Creativity is something that all children love to have and to express in amazing ways. Creativity is something that gives an extra pizzazz to the project at hand. Creativity, like uniqueness, makes people different and special. Even though practical ways are needed in today’s fast-paced world, the sparks of creativity must not be put out because they may be lost forever. Creativity must exist today.
First, some of the best creative minds in today’s world are those of children. Take Anne from Anne of Green Gables, for example. This young lady is a very spontaneous girl that audaciously does many creative activities. She loves poetry, books, and drama, and she once expressed this artistic creativity by beautifully reciting “The Highwayman” for a crowd of people at a special event. In addition to this formal occasion, Anne also reenacts plays with her friends, such as the time when she pretends to be a dead girl that floats away on a boat in the water. Like the chances that creativity sometimes brings, Anne takes a creative chance when she risks her life while floating on that river. However, creative faith is sometimes needed to bring about good things; in this case, Anne learned that she likes the boy that saves her after she falls into the river. Anne’s creativity makes her a better person with a better character and more pleasant to be around. She definitely brings a lot of happiness to the Cuthbert home and to the community that she lives in. The creativity of children must be put into practice by everybody in today’s world so that the world does not become a boring place, but a friendlier one.
Second, creativity belies technological advancements. It is by creativity that all inventions came to be, therefore, it will be by creativity that the inventions of the future will also be made. True, the world of today is in a big hurry as it uses instant messenger to talk to people thousands of miles away instantly and air planes to take many passengers over thousands of miles in a couple of hours. However, none of these would ever have existed if it was not for creativity. This only makes creativity even more essential in today’s world because without it, the world would seem to spin slower. The more creativity that is used, the more that advances in technology will be made, and the better will an organization be looked at. For example, the Cold War brought much competition between the United States of America and Russia, and creativity in technology was one of the competitive areas. The Russian scientists used their creative minds to launch the first rocket into space, therefore they were ahead in that combative battle because of their unique actions. Knowledge and creativity are what bring success. Creativity is like water to plants, it must remain a part of the world so that the world can continue to grow.
Creativity is an essential part of today’s practical world and needed more than ever. Creativity is what keeps artistic uniqueness in the world. Creativity is what pushes the bar higher and higher to new levels of technology. So, keep the creativity of the children to keep the technology advancing. It is essential that all people are encouraged to continue to be creative, so let the creativity begin!

posted - 10:16 AM



Love manifests itself in countless forms throughout literature including kinship, religious worship, courtly love, and neoplatonic adoration. As it emerged as a prominent theme in medieval romances, love took on a new dynamic as a psychological sickness that could affect the body as well as the mind. Its influence reaching epic proportions, love ensnares its victims in its adamantine clutches. Yet love retained its appeal. Lovers and dreamers revered the holy emotion, setting it and its object on a high pedestal to be worshiped. During the Elizabethan era, poets such as English poet Edmund Spenser returned to this theme, often interlacing it with an anti-love sentiment. In Spenser’s Sonnet 37, the speaker’s neoplatonic description of his feelings for his beloved and their effect on his consciousness illustrate the poem’s portrayal of love as a trap.

Spenser portrays love as nearly an entity unto itself, with malicious characteristics and devious ways not uncommon to man. Its methods are “crafty” (line 7), “guilefull” (lines 1, 10), and “cunning” (line 3), and it works with “sly skill” (line 3), perhaps alluding to the “subtil” serpent that led to the fall of man (King James Bible, Genesis 3.1a); the alliteration of the “s” sound mimics the hissing of a snake in marked onomatopoeia. The poem’s speaker knows and recognizes love’s “cunning” (line 3) methods working in his perception of his beloved, warning “myne eyes” (line 9), which “stare/ henceforth too rashly on that guilefull net” (lines 9-10). The net, which initially referred to the beloved’s “golden tresses” (line 1), expands to encompass love in its meaning. Nevertheless, the narrator loses control of his prodigal organ. He finds himself drawn to his lady love, with a foreknowledge of the fate that awaits him in love’s firm grasp. Ultimately, he bemoans love’s strangulating hold on “any being free” (line 13) who cannot help but “covet fetters though they golden bee” (line 14).

The poem’s interlocking rhyme scheme, typical of a Spenserian sonnet, also reflects the woven quality of a net. Moving away from its predecessor, the Petrarchan sonnet, and diverging from its popular contemporary, the Elizabethan or Shakespearean sonnet, the Spenserian sonnet employs a more complicated and interwoven rhyming pattern. The sonnet begins its first quatrain with an “a” rhyme, followed by a “b” rhyme. The “b” rhyme in turn mimics the motions of weaving by starting the next quatrain and alternating with the “c” rhyme, and so forth, resulting in a sonnet with three quatrains and a couplet of the form abab bcbc cdcd ee. Therefore, “ever ye entrappèd are” (line 11) should rhyme with “are not wel aware” (line 8) and “how ye doe stare” (line 9). In this case, “are” is an eye or sight rhyme of “aware” and “stare,” probably due to shifts in language from Spenser’s throwback to Chaucer’s Middle English to modern English. In Spenser’s poetic language, “are” could have rhymed perfectly with “aware” and “stare” and been pronounced much like “air.” In that case, Spenser could have used “are” as a pun “on “air,” which surrounds “every being free” (line 13) much like love “craftily enfold[s]” (line 7) lovers in its inescapable net.

Love, in the form of a beautiful woman “under a net of gold” (line 2) disrupts the carefully ordered structure of the poem. Although Spenser wrote most of his sonnet in rhymed iambic pentameter, his persona, jarred by the appearance of his beloved, rambles on for one extra syllable twice near the beginning of the poem—the beginning of his obsession and heartache. As the speaker admires her, he exclaims, “What guile is this, that those her golden tresses/ She doth attire under a net of gold/ And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,/ That which is gold or heare, may scarse be told?” (lines 1-4). In his impassioned appraisal of the lady’s hair, the narrator disregards—at least partially—the rules of iambic pentameter, and as a result, his first and third lines run on for eleven syllables. The diverging lines also exhibit feminine rhyme while the other lines end in masculine rhyme, fitting, considering the subject of those lines. Once enraptured in love’s divine embrace, the speaker can rationally analyze his reaction to love and accept his fate, a change reflected in the poem’s return to regular iambic pentameter.

The break in iambic pentameter on the part of the male speaker emphasizes another theme illustrated in the sonnet; men, who easily fall under love’s spell, cannot control themselves, and are therefore more vulnerable than their supposed “weaker vessels” (King James Bible, 1 Peter 3:7). Although men traditionally personify rationality, their emotions overpower them because “theyr weaker harts … not wel aware” (line 8). Love makes men impulsive and brash, and their senses enchanted, “mens frayle eyes … gaze too bold” (line 5) upon the object of their affection. The narrator admits that he suffers the same symptoms as the rest of his sex, for “myne eyes … ye doe stare/ henceforth too rashly on that guilefull net” (lines 9-10). At the end of line 9, Spenser breaks the pattern of end-stopped lines with a sharp enjambment. This moment reveals a truth the speaker himself would be loath to admit—he is little different from the love-struck men he so ardently criticizes.

Although the sonnet only lasts for the traditional fourteen lines, Spencer includes a motif of a golden snare, which manifests itself in five of those lines. The image of “a net of gold/ … so cunningly … dresse[d]” (lines 2-3) around a woman’s head draws up images of the sun and angels. Love, like the sun, lures its prey, yet the lovers cannot look away. Instead, they “gaze too bold” (line 5) and “stare/ …. too rashly” (lines 9-10), and are thus blinded by love’s overpowering beam. The ring of gold could also allude to the halos that adorned the heads of saints and other holy beings in traditional Christian art. The halo had been used in pagan art prior to the influx of Christianity, but beginning in the forth century, Christian artists referred to a passage from the Bible to justify giving their saints such crowns. In Exodus, when the prophet Moses descended from Mount Sinai, “skin of his face shone; and [the people] were afraid to come nigh him” (King James Bible, Exodus 34.30). That golden nimbus of hair, a synecdoche for the beloved, gives her an aura of goodness, as though it is a reflection of her angelic soul. However, the appearance is deceptive, because her love is a guilefull net” (line 10) so strong that “out of her bands ye be no meanes shall get” (line 12).

The angelic halo appears amidst a slew of biblical allusions that Spenser uses to emphasize his theme of love as trap. Even as his persona stares at his beloved, he struggles to control himself, cautioning “myne eyes” to “take heed (line 9). The warning echoes the sentiments in Jesus Christ’s Sermon on the Mount. He preached, “[I]f thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell” (King James Bible, Matthew 5.29-30). This emphasizes the theme of sin, a trap that ensnares its victims, and “the wages of sin is death” (King James Bible, Romans 6:23a). Sin is deceptively desirable to the corrupt human flesh, but rejected by the pure spirit, and love makes men “covet fetters” (line 14) so they “ever … entrappèd are” (line 11). Spenser stresses the latter line by alliterating the words “ever” and “entrappèd.” In the Biblical account, the first woman, Eve, led the first man, Adam, to sin (King James Bible, Genesis 3:6), much like the subject of the poem leads the speaker to love and desire, often equated with sin.

