Imported From Bashing Crosses

A Bed of Rags and Tears

The aroma of coffee entices you, filling your heart with the nostalgia built by a life of happy times. Outside, gentle squeak of swings are like a violin calling. You run down the stairs, every step plunging into the welcoming hug of the shag rug. The rays of the sun burst through the windows of the kitchen, warming rectangles on the tile of the floor. Dad is sitting at the table with the newspaper, waving his way from page to page, making the occasional grunt. The tangy smell of frying eggs and toast greets you. It’s Saturday, so no class threatens to touch your happiness. Mom looks over with a smile, sins of yesterday forgotten for the joy of today. Hoping onto the seat, you stare down at breakfast steaming its salutation with waving wisps of steam. You pick up the fork.

Then your eyes snap open, and it’s dark. Your hand plants on the frigid concrete of the alleyway ground, sweat dripping down the digits. It is always icy and dark in your new home. You pull the newspaper sheets way from your body. The cold of the air temporarily banishes the itch that runs along your skin with chronic consistency. You grip the biting brick of the building to pull yourself up. Looking at the exit of the alleyway, the sounds of cars and crowd return. And so does the voices. Judging, hating, frothing, the sound of their condemnation drags your heart down into the tar of the shadows. You remember. Father died a long time ago, smoking claiming another victim. Mother was taken not long after you entered college. At least you got the chance to say goodbye. It was a year after when the voices tore away the sanity of the world. You tried to continue, to make a life built on the American dream. But as reality and fantasy blurred, your scholarship, then your hopes, slipped away. One by one, everything you owned was taken away as debts mounted, till the only place left to sleep was on the street. In the voices of the crowd before you, you hear the mocking murmur. You beg for money and food, among the junkies and downtrodden, looking down so your eyes won’t betray your shame.


I once believed that the American dream could touch everyone. When I looked upon those who begged on the sidewalk, I did so with disdain. Hard work could build a life for anyone, and those who had less simply deserved less. They were lazy, perhaps less intelligent. But it was their fault they did not live like royalty. I looked at the rare examples of those who rose above their simple beginnings as proof.

I would have continued to do so, until I actually started to work for money myself. I have been unusually blessed, and did not have to worry about money at the time. But a lady I worked with did not have such luck. She had three kids, and two jobs. Working in the bakery of a supermarket simply could not supply for those she loved. I found out that every month, they had to worry about whether this month would be one of starvation. In worse case, she had to fear that they might lose the roof over their heads. I knew of no one that worked harder. Watching her, I realized how bigoted I was. Yet still, my belief in the idea of people making their own way held against reality.

It was not until I started volunteering that I realized that people, even those that were poor and destitute, were people as equal as any other. I was watching those who entered the food bank, when I saw a grungy Latino man enter. In knew that his clothes were, most likely, second hand. I felt the twinge of disdain building in my throat. I wondered, with a little shame even then, whether he was illegal. All this happened within the space of less than a second, right before his daughter entered. She was the picture of a cute kid. Even more surprising, she had earrings and her dress looked new. Then I realized what should have been instantly obvious. He had been spending all of his money on her, most likely so she would be spared ridicule at school. That twinge in my throat turned into disgust for myself.

Since then, I have met a number of people who have little money. I have even met a few who were homeless. All were just people. Their lives were less fortunate, but often it had nothing to do with laziness. A simple cruel twist of fate was all that was needed to steal their belongings away. Many homeless have mental problems, which builds a barrier against them entering the work force. People treat them like a disease, much like racists treated non-white people decades before.

The disease, however, is not the poor people. It is in our view of them. The bigoted thoughts I had before are echoed in the comments of the people around me. I wonder when the idea, that people could build empires from dust, turned into disgust for those who couldn’t.

Yes, here is when the fools will start spouting about the American Dream. What the defenders of greed forget, however, is that such a dream is not made alone. It is built by people coming together, pulling up those who fall.

Change starts with the views of the public. So, perhaps it is time to change the discussion. Instead of focusing on what the poor and the destitute are not contributing, let’s focus on changing the equation so that they are given the chance build themselves. Somehow the idea of America became about taking for ourselves. It is time to start finding out how giving gives back, truly turning rags and tears to riches.

The Smile Fatale

Psychic Abilities.

As I ended my last post announcing that I would be elucidating on my experiences with the book club members, I must now keep that sacred promise. I realize many of you may be unsure of how talking to mature women might relate to learning about girls our age. This will clear the smoke from the subject, as I relate some stunning information that I have gathered.

Women are psychic. No, not in the "your mother has eyes in the back of her head" way. I mean: actually having abilities beyond the kenning of men. I have drawn such conclusions from direct observation. And, there can be no better evidence then what we perceive with our own two eyes.

When I first observed the banter of the six women sitting at the table before me, I was struck by their infallible knowledge of each others thoughts. One would speak, and before she could finish, another would continue that thought. This did not cause any friction, because it was obvious that they both knew were the thought was leading, and thus left it unstated. I have never observed this with males. The most perceptive comment I have heard from men is "you look like you need a beer". Thus, some quality must be absent from men, but present in women.

Being a logical person, I eventually rejected the idea of this ability being magic based. While I am not a scientist, I use the scientific method of precluding magic, because otherwise I'd spend my days wondering if my mother knew when I did some... embarrassing things in the privacy of my room. So I came to the most logical assumption.

Females communicate through scent. This is not so radical an idea. Ants communicate via scent, especially when transferring information about the best path to food. Cats and dogs also communicate with scent, sometimes all over a couch.

But such a realization is just supposition without actually testing the theory. So, in the name of science, I gassed. I was absolutely silent. In fact, I was barely able to tell I did so. I definitely could not smell it myself. In spite of this, the lady across from me stopped and stared at me for the briefest of seconds, giving me the proof I needed. The conversation also experienced a momentary hiccup a few seconds latter. I never did smell it, which proves that women have a far better sense of smell then men. And that proves that women have what I have come to term: psychic smell.

Thus, from this realization, I suggest several things. The first is to avoid gassing in the presence of women. While the group I was with was quite tolerant, there is no guarantee of such. Second, try to wear multiple colognes, as this will confuse any woman you meet and allow you an opening to speak. Third, while playing an online role-playing game, try gassing. If the "female" does not react, then the character is most likely not a female at all.

