I cannot say that I enjoyed blogging. I prefer more traditional approaches to teaching and blogging sure isn't one of them. Blogging differs from writing in a notebook in many ways. Some of which being:
1. Blogs are harder to access because not everybody has the time to come in during Zero Period, not everybody has a computer and because not everybody has consistent internet connections.
2. Blogs make one's work much, much more dispensable. My blog is a blog amongst thousands of other students' blogs. All of these blogs can be deleted with the click of mouse. I'm confident that I'll forget about my blog and the blogs of many others in due time. There is something special about writing an entry in *my* notebook with *my* pen. Destroying my work becomes a physical act whereas the deletion of my last week's post was done nonchalantly while watching anime and browsing reddit.
3. When on the internet, people become much more lenient in regard to spelling and grammar (particularly capitalization and apostrophes).
4. I only like reading the work of young teenagers when it's well-written or when I'm editing it heavily. Both of these things were rather rare.
5. While I like the idea of commenting on the work of others' (heh... secret editing), I was disappointed in the comments that were made. Basically, due to #1, people often felt rushed while writing/replying to blogs which led to #3 and #5.
I highly doubt that I'll continue my blog. I think that blogs ought to be reserved for people who are abnormally average or are curiously unique or exciting. I don't feel that I do anything in life worth blogging about. My reading life is not particularly special and I'd rather not share my thoughts with the public.
This blog did reinforce my opinion that non-fiction should be read for facts and if you're looking for metaphors you ought to go read some metaphysical hogwash.
But, one thing that I really, really disliked about blogging was the lack of privacy. I like to read things (this goes from the poems that people write as shameless children to memoirs from 6th grade) in order to find out everything about people. I often sit quietly and listen intensely to conversations; picking up every ounce of personal information dropped. I don't care to gossip and I despise drama so I save up all of these bits of information for the sake of my amusement. While I like doing this to others I don't like it when anybody else knows anything potentially worth knowing about me. Blogs are too public for my liking. I don't want people to know my name, my thoughts, the school that I go to or the class that I'm in. This is probably because I'm paranoid but it's mostly because I don't like giving people the opportunity to start conversions with me.
I'm sorry if this post of particularly cynical. And, Ms. Rear, if you're looking for positive feedback I will say this-- be sure to be strict about grammar, spelling and punctuation in regard to the blogs.
And, with that, I bid AwaketheGomer farewell.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Logicomix
Gödel's Theorem abolished what would've been the climatic ending to this graphic novel. I read each page and verified my understanding of all of the philosophies and theories that were proposed in my notebook. Doing this intensified my craving for what Russell had been looking for: a completely solid foundation made of logic that's capable of carrying the weight of math and of human conflict. I had soon made variables of my own and wished to farther my thinking with the use of my pen. Russell had a cruel lust for knowledge and for absolute truth; a void that could be filled with only the most concrete things- logic and math.
Gödel's Theorem states that there will always be unanswerable questions. In relation to the beliefs of Ludwig Wittgenstein- a logician who believed that not all things could be spoken about logically, such as things that cannot be fathomed (the universe, infinity). Because one cannot form a picture of the unfathomable, then we cannot make claims upon what can't be imagined [please correct me if I did not properly convey his philosophy]- Gödel's Theorem does not completely deny what Wittgenstein believed in. But, in that case of Bertrand Russell, a life's work had been obliterated. Russell longed for a complete understanding which Gödel had denied the existence of.
Being a man of reason, Russell did not futilely resist. It's odd how one man can disprove what we as mankind have been looking for for a ridiculously long time. At the beginning of the book, mathematicians sneered at Russell's wish to perfectly combine logic and math, the mathematicians continued what, generally, they've been notorious for for many years; an air of stubbornness and superiority. I do not blame the mathematicians though, they're feelings are equal to that of most people- upon finally finding solid grounds to stand upon, people refuse to or reluctantly move to potentially shaky ground. Many resist revisions in math and science because those are meant to be things that were already completely reliable.
The quest of Bertrand Russell embodies the human struggle of finding reason and ethics, logic and math. Humans are curious beings. We search for the answers to our pondering and are not satisfied until an adequate solution if reached. But what if the solution is the fact that there is no solution? Sounds like a Russell's Paradox to me!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russel%27s_paradox
Gödel's Theorem states that there will always be unanswerable questions. In relation to the beliefs of Ludwig Wittgenstein- a logician who believed that not all things could be spoken about logically, such as things that cannot be fathomed (the universe, infinity). Because one cannot form a picture of the unfathomable, then we cannot make claims upon what can't be imagined [please correct me if I did not properly convey his philosophy]- Gödel's Theorem does not completely deny what Wittgenstein believed in. But, in that case of Bertrand Russell, a life's work had been obliterated. Russell longed for a complete understanding which Gödel had denied the existence of.