Despite its seemingly innocent allure, love is little more than a web from which there is no escape. Because of its basis in the emotional rather than the mental, love is irrational and oftentimes deceptive, but is as inescapable as sin and death. Yet despite it all, Spenser’s persona and other men like him long to be caught in its trap so in a sense, Sonnet 37 could be viewed as a cautionary tale, a morality play in verse. In spite of its flaws and the heartache it brings, love continues to persist and ensnare.

posted - 7:32 AM



Walking the walk of a condemned man
whose final hours wasted away,
unenjoyed
and unreal.
Questioning life,
questioning death,
questioning Him,
questioning fate and faith.
What is waiting on the other side?
After all is lost,
what is gained
for one who had nothing to lose
and whose soul would surely ride
down
down
down.
He already knows he has lost it all
so what can he do?

posted - 8:16 AM



To my older sister, who, well, just turned 21.

My dearest sister, you're turning 21!
There's still time to go out and get tanned by the sun.

After 21 years, it's hard to believe
Your skin's just as yellow as a dry rose's leaf.

And remember that drink can be terribly bad,
Pick a driver that knows all the drinks that he's had.

And when you go clubbing, don't stay out too late,
Though no longer are there any curfews to break.

Oh! Gamble responsibly, watch closely your funds,
or before you may know, all that's left is your ones.Y

You're too old to go play in the ball pit today,
but I don't think you've fit there for years anyway.

Don't think much of all of the things you've outgrown,
Just think about all of the world you now own.

But mostly, remember to just have some fun,
'Cuz now you can party, 'cuz you turned 21!

posted - 11:41 AM

Rejected Love

“Dash [love] from your soul, gather your scattered pride!”

Oh, that I could!

Is it possible to believe that beneath this wooden, practical head lies a soft, romantic heart?
I believed I had heard the delicate harp strains of love, played by an angel. Alas, it was only a man, drumming a keyboard with his toes.

Oh, rejection.

"Conquer the barbarous Hippolytus, who mocks the graces and the power of Venus!"
God Almighty, death and volunteer centers accept all.

Unlike Life, who, akin to a university, rejects, and rather harshly, I must add in personal pique. The great trauma I have undergone, the extreme torture, makes only a small eddy in Its vast ocean.

Mine is a world, not the world.

At seventeen, I am bitter.

I loudly protest the appearance of such flippancies as school dances, at which I cannot make an appearance for fear of humiliating myself.

And yes, yes, I cry out against Girl Date, that loathsome monstrosity, that remnant of a sexist era.

It was in this room, this room that I received my rebuff. May the paint fly off the walls, the couch fling its cushioned behind out the window!

Forgive me for mouthing ejaculations; I do not exaggerate. Acute pain lances every word of this letter, which, by-the-by, is also a flexing of literary muscles long unused.

However, that is beside the point. The point, as I gesticulate wildly and blindly with a pen, must pierce the hearts of my listeners.

At times I can be quite clever.

Here also I stray! Be still, my mind.

My sacred object of devotion, the adored idol of my idolatry, stated in response to my fervent lavishing of love somewhat to the effect that he wished to retain his virginity.

Weeping, I retreated from his bristling chastity.

Or beginning in that particular strain. I cannot recall, so great is my anguish.

Nothing can assuage this miserable suffering, my endless distress. The sea may gulp me into its watery kiss, the earth into is crumbly embrace, but I…I shall never forget.

Never, never initiate what I have begun!

Heed my warning,! Be miserly with your love, friends, careful with your heart!

Most sincerely,
Winnie Khaw in her heart’s last will and testament

Rejected Rejection

“Sir, we feel a need to impart to you our standards--
--None.”

Upon hearing this, I eagerly submitted my work.

“His eyes…oh, the light shining in them, as when fishes thrash their tails in algae-infested waters-”

Twice the re­jec­tion. Twice the refusal. A hundred times the agony.

I simply enjoy relishing the pain of repeating those words. Softly, loudly, then louder still. Ah, that I could drown myself in tears!

I am working myself into a rage. Do not try to pacify me with trifles like logic and reason.
Did the Accolade clasp me to its papery bosom in motherly af­fec­tion? Did it bestow inky kisses upon my bowed head, draw me up to its equal in page length? No!

I was refused again. Rejected.

I cannot speak without sobbing, smearing my letters, writhing in fig­ur­at­ive pain.

I mentally throw up my hands and go my way, meaning out of love’s way, truth’s way, and virtue’s way, while trying to ignore the putrefying state of my once considerable integrity and self-respect.

I ask of you, friends, was it not enough that Girl Date should dash my hopes to the concrete ground? That I should endure so much, for so little in return?
No.

It was decreed that I should receive even this weight patiently, a Christian to bear this burden of woes.

Was I permitted to share my grief, my inner turmoil, with the world? Did this sympathetic world, this loving world…but I will not complain. No, far be it from me to do such a thing! Base, unworthy thing! Fie!

Hope, thou art a most fretful lover! You toss restlessly, ever beside me but ever teasing!

I will doubtless become a marvelous activist for the unloved, which is fortunate because I am a lousy scholar.

I have learned much from this endeavor.

The same is the end of each and every course.

Sadly,
Winnie Khaw's heart from beyond the grave

P.S. A short posthumous note from Winnie's heart: I do plan my final destination to be Heaven, though I may embark on several detours and false leads on the way.

posted - 11:33 AM



On Friday nights, I don’t go out to the movies with my friends. I don’t dance the night away. I don’t even stay up late trying to memorize squares of numbers. (That exciting activity is saved for Saturday nights, baby.) I do something much more exhilarating.

I stay home and watch Friday night cartoons.

Spongebob Squarepants, The Fairly Oddparents, Batman, Teen Titans. I watch them all.
People who don’t watch cartoons must have no soul.

Popular opinion puts cartoons aside, saying they’re solely fit for occupying children on Saturday mornings. Cartoons are so much more than that.

They teach what purpose conjunctions serve in our crazy, mixed
-up language of English, or at least Schoolhouse Rock did. They teach that although teachers may be crazy, they can still show what causes cakes to rise or just how color is related to light, like in The Magic School Bus. They teach important life lessons such as the tolerance of all of Earth’s creatures, blue or not, as evidenced in The Smurfs.

They transport you to wonderful imaginary worlds where a Pokémon will fight for you and become your best friend. Only in cartoons can you, too, become Grand Master of the Cards.
The main characters are usually adorable children that you can’t help but love and hope that your children will grow up like them (although you know that you can never have a Caucasian child because you are Filipino).

Cartoon characters are not real and can never tell you you’re inadequate. They can never reject your invitation to the prom. You can pretend Bart Simpson is your best friend, and no one can ever contradict you.

Best of all, cartoon characters don’t grow up, and ardent fans can fantasize about them forever. Is Peter Parker from Spiderman too old for you? Just wait a few years – you’ll catch up. If Brad Pitt is too old for you, he will always be too old for you. Get over it.
Even though studies from the National Institute of Mental Health show that “children may be more likely to behave in aggressive or harmful ways toward others” after watching violence on television, violent cartoons such as Tom and Jerry make up a tiny percent of the entire spectrum of cartoons out there. Most cartoons are not so distasteful in their show of brutality.

Cartoons have everything you need in a show—humor, suspense, and a little love interest. To reject their innate charms, you must have gone straight from a fetus in your mother’s womb to an adult. I beg you, let your childhood shine through you to brighten your life. Or maybe you just have a hot date every Friday night, and in that case, I’m jealous.
-30-

posted - 5:23 PM



I generally consider myself to be a person fair in view as well as appearance, and so balanced in judgment as to be very nearly perfect in symmetry—the physical sense included.

One can then imagine the righteous indignation when I conceived of an upsetting of this ideal state. The fingers of my right hand commenced to scrape at my table in a most unbearable way, ostensibly to get my attention, although I privately suspect it was a successful endeavor to irritate me into compliance with its unfeasible demands.

“Yes?” I queried politely to this offending personage, if so it may be called, being one of the more unfortunate parts of myself in its likeness to the body’s constituted character.

“I feel distinctly unappreciated in my present occupation as your right hand,” it began in an infuriatingly condescending tone, none the less aggravating in that it matched my own consciousness for haughtiness.

“Do you?” I replied with becoming dignity, and, I thought fit to add, a bit of a chill in my voice to halt immediately this outrage of propriety.

