Ryan's Thoughts #8: Becoming My Own

Two years ago I had entered this school as a cliché. I thought that I was a "special" student because I had never gotten a poor grade before, when in reality I was just another run-of-the-mill good student. I was just a dry student that thought he was more unique than he actually was. This misconception caused me trouble at the beginning of seventh grade, but this class helped me realize the fact that I needed to become my own and it also assisted me in overcoming this problem.

Personality is what I was lacking and creativity is what I needed. Along with art, literature and everything else in that realm is, in my opinion, the highest creativity demanding and promoting course that you could take. Since my art skills are that of an incompetent penguin, I took Advanced Language Arts seriously and searched for growth. The first step was getting away from all the artificial writing that would be the definition for a stereotypical school paper. I started to write about topics that are real and topics that I actually care about rather than why I think A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is a super-duper novel that every child should read. As I did this my self-awareness and self-confidence shot through the roof. For once, I was having thoughts of my own, rather than those manufactured by the school. I finally became an independent mind talking, sometimes ranting, about what I actually care about, and through this I became a better writer, too.

Overall, this class has helped me find my voice. Sure there were some points where I didn't want to do an assignment or just wanted to sleep, but there were even more days where I was actually excited to come to class, which is hard to find in middle school. At this point, I'm unsure if I grew more as a writer and reader or if I grew more as an individual.  Now as I head into high school, I will become more confident and will continue to enhance and refine my skills. All I needed was a push, and that's what I got from this class, and with that push I became myself.

Figment

Author's Note: This is my second response to the Truman Response and I'm trying to mimic Truman's life. This is not completed and I am still working on it so I will try to finish it as soon as possible. 

Ah, what a beautiful day! The sun is out, the birds are singing, music to my ears. My beautiful wife pours a hot cup of coffee into my favorite porcelain cup and serves it to me in the kindest of ways. She makes herself a cup and sits down beside me, caressing my hand, as we sip and sip upon our drinks.

"Another beautiful day here. It sure is nice, isn't it, my dear?"

"Yes, yes. Is there a better place in all the world?"

"No," The abruptness in her voice in her voice came off in a way I rarely saw from her, but I presumed it was only accidental. "I'm sorry. That sounded harsh, didn't it? I just never know how what I say will come out." We laughed it off and went on with the impeccable, relaxing daily routine.

I finished my cup of coffee, grabbed my overcoat, adjusted my tie, kissed my wife, and hopped into my sports car. Since it was a nice day and the sun was out I rolled down the roof of the car and let the wind rush through the individual strands of my hair. I liked my hair. The blondness of it glistened in the sunlight and the tips touched lightly to my eyebrows. Some might say my hair was long and childish, but I disagree. The perfection of its imperfection portrayed a happy man who had his priorities set straight before him. That is just the kind of guy I am.

I work at an entertainment agency used for actors, dancers, and singers, pretty much everything under the sun. Or everything under the spotlight. I myself have no sense of performing, but my sense of numbers was challenged by none. I am the best in all of Bullock, which is fortunate enough to have me as one of its residents, and I am the best that Bullock has ever seen. Each day I powered through the work of three men and did it with a smile on my face.

Today, I had a "large" task before me, but that label was only for the average worker. One of the best musicians known to man was coming to our agency and my job was to help him get out of his overwhelming debt. This was commonly seen among the musicians. I don't know why, but it was always them who had money problems. The actors knew how to handle money, but the musicians always were in debt. Millions of dollars sometimes, too. One might call them frustrating, but I think of them as a blessing. The more they are in debt, the more money I make. It was simple economics.

In Progress

Too Perfect

Author's Note: This is an existential poem which I wrote in response to the Truman Show. I know that the syntax isn't perfect but that was kind of the point.

Life, so perfect
too perfect

An unrealistic reality
seeming to be genuine
yet seems so artificial

The people, so kind
too kind

Their ear-to-ear smiles
beaming at me with welcome
yet with a hint of strain

The world, so beautiful
too beautiful

The environment around me
so unbelievably admirable
yet seems so masterfully created

Myself, so praised
too praised

Attention from everyone
so very convenient
yet seems so intentional

Everything, so perfect
too perfect

Ryan's Thoughts #7: Alone Time

Author's Note: In this piece I tried to write an anecdote which was slightly tough for me due to the fact that I detest them. The one thing I don't really about this piece is that I didn't bridge my topics together very well so it seems a bit rough.

For me, Spring Break is a time where I can isolate myself, and for once, relax and think about what I choose. When I was away from the persistant annoyance of socialization, whether it was when I sat on my family's condo's linai looking over our community's pool or when I was relaxing in my comfortable, beige rocking chair as I played PS3, was when I truly enjoyed the essence of Spring Break. We call it a break because it is a time to get away from our dry, daily routines and do as we choose.

Yet, my surroundings escalated the levels of isolation to an unexpected burden. When we are down at our Florida home, my family uses a portable WiFi source which provides an internet connection to all of the compatible devices in our home. Unfortunately, it has not always been the most trustworthy one. Time and time again we struggle with getting it to work properly for an extended period of time. It frustrates us like no other, because without the internet we have minimal contact to our relations back at home and have no access to the essential tools needed to complete some things such as work and homework.

My mother was in a frenzy for she was unable to access her e-mail, which is the headquarters and most important item of her work, my sister was able to attend to a large portion of the mountain of homework which she was assigned, and I myself was in a very similar situation as her. At this point, to be in such a state of solitude was not to our liking.

So we did what we could, but little progress was made. Looking back on the experience, nothing was gained by this, except for a renewed appreciation for the resources we obtain. I guess I could be happy about that new handy-dandy lesson, but instead I choose to dwell on the negatives, for the magnitude of them clearly outweighed the positive. I think it is, frankly, stupid for our everyday lives to depend on the internet so heavily when it can find itself unable to function so often. The internet is a useful tool, but we must be careful how much we rely on it, because if it fails a bottomless pit of frustration awaits us. 

The Fourth Dimension

Author's Note: In first grade, I, and hopefully most of you, learned of the three basic dimensions, these being length, height and width. This makes sense because they are tangible objects that we can move throughout, for the most part. The exception is that you cannot move freely upwards without machinery, but that is beside the point. In The Time Traveler, H.G. Wells presents the theory that there is a fourth dimension, yet we just haven’t been able to access it yet. If we were able to develop something that would allow us to travel through time we would have successfully proven that there is the fourth dimension, time.

--

The rough sediment dug into my flesh and made a strong bond with my already coarse hair. Dust formed a thick blanket over my weary eyes and stuffed my nose. I picked up my legs, which slowly pulled my body to an upright position. With the back of my hand I wiped the dust from my eyes and slowly opened them, squinting from the few particles of sand that I failed to remove. The sun beat my forehead to such a degree that I thought my flesh was about to suddenly spark flames that would burn me alive. With a couple of winks I scanned the horizon. Nothing. No matter where I looked there was only dry, barren desert. As my feet dragged across the earth, right, left, right, left, I moved towards the horizon.