Being a man of reason, Russell did not futilely resist. It's odd how one man can disprove what we as mankind have been looking for for a ridiculously long time. At the beginning of the book, mathematicians sneered at Russell's wish to perfectly combine logic and math, the mathematicians continued what, generally, they've been notorious for for many years; an air of stubbornness and superiority. I do not blame the mathematicians though, they're feelings are equal to that of most people- upon finally finding solid grounds to stand upon, people refuse to or reluctantly move to potentially shaky ground. Many resist revisions in math and science because those are meant to be things that were already completely reliable.
The quest of Bertrand Russell embodies the human struggle of finding reason and ethics, logic and math. Humans are curious beings. We search for the answers to our pondering and are not satisfied until an adequate solution if reached. But what if the solution is the fact that there is no solution? Sounds like a Russell's Paradox to me!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russel%27s_paradox
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Cosmicomics- Calvino
A few dozen words into the first chapter, I became rather conflicted. The story that I was reading (which is wonderfully written by the way) is about a town of people who, when the moon draws near, hoist up a ladder and collect milk and cheese from the moon's surface. While I wasn't being distracted by the descriptive and eloquent phrases that I was reading, the left side of my brain was going haywire. What about Roche's Limit? The Tidal Effect? Potential collision? Gravity? Moondust? Light? Atmosphere? Temperature?....But, mostly, I was worried about Roche's Limit...
The short story defied all that I had respected in our solar system! In the scientific laws! Calvino's lack of the latter left me wounded and surprisingly hurt... But, I must admit, Calvino won me over. While discussing the book with my Pa, he pointed out that Comicomics was not a piece of science-fiction but that rather, it was a work of fantasy.
For those of you who have not read my post on Invisible Cities (another work by Calvino), Calvino is the master of managing to describe a fictional world with such precision that it seems real in way. The mental image of the moon radiating a drained white light and casting thick shades onto and off of quite homes made the whole of my brain feel peaceful and somewhat serene. Beauty overtook my obsession with science and created a blissful sort of harmony- an exact mixture that's hard for humans to express and affectively create.
In my opinion, beauty is born out of science (as all things are) but thinking about that flipped around creates an uncomfortable mental glitch... Calvino discarded science in order to create his story but he did not do so out of disrespect but in order to create a perspective that science does not necessarily allow.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The Kingdom of this World- Carpentier
This book follows the life of a Haitian slave who lives to see the Haitian slave revolt and lives to see many imprisoned once more. As a small handful of you may know, I loathe retells. So, I highly suggest that you click this link: http://www.travelinghaiti.com/history_of_haiti/slave_rebellion.asp. Only, this sight does not tell the story of The Kingdom of this World; the story of voodoo and slaves being ripped apart by crazed dogs. Nor does it mention the make-shift shelter of Ti Noel, our fictional companion throughout the book. Nor does 'travelinghaiti' depict the image of Haiti's first black king sinking into a pool of mortar by the hand of a priest and under the eye of a wife.
I don't usually like books that involve slavery for two main reasons: firstly, I don't like historical fiction... unless it's The Picture of Dorian Gray. Secondly, books about slavery tend to have a strong 'black pride' streak. And, I'm not a black pride admirer. Actually, I don't like it when anybody takes too much pride in their race. It creates a vial mixture social Darwinism, arrogance, and an over-abundance of pride. Well, maybe I'll go into that more in a later post. There are though, of course, exceptions. I enjoyed the The Classic Slave Narratives for instance. But, either way, this book was a pleasing.
The way in which it's written is extremely unique and I've never seen a style quite like it before. The sentences nearly always contain at least 2 commas. And, while the end of the sentence may be seemingly odd in comparison to the start of the sentence. Carpenteir created multiple mental pictures and moods by wielding a single sentence. The book had a vague feeling to it, but I felt as though I could look back at earlier events and recall them as I would memory of my own. There a extremely vivid moments amid a rush of commotion or thought. Which, really, as an amazing feeling for an author to be able to craft for a reader.
My dad has a very smart, well-read friend who has a witty and well-read wife. The two of them suggest and lend books to me so I have to pay tribute to them for helping me find an enjoyable piece of literature.
Either way, I miss the cosmos so be prepared for a non-fiction post next week.