“Yes.” It tapped thoughtfully against the wooden surface of aforementioned table, while I watched its deliberate performance with impotent annoyance.

“Your left hand possesses far too many privileges, while I, its counterpart and equal, receive nothing but scorn.”

“And well you should,” I retorted, “and as for thinking yourself equal, why, it would not be more ridiculous if a hippo should content in size with an elephant!”

My right hand clenched, knuckles whitening in challenge, then slowly relaxed. “I shall pass over your ungracious comparison and, may I say, injudicious insulting of yourself, to continue in my—”

“—complaint.”

“—observation. I would like to establish certain rules for the future, so that our inevitable relationship, mutually disagreeable as it is, may carry at least a semblance of respectable form.”

“And how do you propose to do this? Or have you already usurped the position of the Brain in your abominable scheming?” A rasping of nails, harsher and, yes, unbelievable though it may seem, more heinous yet than has ever been executed, answered.

I resolved immediately to suppress this insupportable insubordination. Loyal as ever it as had, my left hand hurried to struggle and reason with my right. So must have Jacob strove with the angel, and Michael and his heavenly host against Lucifer and his dark demons of below.

Employing my prerogative as master of my corporeal self, I proceeded to alleviate the irritation by swerving my obedient arm and thereby maneuvering the traitorous growth off my right wrist to the mortification of being sat upon.

In such an arrangement it soon surrendered, but I, not content with this lesson, determined to see the punishment through. I was, perhaps, overzealous in this aim as my hand then expired, and further efforts to revive it proved fruitless.

In some dismay at this development, I nevertheless resolutely decided that all was for the best, and set about my usual duties. These showed themselves to be more difficult to accomplish than previously, when I had the use of both hands.

Notwithstanding, I continued in a determinedly spirited fashion until the reality of things became too apparent to ignore. Accustomed to the idle weight of my right hand to holding down a paper, my elbow now presumed to grind onto a shamelessly writhing, squirming sheet as I untiringly applied ink to its white plane. All of this activity did not leave me unmoved, and suffice to say all involved emerged disordered and the morally worse for the experience.

In the reading of books I have in the past found great pleasure; now, it was to be the supreme trial of self-will. The starch newness of the pages and their maddening proclivity to snap closed frequently tried my patience as my newly single left hand fought valiantly to keep it open.

Needless to say, this state of affairs could not, like a bad soap opera, go on. The regretful arrangement to which I had subjected myself I longed to be rid of, and I yearned to hold once again the prior understanding that had lent to a more successful existence than now.

Providence heard my cries. At that moment, like a Pinocchio mysteriously drowned though made of wood, and then roused to life, my right hand surged to tingling awareness and not a little discomfort as it rediscovered feeling. “Yes! Awake, my child, my real boy! You have come back to me as a prodigal son, and I would welcome you with two arms if you were not already attached to one of them! Ah, my love and forgiveness delve deep as the sea, and never again shall we part, no, not if some villainous knife should cleave us.”

“Because that sort of incident, clearly unpleasant for those affected, would have no greater consequences.” So grumpily returned my right hand, flexing experimentally and wondering anew at the marvelous length of its slim fingers, the pale coral pink of its delicate nails, which wanted but a little paring to render them perfection, and so on in this vein.

But I thrilled to even this uncivilized manner, and felt the happier because my wayward hand had seemingly forgotten of our former dispute, and was content in its proper place.

And so peace returned, harmony restored, I set out to achieve the highest limits of academic excellence.

Presently, my nose began to itch.

posted - 2:42 PM




posted - 2:13 PM



1. Resolved, that parental notification be required for a minor to have an abortion.
Teens are allowed to test for STDs without informing their parents, to buy birth control pills, to get an abortion without parent knowledge or consent, etc. How far should teen liberties go, and should the parents have any say over all this? As of April, 2005 thirty states have laws in place that requires teens to first notify or obtain permission from their parents before getting an abortion.
Pro:
§ "Parents must give consent before their child can have their ears pierced or a tattoo put on. In fact, in public schools and emergency rooms, parents must give consent before their child can be treated with so much as an aspirin. Most voters agree that it is outrageous to allow a child to undergo any surgical procedure, let alone an invasive, irreversible procedure such as an abortion, without parental notification." -Senatorial candidate John Pinkerton (D-CA)
§ The teen is still a minor, under the custody of the parent. The parent has the right to set up house rules, and know what their children is, with the law on their side.
§ If a teen experiences complications during an abortion, and has not told her parents about the abortion, she may not want to reveal such a fact. In this case, complications may go untreated and can become life threatening.
Con:
§ Legal abortion is far less risky than teen childbirth, but each day that a teen takes to muster up courage or whatever else before talking to their parents increases their risks.
§ Desperate teens are not always the most reasonable, and usually take drastic measure, the most common of which is running away from home, which is likely what will happen if they are forced to reveal to their parents that they are pregnant. Some might even seek illegal abortions, which was the leading cause of death among pregnant women during the period when abortion was illegal.
§ A pregnant teen who is only a few months away from her eighteenth birthday may decide to wait and just wear loose clothing until then. In this case, the few months she wastes will cost her dearly, as complications are more likely to arise, and for those who are concerned for the fetus, compelling a teen to wait before an abortion will only hurt the fetus, as they will have developed a functioning nervous system by then and will be able to experience pain.

http://www.religioustolerance.org/abo_pare.htm
http://www.debatabase.org/details.asp?topicID=188
http://www.youdebate.com/DEBATES/ABORTION_PARENTAL_CONSENT.HTM
2. Resolved, that the United States pullout military forces from Iraq within one year.
Even before the war had ended, Americans and Iraqis alike have been urging pullout. Now, as the war has ended, calls for pullout are louder than ever. Some are urging the president to set out a plan, some are urging closer cooperation between the US and Iraq, and others want the US to pull out within one year. The question on that point is, is one year enough for complete pullout?
Pro:
§ Iraqi troops are being now can slowly begin to replace the American troops. If we start focusing n training the troops, and manage time efficiently, US should be able to pull out in one year.
§ As of 9/11/05, $200 billion have been spent on the war and I,885 lives have been lost. It is time to start patching up.
§ Iraqi Prime Minister wants US out in one year. US should show support and confidence in the new Iraqi government by respecting their wishes and pulling out.
Con:
§ Pulling out now suggests that the US listens to violence, not reason and encourages the terrorist attacks.
§ US does need to start pulling out troops, but 1 year is not enough time to prepare Iraq to stand completely on its own.
§ US went into Iraq and kicked up dust. Now it is responsible for settling the dust and cannot just leave Iraqis to choke.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/4720083.stm
http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/2005-09/23/content_3531504.htm
3. Resolved, that the three strikes law be repealed in California.
The three strikes law is most notably practiced in California. Most states now have versions of the three strikes laws. The first two strikes must be severe crime, either, “violent” or “serious” or both. The 3rd strike can be any small to large crime. After the 3rd strike, it’s a life in prison. Because of the unrestricted 3rd strike, cases have arisen where a committer of a “petty” crime, like stealing pizza or stealing batteries, is sentenced to a lifetime in prison.
Pro:
§ This law, in holding history against the defendant, violates Double Jeopardy clause, not to mention that life sentences because of “petty” crimes is “cruel or unusual punishment.”
§ This may cause a perverse incentive for a severe crime. For example, a person who has stolen a toothbrush may know that there was one witness, and since steeling the toothbrush causes a life in prison, and so does murder, the person may be incline to kill the witness.
§ Sentencing a person to a lifetime in prison for stealing pizza is, though good in intention, adverse to society’s basic common sense.
Con:
§ 3 strikes law has not only not put more people in prison, but has actually reduced prison population, which has made California safer and saved California millions of dollars.
§ The threat of a 3rd strike makes offenders think twice and desire a change in their lifestyles, as parole and probation officers have noticed.
§ Though the unrestricted 3rd strike is harsh at times, it shows a zero tolerance for crimes that benefits societies when viewed from a vantage.

http://www.threestrikes.org/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_strikes_law
4. Historical Debate: Resolved, that the United States was justified in its creation of Japanese internment camps.
Attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 roused suspicions against Japanese Americans. Authorities feared sabotage. President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066 in February 19, 1842. This allowed military commanders to designate “military areas… from which any or all persons may be excluded.” Concentration camps had begun. In 1945, the exclusion order was finally rescinded, but it was not until 1948 that the last internment camp was closed. The prudence of US internment camps is still widely debated today.
Pro:
§ At a time of crisis, it is better to be safe than sorry, and the government did what was most safe and logical at the time.
§ Although harsh, internment camps were a necessity to ease growing public terror during these bitter and desperate times of war, when people were often illogical.
§ There may have been a network of Japanese Americans spies feeding information to the Japanese military through encrypted messages, according to MAGIC by David Lowman.
Con:
§ .Internment camps violated American principles that citizens hold dear. Habeas corpus; life, liberty, and property without due process, etc…
§ US actions had caused Japanese Americans to lose property worth at least 4 to 5 billion dollars, in 1999 values.
§ Lieutenant Commander Kenneth reported in 1941 that “better than 90% of the Nisei [second generation Japanese] and 75% of the original immigrants were completely loyal to the United States.” In fact hundreds of Japanese Americans fought bravely for the US.