Minutes, hours, days pass without change. Just the sun, desert, and me, two against one, immortal against mortal. It was a battle I was sure to lose but I was there for a reason. A pioneer I was and I wasn’t going to stop until I proved that to my fellow colleagues. Time travel, preposterous! Not anymore, you non-believers.

 I went on like this for some time. The funny thing is I never thought of giving up, lying down and dying for a second throughout the days that I travelled. Adrenaline is a peculiar thing. When it seems that all is lost it is the lone spark that can make everything fall into place. Adrenaline is what carried me to the finish line.

As I saw that skyscraper on the horizon a modest smile crossed my face. My feet stopped moving for the first time since I began the journey and relief surged through my body like electricity. These were not the emotions that I was expecting. I thought I was going to jump into the air and let a scream of happiness, but that is not how it was. Relief was all. Relief that I was right, that I didn’t have to go back to my time and tell all the scientists that they were right, and most of all that I wasn’t going to die of thirst.

One might ask how I knew it was the future from just one skyscraper. You see, this skyscraper made the Sears Tower look like a one-story pawn shop. It didn’t just scrap the sky; it tore a hole through it. The shadow that ran from the base of structure had to be half a mile long and fifty yards wide. Walking in the shadow was the first break from the pounding sun for days and it filled me with euphoria.

In that day, I reached the border of the city. The way the city met the desert. Metropolitan met lifelessness within the span of inches. A single light board read “Welcome to Draegovich”. Based off the title of this city I conjectured that I was somewhere in Russia or a place where its roots were close with the Russians and then later converted to English.

As I stepped through the dividing line between Draegovich and the desert three guards rushed out of a booth that went unnoticed to me barking commands in rough English. Two of the guards seized me by the collar and arms while one stood in front of me. Each one was mirror images of each other. Short black hair with grey ascending from the bottom, a stubbly five o’clock shadow, blue-grey eyes, muscles of a bull, and wrinkles accenting the eyes and mouth.

“Who are you?” shouted the guard parallel to me.

“Alfred Christianson.” I replied my voice shaking.

“From where?”

“University of Boston. I’m one of the professors in the department of technological studies.”

“Boston? I haven’t heard of that name since Czechovic blew them off the map. Sir, tell us where you are from or else we will have no choice but detain you.”

“I am from the University of Boston. I invented a time machine and have traveled to the future which is the present to you. May I ask you what year I am in?”

“2063.”

Success is a great feeling, my friend. To know that all you had worked for, all you had stood for, had been correct is a moment that puts all those other feelings of happiness to shame. When I realized that I had succeeded in my studies I realized that all the years of dead-end research had summated to this one defining moment, and when I say that I will never forget that moment, I am in the right.

“Men, you are seeing history, though that word is quite ironic in such context. I am the first time traveler. Come to think of it, you must have heard of me?” The guards furrowed their brow and shook their heads, “But you must’ve! I am the greatest scientist of all times! I am the first time traveller!”

“Sir, I am afraid I have not heard of you, yet I do believe we know someone that could help. Resnov, take this gentleman to Headquarters. Tell Gregorivich that I sent him.”

“Yes, lieutenant.” replied the second guard. With a salute, I was off to “Headquarters”.

A black truck that resembled a Hummer on steroid rolled up along the street. I was thrown into the back and we drove down the smoothly paved street. My attempts to peer out the deeply tinted windows failed and I had no choice but to wait until I was summoned.

In what I can only estimate was twenty minutes, who I assume to be, Resnov pulled me out of the hummer. My head slowly fell back to gaze the very skyscraper that provided me shadow. The impeccably polished black glass emanated with modern day luxury and gave the person looking on an odd feeling of unimportance.

We moved to the large double doors that stood erect in the exact center of the front wall. This particular door was like none other. It rose two stories above the pavement and after scanning the eye of the guard it descended into the depths of the ground.

I expected the interior to be bustling with military personal with large electronic screens mapping out battle plans, yet I was far off on that one. A modest secretary sat at a maple desk, with an average white blouse on. I looked around expecting there to be some hidden door but there was none.

Resnov took me over to a brass elevator to the left of the desk and sent us to the 117^th floor. As the doors creaked open and the elevator music faded behind us, we found ourselves in a small cubicle which, unfortunately, was clearly made for one. The silver steel of the wall ascended to the ceiling and the only decoration was a small number pad on the parallel wall. Resnov typed in the numbers quickly and the doors unfolded around us leaving us in a luxurious room with files and books filling the walls and floors.

“To Gregorivich we stand!” barked Resnov which was followed by a stiff bow and a salute.

“Sit now, Resnov. Why have you brought this man before me?” Asked Gregorivich with such command that it made me shudder.

“He claims that he invented time travel.”

“And why have you come to me?”

“Because he’s unknown. You would think that with the invention of time travel he would be known as the greatest scientist of all time, but there has never been a whisper of his name.

“How do we even know that he is from the past and created the time machine?”

“Uh… well, he said so.”

“So we are basing our country off of verbal evidence only?”

“Well… no, sir.”

“Then let me ask you, Christianson, may you explain your time traveling theories to me.”

“Of course! I built the mechanism with…”

“I’m sorry for not making myself clear. I don’t want to hear what the mechanism is; I want to hear how time travel works.”

“Well, I would first to state that going backwards in time is possible, but is so tricky not to skew that I decided not to try it, this first trial. This is because of those theories of paradoxes about if you kill your grandfather, then you would never exist, which would allow him to live, allowing you to live, and you can then kill your grandfather, and the cycle goes on and on. This is the same with the future, but since you are coming from past, someone from the future, or the present in your case, has to skew the events, such as killing the time traveler. This would then create the paradox as in the first example.”

“What happens when a paradox occurs?”

“Worst case scenario, life stops.”

“So, the risks are pretty high, ay?”

“Yes, sir” Gregorivich looked back to Resnov.

“Though this man is without any tangible evidence of what he claims to have done, I shall look into the topic. Come with me, Christianson. Not you, Resnov.” Gregorivich lead me into a large library-type room where manila folders overflowed from the walls. He moved his thick finger across the cabinets.

Gregorivich spoke in a loud voice as if there was a fan above, but I believe it was just to state authority. “This is all of our records. Every bit of intel is stored here. You may think that it is stupid to store everything here. First, because if anyone is trying to steal our knowledge they will probably take the computer at my desk which is just a decoy, leaving them empty handed. Second, look around you. How long do you think it would take you to find something when you don’t know the exact whereabouts of it? Ah, here we are.” Gregorivich grabbed a file and started flipping through page upon page. “I’m sorry, Christianson, but we have no record. For all we know you are a delusional person from the streets who infiltrated our system through our incompetent guards. I’m sorry to inform you, but your fate has come. We are forced to execute you. We cannot take the risk of you sharing what you’ve seen. “Resnov, take this man to Area 37.”