I will have more information in the next installment.

Ichabod Worthington

Success!

I am proud to report some success in my endeavors. While it is not perfect, I have been able to infiltrate a group of females. The affect this success will have on my investigations cannot be measured. The best part is that they chose me, instead of my seeking them out.

Voices murmured in the air. Plates clanked, the smell of burnt grease floated like invisible smoke. The words on the glaring white page in front of me were a blur of grey, indecipherable lines. The restaurant glowed with light, catching people outside and through the glass window with its warmth. Despite all the light, a darkness haunted the area around my mind, a sea of dread suffocating me. They were all staring at me. I could feel their gazes beating down on me, needles of judgment. They were all laughing. They were thinking "Fatso" and "Failure", gaping at me in horror. They were the enemy. Everyone in the restaurant was watching me, even people on the sidewalks peeked at me with sidelong glances. I didn't belong. I didn't want to belong. Suddenly, it came back. I could hear it again. The sound of a belt whispering, and I knew he was coming again. The snap as the belt clapped against itself, I could see him through the white of the page. I shut the book with a thump, and was about to leave when I felt a soft hand on my shoulder.

"Hey, I saw you reading that book. Haven't met many college students who like feminist books. You know, you could join us at our table. I was also sort of wondering, are you ok?"

I held my breath to catch my hyperventalation, then let go with a sigh. I grabbed the chair and turned toward the woman, and instantly though I was looking at my mother. The thought fadded as I realized they looked nothing alike, but the she was in her fifties. Frazzled black-brown hair and a thin nose, she had a gentle smile on her face. Over her should, a group of five women her age and older sat surrounding a round table, waving at me. I immediately recognized the opportunity to improve my research.

As it turned out, they were holding a book club meeting. I never liked books, more prefering the glare of a computer screen, with the internet's flying facts. They seemed nice enough, but that's how everyone seems before you get to know them. Strangely enough, they were accepting, something I never expected from non-Geeks. Perhaps it is an attribute age develops. But in any case, I've run out of room in this update.

So, look for an update next time to find out what I learned.

Ichabod Worthington

The first step is a long one.

I tried to meet with different women. And by that I mean... nothing has happened. And this leads to the first lesson I have learned.

Apparently, introducing yourself by declaring "Hello, I am a Geek, would you like to go out with me?" is ineffective. This may seem odd to many of you, as it has become somewhat of a badge of pride among our people. This feeling of kinship, it seems, does not extend to the rest of the populous. It is therefore necessary, for any Geek meeting an actual woman, to realize that they will not react with friendly emotions to such a declaration.

This discovery has lead to another realization. We have to camouflage ourselves. Letting our inner spirit burst forth in the face of the public is a societal taboo. It is thus necessary to act like the shadows that walk around us.

That's right. They are shadows. They are not like us. They do not have an understanding of the power of the computer spirit. How it draws forth creativity, how it brings an understanding of ourselves on a level that no other medium can meet. People who do not understand are shadows. And, the shadows are against us.

It is therefore necessary when we venture out of our Geek world to understand. Understand that because the world is against us, we must make an effort to protect ourselves. Think of it as your Hazmat suit. I will lay out the rules necessitated by our situation.


1) Do not call yourself a Geek. This would be like smearing yourself with steak juices and jumping into a dog kennel. Plus that's a horrible way of hiding. Think of an American spy running naked through the USSR, screaming "I am an American spy". That would be bad.

2) As a continuation of the above rule, make sure you deny any programming knowledge with extreme care. No one will be impressed by your knowledge of C++. In fact, they will probably think you are referring to your grades in an idiotic manner.

3) Avoid Geek lingo. Saying the word "leet" will immediately make your affiliation known. Then they will eat you.

4) Avoid playing video games with non-Geeks. While this may be an especially hard rule to keep, your unparalleled abilities in the digital world will be your undoing. If forced to play, make sure to lose, no matter how much doing so may irk your soul. Make sure to drool as you play, that way you will blend in with greater ease.

5) Avoid teasing females. While this may be acceptable in the digital world, you are usually dealing with other males anyway. Telling a female "your face looks like an ironing board" will have disastrous results.

6) Act like you are interested in sports. This is especially true of football. Be careful in your zest, however. Learn which team the non-Geeks are cheering for, commonly through observation. Cheer for that team. Cheering for the apposing team could lead to you getting beaten. Which would be unpleasant.

7) Most importantly, never stroke the people around you. Yes, it is amazing how "lifelike" they are. This is because they are actual real. Stroking them to confirm this fact, however, could lead to injury, even death. You just have to trust they are real.


Obviously, the outside world is a dangerous place. I will suffer so you may learn. The first step has been long and painful, so please appreciate this and use my advice.

Ichabod Worthington

A Geek's Lion Cry

All Geeks know the sacraments of our world view. Phenomenon, such WOW, may be used by the public at large, but the "masses" could never understand that such things are a lifestyle, not mere games. The fact that I can skip sleep for an entire week is a testament to the indomitable spirit, a spirit that is housed somewhere between my colon and my heart. Sometimes it rumbles and I have to get up to open the fridge. The fact that the said spirit tumbles over my belt, while physically unflattering, is a point of pride.

Yes, people may mock me because I look like Santa's deficient cousin. But I understand, as I know many of my fellow Geeks do, that my belly represents progress. No longer are we in the dark ages, where we had to use dice and pencils for our Geekery. No longer do we have to run to our friend's basement to play role-playing games on dusty old table tops. No longer do we have to swing fake swords at each other in the park, all the while trying to ignore the guy that came dressed to the game as an elven princess. Now, all we have to do is sit at a computer and press buttons.

I know, there are many other ways in which the Geek life can manifest. We have adherence to good grades and abhorrence of exercise, among others. The belief in the betterment of the fantasy world, however, is something around which any Geek can rally. And, as I have stated before, we now have the world at our fingertips.

