Dog In the Nighttime

I'm late, I'm late!
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In this section of the book we find out that Christopher's father was the one who killed Wellington. I find this unimaginably sickening. I've always been an 'animal person'. For example, if someone dies in a movie I might be a little sad but most of the time I just think, "Oh, damn, I liked that character," or "Oh good, I hated him." However, if an animal dies, I think, "WTF. THAT POOR ANIMAL." And sometimes I even cry. So when I read that he'd been the one who killed the dog, I was just a little ticked off. As in, I started saying things (out loud) like, "Asshole!" and "I can't believe that douche bag!"

I was glad that my group-mates agreed with me. It... made me feel better inside that other people are also against animal abuse/murder, because it often scares me when people say things like, "I'd laugh if I saw a dead cat" and things like that. It's wrong. It's fucked up. That cat has just as much right to live as we do. And anyways, we're the ones who brought these wild animals into our lives and domesticated them- pets like cats and dogs can't live without us. They depend on us just as much as any baby, and you don't see half the population beating and starving their newly born children. You don't see them sticking their babies (who haven't even started walking yet) into a large pen and watching as they fight to the death.

Animal rights activist? I think so. Which is why I approve of Christopher running away. Anyone who would stab a dog with a garden fork could stab a person with a garden fork.

Bisexual

People are constantly making assumptions about my sexuality or asking questions that I, personally, find rude. I found a website that basically explains everything: here.

Here's a big one. People are constantly telling me that if I marry a guy then I'm choosing to be straight. If I marry a girl I'm choosing to be a lesbian. They don't understand that no matter which way I go, I'm still bisexual because I'm still attracted to both genders. And I'm not going to have a 'threesome' just because I'm attracted to both genders- I'm a monogamist all the way. People also tend to think that bisexuals are just 'hiding' their true sexuality. Yes, because I'm totally trying to hide the fact that I'm a lesbian by saying that I'm also attracted to girls. Makes SO much sense.

And there's another big one: people are always saying, "Oh, she/he's just confused. It's just a phase." Um, last time I checked, I'm not confused. I've kissed both genders. On the Kinsey scale I rate a 2- I'm mostly heterosexual, but I have a history of homosexuality. I've had experiences with both genders and I am fully aware of being attracted to both genders. It's not a phase. It's not confusion.

And I just had another thought- society shouldn't make these things so darn uncomfortable to talk about. I mean, these things are a completely natural part of life- sexuality, that is, as well as sexual preferences. I mean, without sex none of us would be here, so why is it such a taboo subject? Why do people get so freaked out when it's brought up? I mean, seriously. No one is going to die of some horrible disease because someone else told them something sexual. Although, if the sexual comment was directed at them, I can understand how that might be uncomfortable. BUT. If two close friends are talking to each other and one wants to tell the other about something, it shouldn't be hush-hush and embarrassing. There's nothing embarrassing about it, except that society tells us it is.

So, this blog post was basically: bisexuality isn't this or this and society is terrible the end.

:)

Middle Age

I was reading my brother's blog and I found something I thought was interesting...

The Youthful run bright circles about life crying, "Joy! Joy! The world is Joy!"

The Old walk a slow and deliberate path through life saying, "Time draw reign that I might hold each moment to my breast!"

Those of the Middle age scoff at both schools of thought saying, "The Young are silly and the Old are foolish! The world is harsh and all moments pass!" Yet in their hearts they envy both.

I find this to be completely true. As little kids we're always so cheerful and optimistic. We can never find anything wrong with the world, and we're always the ones cheering other people up. As we get older we look back and remember our childhood through fond memories and sighs of nostalgia. When we're really old we cherish each moment as though it were our last, writing everything down so that we won't forget and trying to make the best out of life.

When we're middle aged we try to act as mature as possible. That's when we're the ones in charge of everything, and it's when we don't have time to have fun or cherish the moments. It's as though suddenly we don't have time to be optimistic. We don't have time for extracurricular activities, and half the time we don't even have enough money to treat ourselves to anything because we have to spend the money on paying off our house, or our car, or buying food for our family...

If only the middle aged people could have some optimism too.

I love, I hate, I move on.

Sometimes I think life couldn't get any better than this, that everything is perfect and the world just keeps throwing better and better moments in my direction. Other times I wonder why I should even bother. What reason is there to drag my ass out of bed every morning? To even try to keep up with the rush and flow of every day living?