“Yes, sir” replied Resnov, and he took me to Area 37.

I struggled against Resnov’s grasp but it was like iron clasps were attached to my arms, leaving me unable to move. Helplessness is a scary feeling and it is exactly what I felt. All I had done was lost, forever in the future, in Area 37.

My last flail was the final straw for Resnov and he swiftly knocked me out. The next thing I knew, I was in an all steel room, handcuffed to a chair, staring at a guard. The guard held a pistol in my direction.

“Any last words?” the guard’s sinister voice filled the room.

“All is lost.” I replied.

As his finger clenched the trigger, the last thing I saw was “Christianson” embedded on his uniform.

What Happened?

Author's Note: In this post, I wrote about a question that has coursed through my mind for a long time now. What happened? We have all asked ourselves this at one time or another so I tried to make this relatable. For the poem's structure, I mainly tried to use repetition for effect. I also used similar, yet not exact, stanza structure.

What happened
To the good times we shared
To the laughing and the crying
To the memories and dreams?

What happened
To the breeze across our face
To the grass caressing our skin
To the sun burning our nose?

What happened
To the games that we played
To the talks that we had
To the jokes that we made?

What happened
To the love that we shared
To the happiness we had
To the feelings which we showed?

What happened
To Life as we know it
To the Truth in our lives
To the thing known as Us?

What happened?

The Apple Stand

Author's Note: This piece was inspired off a piece found at the Milwaukee Art Museum and as seen at the bottom I am still working on this piece. I was trying to succeed in a fictional piece here and I have struggled with this in the past so we will see how this turns out.

Each day I wake up at 7:53 on the dot, sit up, look around and move towards the door. I look into the hallway, turn right and walk down the steps left foot first. I precisely stroll down the carpeted stairs two at a time and look through the glass door with “EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY” written in bold, red letters. With both arms I push the glass door open and the sunlight makes a spotlight for my ruffled light brown hair and plaid pajamas.To my left an old man, Alfred, sells apples to the people of the streets. I walk to him, place my hips parallel to the stand, place my hands on my hips and ponder which type of apple I should choose. I debate the choice for forty seven seconds and then pick the gala. I pay Alfred the two dollars that he asks for and an extra fifty cents for a tip. I turn my right heel, and head back to my apartment with the rhythm of a machine. Over the next four hours I sit at this typewriter, here, and just write. Adventure mostly, about a man Wilson.

Wilson was a man of average stature, which ruffled light brown hair, and deep bags under his eyes. By day, he worked in a factory downtown with little pay but at least it was pay. By night, he was down at the shipyards doing acts the police may not exactly approve of, but they didn't understand. This was the only way he could stay afloat, and keep his family of three from starving. The dark characters of the lake swiftly grazed across the water in their surprisingly not-so-subtle yachts. Men in sunglasses and black suits would get out and take the cases from Wilson. The tentacles squirmed through the cracks of the wooden crates and slapped up against the walls pleading for mercy. Just like Wilson. He didn't want to be there. He didn't want to do this. But he had to. For his family. For himself.

As he turned his thick chest around, he heard the click of a door. He paused and analyzed the space in front of him. Two men in blue uniforms and with Magnum 44s rose above the horizon. Wilson took off running. In high school he was a sprinter, but that was a long time ago. He stumbled over the dips of the rocky landscape and his whole body felt out of sync. The police chased behind, arms pumping, eyes glaring. The space between Wilson and the pursuers tightened and tightened and with a small trip of Wilson he was in handcuffs with his face against the police car windshield.

After days of interrogation, Wilson was sent to a state prison, and was sentenced to fifteen years there. He was a curious man to the guards and prisoners there. At first he started out like any other prisoner, trying to act tough but truly scared on the inside. He didn’t talk much and when he did he spoke of few words. Though the prison already had a sense of order and routine, Wilson’s meticulous routine was noticeable to others and quite frankly queer to them. Each day, he would go to the Lunch Room and go to the same line, sit down at the same table, and get the same food. All the while, he seemed to be counting each pace that he took and his eyes calculated the exact length his steps needed to be to get to one spot in the correct time. Odd glances would be thrown at him, but he didn’t care. Or notice.

After eight minutes of chewing on his apple, he would stand up, exactly perpendicular to the ground, walk to the left side of the trash can, and place, not throw, the apple core in. He would then turn and take three hundred and sixty-four steps (rumor has it) back to his cell.

Wilson wasn’t OCD, shall I say, before he got persecuted. He was a free soul, but once he got locked up he got the notion that he needed to be perfect to right himself from the wrongs that he not only did to the government, but to his family and friends. In his quest to get him back on track, he was slowly losing his personality and sanity and he was heading for a world of darkness. Even to some of the darkest men in all of society it was unnerving to see a man such as Wilson take such a turn for the worse and they began to avoid him at all costs.

If you happened to walk past his cell which was the third from the right of the back wall, you would see him sitting at iron desk, hands face down laying on the rusting surface. His brows were furrowed and his body was rigid. He would spend all time in his cell doing this unless he was sleeping which he did not do often.

I personally liked writing about Wilson because he was a curious man that people just didn’t understand. It was something that people like me could relate to, but his faults were obvious. The mistakes he made were unforgettable and stupid. Just stupid! Why would he do that to his family? He had a good home but he ruined it all with not just one stupid thing, but multiple. He frustrated the reader and that was the art of him.

I heard a knock on the door and let it be. A second knock came again and I turned my head but I didn’t want to see anybody. Accompanied by the third was “Time to come out.” With this, I stood up straight, took seventeen paces to the door, much like Wilson, and turned the doorknob. I walked out with them thinking about Wilson. Thinking about his past, and what he could have been. Contemplating this is how I enjoyed to spend my time this way, but frankly it was the only thing I could do.

To Be Continued

Ryan's Thoughts #6:

Author's Note: I'm proud to say that Ryan's Thoughts is back for a second year. I decided to write about this particular topic because it is something that many of us wonder about and many of us fear. I'm obviously not a scholar philosopher, so I encourage your opinions to be stated, too. Thanks.

Death is one of the most feared things in society and we mourn over it whenever it strikes one of our loved ones, but not only is it feared, it is one of the most mysterious subjects that the human race has faced. What happens when we pass? Will it be an emotionless emptiness or a portal to another world of sorts? Should we be scared or should we embrace it? These questions tear at our conscious and it leaves us in a state of utter confusion.

"The hour of departure has arrived- I to die and you to live. Which is better, God only knows." These were some of the last words spoken by the Greek philosopher Socrates, after being condemned to death. What he is saying with this quote is that death might be a better situation than life. In this speech, called The Apology, by Socrates he brings up two of the main theories of what happens to us when we die. Centuries later, I'm sure that most of us are familiar with them, too.