I don't usually like books that involve slavery for two main reasons: firstly, I don't like historical fiction... unless it's The Picture of Dorian Gray. Secondly, books about slavery tend to have a strong 'black pride' streak. And, I'm not a black pride admirer. Actually, I don't like it when anybody takes too much pride in their race. It creates a vial mixture social Darwinism, arrogance, and an over-abundance of pride. Well, maybe I'll go into that more in a later post. There are though, of course, exceptions. I enjoyed the The Classic Slave Narratives for instance. But, either way, this book was a pleasing.
The way in which it's written is extremely unique and I've never seen a style quite like it before. The sentences nearly always contain at least 2 commas. And, while the end of the sentence may be seemingly odd in comparison to the start of the sentence. Carpenteir created multiple mental pictures and moods by wielding a single sentence. The book had a vague feeling to it, but I felt as though I could look back at earlier events and recall them as I would memory of my own. There a extremely vivid moments amid a rush of commotion or thought. Which, really, as an amazing feeling for an author to be able to craft for a reader.
My dad has a very smart, well-read friend who has a witty and well-read wife. The two of them suggest and lend books to me so I have to pay tribute to them for helping me find an enjoyable piece of literature.
Either way, I miss the cosmos so be prepared for a non-fiction post next week.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Subarashii Sekai-
I have been motivated to not do anything at all. Therefore, I will not create a legitimate blog post. Perhaps I'll take a nap.
*sigh*
It seems that I'm not able to overlook my obligations towards the betterment of my education.
For those of you who do not know, I adore manga. I get home, I game, I read manga, I game, I read manga... so on and so forth. But, I discovered a new series that seems to have been made out of condensed talent and artistic ability... oh, wait... did I just say 'seems'? Well, I meant to say that it's goddamn genius.
I've been following a manga call Oyasumi Punpun for many a month. My favorite manga site, mangafox, has a feature that allows you to view other works by the same mangaka. I took advantage of this wonderful tool and managed to find something even more beautiful than Oyasumi Punpun, I found Subarashii Sekai (What a Wonderful World). It was magnificently depressing and, due to my being a pessimist, the optimistic notes passed right over my head. Heh. Stupid optimism.
I suppose that I've built up an immunity of sorts to depressive bouts, so it did not take long for my despair and loss of faith in not only humanity but also in myself to magically transform into being tired of having to care about things that I felt I did not necessarily have to exert an effort towards (thus explaining the first two sentences of this post). For years now, I've been hoping to fall asleep or to fast forward a good 10 years, skipping over my seemingly unnecessary adolescence. I've had the same level of maturity since I've been 5. I do not need 19 extra years of practice. Hahahaha. Now I shall leave and pet my soft cat, who, I'm sure, had the honor of slaughtering pups in her last life. Only my cat hates me.... I guess I'll just have to clone her over and over again until she acquires a more suitable personality.
*poof!* blog post complete!
*sigh*
It seems that I'm not able to overlook my obligations towards the betterment of my education.
For those of you who do not know, I adore manga. I get home, I game, I read manga, I game, I read manga... so on and so forth. But, I discovered a new series that seems to have been made out of condensed talent and artistic ability... oh, wait... did I just say 'seems'? Well, I meant to say that it's goddamn genius.
I've been following a manga call Oyasumi Punpun for many a month. My favorite manga site, mangafox, has a feature that allows you to view other works by the same mangaka. I took advantage of this wonderful tool and managed to find something even more beautiful than Oyasumi Punpun, I found Subarashii Sekai (What a Wonderful World). It was magnificently depressing and, due to my being a pessimist, the optimistic notes passed right over my head. Heh. Stupid optimism.
I suppose that I've built up an immunity of sorts to depressive bouts, so it did not take long for my despair and loss of faith in not only humanity but also in myself to magically transform into being tired of having to care about things that I felt I did not necessarily have to exert an effort towards (thus explaining the first two sentences of this post). For years now, I've been hoping to fall asleep or to fast forward a good 10 years, skipping over my seemingly unnecessary adolescence. I've had the same level of maturity since I've been 5. I do not need 19 extra years of practice. Hahahaha. Now I shall leave and pet my soft cat, who, I'm sure, had the honor of slaughtering pups in her last life. Only my cat hates me.... I guess I'll just have to clone her over and over again until she acquires a more suitable personality.
*poof!* blog post complete!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
My Fictitious loves
Firstly, I am the only one allowed to refer to them in this manner. I am much more than willing to glare, shout, cover my ears, eyes and refuse to speak to whomever is bold enough to deny their existences. While I've my growing array of companions and mentors that I myself create and admire, there are others; the originals to some extent.
I have been mourning over the death of my dearest, dearest L for around 3 years. The death of lovely Dorian was also a bit of shock to me. But, L has always had a special place in my heart.