http://www.historyonthenet.com/WW2/japan_internment_camps.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_internment_in_the_United_States
5. Resolved, that the Kyoto protocol is beneficial to the United States.
The Kyoto Protocol is an amendment to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC), which is an international treaty that swats at global warming. Countries that ratify the Kyoto Protocol must reduce their emissions of carbon dioxide and five more greenhouse gasses or engage in emissions trading. Already, 141 countries have ratified the Kyoto Protocol. The US has signed the Kyoto Protocol, but has not ratified it, and is therefore, still exempt from its restrictions.
Pro:
§ The US currently emits 20.1 tons per capita of CO2, compared to the 8.5 tons per capita of the EU and 2.3 tons of China, it’s not looking good. The Kyoto Protocol will force the US start to watching its carbon dioxide emission.
§ The Kyoto Protocol is effective. Already, China has reduced CO2 emissions by 17 % by switching to cleaner and more efficient energy sources, and restructuring its economy.
§ The US ratifying the Kyoto Protocol will set off a scientific effort to produce CO2 efficient methods and machinery, which nations that have ratified the Kyoto protocol are already developing. If the US does not ratify, scientists will have little incentive, and the US will fall technologically behind the other nations.
Con:
§ Even before the Kyoto Protocol, the US had passed by a 95-0 vote the Byrd-Hagle Resolution, which states that the Senate should not be signatory to any protocol that “would result in serious harm to the economy of the United States.” The Kyoto Protocol, though having very good intentions, may result in just what the Byrd-Hagel Resolution is attempting at preventing.
§ The Kyoto protocol is unfair in cutting an unreasonable amount of slack on developing nations.
§ Countries benefiting under the Kyoto Protocol tend to be small countries with little already developed factories and machinery. So building new CO2­ efficient machinery will not be as expensive as replacing all of the machinery that the US currently has.

http://unfccc.int/resource/docs/convkp/kpeng.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kyoto_Protocol
http://www.eia.doe.gov/oiaf/kyoto/kyotorpt.html

posted - 8:10 PM



He only has a lonesome wing, the other was given away
gifts for mortal necessities, his down, he plucked astray
one was to a forsaken lass, to redeem a shadowed path
together they wove a single thread into a crimson sash
A feather was bestowed upon a mother and her hope
he gave her son the words he needed, he gave her son the world
the rest, they were distributed betwixt the remainder of life
and planted into earth one day, blossomed the next night
In night sky, he flew in silence, beginning a desolate descent
the stars, they know, wretched he, wanted acknowledgement
forgot him in the mist of time, from him, they loyally withdrew
his life, it was a simple thing, filled with solitude
His palms are broken, friendless red, his heart—an eager craze
so others with his feathered gifts may reach the top someday
alas, the tattered single wing, it beats, as he begins to stand
a pain as deep as shattered bones, a lonely conquest dance

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In thousand we came to our fates; in thousands we shared the same destinies
We were hauled off as criminals; and treated like animals
There was no compassion for us, we had perfect lives before this
We went to everything and did everything others did; we dressed and looked like them
But it''s our religion that makes us different; we were hauled to this wasteland
And were forced to live our lives here; our only job here to do was die
We were mocked, teased, and criticized, day after day we lived our worthless lives
And tried to hold on to what we had left; we had no honor,
no self-confidence, and no possessions
At first we died one by one; then we fell by hundreds and thousands
The snake was devouring our religion and race whole, it was squeezing and tearing at us
And left us to die from starvation and disease; we had nothing left
The only thing we helpless held on to our lives
the destroyers were invincible and mightyWe were conquered and claimed by them;
and used as trophies on their blood-stained hands
For we were soon no more in this early hekk

posted - 3:11 PM





posted - 11:29 AM



the marching sea never stops
grating, heavy steps

surrounding are buildings
absorbing the screams
of protest
but all vocal chords were ripped out

Time can’t say when

grayness
is better than the sun
for blinding rays
only hinder
progress

Once
in
Ancient Present
there was the
Forbidden

Time can’t say when

A hypnotic whirlpool
reddesiresclearpurityblackcorruptiongarishgreedneonopulencepastelcompassionTechnicolorlife

Time can’t say when

the Forbidden
was swallowed by the marching sea
Time can show

Faint but persistent
Color
Lingering on sealed
Doors
in
defiance
hope

No one looks up; only heavy heads focusing on reliable sidewalks

posted - 8:00 PM





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Winnie’s Journal of Serendipity and Things Like That But Not Exactly

4-23-05

Mood – apathetic, concerned with the subject “Myself”—I have much to say on this indefatigable matter

I hereby inscribe in my “Sanskrit” writing (so I am informed by despairing teachers and cries of “perfectly illegible” from those not oriented to deciphering code) on this cool late morning of April 2005, my first journal entry.

Note on a later date - This account, it must be admitted, is only one more on a longer string of failures to paint the canvas of my life, to immortalize what I have accomplished—in short, keeping a daily diary is something of a trial.

I will assuredly persist in this pretentious endeavor –my first admittance of honest intentions—unless I am taken violently ill, a disapproving rodent chews through these pages, or I forget.

And now for some spiteful comments which are (almost) wholly undeserved—friendship, untried and thus unformed, counts for nothing more than a doggedly tedious shadow play of mouth-sincerity and other such nonsense.

Relationships formed through habit have no stronger ties than convenient proximity and a mutual agreement to tolerate each other’s freaks and foibles.

They are, on the whole, without meaning.

Should I vanish off the face of the earth (I apologize for the cliché, it’s only that the depression does not allow for originality) no one would mourn my absence, only rejoice to occupy the considerable physical space I have left. IN the intangible world of hearts and minds, I will never have existed.

If such a thing can be, I am as dust scattered in empty space. I cannot collect myself, nor is there anything solid for me to cling to and thereby “precipitate,” to painfully call to mind a chemistry term associated with undesirable memories.

In closing I write this uniformed and unenlightened statement, which encapsulates man’s achievements for 2000 years and then pops the pill into a Supreme Being’s mouth for some relief to slight indigestion.

There is to ignorance a strength unmatched by anything to be found in half-knowledge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

4-23-05

Cont. because the “verbal dysentery” of today will compensate for the sure mental constipation of tomorrow.

On youthful fledgling wings inadequate for the body mass it carries, I soar to the highest of delusional optimism, confident that I can equal any power on earth.

I then proceed to fall with alarming speed to glom and beyond, swiftly by passing reality in its temperate zone of “Middle Earth” for the oppressive caverns of depression below.

My sister and I laughed over a certain teacher’s tendency to overstep the boundaries of personal space. I remarked thoughtlessly that I too had fallen victim to that discomfiting proclivity, and had, not knowing what else to do, simply stood there “taking it”—my olfactory senses being reluctantly aroused as to the exact nature of the mouth freshener he did not use.

Humorous as the retelling unintentionally was (I concede, and “not very nice”, as I have worse faults pertaining to body odors) I soberly realize that “taking it” because I know hw to do nothing else is illustrative of my helpless approach to life and its challenges.

Doubtless I have a personality. Certainly an attitude (my mother can attest to my “fresher” moments) but I lack a definite character. As such it is subject to endless, impermanent shifting and shaping, an outflung mass of flotsam in the sea, loosely strung together with some sunk of he adhesive variety and compelled to a shape by the more forceful tides

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

4-26-05

My spirits have lifted considerably, while inversely the results of my academic endeavors leave much to be desired. I will regret this writing, as it has a vindictive and unjust air. Nevertheless, I will proceed.

I would like to recount a moment of particularly tender mercy by a teacher who wrote on my admittedly low-scoring paper to the effect of “Winnie, why don’t you read what you assigned instead of that other book?”

Perhaps I cannot be forgiven for preferring the fascinating A Distant Mirror by Barbara W. Tuchman to the exceedingly unbearable Hemingway.

That personal feeling aside, I regardless would have strove mightily to plow through that literary field so liberally strewn with ordure and yet infertile of imagination…but I must not digress.

Certain pressing circumstances prevented me from doing work of any kind prior to the exam, a state of affairs which some would enjoy but I thoroughly deplored as a dedicated, responsible, and conscientious student should.

There has been no greater lie than my last statement, except for Cortes telling the Aztec Emperor that they should be the best of friends.

While I neither expect nor want understanding from teachers who could humanly know nothing of my plight, I would politely request that they refrain from comments of that nature in addition to the score on the paper.