The first theory is that when we die, we enter an eternal "sleep". Nothing happens, but nothing disturbs us. All eternity goes by as if it was one night's sleep. Now I ask you, how bad is that? Instead of having the daily burdens of Life, you get to spend the rest of eternity in the best night's sleep you've ever had. Sure you may not want to do that, but it sure isn't something to be scared of.

The second theory is something that most religious people believe in. A large percentage of people believe that when we pass we will be transported to another world where all of the other souls that have died on earth are kept. Nearly all of us would jump at the opportunity to spend time with the loved ones in our lives that perished. Also, to be able to reason and debate with minds such as Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., Shakespeare, and so forth would be a much greater experience than anything you could find in the world that we live in today.

I'm not saying that Life is a horrible thing that we must all rid ourselves of, but I am saying that we shouldn't live in fear of what could happen, causing us not to live to our full potential. Death isn't an end, it's a beginning. Once we realize this, we can step out of the fear that shadows us and be the individuals that we could be.

At the Corner of the Cul-De-Sac

Author's Note: This is a poem I decided to write after doing a stream of consciousness on "Neighborhood". Poetry has always been a weak spot of mine so that is why I decided to write one. I hope you like it.

Sitting at the corner
Of the peaceful cul-de-sac
Dog panting in my lap
One,
Two,
Three cars come
Then go again
Off to their cluttered lives
As we sit here
Letting ours go by
The breeze blows our hair
The grass soothes our skin
Together,
Me,
My dog,
Nature,
Are one
Across the street boys play
Acting immature
Just as they should
Laughter is a constant
And nice background music
To the serene scene before us
Willy turns to lick my face
His tail wags
Back and forth,
Back and forth,
Back and forth,
And it all ties together
In the right way
The way it should be
For this is just another day
At the corner of the cul-de-sac

The Punishment

Author's Note: This was a creative piece that I decided to write for fun. There isn't much behind it, but it still seems to be an entertaining piece to read and write.

On October 14th, 1349, the dusk had fallen, and darkness engulfed all of the land. A little shack, in the small English town of Bursbury, was busy at work. The tinted windows spontaneously flashed with bright colors from sporadic explosions and a small shadow scurrying back and forth could be found. In a normal neighborhood, these acts would be quite suspicious, but in this particular community, events like these were not uncommon in any way.

The shack was wooden, with the most obnoxious shade of orange one could ever imagine. The paint was peeling to a large degree, hence the paint was put on eighty years ago, eighty-two to be exact. If you traveled past the rickety door which was held on by a single hinge, you would see a small women hobbled over a rusting kettle. The women would be about 5’2” if she didn’t have the hunched back, but with the back problem, the woman was 4’7” at the most. Her complexion was that of a ghost, and her age was told by the extreme amount of deep wrinkles that lined her face. She wore a tattered cape which tied around the neck, a black dress that was darker than the night itself, and brown shoes caked in mud with holes by each of the thumb toes.

The air of anticipation surrounded the shack, and the lady was in total concentration as she stirred her brew. Muffled words were muttered from the woman’s mouth as she rotated the spoon round and round. A sudden explosion of green erupted from the cauldron and licked the wooden panels above her. She had finally succeeded. Her witchcraft was ready.

                                                                  --

Chris struggled inside the oversized cage that rattled from the ceiling. Why must this happen to me? What have I done? Though the latter question had been answered many times he still didn’t understand. Could passing through a neighborhood be that bad? Apparently, it was, because that was the reason he was inside the cage.

The way Chris got into this predicament was actually quite simple, and seemed very foolish. Chris’ mother was on bed rest for she had been diagnosed with the dreaded Bubonic Plague. She hadn’t much longer to live, but Chris and his family was determined to squeeze out every moment from the rest of their mother’s life. Recently, she just ran out of herbs prescribed to her by a local plague doctor so Chris was to walk across town to retrieve the medicine. Unfortunately, a mysterious, and supposedly haunted, neighborhood acted as a divider between Chris’ neighborhood, and his destination.

As he cut through the divider, Bursbury, as stealthily as he could, he was captured by three men that must have all had a stature of at least 6’5” and 250 pounds. As Chris struggled to release from their firm grip, they took him to what was apparently a headquarters of their neighborhood. What neighborhood has headquarters? Obviously, a very obscure one. Anyways, they stuffed Chris into a metal cage which was later hung to the ceiling.

After waiting in the cage for what seemed like two days, but was only an hour, a masked man entered the room. His hair was a deep black, and was slicked back. A black cape wrapped around his body, and the mask brought an aura of mystery to the man. Each step of his was authoritive, and his black leather boots clicked on the cobblestone with each step.

“Why are you here, my boy?” The masked man asked.

“Uh-uh-I…” Chris was quickly interrupted,

“Give me an answer!” Chris somehow managed to lurch back in the confined cage.

“I was caught cutting through your neighborhood.”

“I see, I see,” The masked man shook his head in disappointment. “Now why might one do that?”

“You see, my mother is very sick, and I needed to get medicine from our plague doctor, which is on the other side of Bursbury.”

“But why must you be so disrespectful of our land?”

“I’m sorry sir. I had no intentions of doing wrong.”

“You may have had no wrong intentions, but you still did it. Wrong doings must be punished. We at Bursbury take punishments very seriously,” Chris had just put two and two together and started to quiver. “Tomorrow morning your punishment will take place. A witch by the name of Ursula has prepared a special spell for you. If she succeeds, which is most likely, you will be turned into a grotesque ogre, and will be placed in our dungeons for the rest of your lives. If she fails, we will look upon you as super human. You will be placed among our top ranks,” He paused. “I know what you are thinking. There is no possibility of you returning home.” The masked man turned on his heel and walked out the door with out saying another syllable. Tears welled up in Chris’ eyes and though he tried to restrain himself from crying he just could not. All he could do now was wait for the Punishment.

                                                                   --

Dawn approached, and Chris woke to the three men latching shackles on to his arms and legs. Chris didn’t have the energy or willpower to fight back so the men continued you to work with him conscious.

Five minutes later, Chris was taken to a large courtyard. People were milling around anxious for the Punishment. Chris wasn’t expecting to have so many people watching. Heck, he didn’t even expect anybody to be watching. The masked man stood up.

“Quiet down my fellow citizens. Quiet down,” The people started to move in a more orderly fashion and formed a circle around Chris. “We all know why we are here. This boy in front of you has committed a deed worth punishing. Now we must come through on the second part. Ursula, if you may.” The small witch from the shack stepped out into the middle of the circle to meet Chris. A pleased look came across her face, as it was obvious that she was very happy to be there. As she lifted up her wand, which looked nothing more than a stick picked off a tree, a soft blue glow encompassed the court yard. It was a dome-shaped shield. Nothing could come in, nothing could come out. Chris observed the fortress slowly until his eye fell upon an inconsistency in the wall. A loophole was found to the right of Chris.