I'm not sure if it's normal to not feel ashamed while admitting my love for characters from mangas, books, my imagination. They just manage to reach a point of perfection that no human can ever acquire. My wounds were slowly healing. I was eventually able to think about L without having tears well in my eyes. The degree of my denial started to decrease. But then, I saw a treasure peacefully resting upon Mr. Gordon's desk. Death Note: volume 1. Upon asking to take it home, permission was granted and my wounds were pried open once more. For months last year, I tried to find out the mangaka's address in order to send her a hate note, or anything that would be able to convey the amount of pain that she forced me to endure by killing L. And, as of yesterday, I found myself having to fight that urge. To try to conquer my love.
I've always had a bit of an imagination. Though my daydreaming has become much more intensified over the past few years, it's always found ways to weasel its way into my life, creating some sort of social boundary for me. I used to have an imaginary friend, who's name I cannot remember. She left me. She said that she was going on a trip to Paris and she never came back. I wanted her to, but some part of brain was screaming, 'NO! She's not coming back! Stop lying to yourself!'. It is that voice that taunts me daily, 'He's dead, stop pretending that your L will be revived', 'Dorian Grey was asking for it...'.
So, of course, I fight back. I imagine even more and drown my rationality in my disregard for reality. Currently, L is happily living in Russia. He enjoys his quite and wintry surroundings and often sits by a fogged window, sipping sweet tea and eating strawberry shortcake, gazing out his window and into the large clouds above. L is happy, and at piece. Dorian never tried to destroy the painting. He bought a nice house in London with easy access to the theater. He's living alone but often visits Basil (whom he never truly killed) secretly in the night. Indulging himself in the relationship that Wilde was not allowed to let them have. My cat roams the school building. Elegantly hopping in the desk, purring. Within a moment, the room will be silent and empty, calming me down. Or, maybe, I've turned everybody in the unsettling and loud classroom into variables or cats or animate sheets of paper.
Combating rationality with imagination is fun, though not in the least bit socially beneficial. But if I have Emmie and my other, fictional friends, then who cares? If I end up being social inept, then I'll just become a computer programmer. Which is convenient for I love computers as much as I do cats.
I apologize for the extremely low quality of this post.
I have been mourning over the death of my dearest, dearest L for around 3 years. The death of lovely Dorian was also a bit of shock to me. But, L has always had a special place in my heart.
I'm not sure if it's normal to not feel ashamed while admitting my love for characters from mangas, books, my imagination. They just manage to reach a point of perfection that no human can ever acquire. My wounds were slowly healing. I was eventually able to think about L without having tears well in my eyes. The degree of my denial started to decrease. But then, I saw a treasure peacefully resting upon Mr. Gordon's desk. Death Note: volume 1. Upon asking to take it home, permission was granted and my wounds were pried open once more. For months last year, I tried to find out the mangaka's address in order to send her a hate note, or anything that would be able to convey the amount of pain that she forced me to endure by killing L. And, as of yesterday, I found myself having to fight that urge. To try to conquer my love.
I've always had a bit of an imagination. Though my daydreaming has become much more intensified over the past few years, it's always found ways to weasel its way into my life, creating some sort of social boundary for me. I used to have an imaginary friend, who's name I cannot remember. She left me. She said that she was going on a trip to Paris and she never came back. I wanted her to, but some part of brain was screaming, 'NO! She's not coming back! Stop lying to yourself!'. It is that voice that taunts me daily, 'He's dead, stop pretending that your L will be revived', 'Dorian Grey was asking for it...'.
So, of course, I fight back. I imagine even more and drown my rationality in my disregard for reality. Currently, L is happily living in Russia. He enjoys his quite and wintry surroundings and often sits by a fogged window, sipping sweet tea and eating strawberry shortcake, gazing out his window and into the large clouds above. L is happy, and at piece. Dorian never tried to destroy the painting. He bought a nice house in London with easy access to the theater. He's living alone but often visits Basil (whom he never truly killed) secretly in the night. Indulging himself in the relationship that Wilde was not allowed to let them have. My cat roams the school building. Elegantly hopping in the desk, purring. Within a moment, the room will be silent and empty, calming me down. Or, maybe, I've turned everybody in the unsettling and loud classroom into variables or cats or animate sheets of paper.
Combating rationality with imagination is fun, though not in the least bit socially beneficial. But if I have Emmie and my other, fictional friends, then who cares? If I end up being social inept, then I'll just become a computer programmer. Which is convenient for I love computers as much as I do cats.
I apologize for the extremely low quality of this post.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
The Scarlet Letter- Beta
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 when 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 was 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).
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 was 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).
