze, and i couldn't tear my gaze away, no matter how hard i tried. It's four legs, long and slender, ripped with corded muscles and strong enough to kill me with one flick. It's smell filled the room--completely  foreign and exotic, causing my nose to twitch with nerves.  Out of self defense, I grabbed the nearest object--a hairbrush--and brandished it in front of me, surprising myself as a fierce growl ripped from my trembling lips. "Get BACK!" I screamed, carefully retreating behind the kitchen table. The creature cocked its head to the side, clearly mystified at my actions, and took at gentle step forward, talons clicking on the linoleum. "I said GET BACK!" I screeched again. I backed away even further, till my back was flush against the wall, and began to jab the comb at the air, hoping that i looked as intimidating as i felt. "Don't get ANY CLOSER." I chided. Of cource, it took another step towards me, and I blew up. "I'LL SHOOT! I SWEAR TO YOU I WILL SHOOT!" The idea was preposterous. I was holding a HAIRBRUSH. I could only hope that it didn't understand what it truly was. The creature only seemed mildly offended at my intense warning. It's head turned to the other side, and half of it's eyes averted their gaze away from me and to the open door, which led outside--to the fresh, glorious freedom. I had to get there.

Journal #17

As the light blue fuzz feathered through the warm current of air purring from the heating vent, I drew in a deep, exasperated sigh, and listened to  my  lungs whine with  complaint.   Here I was again. Sitting through the usual, lengthy lecture from my charismatic Grandmother, who garbled and squawked continuously.  The temperature in the room was overwhelming  and as I again adjusted myself in the seat, I could feel the heater lashing scorching lances across my undefended back. Sweat began to trickle down my temple.
The heat was almost embodied .It consumed the room, pacing back and forth, tracing my limbs and neck with it's white hot fingers. My throat constricted  and I forced a smile, tasting the electric in the air.    Squinting my eyes, I focused attention back to my Grandmother and tried to ignore the  terrible feeling of  being swallowed alive by a scorching beast. She didn't seem to notice my discomfort though, and continued to babble on. Her sweater was a bright, light, blue today, and sent the familiar smell of peppermint wafting my way on another warm catch of super-heated air.  The feathery clothing piece was warm and comfortable I'm sure, but obviously falling apart at the seams. As I observed the way the tender fabric protested,  another  turquoise fluff from her sweater was drawn up into the heating vent, and my eyes darted away from her face to watch it's graceful decent. It blew to and fro through the toasty air, twirling and flipping like an acrobat. I wondered if it was cooler up there. My mind continued to wonder, but when my eyes drifted to  her offended face, and i realized her talking  had ceased,  I again directed my attention back to her,  and watched her careful face as she spoke. "Sarah said we're having jello again for lunch tomorrow," grandma sighed. "They feed it to us almost everyday. Jello, jello jello. Why they think we never tire of it, I'll  never know!" She heckled playfully and smiled at me, her wrinkles lifting and her face lighting up. I nodded at her, and she squeezed her eyes shut like she just noticed something.  " My goodness! It's rather chilly in here today," She wrapped her frail, spider- veined hands around her thinning arms and pretended to shiver.  I forced a smile again, praying to God that she would talk about something I could focus more easily on. "Tell me that poem i like, Grandma," I urged. My mind flashed back to my childhood. Visions of her younger, livelier  face danced through my head. There i was, sitting on the floor, my back against the cozy, embroidered couch, listening to the same poem.  T-Shirt bottom rolled up above my stomach, hair pulled back into a ponytail, sweat trickling from my pores. A cold, refreshing pink lemonade clutched in my hand, condensation dripping over my tiny fingers. The memory upturned my lips gently, and  I drew in a pleasurable breath and listened.  She began to recite it, and i relished the fact that my ears could now focus in on her soft, soothing words. I relaxed in  my chair and put my feet up  on the coffee table in front of me, enjoying the feeling of comfort. Grandmother's hands clenched and revolved around her wrists, rhythmically dancing to her rhymes  As she continued her requested story, my eyes began to droop, and the intensity  of the heat swam to the back of my mind. It no longer bothered me. And with the smell of peppermint, the soothing sound of my Grandmother's voice, and the warm arms of heat wrapped around me, i let my eyes close, and descended into the calming darkness of sleep.