Ursula started to chant around the cauldron that somehow made its way in front of her. Bubbles emerged on the surface of whatever liquid that lied in the pot. With each passing second, the bubbles grew larger, the green of the liquid grew deeper, and Ursula became louder.

All of a sudden Ursula shouted at the top of her lungs “SIGFRA TIERPE DOMINGU!!!” A green mist surged towards Chris. He decided that this was the time to run for the inconsistency. The gap seemed to far away for Chris to reach but the mist moved slowly.

Chris riled up all of his energy and strength to make one leap towards the hole. As his chest crossed through the gap, the mist wrapped around his ankle. Chris could feel skin falling from his ankle like perfect baby back ribs, and his face against the muddy grass. He army crawled through the rest of the loophole and glanced back at the ankle that had just deteriorated. Bone could be seen in some parts and tissue was badly wounded. He knew he couldn’t worry, so he jumped up onto his healthy ankle, and hobbled past the boundary between his home neighborhood and Bursbury.

                                                                   --
Chris was home safely, but his ankle eventually had to get amputated by a doctor. Chris tried to tell the story to his family and to everyone around him, but no one would believe him. Everybody would just continue to think of Bursbury as a peaceful English neighborhood, not as one that practices of malevolent witchcraft are part of everyday life, but Chris knew different. For the rest of his life, though it was short lived being that he only lived seven more years, he never crossed the border between the two neighborhoods again.

River

Author's Note: This is a poem derived from my stream of consciousness of river. In this piece I try to form a romantic, relatable, and concrete image. This was sort of an experimental poem for me but I hope you still like it.

The dazzling water
A pristine stream
The quiet rustling
Soothes all your troubles

Time ticks away
Second upon second
Without worries
Clouding your conscious

The steady breeze
The calming sense of joy
A true feeling of security
I eternally savor

They all come in sync
Together they are one
For we all concur
That they are my home

Ryan's Thoughts #5: Writer's Block

Author's Note: Honestly, I wrote this because I had Writer's Block and I had nothing else to write about. I'm guessing you can relate to this. Enjoy. Please also note that this is not one of my best pieces due to the fact that I had the infamous Writer's Block.

Writer's Block is something that all writers will come across. It is a well known problem and is very annoying. To not be able to think of an idea, or not be able to put the idea into words is very frustrating and stressful if there is a deadline. In fact, I have just had a serious case of Writer's Block so I just decided to write about my problem.

People have always tried to find ways to avoid this, but it seems like there is no solution. You sit there for minutes on end, even hours on end, just straining your mind for one brilliant thought that will enable you to write another piece, but that great idea never does come and all you have afterwards is a bunch of wasted time. This causes you to just give up and never come back to the piece.

The worst thing is when you have a deadline and you have Writer's Block. How are you supposed to come up with an idea and write it down before the due date if you can't even get an idea? Then, since you can't just not do the piece, you spend lots of time just wracking your brain for possible solutions to the terrible Block.

I myself have tried to find some solutions for this problem. People say that Writer's Block comes from having one very good piece which you get a large amount of praise for, and then trying to think of another one of that same caliber. It seems that nothing can compare to that one great piece but you feel like you must keep looking for it. So, if we try to figure something out to prevent this it would probably be to not set your standards so high. You may be able to say that to yourself, but on the inside you will continue to think that your new idea is not good enough. So, I have found that I am at a blank for curing this illness.

If you have any tips or ideas, please comment you solutions or thoughts on this post so you can help me and all of the others that read this. Thank you.

Ryan's Thoughts #4: Vegetable Monster?

Author's Note: This show always made me happy as a kid and my favorite character was the Cookie Monster. I have actually grown quite close to him (not literally). So, as you can imagine when I heard this news, I was infuriated. I chose to write this to let out my anger and disappointment in the producers of Sesame Street and let others know of this sad news, too.

For years and years we have grown up on the grumbles and pleads of the Cookie Monster. He was always one of your favorite characters of the beloved Sesame Street and when you heard him say "Cookie!" it always brought a smile to your face, but that now won't be anymore.

Sesame Street has changed many components of their show to mold the children viewer's minds into making what they think are good choices. These changes include changing Snufolofogous' name to Snuffy, now everybody can see "Snuffy” (not just Big Bird), Oscar the Grouch not being so grouchy, and worst of all, they are changing the Cookie Monster to the Vegetable Monster.

The Sesame Street producers claim that they made this idea happen due to the fact of the alarming amount of obesity in our country. But how could you change one of the top characters that everybody know to something that people hate? It just isn't right. In my first post on my blog I talk about the power that stations like PBS and Disney have. The same happens with Sesame Street and the creators of the great show understand this. Yet, I don't think they understand that they can just change children's tastebuds and make them crave veggies. I mean, can you picture a 4 year old whining to his mom "BUT MOM?!? I WANT SOME BROCCOLI!!!". No, it just won't happen, so Sesame Street needs to realize this and stop the changes before they make any more stupid mistakes and end up making this show be an educational one, not an entertaining one.

WE WANT THE COOKIE MONSTER!!!

Ryan's Thoughts #3: Politricks

Author's Note: This topic is another one of the many faults that I find in man. For the people of the same country to turn against each other just because of different governmental views is quite sickening, so I wrote this to try to persuade those who are guilty of this to please stop.

The government's are supposed to hold our society together and make sure havoc doesn't burst out, but on the other hand, being that our government is divided into two parties, they actually can do the exact opposite. Many uninformed people can agrue endlessly and without reason about the pros and cons of Democrats and Republicans.

The thing that I find most painful, is that kids my age, whose views on politics are so rash, are just tearing at the most powerful man in the country. He is the man that is trying to lead us from the dark ages, but these people criticize every step he takes. Why can't they at least give Obama a chance? I would bet that if George W. Bush made the exact same health care plans as Obama all of the Republicans would fall in love with them and would gladly follow along. Then the Democrats would whine about how horrible the plan is. Yet, Republicans haven't been able to even give the plans a chance and the Democrats are in love with them. It is a sad thing that is tearing our country apart and both sides of the government need to start to see eye to eye.

All I am asking is that each Party can keep their minds open and help the Government move forward, because if we do keep moping about how the health care plans aren't exactly what we wanted, our country will fall into another depression and guess who will be blamed for it. Of course, it will be Obama and the democrats.

1984 Point of View from the "Dark Haired Girl"

Author's Note: This is a response to the book 1984 by George Orwell and I am writing from the point of view from the girl that Winston Smith (the main character) thinks is on the Thought Police (which is like the KGB) and is spying on him.