Something that has always eluded us, however. It is the beautiful creatures that dance through our dreams: women. While we can have girl characters in our computer games, it simply is not the same. Yes, I have a 2D girl friend too, and I know many of you Geeks out there have favorites that you love. But, I'm sure you feel it too. Something is missing.

So, in the name of Geeks everywhere, I must step up and venture out. I'm going to attempt to learn all I can about the female race. I will go where no Geek has gone, despite the great terror I must face outside this room. Since I'm not a scientist, I'm going to have to use my own special brand of logic to understand what I learn. And then I will pass on this information to you. Through this venture, the mystery that surrounds women will waft away. We will be able to understand everything about them, so we can better discover them online. After this, we will not date other characters online, only to find out our "lesbian" partner was really just another guy. Because that is awkward.

Ichabod Worthington

Spam

Arch of Heroes: Final Draft

“C’mon man, hurry up.”

I stood transfixed by the arch of elephant grass, towering before me. Greek heroes would pass through such arches when adventure beckoned them away to distant shores. Marble would hide the sun until it burst through the hole of the portal, lighting their faces with the cleansing warmth. They trampled rose petals thrown from a thousand lovers. While walking with brutes who would betray them, such heroes knew that just beyond lay truer hearts. The cheering crowd would yell:

“What are you doing? I’ll drag your ass if I have to.”

The tunnel had always been a conduit between the gated community and mine. The tunnel was dark from the roof grass that covered it, at times seeming a sinister pathway. On the other side, however, was a magical world of the rich, on mine was the every American subdivision. The houses were nicer, and the cars were sportier, and all I had to do was walk through the tunnel. To a kid of ten living in a run down rural subdivision, the other side was more then houses. It was a place where adventure breathed in the wind.

I entered the grass tunnel. I left behind the static world of my own subdivision. The tunnel before me merely led to the gated community on the other side, but in my mind it was the difference of two worlds. My world of existed as etched glass, but the world on the other side ran with vibrant colors. The emerald leaves pulled at my skin with itchy hairs. The rustle of the leaves gently tickled my ear, and the air darkened. Into the forest of green we charged, uninhibited by a past, unaware of the future. Blades cut red lines into my legs, yet I could not leave my comrades to fend for themselves in such darkness. A silhouette of a monstrous man appeared before me, and it was clear that this was the guardian of the path, the last obstacle before I could again draw free air. I knew such beasts are meant to be slain, yet I had no weapon to bear against the brute. With a courageous battle cry I lowered my shoulder towards the unaware foe, and charged, my only thoughts of freeing my friends, whom he had imprisoned.

“Ouch! What? Why… I don’t know why we brought you along.”

I had always been the runt of the group, the smallest of the group of miscreants with whom I stuck. Tolerated but not loved, seen but never truly trusted, I had always thought friendship was a mystery for someone else. In this other place, however, perhaps better people existed. I always came with that silent, unknown hope.

He picked me up. He was much older than I was, and bigger. Like a giant, and sometimes, just as mean. Captured by the cruel giant, heaved over his back like a sack of rice, I was destined for a death unfit for my status. Knowing fate would not intervene, I wriggled against the gargantuan human’s hold, but escape was not meant to be. We left the tunnel behind, the brightness of the outside world almost blinding me. Around me I saw glorious structures, perhaps from civilization long lost. The wind soared around me, a strong with the sour scent of vegetation and mud. The area was deserted, yet the giant and his brothers looked around with suspicious intent, perhaps fearing another would steal their precious meal. The giant dropped me to the ground, the ruin they had picked was blocked from the view by other such structures.

“Stay here. If you see anyone, yell. You got that? Okay.”

I could hear the creaking call of the chair swinger. The house across from me didn’t have mold growing from the beige wall shingles. The windows didn’t have dust clouding the panes. The back yard didn’t have weeds, and it was surprisingly well kept. The blades of grass did not vary in their height. It even had a tiny house for some hidden animal. I had never seen the house before. It hurt, however, that a house could be all that mine was not, so I didn’t really think about how my associates were casing the house.

My associates ran around the house. They looked in all the windows as if they suspected someone was home. Then they huddled by the door, one of the barbarians trying to work the knob. I thought it past the capabilities of such brutes, to plumb the depths of such an ancient tomb took ingenuity, but as it turns out, strength is sometimes a substitute. Such treasures do not so easily gift strangers, and they were greeted by a wailing banshee, keening at their insolence. Invisible, it chased them and ignored the lone hero, sitting upon the knoll. Not so, however with Cerberus. It heaved itself upon thick legs, launching its log like body forward with every gallop. Doom approached with speed, staring into my eyes with evil intent.

I felt someone scoop me up and throw me across his shoulder. For a couple of seconds I felt my liver pinch and my throat swell. My comrades were with me all along. My comrades ran back, in the face of danger, to pull their fellow hero out of the fire. Fire represented by the slobbering wolf chasing after us. I could hear its heavy panting, its galloping footsteps as I stared into its face. It looked oddly happy, liquid dripping from the lolling tongue. It chased us back to the tunnel of grass. The dog monster, however, stopped with a yelp as it reached the end of its tether, and watched us with bloodshot, lonely eyes. We returned heroes, backs to the orange glow to the setting sun, victoriously rushing home.


Works Cited

Purdue OWL. "MLA Formatting and Style Guide." The Online Writing Lab at Purdue. 10 May 2008. Purdue University Writing Lab. 12 May 2008 .

Spam

I have decided to move. Not that I'm going to be moving physically, but to a new topic. So far, trying to write a post on religion every day has proven to be elusive. By elusive I mean painful on a whole new level. I’ve lost hours of sleep attempting to research the topic, and then collapse in exhaustion at the end before writing even a single sentence. This obsession with correctness is driven by the need to avoid insulting anyone. By avoiding insulting people, I hoped to avoid bodily harm. But, alas, my favorite subject has turned out to a paper rose.

This, of course, does not mean that I will not write about religion. I will be updating this blog once or twice a week, as time permits. I’m a sucker for addictions. I will be moving all of my class related work to another blog. Hopefully, having to do no research will allow me to meet my class requirements. My teacher has informed us that the next section of class will be even more painful then the current, so this switch in expectations will help me to survive this already desperate semester.