Such personal remarks, I feel, are unworthy of an instructor sufficiently enlightened as to comprehend the limits of his knowledge, especially as regards the private lives of her students.

I failed. Very well. How and why I do is my business, and unless he has some electrifying opinion to offer, if he would kindly wait until he has full knowledge of the circumstances, I would be much obliged.

posted - 7:15 PM

An Immovable Lease

It was bright in the city that day. Fleecy white clouds drifted lazily above the tallest buildings, and below pebbles skirted in the street as rivulets of people trickled through.
I was content, even eager to enter this quiet scene, and with meager funds I was relieved to find a nice apartment. Three cats, scraping meat dried to cans, peered quizzically at me as I mounted the stairs of creaking wood. Inspecting my new abode from my balcony, I found few living creatures who strode the broken roads.
I was satisfied.
It was a lie, I knew, this serenity, but it was one I could live with. Deserted by its inhabitants, this city was a dwelling-place for the dead, a harvest of locust-eaten crops.
The city was falling about my ears. The paint flaked off in my hands, floors rumbled threateningly in my wake, and all I could see was a desolate wasteland with its pitiful survivors meandering aimlessly in dried arteries.
Soon, a drenching, desolate wasteland. For rain poured from a heaven that suddenly closed in menacing dark clouds, like steely vengeance, like relentless death, filling the old city’s veins with new poisonous fluids.
I was repeatedly pierced, but did not die. I had come here to lick my wounds, as they say, reassemble my broken parts in private. Here no one I knew could look at me, sneer at me, judge me, or help me.
A woman, with a face drooping with age, the living embodiment of my defeated surroundings, rented the place to me, and we agreed to be friends, meaning mutually tolerating of our defects; hers, being old and having no future, and mine, being young and having no past.
There were other, trivial differences, some abrading nerves beyond endurance until I believed one of us must go, I understandably succumbing to insanity, or she to a convenient heart attack.
But we were companions, for better or worse, with a need that was more powerful marriage vows and sexual urgency.
And all the while the rain fell, but the city endured. Yes, my haven of cracked mud, my paradise of drought and past disaster.
“Do you like it here?” the query was querulous and random, initiated to fill the silence.
“Am I enjoying my stay in Hell? No, not particularly.”
“Clearly you are a very young man who knows nothing of proper etiquette. The correct answer would have been—”
“That I love this elegant, spacious rooms?” I swept my arm in a derisive arc. “That I cherish the breathtaking view afforded by this gracious balcony? That I do not see—”
“All right, very well. No need to go off into some ranting monologue.”
I calmed. “Regretfully, the urge to be polite has never been strong in me. The virtues appear to have fled, leaving vice as consolation.”
“If you do not like it, you can leave, you know. There is nothing holding you here.”
“My wallet, devoid of anything save outdated general invitations to gentlemen clubs, says otherwise. Where can I go? How?”
The old woman fumbled in her faded skirts, her wrinkled brown fingers trembling like blind worms digging in the earth.
“My medication,” she mumbled. “I need—”
“I have it,” I said. “I am always here.”

posted - 6:59 PM

Revival of Writeway.Ink

The Right Way to Write!

LITERARY MAGAZINE at the end of the year

• Short stories
• Poems
• Plays
• Essays
• Research papers
• Quotes, Witticisms
• Excerpts
• Comic strips
• Author Profiles
• Opinion Articles
• Illustrations
• Etc (what you can put down on paper)

You DO NOT have to write specifically for Writeway. Past quality work is happily accepted.

posted - 10:34 AM



That side of you I used to know—
Where did it go?
Your invigorating speech
Now engulfed by an incessant chatter
Reeking of repulsive shallowness,
Your love to understand
Now beaten by lowly pride,
Which beats in turn when offered praise
For knowledge that does not live,
Your genuine laughter
Now smothered by a single snort,
Herald of high feelings of superiority.
People change
But for you to transform into such a creature,
I begin to doubt if You were You.
That side of you I used to know—
Was it just a mask?

Status - Complete, ?


posted - 4:22 PM



Today she toils just as she toiled before
On her knees, on the floor
Without stopping for breath
Working forever ‘til the arrival of Death

Many anticipate the rest that he brings
But his scythe simply sings
Of dreams crumbling apart
As it slices her hope and with that her heart

Tomorrow she’ll toil just as she toils today
Without a chance for pay
Struggling all but in vain
Working forever for a hope that won’t wane—

That is, until the arrival of Death
When she will let out her tired breath

Status - Complete, ?


posted - 1:45 PM



Shining eyes in a hidden face,
Short blessings but eternal Grace.
Stars glitter in the darkest space,
Fine dust scatters without a trace

Sweet melodies from a silent fife,
This world bound with endless strife.
The seeming futility of your life,
Everything balanced on the edge of a knife.

The withering of the grass still green,
Things you say that you don’t mean.
A shadow’s shadow can be seen,
Evil and good on an edge so keen.

Ice that burns and flames so cold
God’s shadow and Lucifer’s soul
Blinding rage passed on from old
Did you listen to what the darkness told?


posted - 6:55 PM



It was Thursday morning and students’ impatience hung heavy in the air. The yearend slideshow had already been postponed a day and time was running out. Then came the curt voice over the intercom declaring that the event had been canceled.

We bristled. In our minds, the showing of the Associated Student Body slideshow had been akin to the distribution of yearbooks and the last issue of the school newspaper, the Accolade. It just could not be canceled. This brusque announcement foreshadowed worse events to come.

I could only piece together patchwork details. Officially, there were technical difficulties and it just “hadn’t happened.” Unofficially, the slideshow had not been finished in time, but no one seemed willing to admit it.

When my adviser asked me to write the story, I was shocked; I had never written a deadline story on such short notice. I accepted the assignment after only a moment’s hesitation because I knew that it would be a good experience for me as I prepared to be the next year’s copy editor. I quickly jotted down questions and made my way to the ASB room, where I found a bigger problem—and person—awaiting me.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” the ASB adviser huffed with terse finality, his walrus mustache stiffening.

For him, that was the end of our conversation. For me, it could have been the end of my story. I flinched. Everyone, especially the seniors, who only had one month before they graduated, wanted to know what had happened.

This was not the first time the adviser had attempted to censor a story. Earlier that year, one of the ASB presidential candidates had used a copy machine to make some of his campaign paraphernalia when the rules expressly forbade it. In response, the adviser forbade the ASB class members from speaking to anyone, especially from the Accolade, about the incident although the school already had a general idea of what had happened.

I was in a state of disbelief as I left the room; I knew I still had to write the story, whether he would talk to me or not. I tried to call the assemblies commissioner, who had been in charge of the slideshow, but was unable to reach him. I was stumped. Where was that journalistic instinct I’d spent the past year developing? I considered abandoning the story, but I discarded that idea as soon as I thought of it. I wracked my brains for answers that evaded me much as celebrities flee the paparazzi; then I struck gold. If he would not talk, I would have to step over and above him. I berated myself for not thinking of it sooner.

When I arrived at the main office, the principal motioned me into his office and I took a seat as he folded his hands on his desk. I prepared for the worst.

“I think I have the answers you’re looking for,” he said after a long pause. He proceeded to confirm the rumors that the slideshow had not been finished in time to work out all the technological glitches that went along with it.

So I did get my story despite the ASB adviser’s restrictions. After I spoke to the principal, I had the assemblies commissioner verify what I had been told, though he did not want to comment directly on the fiasco. The solution to my dilemma was so simple—all I had to do was be persistent and not let one rejection destroy my resolve. And later, when people would wonder aloud what had happened to the ASB slideshow, all I had to do was say, “Read the Accolade. It’s right there.”


posted - 10:50 PM



A small smile
Dances in your eyes
Eyes turned towards
Not me, but
Them.
You say you
Love me, cherish
Me, care for me
Above all others
But you reject
Me, abandon me,
Ignore me when
Faced by
Them.
I call out
For you
Beg you
For just a bit
Of attention and
Love towards me
Not
Them
You smile at
Me, assure
Me that all is
Okay
Then you turn
And walk
Away from me
To
Them
I cry and mourn
The death of a
Friend who didn’t
Die, a friend
Who didn’t trust,
A friend who
Didn’t leave
I wept for you
In your stead
And made
Your tears
My own, that
You don’t have
To cry
Anymore
But as soon
As
They
Beckon, you race
Back to them,
And you don’t
Ever
Look
Back
At the girl you
Left behind
The girl who loved
You
Then when
They
Leave just for
A little while
You come
Back to me
And promise
That everything will be
Alright
Because you took care
Of everything
Stop lying to me
I once looked into a
Mirror and saw
Myself in different
Colors
Now I look into
A mirror and I
Do not see
Anything
My shadow is
My companion now
My reflection is no longer
Mine,
But
Theirs.