Today, I have just been assigned a mission to spy on a man by the name of Winston Smith. The Party has speculated him of Thought Crime and I have been told to find if he is as passionate about Big Brother's deeds as everyone should. At first, I wasn't to keen on the idea, but implanted in my brain is:

WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

So of course, I will do whatever the Party says and follow it through until this demon is put away.

I uncovered my first clue to Winston's wrong doings at the Two Minute Hate. As usual, we were shouting at Goldstein's pitiful face. Then, I noticed that he had stopped chanting along with the rest of us, but the most striking thing was that Mr. Smith's face was not full of loathing, but of thought. Obviously, it was a clear sign of Thought Crime and I knew once I finished the Two Minutes Hate I would report to headquarters of this new occasion.

The next sign that I found that was troublesome with this obscure man was that he had take a random walk through the proles part of town. The proles! Why would one with such a great life given to him by Big Brother want to go to those that are clearly unclean and unfit to live in the realm of us Party members? Anyways, he happened to stop in this pub, which is another indicator that this man, that is becoming more dangerous as the seconds pass, is trying to find out an alternative truth than the Party has already informatively supplied the people of Oceania about what happened before the wonderful Revolution. I can't imagine how misguided this man must be.

I immediately walked back to headquarters and gave them this new information about Winston Smith and, as suspected, they vaguely answered my report in return. From what I got, I believe that Mr. Smith may be disappearing, as soon as tonight, and if he does disappear, then Winston Smith will officially have never existed.

The Human Condition

Authors's Note: When I wrote this poem I was very upset with the all the preventable inequalities and imperfections that humans have but don't get rid of. So, to express my thoughts I wrote this, and I hope you can enjoy and even relate to it.

Gold is gravel
The segregration between wealth and peasants
Is startling in every aspect
The disgust from the rich
Sickens the healthy
And fuels the sick
Every day of our lives

Strength is weakness
The stong kills the lame
And laugh at the event
The fact is
We are all guilty of this
But we must have realization
And change our ways

Hope is despair
People find joy
In others hurt
The feeling of authority
Is so great
That it turns people to demons
And relationships sour

Love is hate
Isn't it true?
Love being the greatest flaw
Of the human race
It turns one against the other
For quite foolish reasons
And slowly kills the world one by one

Life is death
Every day a struggle
To live up to expectations
Those of peers and of your own
In our eyes we are never good enough
And will never stop killing ourselves
Just to make us better

Basketball

LINGO

Author's Note: I can't say that one of my strengths is writing anecdotes, but I wrote this piece anyways to add some variety and really let my voice come through. This was a fun moment for me and it also has some, not much but some, intellectual level to it. Enjoy.

On December 1, during Language Arts class, Collin and I were engaged in a conversation of how we should make a word. We quickly decided that it should be a synonym for a synonym. Quite clever, eh? So, we started to think of names for our word. We first thought that we should have it start with an "x" or "z" just because those letters are uncommon but pretty nifty. Then somehow, I just pulled out the word "highlander" for no reason and I thought it was pretty good until Collin answered with:

"So our word is going to be a car?" I realized that, "highlander" definetly should not be the name. We kept on thinking for some sophisticated word that sounds shnazzy, so here it is:

hyterosis-noun-a word that has the same meaning as another word but is spelled differently-Synonyms: Synonym

The Blind Side Movie Review

Author's Note: I am a movie freak and I like to help other people learn whether or not to go to them. So, as I have previously, I wrote a movie review to inform you of this film.

I recently saw "The Blind Side" with Steve. This movie is a true story about an oversized homeless boy who gets brought in by a rich family. From watching a commercial you would immediately think that it is purely a football movie. However, that is not true. The football part is just a side note in a movie that really helps you appreciate what you have, like a bed and extra clothing.

On a scale of 4 stars I would give it a 3 1/2. This was one of the best movies I have ever seen and I am hoping that I will see it many times in the future. It was a very well made movie and very motivational. The performances were also very good. The main character was in his first movie but acted like he was a seasoned veteran. Also, I am not a huge fan of Sandra Bullock (personally I find her annoying) but she still had an amazing performance and some big name movie critics said that this was her best performance ever.

So, if you are looking for a good movie to see I strongly recommend "The Blind Side" even if you are not a football fan.

Ryan's Thoughts #2: From the Dead

Author's Note: Hello there.

Technically this is a dream I had a while back but it was very odd and to me it felt like it had some truth to it. So here it goes:

I stand there in a graveyard with my family and other families around me. Everybody has tears in their eyes. But their tears are not ones of sadness, but ones of joy. We all look up towards the sky, for this was supposedly the day where heaven would come to earth, and where all of our loved ones that have passed away will come back and live for eternity with the rest of us.

All of a sudden, a ray of light shone on us, and the clouds separated. What occurred next was the most significant thing one could see in their life time. People that were the color of gold floated down from the heavens with their hands spread out like Jesus on the cross. As they touched the ground they embraced their families and everyone was happy. Except for my family.

We had been waiting for my younger brother who had died at a young age (this is kind of freaking me out because I really don't have a little brother). His cause of death was unknown but we were still grief-stricken. So, we waited and waited for him to come down but he never came. That meant only one thing. He wasn't dead (dun dun dun). So, we started to look for him.

We looked and looked but never saw a clue. Until one day, where I spotted a crystal skull in the forest that lies behind my house (I had this dream when that Indiana Jones movie came out so its actually not THAT random). Etched in the top of its head were the words "To find your brother you must find my twin". When I touched the skull, a surge of power shot through my hand, up my arm, into my head, back down to my other arm, down to the hand and back to the skull. It was an everlasting circuit. As this happened, a memory came to me. I don't exactly know where it came from but it told me were the other skull was. It was in a concrete warehouse down in Arizona that apparently had many wooden crates stored inside (see another Indiana Jones reference).

I told my family and we made quick arrangements to get down there as fast as possible. We landed at an unusual airport the next day. This airport was very futuristic and it had many inventions that we do not have in the modern day. The most notable one was the way we transported. On the white tile ground there were blue lines that lit up. These were each tracks. To get from place to place you hop on a one foot by one foot board that looked like a Wii Fit thing and you just let the board do the rest.

Once we got to the area we needed, we got off and rented a jeep. We hurriedly drove off into the desert for the warehouse and it took about half an hour to get there. We ran out of gas with about a mile and a half to go so we just walked from there.

A half an hour later, we were all parched from the heat, but on the brink of our vision we saw a humongous building so high that you thought that the tip could reach the heavens. Once we got to the building, we became aware of yet another obstacle. The door was on an old rickety porch and was locked up. About five feet to the right there was a bronze key with rust that sat on a stool. You might be thinking how is this an obstacle. It wasn't. What was is the ferocious greyhound that stood in between us and the key. It ran in circles as saliva dripped down from its powerful jaw. We inched forward very slowly, but with even the slightest movement, the hound released a blood-curdling bark. We realized we couldn't do this with just man power. We had to do this with skull power (that was really cheesy but that's what happened). I carefully took out the crystal skull from my back pack and looked for the sun. It was northwest of me which was absolutely perfect. I raised the skull above my head and positioned it correctly. A bright ray shot from skull and hit the greyhound right between the eyes. Its legs wobbled, and three seconds later it was on the ground out cold.

