For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect or solicit belief. Yet, heed my words, young revolutionary.
I was young once; alive; and freethinking. I believed myself more clever than my forefathers, more perceptive than any who had come before. The world seemed to carry itself with cruel simplicity, its injustices infected, gaping wounds for all to see. I believed myself a revolutionary, with all of my pamphlets and suppressed papers hoarded carefully, to be read and reread. I believed in a better land over the hillside, a land of plenty, a land where the profit earned by the work of the people went to the people. I dreamed of a great redistribution, and longed for harsh retribution against those who seemed to pull the twisted strings. The secret police took some of my comrades, seemingly reaffirming my hate.
The world seemed to be made up of two types of people: us and them, good and evil. Some friends tried to sway me from my black and white world. They tried to tell me that there was no them, that everyone was part of the us. That we should look upon them as brothers. They tried to tell me that the "them" I so longed for did not exist; that I was chasing shadows. But I could not be moved, I was so stubborn and sure in my beliefs, in my pamphlets. I see now that both I and they were wrong. The world is not made up of us and them, and it is also not made up of just us. The truth is that there is no us: there is only them.
But I did not understand that, I was so overwhelmed by the simplistic mindset rotting my brain. I was a believer, blind to the world and my comrades, lost in my faith. I sank deeper. No longer were the pamphlet's hoarded, I had long since memorized the lines. Now I spread the propaganda to counter that of the state. Every word became more ingrained into my being as I lost childhood friends one by one. They seemed blind to the injustices committed against the people, so I traded them in for comrades, for allies. Friends were no longer necessary, I reasoned, if they did not understand.
I sat in underground meetings, breathing the dusty cellar air, plotting the states fall, plotting a glorious new rise. I made bombs, procured weapons, worked protesting crowds to a frenzy, sent spies into the darkest circles of our enemy as circles darker still formed under my eyes.
And on one fateful day, already forgotten by history, we built the barricades, used the stockpiled bombs and weapons. We overthrew the corrupt state, and the stifling pressure which had filled me rolled away, filled only with joy.
Things were to change, every meal was to be a feast; we were give back the power to the people, to the workers, to the third estate. We would move quickly to open the gates of prosperity. And indeed, moves were made...
But... our leaders, the original revolutionaries, the great planners of our victory began to see things in a different light. The secret police, while officially disbanded, had merely changed location and name. Apparently they could serve the people, if properly retooled. They would bring the ideas of the revolution to every corner of the land, and would root out the plotting loyalists still among us. Who could argue with that?
The factory owners, once decried as the bringers of injustice, were turned out or killed. New, loyal party members began managing the factories. Their families filled the newly vacant mansions, their children wore the smoothest silk, and the workers still wore the coarsest of fabrics. The wheels must turn, they said, and we work all the time. How could I argue? I had followed their authority since the time of my youth, I could not bring myself to question it, no matter what I saw. Time went on, emblazoned with this uneasy balance within my mind.
Soon enough, the people began to mutter, the rank stench of revolution filled the air. I had chosen my path; I was too old, too blind to change- even if the you, the new revolutionaries, had allowed me to join. My belief was broken, I had seen more then enough of the work of my comrades. But I still clung to its empty shell like a drowning sailer to a raft.
Soon, another day came, more barricades, more bombs. Some of my comrades were killed on the spot, others, like me, were thrown into the cells, for a public execution at a later date. This wass, apparently, meant to build morale for the new state. I hear that the secret police are still alive and well, that the big homes have still not been torn down. The wheels still turn, they always do.
And I sat in my cell, and I let them turn. And for the first time in my life, I examined myself and the work I had done. I opened my eyes to my blindness, and accepted my fate. I will die today, at 3:30, in market square, by the hangman's noose. Life will roll on, the wheels will still turn, the people will go on as they always have.
I can now see the "them" which I so hated in my youth. I can see "them" all around me, and within me. They are smiling. I will be happy to see the small p[art of them living within me die. Kill me today, young revolutionary, but do not follow my path. For the most wild, yet most homely narrative I have penned, I neither expect not solicit belief. But heed my words, young revolutionary, watch yourself and your comrades. "They" live in you as well, they live in all of us. Watch them.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Litmag Ideas
I looked at 1999-2000 and last years.
I liked last years size over the larger size. There was a lot of empty space in the larger size. However, the smaller pages would involve more pages to layout, which would be more work for those working.
In terms of layout, I didn't like the standardized layouts from last year. I think that we could have had more layouts, potentially done by staff members. I think that having individually laid out pages could allow for more creative layouts and layouts fitted to the works on the pages.
I thought that some of the picture from last years litmag were blown up to fit a page, when they should have been smaller.
I liked the random picture on the cover of last years litmag, how there was a story there.
I liked the art in both. It is reliant on the submitters.
I liked how credit was given, seemed fine to me.
Both themes were fine, although the one last year seemed a bit more unified. I couldnt really tell what the theme from 1999-2000 was.