Every morning I'm woken up by my blind father and I take a shower. I throw on my clothes, brush my hair, try to remember to put my glasses on. Some days I eat breakfast. I get a ride from Constance an when I get to school I try not to make eye-contact with anyone. I head for Biology and wince as I realize I didn't finish the homework. I get to my table and try to make conversation, but I'm very ignored. For the next class, I am easily entertained by the teacher, but at the same time I see that Mr. Sutherland is getting more and more frustrated by the class as each day goes by, but I don't want to scream like I used to because I don't need any more people to hate me. So I just sit there and try to tell him, with my facial expressions, that I'm apologizing for my classmates.

By the end of English I'm in a better mood, and as I walk to History I hope that it will go just as well, if not better. Sometimes Mr. Fargher is in a good mood and makes lots of jokes; sometimes he isn't in such a good mood and quietly assigns us work. Either way I'm fine. But at the same time I am completely aware of those in my area and I hope, please God, if you exist, don't let anything happen, and don't let anyone say anything. Fourth period is next, Geometry. I find that if I'm hungry from not eating breakfast or I'm in a sour mood, my hand slows down and I can't seem to write fast enough. The notes seem to speed ahead of me, and I find myself abbreviating everything in an attempt to catch up.

Then lunch. Lunch is usually a very relaxed, enjoyable part of my day. For a few minutes, that is. Sure, I laugh and I grin and I make jokes and I talk about happy sunshine unicorns. But I wish I didn't. See, while I'm squealing and giggling and laughing and talking loudly and jumping up and down and moving around, I'm gaining more enemies. People look down on me, I know they do, as though I were a mentally challenged four-year-old. I hate that, because I know that if I were more comfortable around them and if they would just... let... me... talk... I'd be able to prove to them that I actually do have something to say that may or may not be interesting but that doesn't matter because I could be discussing something very 'adult' and I could show them that I can have an intellectual conversation.

Next is PE. Sometimes it's fun. Sometimes it's a nightmare. Either way it's PE and that's that. Lastly I have Writing, another class that I don't always do the homework for, and then seriously regret the next day. This class is often a nightmare as well, since I'm surrounded by people whom I'm sure wish they could be as far away from me as possible. I'm not sure if I feel the same way. I think I'd rather if they could at least pretend to be friendly, because that would make my life a whole lot easier.

And throughout the entire day I'm worrying about my appearance and personality. I feel that I'm too fat, even though my mom is always telling me I'm not (she's supposed to say that, right?). I feel that I'm too judgmental and silly, and that because I was raised around a bunch of loud, goofy Irish folk that took me to Celtic Festivals all the time I'll be a social outcast for the rest of my life.

At the end of the school day I go home and greet my mom, who has a serious of health issues. I start my homework and fall asleep half way through, unfinished. The next morning the whole process starts up again with a groan and a shower. And as I leave my house early in the morning, the cold air nipping at my nose, I ask myself, "Why should I keep going? What purpose is there for me in this world?"

And then the familiar blue car pulls up and I go to school and try to have a good day for once.

Yardsale

"I wonder if this blade ran through someone's side

The blood wiped away to hide

How evil you grandfather was 'fore he died

But war can make monsters out of us all

I'm sure I'd become one if I was called

And then it would be my blade

Here at this yardsale.

The guitar I am holding is way out of tune

The neck it is warped and the saddle is through

I wonder if sweet music ever was played

From the hands of a boy to a girl in the shade

From this rickety ghost of a song

Here at this yardsale.

A dollar for anything here on this quilt

A price tag for hands from which all things are built

A blanket of voices speak pleasure in shame

Flowers of plastic and fruit of the same

A basket of nothing at all

Here at this yardsale.

So if I had the money I'd buy everything

And cover the whole lot with good gasoline

And burn it for all that I care for the past

And rid mother earth of what never should last

And give her the present of ash

Made of a yardsale."

-Yardsale, by the Avett Brothers

Response Post (Such a bland title, I know)

Response to a post Jasiu made... here. Alright, I'm going to try not to say things that are only my opinion, because debating turns into an argument that way, and arguments make people turn against each other.

*

I'm actually responding to a post in which Jasiu is responding to Stan. Jasiu says that Stan's wrong, that religion is necessary for people to live peaceful, just lives with happiness and a substantially dropped amount of murder.

Religion is a crucial part of countless lives. Our modern day laws are based on them and they are the founders of determining what is right and what is wrong. 

I would like, at this time, to point out to Jasiu several wars that were based off of religion. There were the Crusades, in which Europeans swept through the Middle East in order to convert them to Christianity and regain the Holy Land. There were the Thirty Years War and French Wars of Religion, in which France, Germany, Sweden, and Poland all fought between the religions of Catholicism  and Protestantism. There was the Taiping Rebellion, which took place in China and is considered the bloodiest war, with 20 million dead.  These wars are fueled by religious prejudice, which is fueled by corrupt governments. People tend to want to do anything if it means doing it for their religion- in order to spread their religion and 'help other people find the light'. Governments or other people in power use this weakness against the population.