posted - 6:21 PM

Tears that felt like rain streamed down from my heart
Colors turned to gray,
the world faded away,
and it all fell apart.
My life has shattered into sparkling tears,
each blood-red raindrop a reflection.
A crimson reflection of what once was, and cannot be again.
Shining tears and life-blood falling together,
falling, falling, falling.
Splashes of red in a hazy gray world,
alluring sparkling gone.
Shards of mirrors, dimmed by age,
each crying for a world gone within their depths.
Shielded by white and overcome by black, melded to shades of gray.
Blinded by loss, reach out for the screaming cries of the children,
torn by the hatred and by hatred overcome.
Cry out, all, for a lost world.
Cry out in this hazy world of falling rain, crimson splashes, and falling tears.
A falling world,
a doomed nation,
a cursed race,
fall, fall, fall.
Burn, in the inescapable gray,
burn in the name of Christ and Lucifer!
The Apocalypse is coming, the riders calling, the demons screaming, angels singing.
Will your crimson tears tell of lost hope?
Or will they tell of life broken?


posted - 6:18 PM

Author’s Note: This is my baby as a result of drinking too much coffee and observing people. It makes absolutely no sense and is not supposed to—draw your own conclusions where they all are. This little blurb came out of my observations and the oddly poetic thought that popped to mind about how beautiful all of these men were while I was watching them.

Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.

He was collapsed on the ground, curled up tightly and convulsing with desperate laughter. His eyes were squeezed shut, mouth opened wide as he choked back silent screams. His usually sheet-flat hair was matted and disheveled, a result of his banging his head fruitlessly against the floor. As I grabbed his upper arm, I could feel that his muscles had tensed into bands of steel, causing him immense pain at my touch.

“David?”

His thrashing grew worse at the sound of my voice, his hand desperately clawing at the air in my direction. I grabbed it and brought it down to his chest. He held onto my hand tightly, knuckles straining white. “Shh, David. Shh…it’s not your time yet,” I told him softly.

David continued to roll on the floor, bashing his head continuously. Little moans of pain escaped from his throat against his will, and he began to sob even while laughing. “Shh…have peace. It’s not your time yet.”


He was a silent angel, soundlessly helping the fallen with healing in his hands and prayers on his lips. His brown eyes were unreadable, unnaturally calm in the flickering light of the inferno around us.

“Mike, shouldn’t we try to get out?”

His quick gaze was cool but sympathetic. “We were the ones left behind; there is nowhere to go. All we can do is pray.”

There was a long pink welt on his cheek from a burning wire that had snapped into his face. He knelt beside one of the screaming girls, and held one stiff hand in his delicately. She immediately paused in her shrieks, panting for breath. His other hand rested on her forehead, long fingertips barely brushing her hair. She let loose an audible sigh of relief, relaxing a bit into his cool touch. He closed his eyes and began to pray.

“Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world…”


He was sitting in an abandoned corner that nobody even glanced at, his weeping girlfriend in his lap. Her head was tenderly balanced on his shoulder, and he held her protectively close.

“I’m sorry!” she sobbed hysterically, burying her face in his shoulder, one hand holding onto his sweatshirt tightly. “God, I’m so sorry!”

His face was filled with concern as he stroked her hair, murmuring quietly into her ear to calm her. When I handed him a tissue box, he flashed me a quick glance of thanks.

She flailed her arms when he tried to wipe her face; another girl and I restrained her so that Arthur could clean away the traces of snot and tears from her face. He did so with a single-minded intensity and care that sacrificed all selfishness for her sake. I noticed that his shoulder was soggy, his new shirt ruined from her crying.

“Arthur, your shoulder—”

“It doesn’t matter. Only she matters.”


He was watching from the sidelines as the others flit around like dying butterflies, weeping and screaming and healing and praying. His usually immaculate hair was plastered with sweat, his stylish clothes ruined with soot and singes—but he was starkly beautiful still. I knew he wouldn’t help us.

I had barely shifted my attention from Will to the others when I saw a heavy metal shaft swing loose from the ceiling and fall straight at a boy who, unaware of the danger, was silently praying the rosary.

“Oh my God, watch out!” I cried in warning, along with some others who had noticed the same beam. He’s not going to make it! I wanted to turn my face away and not watch, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The boy still did not notice that it was him that we were screaming to.

In a blur of denim and black Will leapt across the floor, tackling the boy out of the way to take the full brunt of the blow himself. There was a sickening crunch and Will screamed as the metal roll crushed his right arm. I turned away when I saw its mangled state. I knew that Will would never play his beloved guitar again.

“Will, come on, let’s get you out of here.” I motioned for some others to help me lift him.

“No.” His eyes were pained but determined as they fixed on the fainting boy he had just saved. “Help him.”


David read out loud the note he wrote for Hannah. “Thank you for being the wonderful, beautiful, fabulous, brilliant girl you are—”

Mike rolled his eyes. “The picture would be funnier if we were acting gay. Like this.”

He gracefully swooped in, as if to kiss Tony. When Tony backed away, eyes wide, Mike laughed.

“As if I’d really kiss you, man.”

Arthur caught his girlfriend as she skipped carelessly down the hill. “Dude, be careful. You trip over everything. You shouldn’t do that.” His eyes were earnest. “Be careful.”

Will sat on top of a tabletop during break, eyes closed and head bowed. His fingers thrummed out some impossibly complex series of notes on his guitar.

Then he struck a dissonant chord.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

Status - Complete, ?



posted - 6:11 PM

Author's Comments - I made a sincere effort to simplify, simplify (ironic considering my subject). I dislike the shallowness of this essay, and the very crude "he mentions" or "he says" or "he remarks," but that's the consequence of writing in class.

In Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, the death of Captain Beatty, brought about by his own desire to end his world-weary existence, frees Montag to find his place and meaning in life.

First, because of his superior mind, Beatty cannot be a part of the society whose ignorance he protects, and finds mediocre equality only in death. Beatty demonstrates his scholarly sense by recognizing the history and significance of, “We shall this day light such a candle…” that the old woman utters in her distress as the firemen prepare to burn her books. This sort of learning is privileged information and “only fire chiefs remember it now”; Deathly tired of the blank “soap-faced men,” tired of knowing so much when others know so little, Beatty spurs himself on a course of self-destruction like “a wax doll melting in its own heat.” The Captain mentions to Montag that a “fireman … purposely set a Mechanical Hound in his own chemical complex and let it loose,” professing not to understand the desperation that would ignite such a suicide. But having been John before turning Judas Iscariot, Beatty knows, better than anyone, the futility of the existence he maintains. Though Beatty is in league with those who spin the earth like a top, faster and faster to nowhere, his very knowledge and position set him apart from the ignominious masses. At the last, the Captain baits Montag to “pull the trigger,” using Montag’s beloved books to crystallize the fireman’s confused hatred and direct it at him. Beatty brags that “life has become one big pratfall” through efforts of men like him, and he finds he cannot live in the world he so effectively helps to preserve.

Second, Beatty’s suicide forces Montag to fully accept his role as a rebel against the system. Beatty acts as the devil quoting scripture, confounding Montag with hails of disjointed quotations, of illogical sense as he “parried every thrust.” Montag can never achieve his or society’s freedom so long as Beatty lives, for the Captain will set out to foil him at every point. Though he calls a book “a loaded gun,” Beatty stirs Montag’s thoughts with this double-edged sword, “muddying the waters” until they “whirl sickeningly” and Montag cannot think further. The roar of Beatty’s words “bombard him at immense volumes,” deafening Faber’s quiet humming and the thundering of Montag’s own feelings. Faced with the ruin of his life, Montag turns on Beatty, transforming the Captain into “a shrieking blaze, a jumping, sprawling, gibbering manikin.” The nonsense of his quotations and his fascination with the “beauty” and “mystery” of fire culminates in his disintegrating into a burning testament of his ashen truths and fiery lies. Now a man hunted for the murder, Montag flees from the city to search for safety and acceptance in a group of men who share his dreams. Through his killing of his worst enemy, Captain Beatty, Montag realizes the true weapons of his war against society and the government—he has learned to fight fire with fire.

Those “who are a little wise, the best fools be,” Beatty warns as Montag hesitates at this stage of curiosity and longing, at which threshold Beatty surely lingered once. Beatty, despising his former “weakness,” succumbs to a life of “automatic reflex” rather than feeling “bestial and lonely” because he tries to think beyond. Twisted envy and hate smolder in him as he recognizes the signs of his own past delinquency in the recalcitrant fireman, sees the bloom of promise he has forsworn. The protégé Montag uses the master’s teaching against the Captain as he obediently “destroys responsibility and consequences.” Beatty would have stifled Montag’s inflating hopes and ambitions had his death wish not destroyed him first, leaving Montag a savior without an antichrist.