Hester endures this punishment with pride. The cloth covering her hair and the scarlet letter became ritual for her, a sort of misery and banishment that she grew accustomed to. She lives her life silently. I often imagine her striding through the town square, looking ahead into nothingness, her feet barely grazing the ground. I see her looking downwards, slightly, feeling unworthy of letting her eyes roam from the trodden on dirt below her. It seems that Hester realized that her life was just one to be sneered at. I don't think that Hester wished for death, but perhaps she wouldn't care if she hadn't been born, perhaps she would be too distanced from reality to acknowledge her own passing.
Logically, Hester secludes herself in a desolate abandoned cottage, rarely leaving, rarely speaking, friendless but spared of the townsfolk' 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? To only stare at dirt paths and be gawked at, as if she were an animal in a cage?
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? Why go outside to only be welcomed by the same monotonous buildings and songs and chairs? I truly do not see the point in all of it, I've already created a much more interesting world of my own.
Logically, Hester secludes herself in a desolate abandoned cottage, rarely leaving, rarely speaking, friendless but spared of the townsfolk' 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? To only stare at dirt paths and be gawked at, as if she were an animal in a cage?
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? Why go outside to only be welcomed by the same monotonous buildings and songs and chairs? I truly do not see the point in all of it, I've already created a much more interesting world of my own.
There are differences between Hester and I. I do not think that Hester daydreamed in her cottage, I'm quite sure that her thoughts continued to dwell in reality. Hester willingly accepted the consequences for what she'd done, she never let herself stray from her punishment, not even while secluded in her house. This leads to yet another difference, I'm not able to accept reality, it's much too displeasing. It's boring and empty. I'm most likely facing the consequences of some sort of action, but for what was I punished? Why have I been, for so long, unable to accept this world?
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Yet Again- Asimov
I'm still reading The Collapsing Universe. This is not quite as pathetic as it may seem, for I have not been reading it consistently. I should be done within the time-frame of the weekend though... Either way, I think that I've had the liberty of adding yet another 'favorite thing' to my extremely short list (which, of course, excludes everything that doesn't have to do with reality... then the list would be rather lengthy...) .
1. Black holes
2. Saturn and *drum roll*
3. Neutron stars
Neutron stars are not only made out of compressed neutrons, they are also made out of condensed awesome. I use this word in both its true and in its modern meaning. Neutron stars are huge. They are not, by any means, massive, but their gravitational pull is very, very intense... and, they are ridiculously dense (a neutron star with a diameter of 14 kilometers [which is not small for a neutron star] has an approximate density of 1,400,000,000,000,000 g/cm cubed). And, neutron stars are fascinating. Anyway, back to the gravity though... A neutron star is basically the result of a star thats' outward push of its electromagnetic field can no longer withstand the inwards gravitational pull. It then begins to collapse and the matter is then compressed (explaining the density). Because the protons and electrons are smashed into each other, they cancel out each other's charge and they are neutral thus, the entire star becomes comprised entirely of neutrons and is therefore a neutron star. The inwards collapse then comes to a halt because the neutrons are pushed so closely together that the nuclear force overrides the gravitational pull (which is very strong because the closer one is to the center of any body of relatively large mass, the more intense the gravity becomes). A person weighing 70 kilograms on earth would weigh 20 trillion kilograms on a neutron star with a 14 kilometer diameter.
I want to write more, I truly, truly do. But, I cannot due to the fact that if I start to go into tidal waves and other things in regard to neutron stars I really, really wouldn't be able to stop. That's what I like about astronomy the most; you'll think that you're fairly knowledgeable in regard to a specific topic but then you'll find one unknown law or term that will lead to dozens of new pieces of information. The other thing that I really like about astronomy is that it all makes sense and it entirely logical and, anybody who knows me knows that I'm fairly obsessed with logic... and another thing that I love about astronomy is that it feels as though the amount of information it offers me is in an abundance.
Because I adore astronomy so (along with other genres of non-fiction) I've been thinking that perhaps I want to devote this blog to my discoveries. Because the books are usually a bit dense, I can dedicated 2 or 3 posts to a book and can explain things as I go along so that I can feel like I'm making an actual connection with whomever may give my posts a glance. If anybody else is also interested in astronomy, I would like to know, we could swap information and that would be very, very pleasant.
