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Saturday, April 26, 2008

Favorites.

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

~William Butler Yeats



My very most favorite poem of all time:



In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

~John McCrae

Friday, April 18, 2008

Here we are.

Here we are, where we always have been.

And we think, and we move, and we see things change around us.

And we feel like everyone is leaving us, but aren't we changing too? In the mirror, you're different too.. You just didn't see it happening.

Where did all the time go?

8.22.07 "You're passionate about most things. It's just in your nature to be passionate, ___. That's just how you seem. At least to me, you do."

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

The Here and Now

It was just another day of class. The teacher was dressed somewhat traditionally, not in those sequined holiday sweaters that teachers tend to wear. The bell to start class was about to ring, and she was trying to get the students, her students, to at least get out their materials.

It was hard nowadays to motivate kids to think of reading or writing much. They didn't seem to see it as useful. Too many took the honors classes of English only because they offered a higher GPA.

There were a few that liked to make jokes. They were creative, and could do things with words, but it wasn't their top priority.

A boy in a middle row was listening to his iPod. "I know what my heart is for," he listened and watched the mute world around him, scribbling a picture in pen in his notes.

There was a girl in the very back who took pictures. She wanted to be a photographer. She thought life in general was beautiful, but she knew that things seemed to be declining in people. It was reflected in her writing.

And there was a quiet boy who sat against the wall. It seemed like he was the deepest thinker of them all. He watched them, and he learned from them. He wrote the most insightful papers, and when no one else responded to the teacher's questions, he did. He knew what to say on paper, but did he in the here and now?

Another girl liked shopping, and another boy, he liked girls who liked shopping. That's how a lot of them were. Their essays were just rephrased compilations of the teacher's notes. Who knew if they really read any of the books. This is what the classroom was.

Class was just beginning to start, and the teacher faced the bored looks of the kids. It's hard to know what to say to a later generation, but she tried.

Someone was standing at the door. She stood there a long while, draped with her arms against the door's frame, and she wasn't really dressed that specially, but she was. Traditional shades of brown. She looked at the teacher, waiting for recognition.

Someone pointed at the door.

"Oh," said the teacher, "You look.. sad."

The girl systematically took down her arms and looked in a moment longer. She didn't look around the room. Stepping back slowly at first, she was gone.

Some of the kids laughed nervously. They didn't understand. They laughed at things they didn't understand. But they looked around.

They saw, for the first time, the conditions around them. They saw the kids they made fun of. They shared the confusion. They seemed a collective body, not of simple youths, but of people trying to understand.

They really looked around for a moment.

And the girl in the back, she clicked a photograph, in a feeble attempt to capture the moment.

And the boy against the wall, for the first time, he smiled.

How the Armadillo got it's (totally cool) shell

[Group work in English with Rachel and David. It's supposed to be written in common speak; I had to be restrained from my own common tongue.]

Omg, I heard this story I read on wikipedia lol
So like, a long time ago the Dillo was a big jerk, okay?
He was making fun of the kangaroo's pouch thing on it's belly and stuff. He was totally mean and would not freakin' stop.

So the roo got all PO'ed and was all like "plz go wai, i h8 u"
and the Dillo was like "i ain't skeurd"
but he ran away anyways cuz he sux

and the roo was all like "omg com bak"
so he was all chasing him and crap

And then there was this huuuuuuge dropoff
and the Dillo totally fell of and he was all like
"dkjsa;mf!1!1one!"

and he rolled in this ball to like protect his stuffs.
So all this rock mud junk got all caught up on him.

So it totally dried and it's all hard and stuff
So he's now called ARMAdillo, get it?! LOL

BTW, he totally doesn't like talking to people anymore
so he's just this crazy freak now, k?

LOL BEST EVARR :D

lololololololololololololololololololololololol!!
<3
BAI

Samantha Z is a self-righteous bitch.

To document this case:

In an admired quality of quick consumption of words upon paper, she prides herself. Secretly, she skips every other word with an uncanny ability to take in the overall meaning despite her alterations.

Quietly (enough), she puts on the facade of quiet sincerity, looking innocent and interested as she studies, although she really wants to sleep in class. Every once in a while, at key words, she will say "Did you know?" and blurt a prideful tiny pseudo-interesting fact, despite the teacher's impatience with her.