And for the teacher, whose smirk is most likely twitching at the ends with the need to scream: “I told you so”. I am not admitting defeat. I will not surrender.

My new blog, named “A Geek’s Guide to the Female Race” will be absolutely un-researched, ill informed, and wholly ridiculous.

As stated before, I will not be closing this blog. I will be updating it every week, with another one of my impassioned arguments. I will be posting again soon.

Spam

Religion is an easy target when aiming at unquestioning tragedy. Sometimes it seems as if extreme faith is alone in the bulldozing of reason. Thoughtless actions, however, have no religion.

Most people within the United States should be aware of the Oklahoma City bombings. It is hard to imagine that 168 people, including children, died because Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols believed that fighting the government was worth any cost.5 The key emotion here is fear. Fear that the government would take over and rule everyone’s lives. That fear caused so many deaths, and those deaths tainted any message they might have tried to send. With so many different mediums of communication, such use of violence is unnecessary.

But, they thought mass murder would be louder, so they slaughtered.

Blind beliefs do not always lead to violence. But it usually has victims anyway. Racism, while not as destructive or as prevalent as it used to be, still wounds. Segregation, while not supported legally any more, is still socially imposed.6 Such obstinate beliefs are built of ignorance, and keep people that might otherwise contribute greatly to society from gaining the means to do so. Such contributions might have even helped those who are committing the evil of racism.

But, people hate anyway.

More insidious are the views that do not seem so dangerous. Some people believe that religion is at the heart of all the evil in the world, and therefore wish to destroy it. In view of recent events, it is hard to argue that religion is purely benevolent. What seems to escape those who hate religion, however, is that religion is ultimately a tool. Some people use it to guide them, helping those in need. Many churches are connected to the giving of aid to people who need it. Some use religion as a cover for their own materialistic desires. The cases of sexual harassment committed by pedophilic priests are widely known. Religion has the potential to be good or bad, depending on how it is used. The wish to eliminate something for fear of it is still hate. Hating all religions is still intolerance, no matter how it is colored. Intolerance has the potential to be incredibly dangerous, and is almost always hurtful.

It is therefore extremely important to question any belief. The belief might seem innocuous to the one who holds it, but questioning the belief is necessary to understanding it. In the case of more controversial convictions, questioning might save lives. In the case of faith, it is even more important to query, as such will build and strengthen one’s own religion. Without looking inward, all that screaming faith is a bunch of hot air.

Citations

5) "Oklahoma City bombing." Encyclopædia Britannica. 2009. Encyclopædia Britannica Online. 15 Sep. 2009 .

6) "Racial segregation in the United States." Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Wikimedia Foundation, Inc, 16 Sept. 2009. Web. 20 Sept. 2009. .

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Imagine you’re in the cockpit airplane, with all those buttons, lights, and screens flickering in your face. You can hear yelling voices in the back, particularly the squealing babies. Through the glass window panes, the sight of a skyscraper towers above you. You grip the yoke, and for the tiniest part of a second your hand twitches upward, but your belief is absolute, America is subjugating Islam, so you stay the course.

Of course, by now you’ve figured out I’m talking about the events of 9/11. It is obvious that questions were not asked by the terrorists that flew into the two towers. The significant of these: was America really intent on subjugating the Islamic peoples? The estimated adult Muslim population in the United States had more than doubled between 1990 and 2001.1 The Islamic religion was expanding under the umbrella of democracy. If the United States itself had a vendetta against Muslims, it would have stamped their existence within its own borders first. Given Iraq’s stores of oil, greed rather then prejudice appears to have been the major driver in America’s presence within the Middle East. Even Osama bin Laden seems to concede the point that the American presence may have had an economic element in his fatwa.2

Given that the US’s presence within the Islamic powers was economically driven, it would have made much more sense to restrict the oil sold to the US, instead of attacking the interested country. Spreading news of atrocities that the Islamic fundamentalists claimed were committed by the US, especially by way of the internet, would have been an even better manner of attacking the problem, as it would have softened support for America. By, instead, using violence, the terrorists gave the US government the excuse it needed to place more troops in Iraq. This reaction should have been obvious. Had the terrorists asked questions and thought about their options instead of taking the road of violence, they might have avoided so much tragedy on both sides.

But, blinded by rage, they struck.

Of course, such blindness is not a trait of Islam itself. Rather, it is an addictive habit developed under anger, fear, and hatred. Killing someone for a cause takes an overabundant amount of all three. George Tiller’s murder stands as a recent illustration of where such actions lead.

Abortion, an issue well connected with the Christian right, has long been a bonfire of debate within the US. With his willingness to perform late term abortions and his successfulness in the field, George Tiller brought the wrath of anti-abortion activists to his door. The protests continued on for thirty years, with all the attempts to stop his practice without success.3 It is even arguable that his actions were criminal. But the end of his practice did not come in a court, but with a gunshot in his church.4 His killer’s rage at the deaths of so many unborn children demanded that the doctor’s life be ended. Perhaps, the murderer was able to write off the sin of murder as a necessary sacrifice in his own mind. He was also, apparently, blind to the fact that he was committing such a grave sin on sacred ground. The murder, however, cost not only George Tiller and his family, but also the cause that the murderer was fighting for. The negative publicity that followed the death of George Tiller hurt the position of Pro-life movement, making them seem like violent extremists. George Tiller’s practice might have ended more peacefully had negative press been given a chance to damage his reputation.

But, in ignorance of possible outcomes, the killer shot.

Citations

1) "Largest Religious Groups in the USA." World Religions Religion Statistics Geography Church Statistics. Adherents.com, Apr. 1999. Web. 14 Sept. 2009. .

2) "World Islamic Front Statement Urging Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders." Federation of American Scientists. Web. 16 Sept. 2009. .

3) Barstow, David. "An Abortion Battle, Fought to the Death." The New York Times - Breaking News, World News & Multimedia. The New York Times Company, 25 July 2009. Web. 15 Sept. 2009. .

4) Davey, Monica. "Witness Tells of Doctor’s Last Seconds." The New York Times - Breaking News, World News & Multimedia. The New York Times Company, 28 July 2009. Web. 15 Sept. 2009. .