At another point, Jasiu claims that evolution is not right, that it's just something silly.

 If I ask how “did life come to be?”, like many, you would say "evolution" which once again is a theory, not a fact. But the answer "evolution"  greatly lacks and does not explain a major part; the very beginning.

I have several things to say to this. First of all, I'm also curious as to how life started. However, as we do not yet have the technology to find out, I think I'll have to keep dreaming on it. The idea that a big man randomly decided to create an entire world in seven days is a fancy, fun idea that makes little children fall asleep warm and fuzzy inside... the thing is, I see little to no proof that this ever happened. With evolution, we have proof. For example, we have the fossils of extinct creatures, and the structures to prove that they are somehow related to today's creatures. That's more proof than Christianity could ever hope for. (Oh yeah, and the term 'theory'? Yeah, that doesn't mean 'hypothesis'- it means that scientists don't have any kind of message from billions of years ago, carved into a rock, saying, HEY. HEY YOU. EVOLUTION IS REAL.)

Jasiu continues on to ask about  cells and organelles and how they came to be.

Tell me, how can all this complex development come to be?

Biology, my dear Watson. It's survival of the fittest, and a need to be environmentally fit. The cells were  not fulfilling everything they could- there was so much space in the world, so many places to be explored. However, in their one-cell form, they were unable to complete everything they needed to. And anyways, they had so many recourses around them- why not just... evolve?

Curiouser and curiouser

So, earlier I had my discussion with Aakash and Eric about The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. We had our disagreements, but I think the biggest one was about the attitudes of the people towards Christopher, and his attitude towards them. I think that people treat him too harshly, with too much violence and shouting. I mean, they shouldn't even treat normal teenagers like that. I'm here to prove it.

For example, on page seven the police officer says, "I strongly advise you to get into the back of the police car, because if you try any of that monkey business again, you little shit, I will seriously lose my rag." First of all, calling him a 'little shit' is verbal abuse. Police officers are supposed to keep the peace and be good people, instead of calling people 'little shits' and thinking they're guilty before they've even been proven so.

When I tried to explain this to Aakash, he pointed out things like, "What would you think if you saw someone holding a dead dog?" and "Well, he shouldn't have hit him." Alright, I admit, if I saw someone holding a dead dog, I'd freak out. But it depends on what the person looked like. If they looked sad, were rocking back and forth, were crying, or doing something else that showed they were in distress, I wouldn't freak out and think they'd killed it. And about the whole 'hitting' thing. He does not like to be touched, because of how overwhelmed he is at all times, and when someone harshly grabbed him he went berserk. This isn't his fault. He was born that way. You just can't say that he's bad for being completely overwhelmed.

So, anyways, I just completely disagree with Aakash. It's as simple as that. He says that Christopher is wrong and everyone else is right, and I think the complete opposite. It's as though Christopher is the only 'right' person in the entire world. The only human one.

Kite Runner Review

I'm sorry I'm getting this in so late, there was a lot going on yesterday and I ended up passing out at eight forty... Also? It was absolutely freezing outside last night.

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The Kite Runner is a blistering emotional roller coaster. Throughout most of the book, the main character, Amir, feels intense guilt because of something he couldn’t have ever done anything about anyways- stop the rape of his best friend, Hassan.

He’s guilty from the very start, in that first moment that he decides to do nothing; although that makes it sound like he could have done something.

“I stopped watching, turned away from the alley. Something warm was running down my wrist. I blinked, saw I was still biting down on my fist, hard enough to draw blood from the knuckles.” (77)

Here he’s feeling guilt and horror, to the point where he doesn’t even feel pain when he injures himself. He wishes he could do something, but he understands that he’s one twelve-year-old boy against three fifteen-year-olds, and he doesn’t want the same fate for himself.

“In the end, I ran. I ran because I was a coward. [...] I was afraid of getting hurt.” (77)

Running is, truly, the only option he had. He could have stepped into the alley, and then he’d have been raped as well and possibly killed. He could have screamed for help, or maybe gone and gotten Baba, but then others would know of his weakness, his cowardice, and he would have had even more guilt and shame to deal with.

Amir deals with his guilt by finding a way to get Hassan, the center of those terrible feelings, out of his life. He plants money and a new watch under Hassan’s bed, trying to make it seem like he is a lowly thief. He is shocked, though, when Hassan admits to stealing them.

