The Collapsing Universe- A Legitimate Post

     The thing that triggered the Big Bang is often referred to as the 'cosmic egg'. There was an absurdly strong explosion which most likely took place due to nuclear reactions. As you know, the universe is expanding. Planetary bodies and black dwarfs have their own center of gravity, all of which influence the things around them. This gravity will (supposedly) slow the outwards movement of the universe and, after the velocity reaches 0, the universe will snap back inwards, creating another cosmic egg. The thought that I'm about to propose is extremely hypothetical, due to the fact that the density of planetary bodies and black dwarfs changing the order in which particles were originally heading after the Big Bang, but, I cannot help but wonder. Imagine if, somehow, things (everything within the universe) compressed themselves into the exact order from which they were shot out from the cosmic egg. Then, when there was another nuclear reaction which would result in an explosion, everything would would eventually reach where it had been before it 'snapped' back after losing its velocity. In other words: what if every single molecule making up the earth, every human, every star, was identical to the stars and molecules and humans that had been there before them; that the universe just goes through infinite cycles of identical rearrangements of everything?

     It is a very amusing thought... everything in history would continuously repeat itself, no, infinitely repeat itself. Just as Earth has its history completely erased, it begins once again. Txai lives, she dies, she's recreated eons of years later. I do not view this hypothetical situation as an example of fate, but a presentation of the ways in which everything abides a mathematical formula.... which is beautiful.

     I am not so naive as to believe that many people read my blog, but, regardless, I do have a question that I would like to be responded to in the comments. Would you rather have the universe repeat itself endlessly or never have come into existence? I cannot choose, I find for both of the sides to the question posed are embarrassingly pathetic. Instead of choosing to watch a dog endlessly chase its own tail or having aborted it as a fetus, I must say that I'd rather sit and watch. Laugh at the stupid dog, cry at the waste of its life, be unaware of the dog because it had never been born, reach in and hold its tail to prevent it from running in circles. 

The Collapsing Universe

     I've decided to pick up another book that's about black holes. Over the past few weeks, I've noticed my reading habits and interests changing. I liked run of the mill novels before but I recently started to read Cassini, who writes extremely abstract works of fiction. Then, my interest in fiction started to deteriorate and I found myself  absorbed in non-fiction. Currently, I'm reading both The Collapsing Universe and Disease of Cattle. I like these two books a lot because every single sentence teaches me a new thing. Whether I'm learning about the nuclear force or how cows have epilepsy, I'm just cramming raw information into my mind... which is bus-loads of fun. Well, it's a short post, but I just wanted to share y developing love for non-fiction and if I were to go into depth about either of my books, I truly wouldn't be able to stop typing...

The Scarlet Letter(2) (for a summary, please read my other Scarlet Letter post)

     Sadly, I was about halfway through the book when I discovered one of my favorite things about it. Though I immediately noticed how (regardless of how many clauses would occupy one sentence) nearly every single sentence was a truly beautiful work of art in itself and how the book assisted my arguments against others that being an introvert can be beneficial. For the first 120 pages or so, I was not aware that this book was meant to be read aloud.
     When I was younger, my dad would read me to sleep. Whether the book was At the Back of the North Wind,  Huckleberry Fin, or Little Lord Fauntleroy (which, even as the young age of 7, I refused to allow my dad to finish due to its unbearable amount of repetitiveness in its descriptions and the suck-up personality of Lord Fauntleroy), I always had fond memories of my childhood bedtime stories and the soothing sound of my dad's voice. I was on the train a few days ago, sitting down next to my dad and reaching into my bag for The Scarlet Letter, when I noticed my old man looking at the cover. I offered to return the favor of all of the books that he'd read to me. Having had done this before, my dad leaned in and I began to whisper the words of Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale into my father's ear. I read to him some more during an Art field trip, then again on a bus, then on a train again, in a car, at home, in my dad's room, while I was sitting on the radiator and he on the coach... I started to allow myself to daydream during Project Real; wanting to share every word of the book with my father and my father alone.
     I distinctly remember walking alongside my dad on the Art field trip that he'd accompanied me on. The sky was a beautiful shade of darkish gray and it was very wet outside. I was reading a part of Pearl's (Hester's daughter), and, after hearing the words aloud, I realized the extent to which Pearl was a demon-spawn, I was able to fully comprehend the immense amount beauty and eloquence in the writing of Hawthorne! I was thrilled. Reading the book aloud stimulated my imagination, making the stream the separated Pearl and her Mother more distinct, making the painful steps of Dimmesdale even harder to bare! But, perhaps, the most satisfactory and exciting part of reading the book aloud was when I was sitting in front of the space heater in my dad's room and, while reading to him, I heard him quietly snore. I had accomplished what he'd accomplished for me so many times in my early youth; a voice calming enough and a text beautiful enough to rock a person to sleep.