Status - Complete, Free Comments

posted - 6:56 PM



Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost information? - T.S. Eliot

“Can anyone answer the question?”

When silence greeted him, the professor mentally groaned. He wondered what was wrong with young people these days and whether his class had been the same. “You,” he said, pointing to the young man sitting directly in front of him. The student in question sunk lower in his seat. “You explained this concept perfectly in your essay—the only perfect paper I have ever graded, I might add.” He paused while the class broke out into polite applause and the student nearly disappeared under his desk. “Would you care to reiterate what you wrote for the benefit of your classmates who had difficulty with the assignment?”

“I—” the student began.

“Don’t be shy,” the professor interrupted. “Stand up, there’s a good boy.”

The student rose slowly. “I would explain it, professor, but I—”

“But you what? Speak up so we can all hear you.”

“But I do not remember what I wrote, sir,” he finished lamely.

The professor was startled. “You could not have forgotten everything overnight. You just turned the paper in yesterday.”

“I knew it when I was researching it, sir. I understood it perfectly. It took me almost all night to finish it up. But as soon as I was done …” his voice trailed off.

The professor inwardly sighed. “I understand. But tell me this, if you were just going to forget what you wrote instantly, why did you write it?”

The student shuffled his feet. “It was an assignment, sir.”

“But why did you do the assignment?”

“Because—because you said to, sir.” The class laughed and the student turned bright red as he quickly sat down.

“Is that the only reason?” the professor asked. The student remained silent. “I want you all to listen carefully,” the professor said, now addressing the entire class. “You cannot just bring together a slew of information into an assignment and not absorb any of it. That is not the point of coming to school or doing homework. In fact, there is no point in coming to school, not if you are not going to learn anything. You have to soak up that information and take it to the next level—knowledge. You have all this information—much more than I ever did when I was your age—practically laid at your feet but you are not taking it in. You should be able to know these things off the top of your head.”

“But sir, aren’t knowledge and information basically the same thing?” the male student asked.

“No more than wisdom and knowledge are,” the professor replied. At his students’ blank stares, he hurried to explain. “Information is what you have access to. Knowledge is information that you have made your own. Wisdom is using that knowledge well. Right now, you are all at the information stage.”

“How do we get to the knowledge stage, sir?”

“Pull the trapdoor. Walk onto the next set. Take your pick.” The class sniggered. “But in all seriousness, my opinion? I think some people are too overloaded with information sometimes to be truly knowledgeable. We have so much information that we cannot possibly process it all. We’re not using our knowledge wisely.” He paused. “How many of you have cell phones?” Nearly every member of the class raised his hand. He nodded. “I expected so. How many of your phones have some sort of electrical accessory that you know you really do not need?” Same response. “Is this an appropriate use of technology? Did people really spend decades and millions of dollars to develop these trinkets?” No one dared to answer him. “Is there reasoning, an intelligent motive, behind what society does?”

“Money,” someone called out. The class tittered.

“Yes, money. In my opinion, money is what drove us from wisdom, to settle for knowledge, to information. We just want more, newer and “better,” not really understanding why we want these things. Remember the argumentum ad novitatem. It is not necessarily better just because it is newer. Now, do you think it was worth it to spend years and millions of dollars to develop a pen that could write in outer space when a regular old pencil did the job just as well?” The class remained silent. “In trying to gain more information, we have lost knowledge. More information does not necessarily mean more knowledge because you are at a loss to try to sort it all out. In trying to gain more knowledge, we have lost the wisdom to handle it. We can know but never understand and that might not be enough.” He paused and looked around his class expectantly.

“It is like opening too many pages at once on an Internet browser, is it not, professor?” a female student volunteered suddenly. “Because the computer cannot handle that much information at once?”

He blinked. “I suppose you could think of it that way.”

“Plus, many of those pages are bound to be pop-ups and ads we do not want or need to read anyway,” she continued. “They just distract us from what we are trying to do; they slow us down. We have to sort through all the pages before we can find the ones we are looking for and understand that.”

Her classmates nodded, understanding.

“We cannot just accept information that is given to us, can we, professor? We have to process it and apply it,” the male student interjected. “It is like a grain, a little seed. We can eat it when it is young and never give it a chance to grow into something bigger—then we have information—or we can plant it so that it can develop into knowledge and maybe someday, bear the fruits of wisdom.”

The professor was a little flustered. “That is a valid analogy, I think.”

“When I was really little, my grandmother used to chew up my food for me before I ate it,” another student added. Everyone in the class turned to look at him, not understanding what relevance his comment had to the discussion. The tips of his ears flushed pink but he continued. “But eventually, you have to learn to chow down on your own. Then it becomes knowledge.” The class murmured in agreement.

But the professor did not understand. “The food becomes knowledge?” he questioned uncertainly.

The student laughed, regaining his footing. “Of course not, professor. But if we want everything done for us, we lose that knowledge and we are just left with information. To reach the stage of knowledge, we have to stop letting our grandmothers chew our food for us.”


posted - 5:26 PM

By: D.L. Kim

What about those who fought against the British?
They were outnumbered yet had the spirit to fight
To win the freedom taken for granted today.

What about those who fought against their own countrymen?
They did whatever it took to reunite with their rebelling brothers
To win the unity disintegrating today.

What about those who fought against the Axis?
They stormed the Fortress at a heavy cost
To win the peace fading today.

What about those who fought against communism?
They invaded the Inchon coast and survived the Khe Sanh siege
To win the security breached today.

What about those who fought in the Middle East?
They endured the desert storms and impulsive ambushes
To win the respect trampled by ignorant society today.


posted - 5:20 PM



The halls glow with bright green and red lights. The store windows glisten with cute paintings of snow-covered trees and ornaments. Golden ropes and an adorable Santa Claus surround the tall tree to promote the Christmas shopping season.

I hate it. I hate all of it.

Although the Brea mall is usually one of my favorite places to hang out, it has become a zoo of desperate people rushing to stores since the Friday after Thanksgiving—the air thick with the smell of Chinese food, perfume and sweat.

At noon on Dec. 4, I was at the mall on a mission—to buy my Yuletide gifts and get out of there as soon as possible. I stood in the middle of the hallway and was immediately lost in a sea of people. Everywhere I could hear little kids screeching as they played tag and dodged in and out of the throng.

Envious of their agility, I made my way to Forever 21 to find a present for a friend. Walking through the doorway, I realized that the masses had preceded me into the stores, and merchandise was strewn about the stands and the floors. People shoved everywhere to try to get into every nook and cranny to look for clothes and accessories.

‘Tis the season to be pushy.

But I decided that I owed my friend this suffering, and went next door to Wet Seal which was amazingly vacant. I soon discovered why. When I found something I thought my friend would like, I flipped the tag over to see how much it cost. Fifteen dollars for a pair of plastic earrings. Unbelievable. Even the accessories on sale were over twelve dollars.

So as I continued to work my way through stores, I realized that prices on everything had gone up, and everything was expensive.

Why?

Because it’s the holiday shopping season.

Fortunately, I spotted my two new favorite words, SALE and CLEARANCE everywhere. However, there were people swarming to reach the treasure themselves.
I’m not saying that I don’t want to spend money on my friend; it’s just that I don’t have enough money to splurge that much on every single one of my friends, and even if I did, I would want to use the hard-earned cash on something worth the price.

And so, I looked.

I looked through racks of clothes at Silhouette. I foraged through pools of lotion, soap, body spray and lip gloss at Bath and Body works. I zoomed in and out of stores, crazed and frustrated.

It was kind of depressing, really.

After two hours of searching, I finally found a reasonably-priced bracelet I thought my friend would like at Anchor Blue and waited at the end of a line trying to buy it.

A half an hour later, the cashier handed me my receipt and change. Finally! Freedom! I made my escape out of Anchor Blue and ran straight into yet another line of people outside the store. Lines crisscrossed the entire mall. Squeezing through clumps of people, I left.

At long last, after a long day, I was finally long gone.

My friend had better appreciate her gift. If she looks at the bracelet in disgust after I had spent all that time looking and waiting, then the whole afternoon would have been a waste. I pushed, I searched, I suffered for her benefit.

But even after all that stress and frustration, I feel good about myself—as if I were standing on top of the world, exhilarated. I had spent all that effort for a good reason. And for this short moment, I don’t hate the crowds, the prices and the lines.

Holiday shopping is just another one of those things that you have to suffer through, such as washing the dishes every night. It’s a tradition, just like little kids sitting on Santa’s lap in the middle of the mall, or two people kissing under the mistletoe. Without the strain of the mall, something would be missing; it’s a pain, but it’s well worth it.

I guess holiday shopping isn’t that bad.

Maybe hate is too strong of a word.

Dislike. I utterly dislike holiday shopping.