“I flinched, like I’d been slapped. My heart sank and I almost blurted out the truth.” (Page 105)

Amir had not been expecting that answer. In fact, he’d probably wanted Hassan to deny stealing the items, to shake his head in confusion and swear on his life that he didn’t know what Baba was talking about, what items, he’s never stolen anything. Perhaps Amir wanted this to happen so that Baba would ask why his son would do such a thing and Amir could have told him, could have started sobbing, and then it wouldn’t have been on his chest anymore.

However, Hassan leaving doesn’t fix anything like Amir hoped it would. His life gets better when they move to America and begin living a happier life, but when Baba mentions Hassan one day after Amir has graduated high school at age twenty. Amir’s reaction is one of pure, raw emotion.

“A pair of steel hands closed around my windpipe at the sound of Hassan’s name. I rolled down the window. Waited for the steel hands to loosen their grip.” (Page 134)

By this time the guilt has worsened. He lives with the ghost of his past constantly lingering on his consciousness, and when Baba actually says something about it, it’s like ripping open an old wound and watching the blood ooze out again without knowing anything about how the human body works. It always hurts worse the second time, because you remember it hurting before but your memory has faded slightly and you keep telling yourself, “It was never this bad!”

Finally, one day after he’s married and Baba has died, he goes to Afghaniistan to visit his older friend, Rahim Khan. It’s at this time that he finds out Hassan was his brother, Hassan had a son named Sohrab, and that Hassan is now, sadly, dead. Rahim tell him, “There is

a way to be good again.” At first Amir is only thinking about the redemption, the atonement.

“A way to end the cycle. With a little boy. An orphan. Hassan’s son. Somewhere in Kabul.” (Page 227)

He’s torn between yes and no. On one hand he can save two lives- Sohrab’s from the orphanage and his own from his guilt. On the other hand he’d have to be close to a boy who looks almost exactly like Hassan and he’d have to go to his old home of Kabul. But then, as time begins to pass slowly on his search for the boy, he begins to feel more than just a need for
‘forgiveness’.

“I realized something: I would not leave Afghanistan without finding Sohrab.” (Page 255)

It’s a simple but desperate need to find his nephew and take him to America, away from the horrible life that he might have had. Amir feels that if he couldn’t save Hassan, he could at least save his son.

Once he finds the boy, a sort of bond starts, almost as though Amir was his father and not his uncle. He officially decides he will take Sohrab to America, and even calls his wife to get her input. However, we discover that Sohrab would have to go to an orphanage beforehand, before any adoption occurred. Hearing this, Sohrab tries to commit suicide. We find out how deep Amir’s feelings are.

“I pushed the door open. Stepped into the bathroom. Suddenly I was on my knees, screaming. Screaming through my clenched teeth. Screaming until I thought my throat would rip and my chest explode. Later, they said I was still screaming when the ambulance arrived.” (Page 343)

Thank goodness Sohrab lives. Amir does take him to California, where he and hid wife manage to adopt the child. Sohrab is silent, though, and never smiles. He continues to be silent for a long time, until one day when Amir takes him kite fighting. Sohrab smiles, and Amir completely melts.

“‘For you, a thousand times over,’ I heard myself say. [...] Only a smile. A tiny thing. A leaf in the woods, shaking in the wake of a startled bird’s flight. But I’ll take it. With open arms. [...] I ran.”

Amir runs Sohrab’s kite, and it’s as though the world is as it should have been the entire time. Sohrab finally begins to open up again, and for once a tragic story ends happily, something that tends to be rare these days.

A love of music

I love music. As I've said on Facebook, I'd rather go completely numb for the rest of my life than go without music. I love to sing, especially when I'm in a place where I can sing loudly- it's easier to hit the higher notes then, and my voice is stronger. I have an old guitar that needs to be restrung and tuned, and I've always dreamed that the guitar would someday rest in my lap, the strap loose over my shoulder, the neck in my left hand, my right hand strumming out something sad and bittersweet and thick as honey. I imagine that I could turn my poetry into lyrics and I could mingle voice with guitar and create a one person band. 


But what I'm best at, what I can do that can make crowds silent, is play the piano.


I don't remember it, but my parents are always talking about how, when I was just barely starting to walk and  talk, I crawled up onto my grandmother's piano bench and started tinkering out some simple, messy notes that went nowhere and did nothing. I do remember, though, very clearly, the day I was sitting in my living room, in front of my own piano, and my mom asked if I wanted to take lessons. I was quick to say yes- I was seven and a half, and I already knew that I loved making melodies on any piano I was near. 