The Posts of Many Others

     At first, this assignment irritated me. I did not see the point in reading the works of my peers. Nor did I see the point in leaving my comments to their work. Still, after reading many a blog, I'm still skeptical. But, I did pick up yet another reason to not want to read other 8th grade blogs: It's crushing. After browsing the works of Annie   and of Lilabet, I was ashamed not only of my blog posts, but of my capability as a writer in general. In 7th grade, I sat directly across from Liliabet. I'd lean over the table, and grab a hold of her published pieces, claiming the treasure before any other 7th grade eyes could reach it. Lilabet never failed to thoroughly impress me and inspire me to improve my writing, with a vague hope that it would one day be comparable to hers. I must admit though, eventually this newly found motivation became a sort of despair. The maturity of her cynicism, her ever-growing vocabulary, the complexity of a single sentence... I had always known that the feats of her writing could not be compared to mine... whoops! I just read Pia's blog... Yet another has been added to my list of superior writers)!
     Of all of their posts, how can I possibly pick only one? The posts are built upon each other and constantly poke, pinch and scream out, ''Tis I! I'm the best I tell you the best!'. As they bicker, yet another post climbs its way to the top, only to be pulled down and replaced by those beneath it! I try to single one out, only to think of another. I like these blogs not only because they're a swell suffusion of what I value in writing (grammar, vocabulary, originality, fluency) but because they tell me, 'Txai, you could do a helluva lot better'. 
     I like to say that I gained all of my current maturity and logic at the age of 4, I've yet to mature any farther, and do not think that I ever will. Growing up was annoying; the screams of kindergarten, the petty problems of 3rd grade, the condescending voice with which all adults addressed me in. I, sometime in elementary school, learned to not push myself. I did not need to. Studying wasn't necessary, neither was particularly heavy editing and revision to my writing. I believe that it was in 7th grade when I became aware that I needed to study in order to succeed in classes like Social Studies and Math. Later, thanks to the works of Lilabet, I learned that if I wanted to turn out a truly satisfactory piece of writing, I would actually have to work... hard. I realized that, in order to obtain my prior success once more, I would have to exert a legitimate effort.

Jim

     I'm not sure if I've already stated this but, just to make sure, I'll take the risk of repeating myself. Every few months, I re-read every single comic book in my possession. This takes hours upon hours to accomplish, usually devouring my normal reading life for at least a week. I did this about a month or so ago, but, I made a drastic mistake. I forgot to read Frank. In chapter 1 of volume 2, Manhog attempts to kill a bird, after suffering a head injury, he begins to worship Frank and becomes entirely delirious as his logic (which he didn't have much of to start with...) rapidly deteriorates. A can of silver paint applied to a skinned leg, a popped blood blister and an incident of near-drowning later, Manhog finally accomplishes his original goal, eating a freshly killed bird. The feel of this particular comic is very hard to put into words. It has a childlike appeal to it. 'Childlike' does not mean stupid or immature. I am positive that there are some freaky, abnormally intelligent and insightful 7 year olds out there who live this comic. I like this comic so much that I'm sure to read every single word inside of it. Whether it may be comments or publishing dates, I've read them all.   

     Frank is just one of the many, amazing comics that my dad decided to store in my bedroom one day. I've never really liked the superhero stuff, except Plastic Man. I admire meticulous artwork and effort. Upon discovering that Mad frequently used the same image in one of the features in an issue, I was extremely disappointed. Though I do go through my comic fades which are randomly born and eventually face sudden deaths, some of the masters have always stayed by my side. Well, before I wrap this up, I'd like to mention that you ought to read Jimmy Corrigan and I'd also like to dedicate this flimsy ELA blog post (which is barely worthy of containing this name) to Harvey Pekar, who died a few months ago... I do believe that the cause of his death was related to heart problems... Man, could I read that guy's rants, I was comforted to know that somebody besides myself was capable of feeling such repulsion towards ignorant beings. Heh, don't remember when Jackson  died but I won't forget the death of Harvey... I was, as usual sitting by the computer and listening to NPR... Well, this response is becoming much too conversational for my tastes, so I'll leave you 8th graders to your contemplation, teenage angst, and cellphones...