And after class, when told of problems with the words, she says, too soon, without thinking, to speak naturally to overwhelm others with one's knowledge. She realizes her mistake in revealing this nature, and leaves abruptly.

She compliments the other girls so sweetly, selflessly, secretly comparing her pictures to theirs, and asking her friends "Is she prettier than me?"

She knows all about world events, priding herself on the knowledge of the newest crisis. Somehow it makes me think she missed the point by priding herself, though.

She quietly exerts an aura of elitism, discouraging common thoughts with a bored and cruel glance, silently directing her attention, blankly, to her own introspective thoughts. She takes no time to consider their words.

And when others are in need, she expresses deepest sympathies, offering so many sweet and selfless actions which are never undertaken.

She makes a joke every second, without substance or integrity, playing off words, or worse: quoting something of unknown origin, giggling at her own words, not noticing that no one else understands nor cares.

She has fun when others make reference to her race and her name. She likes that it is unusual, and the attention it brings. She enjoys it, even though it does not come on friendly terms.

She acts cute; knowing the gestures that win small children affection, she uses them to her advantage to remain the center of attention.

She proves herself far from innocent as she speaks in vulgar tongues around peers whom it flatters, and acts completely unaware of the meaning of such things around others.

When someone brings to her attention that she is undesirable, she calls them a self righteous bitch. She doesn't think anyone should be concerned with self interest... except for herself.

And therefore, I call her a self righteous bitch. I, who watch from far away, who remain nameless, for I go unremembered.

And therefore, I am the self righteous bitch.

[NOTE: This is based completely off of girls I know, whom, for the most part, I beleive are completely sincere. I write this to illustrate the criticism girls tend to have for one another, taking all things, whether they be sweet or not, as a sign for dishonesty. This is in no way supposed to offend those I wrote it about.]

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Based on something by someone else

We had to write these in English, based on "This is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams.

Mine:

I have told
your deepest secret
in a poem
and which
no one
else knew

Forgive me
I laughed
and so did
thousands of
others

Monday, April 7, 2008

To the only one who really knew:

If you called, I'd pick up. I guess that's why you haven't.

I'm really sorry, for what I've done. I wasn't trying to make you feel that way. I don't think anyone can help. If anyone could, it would have been you.

Please don't let it hurt you. I wasn't trying to dismiss you. I just didn't want to continue being like I was.

I'm sorry I've been this way. I'm sorry I don't know what's wrong with me.

I can't stop feeling so alone, even when you're here. Everyone seems so transient. I feel like I'm on a different plane. I feel like I'm just some kind of shadow or that there's something strange that's fallen out of place, like a law of where my consciousness should be confined.

I think it's all caught up to me.

I think I need to see a psychiatrist, but I won't.

What if I can't remember?

There are so many things I need to write down that I will soon forget.

"Constantly talking isn't necessarily communicating."
~Joel, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

"I AM a human first and a Knight second!!! I don't need your title! I resign myself to your disgrace! But I will never forgive you!!! I can never look idly by while lives are being thrown away!!!"
~Miklotov, Suikoden II

"It took hundreds to kill me but I killed humans by the thousands. I am sublime!!! I am the true face of evil!!!!"
~Luca Blight, Suikoden II (Only the best villain of all time)

Steve: "So you know, Jefferson and Hamilton really fought, but Washington was being a party pooper and broke them up."
Remi: "Haha! Get it? Party Pooper!!"

Saturday, April 5, 2008

What do you lose?

"It was my fault. It always was."
It had to be; it was never any other way. And she didn't even have to think about what she did.

It didn't matter what it was, it was her fault.

She had been becoming too much like her mother. Submissive, loyal.
And he and she had two separate rooms. They only slept together, if it could be called that.
And that was the only place they were forced to be truly close.


So there she was, looking down. She didn't dare to look up at him. She knew he was looking through her, seeing her for how pathetic she really was.

So long as she took all the blame, it would be all right, she beleived. It was naive.

And there he went, not because he didn't love her anymore, he had lost that a long time ago.

He was just too bored.