The first woman we went to doubted my talent because of my youth. She turned me around and closed my eyes and touched a key and said, "Which one was it?" And then I would face the piano, reach across it's smooth, ivory teeth, and I would press down on that note. And I knew which one it was because I'd played the note before and I remembered the sound it made. She was shocked by how easily music came to my ears, and immediately jumped into a high level training book. My parents whisked me away from this madwoman who asked too much of me.


My first real teacher was a strict German woman named Anita. She taught me scales and finger placement, and began teaching me how to read the notes on the page as though they were words, sentences, paragraphs, each musical piece it's own mystical story. I developed a close bond with her, as well as the grand pianos at the store she was at. But before long we were moving to a new town, a tiny city called Alameda. My second teacher's name was Cynthia. 


Cynthia... was good for me and bad for me. Through the five years I learned under her, I went to the Piano Guild Auditions four times. The Piano Guild was a national competition that occurred every year, and each time I went I succeeded in winning pins and medals. I had a way of filling my music with emotions, something some others were incapable of.


But one thing Cynthia failed to teach me was how to read the music. The year I'd spent with Anita and the progress I made went down the toilet- suddenly my eyes were always focused on my fingers, and I was struggling with the black dots and smudges on my music sheets. Because of this, piano became a burden for me. I was no longer interested in the instrument I had once loved dearly. I was bored, and longed to quit taking lessons.


And then, one day, I had an excuse. I was going to high school, a special high school that would require my constant attention. I wouldn't have time for piano, I said, so the only option was to stop taking lessons.


After that, the ancient piano that had been a part of my life since the day I was born began to collect dust. I was finally free from those thirty minutes a day in which I would play the same songs over and over again and try in vain to play the notes in front of me. I was relieved, and every time I glanced at it my eyes would mock the wood that shut off it's yellowing keys from the sunlight. 


However, my fingers were itching. Always fidgeting, tapping out some beat or rhythm that I didn't know. For a while I thought that I was destined to play the drums- I could keep time with anything. But even when my hands were drumming percussion, there was something missing. A strange emptiness that confused the hell out of me. Why? Why was I always being haunted by these lingering beats and melodies?


It was today that it finally clicked. I was sick from drinking coffee with an empty stomach, and in an exhausted haze I stumbled up to the piano and lifted the lid, staring down at the black and pale yellow. Before long I was  mumbling to myself, squinting at the black and white blobs on old, wrinkled paper. I wracked my brain, pulling out old, children's books and trying to remember where my fingers went and that thing Anita told me...


Great Big Dogs Fight Animals. Morbid, yes, but it forced me to remember which note each line stood for. Suddenly the confusing mass began to form into something possibly readable, dusty memories floating to the surface. I opened up my green book, my heaven, flipping to The Swan.


My mother sighed as I pressed down on the pedal and the music flowed from my fingers, clumsily at first with stops as I desperately tried to remember what came next. But I had it. There it was, that song that was angry and sad and peaceful and joyous, all at the same time, relief rushing through me like a gust of wind. My back automatically straightened, my wrists lifted, my fingers remembering to keep your fingernails off the keys, but don't flatten the joints. 


It was magic and harmony and fantasy and reality and everything was falling into place. I'd found my love again, in this old, out-of-tune piano, sending waves of precious music throughout the space around me. I'd rediscovered an instinctual and profound love of music.

Third Kite Runner Post

I wasn't in class today for any discussions, which means that this post isn't going to be about anything like that. Thank goodness!
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The last section of the book is, in my opinion, the most filled with raw, visible emotion. In the other parts of the story the emotions are all in the background, hiding in the depths of the many words and sentences, creating a sort of ominous depression to mask the finer points of shame and guilt. In this section of The Kite Runner, our mentally badgered protagonist, Amir, finds a way to atone for his sins- saving his nephew.

At first he's unwilling- he's frightened of seeing this boy who looks so much like Hassan, his half-brother that he saw get raped. He knows that as soon as he sees Sohrab, Hassan's son, all of his past emotions will flood back and make his life hell again. Just as well, he doesn't want to see Kabul, his home, and how much it has degraded since his departure long ago. Eventually he makes up his mind, however, and begins the long trek to find the boy.

Around this point in the book we find out that Sohrab has been sexually abused by the same man who raped Hassan- Assef. Once Amir takes Sohrab away from Assef's clutches, he begins to try to find a way to get his nephew out of Kabul and into America, where he can adopt him... however, at one point, he makes the mistake of telling Sohrab that he may have to stay in an orphanage for a little while before.

Sohrab tries to commit suicide, and every tiny emotion from the story that had been building up suddenly releases itself onto the pages. It tells about how Amir is screaming and screaming and doesn't stop even when the ambulance comes.