Status - Complete, ? Comments


posted - 3:32 PM



sometimes you just have to cry and let it all out...
or else you miss what life is all about.
life is not just comprised of happiness and love,
of everything pleasant sent down from above.

Status: Incomplete, Free Comments

posted - 10:44 PM

what is the life i chose?
who is the friend i want to have?
my whole life i smile and pose
to make them happy, i make them laugh
and i can only express my despair through prose.

i only wanted someone to love me
but all i got was misery and pain.
i pretend to be happy and laugh with glee
i try to love all and try not to blame
but my selflessness screams and turns to flee.
my face is streaked with tears
after all, there's only so much i can take.
he believes love is one of my fears
little does he know my fear is all fake
and he is the person i hold most dear.

he thinks i am vain and don't know my place
that i don't know what love is, nor what it can do.
he doesn't see that my love for him shows plainly on my face.
i could wait my whole life to hear him say, "i love you too",
he doesn't understand how he makes my heart race
and the way each moment with him seems completely new.

the only thing he sees in me is a best friend
someone to fall on when he's in times of need.
to him i'm existing only for him, living to no end
someone who advises him, there only to lead,
sometimes to come to with a broken heart to mend.

i can't make him happy no matter how hard i try,
and it makes me sad to know i'm not the one for him.
it leaves me in anguish and everyday makes me cry,
and he doesn't know that my life is so dim
because whenever he sees me my tears seem to dry.

the one he loves most is someone i envy,
i wish i could be her for just a few days.
in front of her eyes is a golden opportunity
but instead she decides single is how she'll stay.

if only i were the one he were thinking of,
but like always and how he says, i'm being selfish.
i only wish i could die and live above...
where everyone is granted whatever they wish
even the love of someone who doesn't care you exist.

Status: Complete (subject to editing), Free Comments

posted - 10:40 PM

the face i always longed to see
seems to have faded inside of me
when i look at you you're not the same
you're different than you were yesterday
so i search and search in the you of today
and when i see you i can't help but say
i loved the you of yesterday

but i cannot be a fool to think
that i can ever love the you of today
for "a fool will lose tomorrow reaching back for yesterday"

after getting through all that sorrow
to myself i say
maybe the you of tomorrow
will be the you of yesterday

but when tomorrow comes
you are always the you of today
and never the you of yesterday

so why do i even try
each time i try to say goodbye
i can't help but say
maybe the you of tomorrow
will be the you of yesterday

but you'll never be the you of yesterday
i haven't learned my lesson yet
for every time our eyes are met
i hope and praythat the you of tomorrow
will be the you of yesterday

and every time i try to face my troubles
when i reach the subject of you i run
and run and run
but i constantly look back and think
where is the you of yesterday?

Status: Complete (subject to edit), Free Comments

Eileen R.'s blog: www.xanga.com/invader_seyes

posted - 10:31 PM

Oh Sony Vaio,
You’re my favorite friend
With you I laugh and chat and play
For hours without end

We check on all our email
and laugh at all the spam
We do our work together
So I get A’s on my exam

We listen to bands like Weezer,
Jimmy Eat World, and Ok Go
We look at pictures of Rivers
And watch music videos

It’s true to you I owe
That I’m forever deskbound
And it’s really all your fault
I’m inside all year-round

But I think it’s all worth it,
because you’re always there
even if when I run,
I need intensive care

The day you got that virus,
I felt awfully alone
I lay in fetal position,
Deader than a stone

But soon you got all better,
So I stood up from the floor
To laugh, chat, and play
With my love forevermore.

Status - Complete, ? Comments

Joy R.'s Blog - http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=poolofgreenjello


posted - 9:01 PM

I mark your progress all around the school
I fantasize that you’re my closest friend
Amazing you’re not drenched in all my drool
How fun, how grand it is, to play pretend
I fancy we’re tremendously akin
I feel we can discuss most anything
I tell your shoes my faults with no chagrin
I tell your back my hopes, fears, everything
It matters not that you don’t know my name
Your comely face, blank, stares without disdain
This notion’s pleasing, almost like a game
Plus, if you knew, you’d label me insane
If only I could share this love I’ve grown
At least I’d have a chance to be your own

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Joy R.'s Blog - http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=poolofgreenjello


posted - 8:49 PM



It's 10:19 a.m. He's taking a drink at the foundation, as scheduled.

10:21 a.m. He should be heading to the cafeteria just about now. Why hasn't he talked to me in months?! It's because he hates me, I know it!

When I go home, I'll have to check his blog to see if he's mentioned me.

I step out of the bushes in the quad. I put away my binoculars and try to look as inconspicuous as possible to look as inconspicuous as possible as I brush leaves out of my hair.

On the walk to fifth period (which I have carefully planned out so that my path just happens to coincide with his).

I see couples talking happily about Ski Bum and suddenly feel the urge to kick something small than I am, which would be a little hard to find, being as short as I am.

Later, as I sit at my desk frantically scribbling love poems and programming my calculator to somehow get him out of my system, I wonder, do I even have a life anymore?

I have to study twice as hard for history now because my mind is cluttered with little useless facts about him, like the heights of his siblings and his Social Security number. (Don't worry, I don't use this information for evil.)

In my spare time, I read books and research things that, through secret sources, I have found that he likes, hoping to wow him the next time I talk to him, which could be months from now because it takes me days even to gather up the courage to speak to him.

I can't even carry a full conversation with anyone when he's nearby because my SPR (Special Person Radar) tells me he's close and makes alarm bells go off in my head.

No. I don't have a life.

Unrequited love isn't relaly worth all this wasted brain space, time and anguish, not to mention that this obsession probably isn't healthy.

Why can't I spend my time like a normal person and not spend every waking moment adding a new girl to my hit list for talking to him?

Every day I resolve anew to hate him or at least not spend hours wondering if he knows I exist, but I can't help it.

I still think about him all the time, even though it pains me when he forgets my name or doesn't notice me.

And yet, I don't mind the pain. It is something for me to do on those rainy days indoors. I can take out my scrapbook and look through my collection of photos taken from the back, locks of hair and pencils that he's touched.

But perhaps this obsession is not my fault.

"Falling in love seems to have a similar effect on the brain as using cocaine," according to a bbc.co.uk article on first love. "It's so pleasurable it's almost like an addiction."

Whatever the cause, though, this fixation will get me nowhere, so I warn you other unlucky hearts out there. Don't become like me, someone whose entire existence hinges on someone else's.

Stopping is not as easy as waking up one day and deciding to hate him, and conditioning yourself to stop thinking about him by punching yourself every time he pops up in your mind is not going to help either. (Trust me, I've tried.) Eventually, though, you will find that there are other people out there.

That special person may not have the same goofy smirk, the same embarrassing laugh, the same ugly hair, but when you find the right one, maybe he'll be watching you from the bushes, too. Or is that just creepy?

Status - Completed, ? Comments

Joy R.'s Blog - http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=poolofgreenjello



posted - 9:03 PM



I found myself wondering, not for the first time, whether my house had been a rushed job. The chipped bathtub, the stair rail that had been sagging threateningly, the cracks in the ceiling, the uneven toilet paper dispenser—all in a house that had been less two years old when my family moved in. I found my suspicions confirmed when the door to the master bedroom fell off its hinges—rather, one of its hinges.

My mother pondered. My sister stared vacantly. They both turned and looked at me expectantly.

I had already used what little spackling compound the last family had left behind to patch holes in the unfinished-looking closet under the stairs. Rather than visit my neighborhood home improvement store, I drummed my fingers on my cheek as I tried to think of an easier solution. When the door hinges creaked, I had used baby oil instead of grease—I could certainly find a fitting substitute for spackle

So the first time, I tried caulking. It was sturdy, relatively long lasting, and dried white. It worked for all of three days before falling apart. Plan B. I had no Plan B. I had expected Plan A to work.

In a moment of desperation, I thought of blasting the hole in wall with glue and waiting for it to dry. Then I remembered reading in the newspaper that baking powder and glue or toothpaste could easily patch up small cracks in the wall. I was not about to try filling a hole the size of a golf ball with my fresh mint-flavored, cavity prevention toothpaste. This cavity was too big. I checked the cupboards—we had baking soda and school glue. They would have to do.

I unscrewed the bottom hinge and most of the dried caulking came off with it. I used my eyeglass screwdriver to scrape the rest of it out. I stuffed the wall full of my strange new mixture, which was already starting to cake up, and left it to dry overnight, using packaging foam to keep the door from swinging on one hinge. The next morning, I screwed the hinge back in and was delighted to find that the new wall was as hard as the old one had ever been. But I kept the packaging foam in place.

Now, nearly four months later, the packaging foam is gone but the door is still up. But that top hinge has been looking squeaky lately …

Status: Completed, Free Comments
Easter's Blog: http://www.livejournal.com/users/happyeaster/

posted - 10:46 PM