1. Black holes
2. Saturn and *drum roll*
3. Neutron stars
Neutron stars are not only made out of compressed neutrons, they are also made out of condensed awesome. I use this word in both its true and in its modern meaning. Neutron stars are huge. They are not, by any means, massive, but their gravitational pull is very, very intense... and, they are ridiculously dense (a neutron star with a diameter of 14 kilometers [which is not small for a neutron star] has an approximate density of 1,400,000,000,000,000 g/cm cubed). And, neutron stars are fascinating. Anyway, back to the gravity though... A neutron star is basically the result of a star thats' outward push of its electromagnetic field can no longer withstand the inwards gravitational pull. It then begins to collapse and the matter is then compressed (explaining the density). Because the protons and electrons are smashed into each other, they cancel out each other's charge and they are neutral thus, the entire star becomes comprised entirely of neutrons and is therefore a neutron star. The inwards collapse then comes to a halt because the neutrons are pushed so closely together that the nuclear force overrides the gravitational pull (which is very strong because the closer one is to the center of any body of relatively large mass, the more intense the gravity becomes). A person weighing 70 kilograms on earth would weigh 20 trillion kilograms on a neutron star with a 14 kilometer diameter.
I want to write more, I truly, truly do. But, I cannot due to the fact that if I start to go into tidal waves and other things in regard to neutron stars I really, really wouldn't be able to stop. That's what I like about astronomy the most; you'll think that you're fairly knowledgeable in regard to a specific topic but then you'll find one unknown law or term that will lead to dozens of new pieces of information. The other thing that I really like about astronomy is that it all makes sense and it entirely logical and, anybody who knows me knows that I'm fairly obsessed with logic... and another thing that I love about astronomy is that it feels as though the amount of information it offers me is in an abundance.
Because I adore astronomy so (along with other genres of non-fiction) I've been thinking that perhaps I want to devote this blog to my discoveries. Because the books are usually a bit dense, I can dedicated 2 or 3 posts to a book and can explain things as I go along so that I can feel like I'm making an actual connection with whomever may give my posts a glance. If anybody else is also interested in astronomy, I would like to know, we could swap information and that would be very, very pleasant.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
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.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
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...
Friday, March 4, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
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...
Thursday, February 3, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
A Shameful Post
I don't want to come off as neglectful in regard to my homework, so I'll be honest about my reading life. After finishing Invisible Cities, I decided to take a small reading break. As most of you know, 'small reading breaks' have a strange tendency to go from a day or so long to a week long... It isn't as though I haven't read anything, but what I've been reading is far from a novel. My literary intake has consisted of Peanuts, Mad (the good ol' black and white ones), Little Lulu, and Tintin. I like to read all of the comic books and graphic novels in my room every few months, so that's what I've been doing. Over the break, When we were supposed to fill out a reading log, I debated over whether or not Ms. Reir would find it to be acceptable if I recorded the thousands of comic book pages I had read. I ended up reading something or other (I really can't remember what I read) and decided to record that instead.
I'm unsure of what we can write about for the blogs this year. Last year, I'd write about the titles or books and billboards I'd read. I remember Ms. Reir saying that the blog would be about our Independent Reading Books, so, I've been curious as to whether or not we're allowed to just write about our reading lives, must we write about novels...? This is not en excuse to slack off, I love novels and read a good handful of them. It's often hard to find a book that lives up to my standards and I don't go to bookstores enough. A few times a month, I'll stumble along a fantastic book, but, really, it happens too rarely. My dad has some very well-read friends that suggest novels to me, but the books that they suggest are often hard to obtain... If books were an abundance in my life, I'd read them constantly. Everything on my book-shelfs has been at least twice and all of my comics at least four times. My parents are always willing to take me to a bookstore, but it's still hard to find something that I actually want to read. And, due to my habit of refusing to leave the house during the weekend, the time that I have for purchasing books is dwindled down even farther.
I was thinking that it would be nice if we had a list of some sort where students could suggest books to one another. I'd really appreciate some suggestions in the comments or some sites that could give me some recommendations. I just really, really, really need a good book, one that I can get lost in...
I'm unsure of what we can write about for the blogs this year. Last year, I'd write about the titles or books and billboards I'd read. I remember Ms. Reir saying that the blog would be about our Independent Reading Books, so, I've been curious as to whether or not we're allowed to just write about our reading lives, must we write about novels...? This is not en excuse to slack off, I love novels and read a good handful of them. It's often hard to find a book that lives up to my standards and I don't go to bookstores enough. A few times a month, I'll stumble along a fantastic book, but, really, it happens too rarely. My dad has some very well-read friends that suggest novels to me, but the books that they suggest are often hard to obtain... If books were an abundance in my life, I'd read them constantly. Everything on my book-shelfs has been at least twice and all of my comics at least four times. My parents are always willing to take me to a bookstore, but it's still hard to find something that I actually want to read. And, due to my habit of refusing to leave the house during the weekend, the time that I have for purchasing books is dwindled down even farther.