The orphanage never happens. Amir takes Sohrab back to America with him and he adopts him and makes him his own child. Sohrab doesn't smile for a while, until the very end when Amir takes him kite fighting and runs the kite for him when they win. It's a happy ending, which is rare for the kind of tragic book that Kite Runner is.

Chains of Steel

Why do you do the things that you do?
Make me feel these emotions
To appease your inner turmoil?
I'd thought I'd been rid of that hell
Putting chains of steel around my heart and hiding the key
Isolating myself from the cold world that boils me so.
When I came to this sanctuary, this haven
I tore away the chains and let my wings spread
Basking in the wind and smiles.
But before I knew it that sunshine was gone
Leaving storms and tears to greet me
My fresh wings drenched and useless.
I lock up my heart again now
In a small cardboard box labeled 'fragile'
And I shove it away in my attic
In a place too difficult to find
And hope your words and actions don't shatter it anymore.
I embrace these chains of steel
Welcoming back an old and familiar friend
Who once fed me with pity and loneliness
And loathing of myself and the world.

And again I plead

I'd thought that by the time we had gotten this far in the book my peers would have a better grip on Amir's emotional standpoint and the psychological processes of those that are close to him. But my classmates are still calling him selfish, still saying he deserves any bad things in life. They say that because he didn't do anything to save Hassan, karma has made it so that he can't have a son. They don't know how wrong they are. I've already explained why he didn't do anything (here). And if karma did, for some reason, take place in his life, all of the guilt would have already paid his price.

They say he's selfish because he didn't want to go and get Sohrab until after he knew the boy was his nephew. They say he's just as bad as before. I say there's evidence against that. From looking at the picture he knows that Sohrab looks just like Hassan- by being near the boy, he'd be reliving his guilt day in and day out. Also, he doesn't want to go to Kabul because he's heard that it's changed- a lot. He doesn't want to go back to the place he grew up and see it in ruins. It was once his beautiful home- going back would mean he would be forced to experience just how much it's degraded.

They also inquire about Baba. "Why didn't he accept the medication?" they ask. "Did he want to die?" No, of course not! If he hadn't had his history, and if he hadn't been so stubborn, he would have accepted the meds. But Baba is Baba, and there's no changing him! Taking the medication would have been like taking the food stamps- it would have seriously damaged his pride. It would have made him appear weak. Baba is not the kind of man who would allow himself to feel the shame and insecurity of being weak.

Basically... I'm disappointed still. I'm still trying to show people the emotional, human side of things... But... I don't know if my last blog post wasn't read or what. :/

Ohh, religion, how it is a mistake to debate about thee...

So, some stuff about religion started popping up. I posted a questioning comment on one of Kasia's posts, and I... think it's turned into a debate? Here's the first 'response' comment she made:

susan, what you don't understand about religion is that everyone has a choice. God gave us the gift of choice, which is why He does not reveal Himself. We have the CHOICE to be good people or not, so yes, we have the choice to rape, torture, murder, etc. We have the choice to feed the starving children in Africa, so why aren't you staring a fundraiser to buy food for them? We even have the choice to refuse His love eternally, which is what hell is- eternal separation from God.

Hmm... Just a couple things. If a person has a choice on whether or not they can rape and torture and murder, why doesn't the victim have a choice? My question isn't why God let these people do these things, it's why He let the victims go through something like that. If they live through it, they're going to carry that weight with them throughout the rest of their life (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome). It just doesn't seem right to me. And then... why aren't I making a fundraiser? Well, I suppose I could, but school is taking up a lot of my time right now and I don't have the money to just... donate. I mean, I could start a fundraiser when I'm older, but until then what are the starving children going to do? Are they going to just not die in the meantime? And why do people go to hell because they no longer love God? Sounds like parental issues to me...

Here's the second 'response' comment (heheh, I like that... response comments):

Those starving children do not die needlessly, God loves each and everyone of them. He will punish those rapists and murderers, but if they feel guilty at the moment of their death, then they have the chance to be forgiven. This does not mean that they will be let "off the hook"- we all still have to purify ourselves in purgatory, but they will go to heaven in the end.

If my dad starved me but said "You'll be OK because I love you" I'd run away from home. Just saying. Anyways, the whole system seems terrible to me. We're talking about a man who has the power to create an entire planet in seven days (including every single living thing on it). If he can create an entire world, why can't he get rid of rapists and murderers before they make more victims? And, personally, I find it kind of wrong that these people are still able to go to heaven because they felt bad right before they died. "Ohh... I'm about to die... What did I do with my life? I killed babies. Ohh, maybe I shouldn't have done that... Wait, I get to go to heaven now? GREAT!!!"