We took the key and inserted it in the keyhole. Fortunately, the key turned and we unlatched the door. As we walked inside each one of us was swallowed by utter awe. In the center of the warehouse was a fifty foot diamond pedestal with the "twin" crystal skull sitting atop it. Also, rotting wooden crates went on forever. There must have been 50,000 crates in warehouse. We raced down the stairs at a reasonable pace, for we wanted to get down quickly, but it would put quite a damper on things if one of us fell through.

When we got down, we opened up the first crate we came to. Documents. The crate was filled with nothing but documents. Oh, wait, there were about ten spiders crawling around them but that isn't very relevant. So, we tried the next crate. Same case. We tried a third one. Same conclusion again. This went on and on and we gave up after looking at about forty five bins. We decided to start looking through the papers to see if there was a clue embedded in them.

It turned out that each paper described a person. Extensive information about each person was on the papers, but there was one little section that caught all of our attention immediately. It was a section entitled 'Where are they now?'. As if by magic it showed where each person, and if they moved locations the words would change, too. Our second discovery was that all the sheets were alphabetized. We started to search for Jacob Richard Hegna (now that part reaaaallllyyyy freaked me out, like a lot).

We searched and searched and searched. It was a tiring procedure but we all knew it was worth it. Then I heard the best sound I could have heard at that time. My sister shouted "I found it!” Our heads shot around as we saw her face bright with joy, and her hand stretching up with wrinkled brown paper. The rest of my family bulleted over to her and looked at the paper. 'Jacob Robert Hegna, 9 years old'. Our eyes scanned the paper looking for the 'Where are they now?' section. One by one, our eyes hit the hallowed words.

Nothing. That is what you heard as we all just stared. It turned out my brother was at Dove Cabins. We all knew the place. It was a camp ground that kids went to for fun. It was located in Wisconsin, but we never went there. Once again we buried to the neck in awe (By the way, there actually is a Dove Cabins in Wisconsin, but I never heard about it before this, so yet again it got really freaky). We quietly left and got to our car and drove home.

Once we got home we got refreshed and rested. But the next morning we were heading to Dove Cabins. The drive took about two hours but those two hours felt like two days. We pulled into a parking lot and got out. We looked for some staff to help us out and eventually we found a Hispanic man named Eduardo. We told him our story and surprisingly he took us seriously. He told us that he may have an idea were Jacob was, because there was no Jacob Hegna registered at the camp. It turns out that there was one bunk that whatever person slept there, they reported to have heard banging in ceiling.

So, we headed over to Cabin 6 and Eduardo led us to a bunk bed labeled 13. All of us just stared up at the ceiling above the bed and think to ourselves "Could this really be?". Eduardo gets some tools from a shed located nearby and he comes back. Within seconds he is cautiously hacking away at the stone. With each collision the anticipation rises. Until finally, we hear a gasp. We look inside through the small hole that has been made, and we see a small eye peering back at us. Eduardo keeps going and more and more is revealed until finally a boy falls down onto the bed that has sat beneath him for three years. The boy looks down at his feet, and back at us, before he is embraced by the most painful bear hug one will ever encounter.

The Lonely Tree

Author's Note: This was a poem that was derived from a stream of consciousness about recess. It symbolizes more than just trees having a boring life, it symbolizes those people that are in the background. If you find this topic interesting and would like to see another post, go to Brad Wahlgren's blog, also know as "The Blog of Wahlgren" and read the "Wallpaper" post. It is very cool. You may need to follow it but here is the web address anyways:
http://bradwahlgren.blogspot.com/2010/02/wallpaper.html

I stand here by myself for
                               years,
                               years,
                               years,
I wish to do with my life
                               something,
                               something,
                               something
As the kids rush by I wish to
                               run,
                               run,
                               run
Deja Vu overwhelmes me
                              forever,
                              forever,
                              forever
And all I have ever thought is
                              if only,
                              if only,
                              if only

John F. Kennedy Poem

Author's Note: I wrote this poem for a 6th grade project I did on John F. Kennedy and I really liked it so I thought it would be fun to put that in here. If you don't already know some background on him a quick run down was that John F. Kennedy may have been the best president if he didn't get assassinated early in his time in office. I hope you enjoy.

Some people may have doubted him at first thought
But that was not how he would be taught.

For he was not anybody out of the lot;
He was the one to bring Camelot.

It is such a terrible thought
That peace fell to the ground with just one shot.

R.I.P. John Fitzgerald Kennedy
(1917-1963)

This Is It Movie Review

Author's Note: I have always been a fan of Michael Jackson's music, so I was intrigued to see this movie. Also, I knew that many people were kind of on the line on if they want to see "This is It" so I decided to write this movie review to give people a bit more background knowledge of the movie.

"This Is It" is a movie that is a tribute to the musical phenom Michael Jackson and his tour entitled "This Is It". The tour never happened due to Michael's death but there still was a good amount of film from the rehearsels.

My thoughts that it was an interesting thing to see because all we ever see are his music videos and songs. We never get to see what goes on behind the scenes and what goes into bringing each song to absolute perfection. I got a sense of appreciation for all of the hard work that happens.

This film also captures that attitudes and personalities of Michael and his co-workers. Michael is a complete perfectionist and he is very specific in how things are done, because he has a vision of what needs to happen. Kenny Ortega, the director of the feature and a big part in bringing the concert shows together, is a huge suck up and makes sure things are the way Michael wants it. It's actually quite comical.

Overall, I would say that the movie is a bit slow moving and repetitive, but is a great tribute and I would give it 2 1/2 stars out of 4. I recommend this movie to all lovers of Michael Jackson's music and all lovers of music.

Favorites

Author's Note: This is a little section where you can see some of my favorite things.

Food:

1. Chicken Noodle Soup

2. Bacon Cheeseburgers

3. Pasta

Drinks:

1. Root Beer

2. Green Monster

3. Green Izze

Books:
1. The Name of This Book is Secret (Pseudonymous Bosch)
2. The Giver (Lois Lowry)

3. The View from Saturday (E.L. Koingsburg)

Movies:

1. Love Guru
2. The Breakfast Club
3. Land of the Lost

Airplanes

Author's Note: I am not the biggest fan of airplane rides, so I wrote this poem to express my mixed emotions about it. I actually wrote this on a plane on my dad's laptop so the experience was very fresh in my mind. I hope you  can relate to this and have fun reading it.