I was thinking that it would be nice if we had a list of some sort where students could suggest books to one another. I'd really appreciate some suggestions in the comments or some sites that could give me some recommendations. I just really, really, really need a good book, one that I can get lost in...
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Invisible Cities by Calvino
It's silly, the way folks like to look at cities. Tourists, citizens, people scrolling through lists of hotels, all view a group of buildings and a mass of people as one, large blob. Not as small, small components of a fairly debatable environment. This book depicts what a city really is; a place broken down into several different moods, seasons and social cycles. Marco Polo describes what seems to be many cities (but, really, all of this cities are describing one place) to Kublai Khan, a Tartar emperor who's empire is falling. Marco, using either objects or the emperor's native language, illustrates beautiful and tragic places. Cities in the sky, cities hidden, cities that repeatedly fall to ruin and manage to build themselves back up, tediously, monotonically, only to be stripped of their beauty and culture once more. Place with names like Eudoxia, Zobeide, Despina and Olinda. Each city feels either extremely abstract or overly familiar. Calvino managed to break down entire structures and section them off, making what's either overlooked or misunderstood special, unique and different from the blur that we call a city.
Calvino shows use how relations with others (represented as strings, or a mimic city), can grow either tiresome or completely overwhelming. When they become too much, the inhabitants leave, starting anew. Being able to abandon something, but not leave it unresolved! The dream of so many... Calvino does this frequently, intertwining reality with what humans want, showing how the things that we create for ourselves build up and suffocate us. In one city, The citizens wake up to find everything new. They have the 'latest refrigerator model', brand new clothes, shining floors. The garbage men haul away the filth of yesterday, things contaminated with a humans' touch and experiences. The dumps are forced to become more and more compact as these cities grow. The piles of faucets, books, shoes begin to stretch for the skies, on the verge of falling down and burying the perfect, pristine cities below.
Most of the cities remind us of our dreams or desires. A city that is cloaked in the expectations and utopias of those that do not live in it. It makes me think of all of the hopes and horrible predicaments that humans create for themselves. As an entire species, we are dreamers. Longing what we know is impossible, craving what can be found beside us. We craft miniature fantasies, ideal worlds, ideal cities. We create horrible places, miniature hells into which we toss our troubles. While, really, all of the places that we fathom are the place in which we reside. I am constantly daydreaming, creating more pleasing lives for myself and for others. Making people that will never be born, houses that will never be built. But, I cannot help be aware of where I truly stand in our world. 14, middle school, computer screens, reading responses. The concept of dreams and reality intertwining aren't limited to metaphorical terms. Beautiful places are built on dirt and dead creatures compressed in stones. Streets shaped by the steps of heavy pedestrians have stories to them; places where extinct animals once strode, where the wooden wheel of a wheelbarrow broke, spilling to bodies of dead war victims onto the charred streets below.
Calvino reminds us that places and that life are comprised of many things, small sections that unite to create a finished product. And, no matter how much these parts may seem to contradict each other, a polished creation is always born.
Calvino shows use how relations with others (represented as strings, or a mimic city), can grow either tiresome or completely overwhelming. When they become too much, the inhabitants leave, starting anew. Being able to abandon something, but not leave it unresolved! The dream of so many... Calvino does this frequently, intertwining reality with what humans want, showing how the things that we create for ourselves build up and suffocate us. In one city, The citizens wake up to find everything new. They have the 'latest refrigerator model', brand new clothes, shining floors. The garbage men haul away the filth of yesterday, things contaminated with a humans' touch and experiences. The dumps are forced to become more and more compact as these cities grow. The piles of faucets, books, shoes begin to stretch for the skies, on the verge of falling down and burying the perfect, pristine cities below.
Most of the cities remind us of our dreams or desires. A city that is cloaked in the expectations and utopias of those that do not live in it. It makes me think of all of the hopes and horrible predicaments that humans create for themselves. As an entire species, we are dreamers. Longing what we know is impossible, craving what can be found beside us. We craft miniature fantasies, ideal worlds, ideal cities. We create horrible places, miniature hells into which we toss our troubles. While, really, all of the places that we fathom are the place in which we reside. I am constantly daydreaming, creating more pleasing lives for myself and for others. Making people that will never be born, houses that will never be built. But, I cannot help be aware of where I truly stand in our world. 14, middle school, computer screens, reading responses. The concept of dreams and reality intertwining aren't limited to metaphorical terms. Beautiful places are built on dirt and dead creatures compressed in stones. Streets shaped by the steps of heavy pedestrians have stories to them; places where extinct animals once strode, where the wooden wheel of a wheelbarrow broke, spilling to bodies of dead war victims onto the charred streets below.