I'm not saying there isn't a God. I'm not saying there isn't a hell. I just don't believe in either one of them.

And I thought you were mean!

I've been getting really angry really quickly lately. Or I start crying. One of the two. I mean, someone could lightly and jokingly poke my shoulder and I, like, attack them. I don't know why I'm getting so emotional recently, especially since I'm usually very hyper (I'm an energy vampire, which means that when I'm around a lot of people I kind of take their energy from them? I dunno how. Osmosis maybe?). I have a 'reputation' for being hyper and silly and constantly happy, but it's like all I want to do is scream and beat the sh*t out of someone. Or some people.

I don't know if I'm looking for reasons to be angry or if a part of me just kind of snapped from the past fourteen years of being secretly annoyed. A lot of people are really annoying to me- most of them are people my age. I've always gotten along better with adults. I grew up with adults. My sister moved out for the first time when I was, uh, seven or eight. She moved in with her boyfriend/fiance who later became her husband (they're a cute couple). I'm ok with little kids (they're cute, too) but preteens and teenagers (and some ignorant old people) piss me off. A lot.

I don't want to be angry at people all the time. I'm usually able to keep stuff bottled up and put on a happy face (I learned that skill from my mom), but my acteeng skeellz are wearing thin.

Sumbudeh halp meh. D:

Voting? Hell nah

Found a quote from on of Elizabeth's blog posts...

Even though I'm not 18 yet, I think I would still be able to make an informed vote for Governor.

No, definitely not. As teenagers, we're still too young to make huge decisions like that. We're constantly being influenced by our parents and family, something we won't grow out of until we're older and moved out. Until then, we shouldn't be allowed to vote. If all the millions of teenagers in America started voting, we have no idea what kind chass and havoc might come from our immaturity (and yes, no matter what you might say, we are all immature.)


However, I do agree that we have a right to get our opinion out there. We should be allowed to write essays or comments or something and get them out to all the grown-ups so that they can listen to what we have to say- and who knows. Maybe we can change their minds. Instead of voting and permanently putting our opinion into (possibly) the wrong thing, we should write speeches, have debates, post stuff online, hold rallies in front of city halls, and just generally make sure than the adult population understands that we, their youngest, know what we want to happen. This is where microphones, podiums, and big cardboard signs come into play.


I mean, I wouldn't even want myself to vote. I'm still going through the changes of being a teenager- crazy hormones, crazy thoughts, crazy personality. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. The craziness that is currently my life would only seep into whatever choice I make with voting, and I don't want that to happen.


So no, I don't think teens should vote.

608 Words of Disappointment

I hate how people can read something so emotional and dissect it like a frog. In The Kite Runner, Hassan is raped by an asshole older boy named Assef- he is also held down by Assef’s two friends, Wali and Kamal. Most of my classmates discussed the intellectual side of the rape- why didn’t Hassan struggle? Why didn’t Amir do anything to help him? I’m here to discuss the emotional side. I guess you could say... the human side.

Let’s start with Hassan. This poor boy is twelve and, as I already said, he’s being held down by two older, stronger, more powerful boys. He’s scared, he’s shocked, he’s confused, he’s sad, and most of all? He’s humiliated. He’s  dropped lower than being just a Hazara. He’s being used like a woman, a woman Hazara. He’s being shamed by another boy, even though that boy is older and more of a sociopath. Not only that, he’s been taught, raised, to do what he’s told and not put up a fight. Sure, he pulls out his slingshot at one point, but that’s like his special weapon- take away his weapon and he’s got nothing left to defend himself. Besides... his friend was standing right there. He expected his friend, his master, to at least try to save him. Right?

And now we move to Amir. Amir, watching the rape take place. “Why did he just stand there and let it happen? Doesn’t he care?”

I blinked, saw I was still biting down on my fist, hard enough to draw blood from the knuckles. I realized something else. I was weeping. (Page 77)

Oh, no, of course he doesn’t care. No one who cares would inflict pain unto themselves from watching their loved ones be harmed. Oh no, of course not. “But then why didn’t he do anything?” Just like Hassan, he was scared. He was twelve. When I was twelve, I was just leaving sixth grade. I was short, weak, and still as green as a leaf. I was inexperienced. I was scared of the world, even in our protected society. The same goes for so many other twelve-year-olds out there. Amir was terrified- if he’d done anything like throwing a rock or shouting at them, they would have either beat the shit snot out of him or raped him too. And if he’d run and gotten help, his father only would have looked down on him more- for not being strong or brave enough to defeat Hassan’s rapist. It would have been... shameful.