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Arch of Heroes: Draft 3

“C’mon man, hurry up.”
I stood transfixed by the arch of elephant grass, towering before me. Greek heroes would pass through such arches when adventure beckoned them away to distant shores. Marble would hide the sun until it burst through the hole of the portal, lighting their faces with the cleansing warmth, as they trampled rose petals thrown from a thousand lovers. The cheering crowd would yell:
“What are you doing? I’ll drag your ass if I have to.”
The tunnel had always been a separator between the gated community and mine. Always a different world. On the other side was a magical world of the rich, on mine was the every American subdivision. The houses were nicer, and the cars were sportier, and all I had to do was walk through the tunnel.
I entered the grass tunnel. I left behind the static world of my own subdivision. The tunnel before me may only lead to the gated community on the other side, but in my mind it was the difference of two worlds. The difference was that of static etched glass and painted murals in which the vibrant colors ran. The emerald leaves pulled at my skin with itchy hairs. The rustle of the leaves gently tickled my ear, and the air darkened. Into the forest of green we charged, uninhibited by a past, unaware of the future. Blades cut red lines into my legs, yet I could not leave my comrades to fend for themselves in such darkness. A silhouette of a monstrous man appeared before me, and it was clear that this was the guardian of the path, the last obstacle before I could again draw free air. I knew such beasts are meant to be slain, yet I had no weapon to bear against the brute. With a courageous battle cry I aimed my shoulder towards my foe, and charged, my only thoughts of freeing my friends, whom he had imprisoned.
“Ouch! What? Why… I don’t know why we brought you along.”
He picked me up. He was much older than I was, and bigger. Like a giant, and sometimes, just as mean. Captured by the cruel giant, heaved over his back like a sack of rice, I was destined for a death unfit for my status. Knowing fate would not intervene, I wriggled against the gargantuan human’s hold, but escape was not meant to be. We left the tunnel behind, the brightness of the outside world almost blinding me. Around me I saw glorious structures, perhaps from civilization long lost. The wind breathed around me, a strong with the sour scent of vegetation and mud. The area was deserted, yet the giant and his brothers looked around with suspicious intent, perhaps fearing another would steal their precious meal. The giant dropped me to the ground, the ruin they had picked was blocked from the view by other such structures.
“Stay here. If you see anyone, yell. You got that? Okay.”
I could hear the creaking call of the chair swinger. The house across from me didn’t have mold growing from the beige wall shingles. The windows didn’t have dust clouding the panes. The back yard didn’t have weeds, and it was surprisingly well kept. The blades of grass did not vary in their height. I had never seen the house before. It hurt, however, that a house could be all that my house was not, so I didn’t really think about how my friends were casing the house.
My friends ran around the house. They looked in all the windows as if they suspected someone was home. Then they huddled by the door, one of the barbarians trying to work the knob. I thought it past the capabilities of such brutes, to plumb the depths of such an ancient tomb took ingenuity, but as it turns out, strength is sometimes a substitute. Such treasures do not so easily gift strangers, and they were greeted by a wailing banshee, keening at their insolence. Invisible, it chased them and ignored the lone hero, sitting upon the knoll. Not so, however with Cerberus. It heaved itself upon thick legs, launching its log like body forward with every gallop. Doom approached with speed, staring into my eyes with evil intent.
I felt someone scoop me up and throw me across his shoulder. For a couple of seconds I felt my liver pinch and my throat swell. My friends actually cared about me. My comrades ran back, in the face of danger, to pull their fellow hero out of the fire. Fire represented by the slobbering sausage chasing after us. I could hear its heavy panting, its galloping footsteps as I stared into its face. It looked oddly happy, liquid dripping from the lolling tongue. It chased us back to the tunnel of grass. And we returned heroes, backs to the orange glow to the setting sun, victoriously rushing home.

Spam

Arch of Heroes: Draft 2

“C’mon man, hurry up.”
I stood transfixed by the arch of elephant grass, towering before me. Greek heroes would pass through such arches when adventure beckoned them away to distant shores. Marble would hide the sun until it burst through the hole of the portal, lighting their faces with the cleansing warmth, as they trampled rose petals thrown from a thousand lovers. The cheering crowd would yell:
“What are you doing? I’ll drag your ass if I have to.”
I entered the grass tunnel. I left behind the static world of my own subdivision. The tunnel before me may only lead to the gated community on the other side, but in my mind it was the difference of two worlds. The difference was that of static etched glass and painted murals in which the vibrant colors ran. The emerald leaves pulled at my skin with itchy hairs. The rustle of the leaves gently tickled my ear, and the air darkened. Into the forest of green we charged, uninhibited by a past, unaware of the future. Blades cut red lines into my legs, yet I could not leave my comrades to fend for themselves in such darkness. A silhouette of a monstrous man appeared before me, and it was clear that this was the guardian of the path, the last obstacle before I could again draw free air. I knew such beasts are meant to be slain, yet I had no weapon to bear against the brute. With a courageous battle cry I aimed my shoulder towards my foe, and charged, my only thoughts of freeing my friends, whom he had imprisoned.
“Ouch! What? Why… I don’t know why we brought you along.”
He picked me up. He was much older than I was, and bigger. Like a giant, and sometimes, just as mean. Captured by the cruel giant, heaved over his back like a sack of rice, I was destined for a death unfit for my status. Knowing fate would not intervene, I wriggled against the gargantuan human’s hold, but escape was not meant to be. We left the tunnel behind, the brightness of the outside world almost blinding me. Around me I saw glorious structures, perhaps from civilization long lost. The wind breathed around me, a strong with the sour scent of vegetation and mud. The area was deserted, yet the giant and his brothers looked around with suspicious intent, perhaps fearing another would steal their precious meal. The giant dropped me to the ground, the ruin they had picked was blocked from the view by other such structures.
“Stay here. If you see anyone, yell. You got that? Okay.”
I could hear the creaking call of the chair swinger. The house across from me didn’t have mold growing from the beige wall shingles. The windows didn’t have dust clouding the panes. The back yard didn’t have weeds, and it was surprisingly well kept. The blades of grass did not vary in their height. I had never seen the house before. It hurt, however, that a house could be all that my house was not, so I didn’t really think about how my friends were casing the house.
My friends ran around the house. They looked in all the windows as if they suspected someone was home. Then they huddled by the door, one of the barbarians trying to work the knob. I thought it past the capabilities of such brutes, to plumb the depths of such an ancient tomb took ingenuity, but as it turns out, strength is sometimes a substitute. Such treasures do not so easily gift strangers, and they were greeted by a wailing banshee, keening at their insolence. Invisible, it chased them and ignored the lone hero, sitting upon the knoll. Not so, however with Cerberus. It heaved itself upon thick legs, launching its log like body forward with every gallop. Doom approached with speed, staring into my eyes with evil intent.
I felt someone scoop me up and throw me across his shoulder. For a couple of seconds I felt my liver pinch and my throat swell. My friends actually cared about me. My comrades ran back, in the face of danger, to pull their fellow hero out of the fire. Fire represented by the slobbering sausage chasing after us. I could hear its heavy panting, its galloping footsteps as I stared into its face. It looked oddly happy, liquid dripping from the lolling tongue. It chased us back to the tunnel of grass. And we returned heroes, backs to the orange glow to the setting sun, victoriously rushing home.