I think that art should also be separate from the literature, as often it distracts from the writing and is unrelated. It never seems to fit. If it had its own corner, I think that the litmag would flow better
I liked last years size over the larger size. There was a lot of empty space in the larger size. However, the smaller pages would involve more pages to layout, which would be more work for those working.
In terms of layout, I didn't like the standardized layouts from last year. I think that we could have had more layouts, potentially done by staff members. I think that having individually laid out pages could allow for more creative layouts and layouts fitted to the works on the pages.
I thought that some of the picture from last years litmag were blown up to fit a page, when they should have been smaller.
I liked the random picture on the cover of last years litmag, how there was a story there.
I liked the art in both. It is reliant on the submitters.
I liked how credit was given, seemed fine to me.
Both themes were fine, although the one last year seemed a bit more unified. I couldnt really tell what the theme from 1999-2000 was.
I think that art should also be separate from the literature, as often it distracts from the writing and is unrelated. It never seems to fit. If it had its own corner, I think that the litmag would flow better
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Narrative Poem
One day
In Creative Writing
A black hole opened up
And ate Adobe Indesign
Ms. Cassell lost her head
"Where did it go?" she cried
As she pulled out her poor hair
"I ate it," said the Black Hole
"Yay!" said all the ickle children
"What?" said Ms. Cassell
She started hyperventilating.
The Black Hole felt bad.
So he gave Indesign back.
Ms Cassell did a dance.
In Creative Writing
A black hole opened up
And ate Adobe Indesign
Ms. Cassell lost her head
"Where did it go?" she cried
As she pulled out her poor hair
"I ate it," said the Black Hole
"Yay!" said all the ickle children
"What?" said Ms. Cassell
She started hyperventilating.
The Black Hole felt bad.
So he gave Indesign back.
Ms Cassell did a dance.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Favorite Poem
The Cremation of Sam McGee
Robert Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'Round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
That he'd "sooner live in hell".
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
Till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
To whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight
In our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
Were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
Won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
Then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
Of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
So I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn;
But God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
That was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
And I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
Because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
To cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
In my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
While the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --
O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay
Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
And the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
But I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
And it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
And a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
It was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
And I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,
"Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
And I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
And I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --
Such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
And I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
To hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
And the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
Went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .
Then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
In the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
And he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
You'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
It's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
I like this poem. A lot.
Robert Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'Round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
That he'd "sooner live in hell".
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
Till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
To whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight
In our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
Were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
Won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
Then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
Of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
So I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn;
But God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
That was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
And I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
Because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
To cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
In my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
While the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --
O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay
Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
And the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
But I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
And it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
And a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
It was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
And I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,
"Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
And I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
And I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --
Such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
And I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
To hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
And the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
Went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .
Then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
In the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
And he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
You'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
It's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
I like this poem. A lot.
Other poems
Hilarious
Always
Silent water is
Falling, dropping- the impact
will shatter the peace
Pointless
Obtuse
Evil
Malignant
Always
Silent water is
Falling, dropping- the impact
will shatter the peace
Pointless
Obtuse
Evil
Malignant
Letter from dead person
What a (jerk). What. a. (jerk). I looked down at the letter again. I hate you Uncle Lou, I mouthed silently to myself. This was a classic Lou move. The first couple of lines read, "Hey you guys. I just wanted to let you know that heaven is pretty good. Not quite what I expected, but I've still been enjoying my stay here. I've been thinking..."
What a (jerk). This was his idea of a practical joke, of getting the last laugh. I bet he thought up this stupid plan minutes after being diagnosed with colon cancer. I bet thats what he thought: "Let's write a letter to them, have it delivered after I die. Let's (screw) with their heads."
God (dang) (jerk)
I miss you.
What a (jerk). This was his idea of a practical joke, of getting the last laugh. I bet he thought up this stupid plan minutes after being diagnosed with colon cancer. I bet thats what he thought: "Let's write a letter to them, have it delivered after I die. Let's (screw) with their heads."
God (dang) (jerk)
I miss you.
Things I dont think that I would say story
John woke up.
It was bright and sunny.
But when he went into the breakfast room, his dad said,
"Its a dark day."
John was confused.
He went to school.
His mopey friend Jim said,
"I love school, especially all the busywork."
John was confused.
He ran into Arthur.
Arthur said, "God bless Hillary Clinton, Obama, and all those other godless liberals.
John was confused.
Then it dawned on him.
It must be opposite day.
"Oh, I get it," he said,
"I have one."
"The braves suck."
Arthur broke his jaw.
It was bright and sunny.
But when he went into the breakfast room, his dad said,
"Its a dark day."
John was confused.
He went to school.
His mopey friend Jim said,
"I love school, especially all the busywork."
John was confused.
He ran into Arthur.
Arthur said, "God bless Hillary Clinton, Obama, and all those other godless liberals.
John was confused.
Then it dawned on him.
It must be opposite day.
"Oh, I get it," he said,
"I have one."
"The braves suck."
Arthur broke his jaw.
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