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
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
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
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
Monday, May 10, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
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!!!
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!!!
Thursday, March 25, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
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
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
Friday, February 5, 2010
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