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Arch of Heroes: Draft 1

“C’mon man, hurry up.”

I stood transfixed by the arch of elephant grass, towering before me. Greek heroes would pass through such arches when adventure beckoned them away to distant shores. Marble would hide the sun until it burst through the hole of the portal, lighting their faces with the cleansing warmth, as they trampled rose petals thrown from a thousand lovers. The cheering crowd would yell:

“What are you doing? I’ll drag your ass if I have to.”

I entered the grass tunnel. The emerald leaves pulled at my skin with itchy hairs. The rustle of the leaves gently tickled my ear, and the air darkened. Into the forest of green we charged, uninhibited by a past, unaware of the future. Blades cut red lines into my legs, yet I could not leave my comrades to fend for themselves in such darkness. A silhouette of a monstrous man appeared before me, and it was clear that this was the guardian of the path, the last obstacle before I could again draw free air. I knew such beasts are meant to be slain, yet I had no weapon to bear against the brute. With a courageous battle cry I aimed my shoulder towards my foe, and charged, my only thoughts of freeing my friends, whom he had imprisoned.

“Ouch! What? Why… I don’t know why we brought you along.”

He picked me up. He was much older than I was, and bigger. Like a giant, and sometimes, just as mean. Captured by the cruel giant, heaved over his back like a sack of rice, I was destined for a death unfit for my status. Knowing fate would not intervene, I wriggled against the gargantuan human’s hold, but escape was not meant to be. We left the tunnel behind, the brightness of the outside world almost blinding me. Around me I saw glorious structures, perhaps from civilization long lost. The wind breathed around me, a strong with the sour scent of vegetation and mud. The area was deserted, yet the giant and his brothers looked around with suspicious intent, perhaps fearing another would steal their precious meal. The giant dropped me to the ground, the ruin they had picked was blocked from the view by other such structures.

“Stay here. If you see anyone, yell. You got that? Okay.”

My friends ran around the house. They looked in all the windows as if they suspected someone was home. Then they huddled by the door, one of the barbarians trying to work the knob. I thought it past the capabilities of such brutes, to plumb the depths of such an ancient tomb took ingenuity, but as it turns out, strength is sometimes a substitute. Such treasures do not so easily gift strangers, and they were greeted by a wailing banshee, keening at their insolence. Invisible, it chased them and ignored the lone hero, sitting upon the knoll. Not so, however with Cerberus. It heaved itself upon thick legs, launching its log like body forward with every gallop. Doom approached with speed, staring into my eyes with evil intent.

I felt someone scoop me up and throw me across his shoulder. For a couple of seconds I felt my liver pinch and my throat swell. My friends actually cared about me. My comrades ran back, in the face of danger, to pull their fellow hero out of the fire. Fire represented by the slobbering sausage chasing after us. I could hear its heavy panting, its galloping footsteps as I stared into its face. It looked oddly happy, liquid dripping from the lolling tongue. It chased us back to the tunnel of grass. And we returned heroes, backs to the orange glow to the setting sun, victoriously rushing home.

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Suspended Critique

Such moments displayed by Joy Harjo’s “Suspended” paper are always beautiful to visit. Awakenings stick with people, change burns new paths in their minds. When walking through such memories, however, it is easy to become dazzled in the reminiscence, and forget to grab the audience’s hand and pull them along.

One way to kidnap the reader is to use imagery to represent emotion. Instead of saying what the event did to the narrator; paint an image on the reader’s eyes instead. On page 83, Harjo explains that her experience of jazz “changed even the way I look at the sun.” Instead of using the abstract to enlighten, using imagery to evoke the idea of a new understanding might help her drag the reader into her world. For example, “when the sun’s gentleness tickled my face, the sound of jazz warmed my ears” would leave the audience with a sense of what she felt.

Feelings also hit a wall when the voice is too passive. If the objective is to force the reader to touch the experience with gloves, then this might actually be effective. In Harjo’s piece however, it is evident that she wanted the reader to leap into a memory filled with neon lights. Using more active words and avoiding comatose language such as “was” would more effectively kick the reader off the cliff into her own reality.

The last barrier between her world and the reader’s is the tendency for her sentence length to be longer then necessary. When the reader must reach the end of their breath then gasp through the rest of the sentence, a lot of the immersion is lost. The first sentence on page 83 demonstrates this. When reading “Once I was so small that I could barely peer over the top of the backseat of the black Cadillac my father polished and tuned daily;” the audience has to stop, gather their breath, then continue with the sentence. The reader’s mind might race ahead to other things, and lose interest in continuing reading.

Like any time a person looks back, it is easy to stumble, especially in the telling. Her piece was heartfelt, and that pushed through. It is a good piece, though like any other, a little bit of pounding could do it some good.

Harjo, Joy. "Suspended." In Short: A Collection of Brief Creative Nonfiction (1996): 83-85. Print.

