What do you think? (reflection)

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We are all standing around and talking. The alcohol has been flowing and the cigarettes have been smoked( not by me) and my new friend says something not out of the blue about cancer. About how if we die of cancer it’s not that bad. In America we are lucky to grow old enough to die of cancer. What do you think?

It’s bizarre. But the words, “lucky enough to grow old enough to die of cancer”?

Wouldn’t it be better to say we live longer therefore we will be alive with feeling and experience? I just don’t know.

But dying of cancer, it doesn’t seem lucky at all… =/ Continue reading

It left me Breathless: The Giver

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What if what you all along thought to be right turned out to be all one giant horrific lie? That is the unimaginable truth faced by Jonas the main character in the book adaptation of The Giver. The movie was not what I expected. The array of commercials showed a strong deviation from the novel with disheartened me. By the end of the movie, I did not mind for my eyes witnessed something greater than a movie based on a book that is accurate, it showed the triumph of love. At the beginning Jonas says “Our master said I should be punished for what I did. I’ll let you decide.” Having read the book, I instantly had my answer but was suddenly put off by how futurist it was. The apprehensiveness that Jonas experienced in the book was not really there and it seemed overacted. I soon realized that was intention and to show the lack of emotions in the community. For in this community there is no pain. It is made into a seemingly utopian society that Jonas, through his unique job selection discovers is anything but that.

However, the scene where Jonas experiences snow, a sled, and color are such stunning scenes that they move your heart. It makes life worth living to see Jonas so happy. The actor chosen to play Jonas is simply brilliant. I cannot say enough for how he carries the movie. Fiona was well played too, but Asher seemed sinister and I did not like that aspect. This movie begs the question: Does sameness equal peace? When Jonas realizes what else is out there he knows the answer. Meryl Streep does an amazing job of playing a twisted character. She explains to the Giver that “the boy must hold in the pain”. Now we understand the Giver who was the Receiver of memory’s job: to feel all the pain and have actual emotions while everyone else lives a false reality. As for Jonas he says about discovering the memories “I got lost, the good kind of lost.” The Giver gives wise advice saying “Don’t accept the truth just because it comes from someone you respect.” This is a scary thought but one Jonas really must ponder as he goes on in his journey. When Jonas realizes what is about to happen he takes drastic action and the scene where The Giver pleads with the chief elder is so heartbreaking but beautiful. This entire moving is a journey about fighting for preserving love. It left me breathless.

Your arms

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I want that hug that once encompassed my body back. Those hugs that ignited such deep feelings of love. Every time I hugged you, I never wanted to release you from my arms. I miss your smile so terribly. All the tears I’ve shed don’t seem to put distance between my reality and those memories. I want to feel your arms around me so badly that it hurts my skin. I want you to come to my house and tell me you’ve changed your mind. Instead I dream. Usually I dream I’ve met someone and we are in a budding romance. There is flirting and nervousness followed by a calm like in all new relationships. But if I think of the last time I felt ecstasy, I remember your arms.

What goes through my mind when I write…

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The Method of my “Madness”

There are a few things (men, politics, and death) that are more complex than the psych behind writing. It is sporadic, impulsive, indiscriminately, timeless, impossible, and delightful. Writing is a journey with stepping stones: great leaps or tiny steps, it’s going forward that’s important. The steps I go through during a writing assignment depend on what kind of time limit there is and what type of essay it is. Is it a poem? Is it a twenty page research paper? I always start brainstorming ideas for the main point of the paper no matter if it is big or small. Ideas and inspiration come to me at the most awkward times (the bus, the bathroom, at a movie). I group together these ideas into a topic before the real work begins.

I usually do not consider my audience too much at this time. I work in such a fashion fervently, and although I know it is for a teacher’s eyes only, I write to a universal audience, hoping all my efforts were not in vain. Poetry is the art form I adore, and I generally can captivate a large audience with. I use elements such as rhyming or repetition in my poetry and in my writing. Another way that I mesmerize the audience is when I write to the sound of classical music. When I write it makes me feel like I am on a journey, and I am taking my audience with me.

Speaking of journeys, the method I take is not organized. Its profile fits only the essay to which it was assigned. My support method behind it is not a method so much as it is a vision. After I research or consider ever angle I deceiver and deduct which is not just the strong point but the one I want to bring to attention. Lists are very helpful way for me to find ideas that work and ideas that don’t such as diction. I must often change, flip and rearrange my wording but syntax is something I don’t feel I achieve too often. The last element which I find related to syntax is the proofreading, which I do. Usually I have a sibling check my work as well and in the past multiple teachers have viewed my writing. I am not too pleasant while hearing criticism, but I will take it and try to spin a better story. As for a four hundred work limit, I am not use to word limits. So checking the word count is now like stopping for gas on my writing journey. I cannot go on to write without it.