Calvino reminds us that places and that life are comprised of many things, small sections that unite to create a finished product. And, no matter how much these parts may seem to contradict each other, a polished creation is always born.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The Picture of Dorian Gray
There was once a rosy-cheeked, ivory skinned boy with hair that looked as though it were carved out of gold. He radiated not only an aura of beauty, but one of innocence as well; only pure thoughts could wander their way into his mind. His mere presence could calm tense company. His sweet voice was capable of taming all demonic beasts. All evil would halt in his, Dorian Gray's, path! All excluding Lord Henry and then, eventually, Dorian himself.
Dorian was lured into a horrible metamorphoses by Lord Henry's cynicism and intellectuality. Hypnotized by Lord Henry's ideas of how life should be taken advantage of, Dorian was lead into a trap. He became aware how pulchritudinous he was and started to dwell in his beauty and wealth. Vanity is the thing most capable of tearing apart an angelic being. It allows a person to become immortal through their own eyes. Old friends become hideous burdens and matinées are suddenly held higher than a human life. Why did Dorian have to fall victim to such a cruel, long death? The slow and repetitive stabs to his soul?
I allowed myself to fall for Dorian's facade constructed of his alluring beauty. But I had done so only because I longed so hopelessly for what Dorian once was. For his flushing cheeks and untroubled smile. The Dorian found in the portrait that Basil had painted for him. A portrait that aged instead of Dorian, who kept the looks of a lad into late adulthood. This portrait though, as days and years went by, did not age in the way a person would, but it depicted the soul of Dorian Gray. Blood ran through the hands of the Dorian in the painting, proof of the night Basil had been murdered by Dorian. A twisted grin appeared on its face when Dorian drove his young fiancée into suicide. The painting became disgusting, nauseating to look at. A repulsing monster lay comfortably in the heart of Dorian Gray!
He'd acted gullible, falling for each compliment that Lord Henry engulfed him in, and agreeing to desert Basil, who'd once been his closest friend. It was heartbreaking (a word that I barely ever use). While reading the novel, tears welled in my eyes and periodic cries of 'Oh! My Dorian dear!' were most likely heard by my family as I grieved over the deterioration of Dorian Gray's soul.
On the night that Dorian attempted to destroy the painting that mocked his very existence, the depiction of Dorian's soul won yet again by crushing Dorian under its weight. The dead body was not that of a beautiful creature, but was the body of the monster that had stayed hidden in Dorian's portrait: bloated, drenched in blood, and still wearing a grin on its face. Gray's soul was aware of its victory of its carriers mind. But, in the painting, stood the boy that Dorian once was, pale skinned and with cheeks that seemed to be lit on fire.
Dorian was lured into a horrible metamorphoses by Lord Henry's cynicism and intellectuality. Hypnotized by Lord Henry's ideas of how life should be taken advantage of, Dorian was lead into a trap. He became aware how pulchritudinous he was and started to dwell in his beauty and wealth. Vanity is the thing most capable of tearing apart an angelic being. It allows a person to become immortal through their own eyes. Old friends become hideous burdens and matinées are suddenly held higher than a human life. Why did Dorian have to fall victim to such a cruel, long death? The slow and repetitive stabs to his soul?
I allowed myself to fall for Dorian's facade constructed of his alluring beauty. But I had done so only because I longed so hopelessly for what Dorian once was. For his flushing cheeks and untroubled smile. The Dorian found in the portrait that Basil had painted for him. A portrait that aged instead of Dorian, who kept the looks of a lad into late adulthood. This portrait though, as days and years went by, did not age in the way a person would, but it depicted the soul of Dorian Gray. Blood ran through the hands of the Dorian in the painting, proof of the night Basil had been murdered by Dorian. A twisted grin appeared on its face when Dorian drove his young fiancée into suicide. The painting became disgusting, nauseating to look at. A repulsing monster lay comfortably in the heart of Dorian Gray!
He'd acted gullible, falling for each compliment that Lord Henry engulfed him in, and agreeing to desert Basil, who'd once been his closest friend. It was heartbreaking (a word that I barely ever use). While reading the novel, tears welled in my eyes and periodic cries of 'Oh! My Dorian dear!' were most likely heard by my family as I grieved over the deterioration of Dorian Gray's soul.
On the night that Dorian attempted to destroy the painting that mocked his very existence, the depiction of Dorian's soul won yet again by crushing Dorian under its weight. The dead body was not that of a beautiful creature, but was the body of the monster that had stayed hidden in Dorian's portrait: bloated, drenched in blood, and still wearing a grin on its face. Gray's soul was aware of its victory of its carriers mind. But, in the painting, stood the boy that Dorian once was, pale skinned and with cheeks that seemed to be lit on fire.
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