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He returned and rushed to the tavern, expecting to find Bethany to greet him. Instead, everyone avoided his glance. Now in terror, he grabbed one of the tavern maids by the arm, wrenched her around until she faced him. She blurted out an address, and he threw her to the ground and rushed out the door.

He knew long before he reached his destination. When he read her name upon the gravestone, his heart was filled with hallow hate. He hated God. He hated England. He hated everything around him, and swore never to return. He never learned how she died, and never cared.

Before the Blue Rose sailed away from the bay for the last time, Jude gave any on his crew a last chance to leave, but none did. He had been the only one with an anchor in England, the rest of his crew having run away from home and drafted, or long ago buried their loved ones. They were the only family each other had left.

Hunted for desertion, having nothing but the ship and barely enough food, they quickly turned to piracy. Originally hunting only foreign ships, they turned to hunting English merchant ships by necessity. Horrifically successful, the Blue Rose became the Bloody Rose, and earned a legendary reputation. Known for their policy of leaving no survivors to identify them, as well as for their unusual figurehead, the Bloody Rose brought fear to the once peaceful waters around Britain. The Bloody Rose was an unusually large and well equipped warship. This, combined with a well trained crew and his military and local marine knowledge, allowed the ship to make short work of most of its victims. He learned that his reputation distorted descriptions of himself from a captured sailor right before he killed him. He decided then that they would reap one last merchant ship before he and his men would retire to some land far away. Four years of murder had worn away at even his frozen heart.

It was then that they spotted an unusually large merchant ship. The ship sailed slow as if laden, and Jude knew immediately that it was a prize he could not ignore. Instinct tugged at his mind with doubt, but greed tempted even louder. At night they had tried to sneak up to attack, but the target oddly sped up and disappeared into the darkness, no lights marking their position. Ignoring the signs, he ordered the ship to keep course in the hopes of catching the ship.

And now he realized it was all a trap. His thoughts were jarred away as a lantern lit up the stern of the enemy ship, now feet away from the Bloody Rose’s port side. At least the enemy captain had some humor.

The impact came with a deafening crack, followed by a bellowing, thunderous groan. Thrown down upon the deck, he watched in horror as his first mate was smashed into red jelly between the embrace of the other ship’s figurehead and the Bloody Rose’s main mast. He was mercifully in the ship’s prow. Another crack and the sight of the mast falling towards him, however, let him know he would not be spared.

As he watched the giant tree trunk fall towards him, he felt an odd calm wash over him. Even stranger still, he thought he heard Bethany calling his name. Tears, not sea water, stung his eyes. A now unfamiliar emotion squeezed his heart. Guilt and sadness tugged at him as he remembered: today was her birthday. Nothing around him mattered in those last seconds, all he wanted to do was see her again. Adrenaline slowed the mast’s fall.

For the first time in five years, he prayed.

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“Nothing else then?”

She sat with her hands on her slightly swollen stomach, rays from the sun shining through the window and dancing upon her burgundy tresses. A modest apartment close to the dock, there was barely enough room to fit a wooden rocking chair, a small bed, and a stand for the lamp. Her presence, however, made the place seem more like home then the rocking cabin aboard his boat. He felt disquieted by her intense stare, so he looked down and made an exaggerated gentleman’s bow.

“Gentle lady, I must depart for seas-”

“And leave a lady at home by herself again, without anything to remember him by?”

“But I’m sure that memories, and, and something else…”

“Yes, that something else? What shall I call that ‘something’? Have you even thought about-?”

“Yes! Of course I’ve-”

“So you knew all this time and just acted like you didn’t?” Her voice softened and he knew he had dug himself a hole.

“Yes… I mean, I, no, …yes. We can call him Thomas or her-”

“And the last name!?”

“I can’t, I have to set sail today.”

She stood, and stepped within a foot of him, and locked her brown eyes with his. A tear trailed its way down her cheek.

“If you love me, tell me with more then just words. You are the captain, you can decide to stay for a day. Just for a day. For me.”

“I have a duty to my country. I promise that when I return, I’ll marry you. I’m sorry.”
He looked away, unable to bare the disappointment he knew that was in her eyes. He felt the softness of her hand on his cheek, turned back to face her, and was met by her kiss. An eternity passed in the second before she withdrew.

“Go with God.”

“And may God protect you until I return.”

The image of her smile burdened by eyes of liquid sadness burned into his brain and his heart as he left. He shortened his tour from two weeks to five days, yet his crew never asked why. He imagined every one of his brother sailors looking at him with accusing eyes, yet he knew it was only his own doubts. A cold fear haunted him despite the calm weather.

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A call cried over the salty spray of the ocean’s clashing waves. Its meaning drowned immediately in the percussive roar of waves hitting the port side of the Bloody Rose. Captain Jude Maurice heard the whistling scream of a ballista bolt surging past his left shoulder, the taste of iron tainting his tongue. With a grim smile he stared, eyes greeted by obsidian darkness, hands gripping the railing. He realized his doom. It smiled back at him, a curse bought by greed. And now his only thoughts were of a past lost.

Once, he had been a captain in the Royal Navy, the Blue Rose a guardian ship of a large port in England. The ship often moored at home port, and his crew followed him with a devotion built over years of close scrapes and unparalleled leadership. Life had not been perfect, but it was filled with spots of beautiful happiness, love being the most pleasant of all.

Bethany was only a serving wench, but for the lonely sailor, she was pleasant, if silent, company. He couldn’t explain why, but he was drawn by her presence. Perhaps it was because she was the only one that ever served him. At first it was only a grin from him and a raised eyebrow from her. Undeterred, he took to expounding outlandish stories of his imagined heroics every time she came near. Sometimes she laughed, sometimes she would just grimace.

Suddenly, she no longer appeared. When it became obvious that she was avoiding him, he started to stagger his drinking schedule. His plan was successful, and seeing her across the tavern, a look of surprise on her face, he felt as if he had caught the fox.

Then he saw the smile in her eyes, and realized the fox had caught him. From then on, he spent every second of shore time he had with his new love. Her dangerously brilliant mind became evident as they spent their time together, before he knew it she had become his fellow strategist and confidant. She explained that her father had been a captain, and he had regaled her of all his harrowing adventures. Ever since, she had watched the ships dock in the bay by the tavern. She admitted to having watched with distance until she noticed that one ship had a wooden rose instead of a women figure blooming from the stern. Finding it romantic, she swore to find the captain of the ship.