Journal #16

There was this one time that Lady Gaga wore meat to some award ceremony.  I never actually saw it, but i heard about it  for months afterward. Actually, that was one of the things that set Lady Gaga apart from everyone else, and ever since then, she dresses really odd in public. For example, at ANOTHER awards ceremony she dressed up like a dude! I was watching this on TV and i was thinking "Who IS that? I recognize the voice and everything, but who IS that person!?" The next day everyone was talking about it. That 'boy' i saw on TV was actually Lady Gaga. I was really shocked! People responded in different ways. Some people thought it was just really weird  but they knew she did it to get extra attention. Some responded negatively, calling her a freak and talking really bad about her because she dressed really drastically. Personally, i thought it was just interesting. I didn't have anything against it, but i did think it was rather peculiar that she chose to wear something so outrageous--and more than once! Doing this earned her a name  though, and she finally established herself as someone unique and different as the rest. Some think she's just an artist with the way she dresses. I just think she wanted a little extra attention. I mean, you have control over what you wear, and going for something completely 'out there' is definitely going to catch peoples eye. I think it was kind of inspiring. Most people don't really have the guts to wear whatever they want. Lady Gaga is famous tough, and no one can tell her what she can and cannot wear. She doesn't have to worry about social suicide because she's confident enough that her fans will like her no matter what. Plus, what you wear doesn't change how good your music is. Though, just because one person decides to go out in a meat suit and later dressed up like a boy doesn't mean that i'm going to go that far! It just is crazy how people's thoughts of you can change so quickly by what you wear out in public.

Journal #15

I have a lot of people that i miss in my life. I've had to move many times, and it all just depends on what kind of relationship you make with that person. Friends are great, and i do have friends i miss, but the person i miss most of all would have to be my cousin Heather. She is one of the coolest people i know, and she's my age, so we relate really well! I see her only a couple times a year because she lives somewhat far away, but mostly because her family situation is complicated, which means she can't come see me. I get to see her on Thanksgiving and New Years, but i don't think that's nearly enough. Her and i see eye to eye, and whenever we go to my Aunts for Thanksgiving, we always exchange funny stories and end up laughing our heads off! I don't think there had ever been a time I've seen her and i HAVEN'T laughed! We always have a great time.Both of us really like to right stories too! Ever since we were little we'd write these little plays and we and my other cousins would perform it in front of all the adults. We did that for YEARS, but now since we're older, we just tell each other about recent stories we've written, and talk about books we've read and movies we've seen.  I miss her because she's just a super nice person who's really fun to hang with, and we both like the same things. Her and I both love writing, reading, music, plays, and movies.  I try to contact her mainly over Facebook  which is her main way of communication. Sometimes i text her and sometimes i call too. We really like talking over Facebook and seeing how each other is doing. Facebook is great because we both post pictures of  things we've been doing, and sometimes if i see a funny picture with a hilarious quote on it, i share it with her on Facebook so she can see it! There was this one time she found this hilarious website and she sent me the link over Facebook  It totally cheered up my day! We both like to encourage each other  too. Once in a while i message her on Facebook and encourage her, and she'l do the same for me. She's close like a sister to me. There is one good thing about not seeing her all the time. It makes the times when i DO get to see her much better! It's part of the reason why we always have something to talk about when we see each other.There are new ways i think we can contact each other too. Since her and i both like to write, i think it would be fun to write letters back and forth. Letters can really cheer you up because unlike electronic messages, they mean more and you can read them  later. So next time i want to contact her, i think i'm going to try sending her a handwritten letter, and it will be really exciting to wait for her reply.