Jim

     I'm not sure if I've already stated this but, just to make sure, I'll take the risk of repeating myself. Every few months, I re-read every single comic book in my possession. This takes hours upon hours to accomplish, usually devouring my normal reading life for at least a week. I did this about a month or so ago, but, I made a drastic mistake. I forgot to read Frank. In chapter 1 of volume 2, Manhog attempts to kill a bird, after suffering a head injury, he begins to worship Frank and becomes entirely delirious as his logic (which he didn't have much of to start with...) rapidly deteriorates. A can of silver paint applied to a skinned leg, a popped blood blister and an incident of near-drowning later, Manhog finally accomplishes his original goal, eating a freshly killed bird. The feel of this particular comic is very hard to put into words. It has a childlike appeal to it. 'Childlike' does not mean stupid or immature. I am positive that there are some freaky, abnormally intelligent and insightful 7 year olds out there who live this comic. I like this comic so much that I'm sure to read every single word inside of it. Whether it may be comments or publishing dates, I've read them all.   

     Frank is just one of the many, amazing comics that my dad decided to store in my bedroom one day. I've never really liked the superhero stuff, except Plastic Man. I admire meticulous artwork and effort. Upon discovering that Mad frequently used the same image in one of the features in an issue, I was extremely disappointed. Though I do go through my comic fades which are randomly born and eventually face sudden deaths, some of the masters have always stayed by my side. Well, before I wrap this up, I'd like to mention that you ought to read Jimmy Corrigan and I'd also like to dedicate this flimsy ELA blog post (which is barely worthy of containing this name) to Harvey Pekar, who died a few months ago... I do believe that the cause of his death was related to heart problems... Man, could I read that guy's rants, I was comforted to know that somebody besides myself was capable of feeling such repulsion towards ignorant beings. Heh, don't remember when Jackson  died but I won't forget the death of Harvey... I was, as usual sitting by the computer and listening to NPR... Well, this response is becoming much too conversational for my tastes, so I'll leave you 8th graders to your contemplation, teenage angst, and cellphones...

The Scarlet Letter

     A women who lives in a Puritan village commits one of the most frowned upon sins; adultery. Having been pitied, Hester's life was spared, instead, she was made to wear an embroidered A on her dress. To do so, she used scarlet threads and branded herself with a beautiful A which reflected the evening sun as she was first released from her prison cell.
     I use the word branded intentionally, Hester will live her life with the townsfolk glaring at the medal of her sin. When she dies, her tombstone will be engraved with the letter she bore for nearly all of her life. It's spectacular, seeing the way that Hester is so quickly isolated from the community that she'd once been apart of. Though she sews clothing for those around her, they do not meet her eyes. It seems that they're only able to stare at the A on Hester's bosom. Walking to market, Hester's chest is singed with each disapproving glare. Her cheeks are made red by the way her customers freely make it known that they're disgusted by how unfaithful she'd been to her husband (who, by the way, hasn't been around Hester for years) she'd been.
     Logically, Hester secludes herself in a desolate abandoned cottage, rarely leaving, rarely speaking, friendless but spared of the townsfolk's resentment towards her. Who would do differently? Of course though, there always be those who claim to 'thrive on social interactions' and 'will die if they've only themselves for company!'. And, of course, there are the folks who shun social isolation. Why? I do not know. Many claim that it is unhealthy, but to leave your cottage only to be shunned is better than mental peace?
     Personally, I like to spend my entire weekends inside, ignoring emails, and with my cellphone's battery left uncharged. Being alone is nice. It's not as though that, if I were to leave my fort, I'd be bombarded with words of hate and disapproval, but why spend time with humans when I can daydream about more ideal things... more intriguing people, quieter places, massive, burnt forests, silk ballroom gowns, empty mansions overlooking a lonely plain, visited only by scorched, sacred trees? Where's that sort of appeal to be found in reality? Why waste time roaming congested city streets and waiting in line surrounded by filthy, obnoxious people (filthy and obnoxious in comparison to those that I can create myself)? Why go outside to only be welcomed by the same monotonous streets and people and cars? I truly do not see the point in all of it, I've already created a much more interesting world of my own.