Being a Christian, he waited a good month before sleeping with her. A year quickly passed, and it was becoming evident that he would soon be a father. It is then that he employed his superb skill at ignoring the obvious, until Bethany confronted him on the night that had ever plagued him since.


"Save - English-French Dictionary WordReference.com." English to French, Italian, German & Spanish Dictionary - WordReference.com. Web. 07 Sept. 2009. .

"Jude the Apostle -." Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Web. 07 Sept. 2009. .

"Piracy -." Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Web. 07 Sept. 2009. .

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Before I start spelunking the darker bowels of religion, I feel the need to write in a disclaimer. Because I'm lazy, I'll regurgitate the story that I've been using for years to describe practically everything in my life.

When I was a child, a patch of elephant grass separated my subdivision and a closed gate community that existed on the other side. In the middle of this wall of grass was a tunnel hollowed out by the hooligans that came before me. Through this portal, everything was richer. All the lawns were without weeds, no paint was pealing from the walls. All those cars I saw in the movies were zooming down the street. This world was a different world, it was a separate universe I visited whenever I wished. I wasn't alone in my belief. Using the word "gang" is misleading, yet it is the only word I can use to describe us. We dived into the empty culvert systems, peered into store windows, and occasionally did less intelligent things. Here, in this other world, nothing could touch us, because life was perfect.

Years later I visited the subdivision that I used to live in, by chance happening by my old house. When I looked across the yard, I realized the immortal gateway that I had so cherished in my youth had been chopped down, and the reality was laid bare before me. The "perfect" subdivision I had imagined had become a decrepit old residential area. The stores were gone, the culvert filled, and the mystery blew away. The question was then, did this world that I glimpsed in my youth actually ever exist, or was it a complete fabrication?

Like the world through the patch of grass, when I was young, perfection was easy to imagine. Beyond the gates of death I imagined a garden, perfect, and clean. Everything I loved would stay forever, life would always be perfect, and the things that I feared would be banished like a breath on the wind. Believing in God was easy then.

Then belief got hard. Loved ones were lost, and the deeper questions of the mere existence of atrocities began to wear away my faith. Science slammed into my faith like a meteor, declaring the things I once held true to be false. When my prayers were not answered with any speed, my faith dripped away to nothingness.

For many years I looked in on religion from the outside, and saw what I suspect many of the nonreligious see. I saw hate and intolerance. I saw people who gave up everything just so they could attain an illusion. I saw perversion and hypocrisy.

It was different when I rejoined the church. I saw that I had hated people who did not deserve it. I had been intolerant because I had thought that they were intolerant themselves. Yet they were as hurt by the overzealous as much as those outside the religion. They weren't ignorant either. They made the choice to believe in something and ultimately did not seem worse for it. They weren't self-righteous or angry either. They were people. We are people.

So remember when looking at religions that you don't yourself become close minded. Remember that attacking a religion can be completely without merit. This blog is not here to attack any religion, but simply question the practices by some factions within the faiths that seem destructive to society and the faiths themselves.

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Before you go any further, please note that due to its nature this blog may contain highly offensive content. If this bothers you in any way, or if you are under the age of 18, please do not continue reading. Close this window or tab, preferably your entire browser.

If you are not easily offended and are of age, please continue reading.

And this is where the insanity begins. You have probably entered this realm by accident. Curiosity dragged you in here by the nose hairs or such. Or perhaps you're here due to the requirements of a class. In either disaster, let me quell the confusion.

This blog was created to discuss the my own spiritual views. Since I'm still not totally sure exactly what they may be, most likely there is someone out their that totally disagrees with them. At the very least, I will be discussing my views on the more conflicted areas of religion, though I may post almost anything if I get bored.

Being that this is a blog, most of the discussion will simply be a written monologue by, of course, none other than me. That would be boring if it is to be the only thing of which this blog is constructed, so I will endeavor to make this more interactive. No, there will not be any public bashing of crosses. There will, however, be heated discussion in the comments section. At least, that is my fondest hope. As stated before, my views are probably controversial somewhere.

Heated in no way means violent, and while I may not always be able to catch and ban people who show a consistent need for such, I will attempt to delete comments that are obviously out of line, though I do not yet have a system.

One system I have already come up with is the "The Gauntlet". Quite different from the armored gloves that "ye olde knights" wore, the gauntlet that this system resembles is one of testing. In times long past, and perhaps sometimes present, a person was forced to walk between two rows of his comrades or accusers and was bashed with fists or clubs until he got to the other side. The bashing that will be done in this area of debate, however, will be done by words and numbers.

The system will consist of various statements relating to the blog topic that will be listed at the end of the topic being either given a point or deducted a point by each commentator. In this way a general feeling of the public opinion can be gathered, and will be discussed on the next topic. I encourage the commentators to add qualifiers to reduce confusion on why they decided to add or subtract a point, but do not require it. Of course, this system will only be in use when discussing an actual religious topic.

Another part of this blog is a story that I'm writing. It has a sort of religious tone, so if that is something that you don't like, then feel free to ignore those posts. Otherwise, feel free to give constructive comments.

Since I'm currently attending college, and the fact that having a blog is merely a requirement for one of the classes I am taking, this blog will not be updated on Tuesdays and Thursdays (Sometimes, or I might just decide to randomly update as I see fit). Otherwise, Look for the blog to pop up sometime during the day, mostly at random times. There will, in addition, be random other posts not related to the subject of this blog that are required for the class. These will be marked as such, and can safely be ignored, as they will be deleted after the end of the semester.

Also, please consider that the opinions expressed here do not represent any group that I'm aware of. Sometimes they don't even represent my own views. This blog is, for the most part, an exploration. I'm easily swayed by logic, reason, emotions, and deadly instruments. This is why I've decided to make this blog public, as opinions and beliefs should be expressed and tested in order for any person or society to grow.

Also note that I'm not an expert in anything relevant, so please take everything I declare with fifty pounds of salt.

That said, welcome and please enjoy.