The Pit and the Pendulum and Dark Romanticism

           

            Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, “The Pit and the Pendulum” is one of morbid description, snakelike suspense, and dark dungeons of despair. The story weaves in and out of a man’s consciousness, and his steep steps into the arms of insanity. Faced with certain death and forced through the agony of torture, Poe’s unnamed character must face the consequences of an unnamed and possibly harmless ‘crime’. Mysterious in plot and description, Poe’s story loudly exemplifies the style of Dark Romanticism. This type of Romanticism writing deals with suspense, psychological struggle, and other dark elements. Poe’s story exemplifies it in several ways: mood, setting and plot,  the psychological struggle of the character, and  the symbolism of human nature.                                               

             

            Poe announces the mood of his story within the first sentence. “I was sick—sick unto death with that long agony,” ( Poe 263). From the start, we can clearly identify the fact that the main character is in an intense struggle. As the character continues to describe his situation, it is made aware to readers that he is being sentenced by terrible and harsh judges, of which he is very afraid ( Poe 263). Poe also uses reoccurring terms like agony, death, torture and horror on multiple occasions, setting the mood of the story as dark and terrible (Poe 263-275).  The thought of the main characters arising death also makes the story  more macabre. Likewise, Romanticism is also seen in the story’s setting. Poe puts his character in the brutality of the Spanish Inquisition, one of the darkest times this world has seen.  This was a time period where Catholics accused others of heresy against the church and many people were tried, put to death, or imprisoned, making this the perfect time setting for a Dark Romantic tale (Poe 262).   Not only does Poe’s mood and setting exemplify Dark Romanticism, but his main character does too. He is a trembling, frightful man, convicted of an unknown crime, and then thrown into a dungeon of terror. Poe has begun his dark story at last, and as the plot is played out, more Dark Romanticism is seen within the pages.                                                                                  

           

           Hidden within Poe’s plot is not only the story of a doomed man, but also one of a man’s psychological struggle: one of fear, insanity, and the shadow of death. Naturally, one of the most defining traits of Dark Romanticism is the discussion of the human psyche. Poe’s character demonstrates this consistently.   As the protagonist realizes that the pendulum is moving closer to him, he assumes it will eventually slice him in half. After making this morbid inference, his mind takes a dark turn . “I saw that the crescent was designed to cross the region of the heart. It would fray the serge of my robe-it would return and repeat its operations—again—and again,” ( Poe 270). Days pass, and he comments, “I grew frantically mad, and struggled to force myself upward against the sweep of the fearful scimitar,” ( Poe 269 ). Poe’s protagonist begins to lose his mind under torture, and this demonstrates the psychological element in Dark Romanticism.  Another reason for intense psychological struggle  of the protagonist results from his consistent falls in and out of consciousness. “The narrator's task is simply to save himself, but in order to survive he must know where he is; the first crucial task he undertakes is to try to orient himself. However, his efforts are complicated by his moving back and forth between sleep and waking; each time he falls asleep, he must reorient himself all over again”, (May).This continual process of re orientation drives the protagonist to his very edge, further proving the style of Dark Romanticism.                                         

          

            Literature of Dark Romanticism also has a lot to tell about human nature. How far will one man go to save himself? Does hope still lie within the mind of a persecuted prisoner? This story proves that people will go to great lengths to prevent death. The main character here rubs his food all over the strap restraining him, and allows hungry, ravenous rats to pile over his body in hope that the rats will eat his strap away (Poe 273). These rats come from the terrifying pit, which the protagonist mentions time and time again scares him immensely—yet he does this to save himself (Poe 265-275.) Another element mentioned in this story is hope. Despite his situation, the protagonist still holds a hope within him.  “It was hope that prompted the nerve to quiver—the frame to shrink. It was hope—the hope that triumphs on the rack—that whispers to the death-condemned even in the dungeons of the Inquisition,” (Poe 271).It is human nature that prompts people to face fears in doom and still hope in the shadow of death.            