A Love Letter that should have been in Frankstein: Dearest Victor…

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Dearest Victor,
I remember many moments in our wondrous lives, but it is this one moment I choose to share with you on this faithful day, today, our wedding. You probably don’t remember this day in great detail but I with such precision recall the day I am able to sketch it for your mind to see. We were out in the meadow; William was quite a young boy. It was the day I fell in love with you. Granted the prior days showed signs of our budding love. That day set forth the motions that brings us to today. You seemed so bothered, pestered, preoccupied with things I’m not certain of and I don’t truly understand. Love is a complex concept, I see that now. I do know this; I still have that sea shell you instructed me to keep. I still have permanently placed in my mind the way you looked at me. Truly Victor, I give you all of me, mind, body, and soul. I must now seal this letter for I hear approaching footsteps. They must be yours! Oh, my Victor! We are together at last!

Catharsis

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I want to feel and be real
I do know I’m not made of steel
My body hurts
Collapses in the dirt
My body reels
my skin peels
lays of pain
there is no gain
I want to be allowed to feel pain or joy
Whichever it is
I want the choice not the chains
Not the restrictions locked on my brain
I want to laugh freedom
Or cry discreetly

But I want to feel and be real about it

Untitled: A poem

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The baker has his chocolate
The grass its morning dew
The musician his talent
The dove its gentle coo
The farmer has his tractor
The lawyer has his case
The surfer has his wave
The athlete first base
The dog has its howl
The bird has its nest
The dancer her rhythm
The contestant her best
The swimmer her goggles
The comedian has fun
But without ambition
To accomplish this mission,
Really we have none
Go ahead and dare to
Do what you dare to dream
Don’t give up hope
Don’t lose your steam
For the hopeful have a prayer
The dreamer has a dream
And the artist of potential greatness
Can have anything

Slave to the Streetlight

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It’s of many plights
You drive jade, goldenrod, and crimson lights
Some people are like robotic- slaves
They calmly slow down
At a goldenrod they run this routine
Never minding never thinking about freedom
When it is crimson
They are goody goods
Sit there like squares
On their biscuit
Never willing to risk it
The rush, you do not regret
You fly
The red and blue lights
Don’t fret, you Kyle
You race through with your cigarette
Chew on it with pride
And listen to The Police
Ironic isn’t it?
You do because
Otherwise
You conform
I know you enough to say that isn’t your style
To conform and not confront the life
You by living, rejecting, the humdrum of everyday
Dream bigger dreams
Look that other guy straight in his eye
And scream
Fuck you
Bastard
You sit there thinking
You cut me off
And now we are sitting at a red
It’s almost evil but still fantastic
You smash that pedal Kyle
You show them
Drive 60 in a 45
It’s night 2:00 in the morning
You are nobody’s slave
He is a slave to the streetlight
The other guy
Not you

Ode to Photographs

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Photographs, oh the things you capture
You have seen everything and been ever where in the world
Capturing as you go
Brutal murder scenes
Complete and utter rapture
You capture a smile
You capture the old, discolored newspaper pile
You capture a person
Stuck in denial

Photographs capture
A moment and keep it for you
Whenever you are miserable and lost
The sapphire box of old memories will
Draw a memory back for you
Running straight
On the track
Back on memory lane,
Embedded deep in my brain

Photographs assist my meeting people
I never could; relatives from distant lands
But I still can’t
Because if humanly possible I would

Photographs of
Exotic flowers and wicked witches
With mystical powers
Pictures of places
Paris, Prague, and Rome
All the way to Australia till
I get back home

The simplicity of a photograph is overrun
When a holiday comes
My mom overdoes it a bit
1000 pictures in an evening
My smile is as tight and fake and insincere
As a man’s apology

Photographs
You capture
Nature
You capture
Crime
You capture
Vengeance
You completely stop time
With no reason or rhyme

Photos when we forgot
You help us remember like that
First kiss, or first snow fall of the season

Photographs sometimes people
Use you for wrong
Pornography, loss of privacy
Pure treason
And morally wrong.

Photographs you keep my eyes wide awake
At night
Filling my live dreams to the brim
With delight, pure dynamite
Old yearbook scribbles are only
Remedied
With a photo, a face
To go with the comments in
An arbitrary place on the page

Photos never go out of style
Here they lie in a pile
I pick one up and
Although some depict horror
Such as war
Something that Americans can no longer ignore
I pick out a photo of a girl staring in the sky
Letting the day’s woes pass her by

Thank you photograph
For all that you do
Start, end a conversation
Ruin a marriage
Trigger a memory
Ruin a friendship
Trigger an emotion that triggers
An emotion stronger
That segways into a moment-
Admission of true love

Songs have been written about you
Millions of green pieces of paper have been exchanged
For one of you
A quick, fickle but true fact
America is tainted by pictures mistaken as facts

Photographs you
Take a gift and wrap it
The icing on the cake

The only things I have left now
Although beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Guilt is in the eye of the photo holder

This is an ode to you photos
Our mind’s eye is in love with the
Creativity you stir

I can pick up an aged snapshot
And see an old friend who has long since
Dismissed me from view

So I will take the good with the unspeakable
The healthy, with the untreatable
The ones in love along with the dejected
Oh photographs
Let me count the days
The angles and ways
You change me each of these passing days.