You wake up early in the morn'
With anticipation bubbling inside
You get ready for the fun
To take you away to somewhere new

As you get to the airport security is endless
And your neck gets sore from the strenuous lifting
But finally you make it to the gate
And you sit and wait and wait and wait

You're finally on and you get to your seat
You stare out the window, at the scene you'll be leaving
And think to yourself
"What could possibly happen?"

The engine roars alive
And you start down the runway
Adrenaline pumping your veins
As you take off into the sky

You go up and up
And see the world go minute
Gasping silently at the beautiful sight
Atop the world you feel at peace

The clouds surround you
And you look at the scene
A beautiful one that you only see in a picture
You stare and stare at perfection for what seems to be a never ending moment

As you rise above the clouds
You wonder
About this, about that
About life as we know it

You continue on and you start to get bored
You think
"Why can't I just be home?"
You stare out the windows and count the seconds

The pain starts in your ears
An ever burning pain
That make you wince greatly
You chew some gum to help subside the pain, but that never helps

Your starting to go down
But the pain does the inverse
Rising and rising
You plead for mercy but none comes your way

Finally you land
When the pain is almost unbearable
You can't wait to get off
Into open air

You get up and get your bags
You power walk down the aisle
Only feet away
From the open air

Finally your free
At last, at last!
With good and bad memories
From the airplane ride

The Beatles

Author's Note: In Forensics, we had to write a speech to give to the class about something to do with history. I took a look at my knowledge of the past and my interests in the past and decided that I wanted to write about this very influential band. I hope you enjoy this piece and learn some new things about the one and only "Beatles".

Depression and sadness was a common behavior in the England areas and in many other regions of the world, too. This was, because of the Vietnam War that was taking place in the world’s midst. The world needed somebody, something, to pick up its spirits and propel it into a happier place. If only someone knew it would be a band called the Beatles.

John Lennon, James Paul McCartney, James Harrison, and Richard Starkley (also known as Ringo Starr) were average kids growing up in the distraught town of Liverpool. Liverpool was located in England and was hit hard by the bombings of the war. There were virtually total strangers and it seems nothing more than fate brought them together. This is how it happened.

John Lennon and Paul McCartney both played in Skiffle groups which were unsophisticated bands that played a mix of jazz, rock, and folk. John was in a band that called themselves John and the Quarrymen. Paul then introduced John to George Harrison, a guitarist two years younger but was very talented, and he soon became a member. To finish off the group, there was Stu Sutcliffe, John’s friend from art college, and Pete Best. At this time, Ringo Starr was performing at many of the same events for a band called Rory Storm and the Hurricanes.

But they could not stay together as Stu died and the band decided to get rid of Pete Best. Then they decided that they would like to introduce Ringo Starr into the Beatles. Even though the Beatles welcomed Ringo, the fans did not always do the same. “Pete forever, Ringo never” could sometimes be heard and concerts and other events the Beatles were at.

Later, fighting and controversy started to get in between the band but they became a very popular band in Europe. Their success elevated as they headed into America. It became very big news when they landed at Kennedy Airport and then were on Ed Sulliven. They were so popular sometimes females would actually faint at the Beatles concerts. At the last American concert you could barely even hear the music being played because the crowd was so loud.

They made to movies entitled A Hard Day’s Night and Help. These were both very popular. Then when John Lennon made a comment about how he thought that they were more popular then Jesus, protests were made, and records were burnt. This chipped into the Beatles popularity and caused some serious issues. These issues came through in their 1966 album called “Revolver” which had a little bit more of a somber tone to it.

Unfortunately, the Beatles got involved with drugs and other things and their next two albums were not as soft as the previous ones. Songs on the new albums included “Yellow Submarine” which was a childish cartoon, but had powerful political references woven into it. They also came out with the song “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band” which suited the attitude of the world perfectly.

The Beatles then came out with the song “All You Need is Love” and changed the mood in their songs again. “All You Need is Love” was actually the first world satellite broadcast to be shown in across the globe.

In 1968, John’s girlfriend, Yoko Ono, became a great influence on the Beatles but not always in a good way. Much of the fighting in the songs was in result of Yoko’s participation in group decision making.

The Beatles later came out with maybe their most famous album “Abbey Road” and a couple of other albums but that didn’t stop Paul from leaving them. The band quickly broke apart and went on their own paths.

That was the end of the road for them but they definitely left a huge footprint on the music business and on the world.

Favorite Quotes

Author's Note: These are my favorite quotes.

Favorite Quote:

"Do not go gently into the good night, rage, rage, against the dying of the light."

~Dylan Thomas

"The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways- I to die, and you to live. Which is better, God only knows."
~Socrates

"I've missed more than 9000 shots in my career. I've lost almost 300 games. 26 times, I've been trusted to take the game winning shot and missed. I've failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed."
~Michael Jordan

"If winning doesn't matter, why do we keep score?"

~Vince Lombardi

"All a writer can ever choose to write is his own experiences,"

~Truman Capote

"An unexamined life, is a life not worth living,"
~Socrates

"Vote for Pedro,"
~Napolean Dynamite

"Tigers love pepper... They hate cinnamon"
~Alan Garner

"It's where I keep all my things. Get a lot of compliments on this. Plus it's not a purse, it's called a satchel. Indiana Jones wears one."
~Alan Garner

"Oh, you know what? Next week's no good for me... The Jonas Brothers are in town. But any week after that, it's totally fine."

~Alan Garner

"Doc, none of us could remember anything from last night. Remember?"

~Alan Garner

"And we're the three best friends that anyone could have!"

~Alan Garner

"There is a jungle cat in the bathroom!"

~Alan Garner

"Classic"

~Alan Garner

Ryan's Thoughts #1: Is Mr. Rogers Being a Good Neighbor? Well You Think So Because That's What He Says

Author's Note: Hi, in my brain many things go on. To the average person they would not make sense. Usually they don't even make sense to me. But anyways I was thinking that it would be fun to blog about what I am thinking. So, here it goes. My first ever edition of Ryan's Thoughts...

When we all grew up, we did four things. Eat, sleep, dispose of "waste", and watch Disney movies/PBS. The first three were very essential things. Yet as it turns out the last one seems to be quite important. I mean we learn life lessons with those shows. For example, Mr. Rogers shows us how to be nice and other cool things like a slide whistle. That Count Dracula guy from Sesame Street taught us how to count. With Bambi, I honestly don't exactly know what it taught me but I do know it taught me something. This isn't PBS or Disney, but for me, I got good at math from playing Yu Gi Oh cards. Sad but true. Can you see how all these things are important in life?

Now, that was only half of what I was thinking. My messed up, slightly psycopathic brain turned that into this...

I was thinking that if they were teaching children things, wouldn't they be able to mold there brains into what Disney or PBS wanted them to be. In an odd way they are both almost as powerful as the US Government. It is kind of creepy if you think about it.

So, that is my view on children's television and I would like to thank you for listening. Reading for that matter.