              

           The symbolistic elements of human nature, the mood and setting of this story and the psychological details of the protagonist’s torture are all elements of a strong Dark Romantic style. Poe’s story serves as a superb example of how a traditional Dark Romantic should be written. “The Pit and the Pendulum”  not only contacts the senses, but manages to  throw the reader into the character’s terrifyingly real word, leaving a permanent mark in their minds. It is emotional, haunting, and grotesque, but still extremely satisfying to read. Poe’s short story is a continued read not only for its twisted plot, but for the high-quality Romantic style he wrote it in.

  May, Charles E. "Alternate Realms of Reality." In Edgar Allan Poe: A Study of Short Fiction. Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1991, pp. 96–97. Quoted as "Dreams and Reality in the Story" in Harold Bloom, ed. Edgar Allan Poe, Bloom's Major Short Story Writers. Philadelphia: Chelsea House Publishing, 1998. (Updated 2007.) Bloom's Literary Reference Online. Facts On File, Inc. http://www.fofweb.com/activelink2.asp?ItemID=WE54&SID=5&iPin= BMSSEP39&SingleRecord=True (accessed November 4, 2012).

Poe, Edgar A. "The Pit and the Pedullum." Glencoe Literature. Ed. Jeffery D. Wilhelm. Columbus: McGraw-Hill, 2009. 263-73. Print.

 

Journal #12

There have been many times when I've been very afraid. There is the regular everyday fear, paranoia , and then there is real fear. I usually don't experience REAL fear. I mostly just feel paranoia, but this year there was a time when I actually was really fearful  So me and a couple of my friends went to a haunted house. To me, it wasn't actually scary. The 'scary' part was your own nervousness and paranoia of the unknown. We had no idea what was going to come next. Usually, to make the fear go away, you just grab on to the person in front of you and keep going. Well, one thing you should know about me is that I am very claustrophobic. I get very frightened when I get put in small spaces. Usually I don't have to worry about this fear day to day because i  don't rarely have to go in any area that makes me nervous and scared. Being in small spaces for a long time is extremely  frightening to me too. Anyway, so we went to this haunted house, and i didn't expect to be scared at all. I just wanted to see their decorations. The 'monsters' were just people in costume, i knew that. They were not any sort of threat whatsoever because i knew they were here to have fun too. So we go through this house. We go from room to room and there are all sorts of things to see. Each room is a different scene and is filled with different monsters in full body costume, which i thought looked really awesome. I really wasn't scared at all, and i just kept my hand on the back of my sisters jacket, or sometimes on my friends jacket, so i wouldn't get separated. We went through this dark maze, and i had no idea how small it was because i couldn't see, so that didn't scare me at all. It was all fun until we came to this certain dead end. There was just a slit in the wall, made up of the material blow up bouncy houses are made of.. I stared at it because i had no idea what was supposed to happen. Then my friend Ryan and my sister walked right into it, and because i didn't want to get left behind, i followed. It was TERRIBLE. The material pressed down on me from all sides, top, bottom, sides--everywhere. It was pitch black and i felt like i was being strangled alive. I had no idea how long it went on, or where we were even going, but i felt like someone was crushing me. My claustrophobia kicked in and i almost went into panic mode. Any second i was going to have a total freak out.  I can't even describe how scared i was. I know claustrophobia is listed as an 'abnormal' fear, but it was extreamely real to me and i almost couldn't stand it. I kept my hand on my sisters jacket and just prayed and prayed that we would get out of there, i was so terrified. It seemed to go on forever, and i felt that if we didn't break through in one second, i was just going to be suffocated to death.  Finally, we broke through, and i got a taste of fresh air. Relief flooded through me, and i looked back at the thing i just came out of. That was something that was completely and utterly terrifying for me.