So, I guess what I’m saying is... don’t look at these horrific things under the magnifying glass of a scientist. Think about it in a deeper kind of way. What would you do if you saw your friend being raped? And don’t say, “Oh, I’d beat that guy!” or “I’d get my daddy and he would kill him!” When you see that kind of thing, when you are standing there witnessing this tragic surprise, you are in complete shock. Your body freezes, you tense up, you can’t breathe. Your heart stops for a second and then it races, it becomes to only thing running away from the scene in front of you. You wouldn’t be able to do anything. You probably wouldn’t even be able to scream.

This is why I got so upset in class earlier. People aren’t paying attention to the human element to the picture, they aren’t paying attention to the emotions behind the characters actions. It was especially disturbing to see smiles and laughter on the faces of the people discussing the topic. Please don’t joke about rape. It’s not funny.

Quarter Review

This quarter has been fun. I was surprised when I found out we’d be making blog posts for homework, and for a little while in the beginning I’d been frightened- what if something goes wrong? What if I can’t make my posts because my computer crashes or I forget to do them? I soon found out that the blog posts were a fun, lighthearted part of my weekly homework; before long I was making my fiftieth post, more posts than anyone else in the Freshman or Sophomore classes. It became a sort of... way to entertain myself. Bored? Make a blog post! Nothin’ to do? Make a blog post! Trying to slack off? Make a blog post! I was actually quited disappointed when we took a couple weeks off to do other things in English like read books and do essays on them. Of course, this quarter of blog posts still taught me things.

I've been searching for years for the mistake I was making in all of my pieces. I would write these great stories, these wonderful narrations of a made-up world that fills up my every waking moment. But there was always something wrong with my pieces- there was always something off about them, something that made me throw them in the trash each and every time. At one point I started working on a long-term project (which I will now have to go back and edit) that started out great but started turning into a disaster. My teacher finally helped point out where I was having difficulty- Mr. Sutherland* noticed that I was putting too much detail in certain places and not enough detail in others (when I mentioned this insight to my mom she gasped, grabbed the edge of her chair, and said, “Oh! That’s it! We’ve figured it out!”). Using this feedback I began to be more aware while writing, and I do believe I’ve improved over the past month and a half. Along with this fun I’ve had real growth and time to think about my changes.

My favorite post would have to be “Rhythm”, although I do love the “Am I an Alien?” chain and I plan on continuing that throughout the year. I like “Rhythm” because it’s just so random but beautiful. It’s about being peaceful through a beat, your beat, and it makes everyone seem individualized (isn’t that what they want anyways? To be different?). It’s a people-pleasing post. And the “Am I an Alien?” series is just a really fun side-project that I enjoy working on. Some of my posts are from a chain called the “30 Day Challenge” in which you write thirty posts (not, apparently, over the course of thirty days, though) and each post is a letter you would write to a different person, like your crush or your parents. So far I've only gotten to around the sixth post in this Challenge because I'm stuck on the next 'assignment', where I must write a letter to my favorite actor/actress or TV character. I don't watch TV that often, so this should prove to be fun...

If you were to walk into my  house and watch me write these posts, such as the ones above, you would find me sitting on my bed with my backpack and random papers strewn out in front of me and my laptop on my, uh, lap. There would be no books open, no research showing, no tabs on the computer so that I can switch to them to read up on things. That only happened once (Am I an Alien?- Part 1). Most of what I write comes from personal experience or just random thoughts entering my head. At the beginning of the year Mr. Sutherland told my class that we could do one of two things on our blogs... A) take part in the “Arena” which means that we would do constant debates and responses on our blogs or B) take part in the “Journey” which means that we would write posts about creative things we’ve done or something that is currently taking up a lot of time in our life. I chose the Journey, and Journeying is exactly what I’ve done.

I’m inspired by many different things. Sometimes I write my posts out of anger- I don’t want to start shouting at people on the spot because, generally, when I get angry I stop thinking. I have a point, but I’ve forgotten what it was or I can’t formulate the words to explain it. If I write it down I can remain calm and actually get my sentences out without stuttering. I can edit my paragraphs, review my argument before I send it out for everyone to read. Sometimes my posts are inspired by general creativity- I have several posts that are fiction I based off of good music I listen to. I also have three posts that are stories- two of them are chapters of a book I’m working on and one of them is just a Scary Story, which Sutherland apparently thinks is disgusting- I agree. I remember when I made him read it... I later told my mom his thoughts about it, and what he'd said: "Ewww!!!" I then asked her if I could read it to her- she declined the offer and gave me a strange look. I think I deserved it.

I definitely think I’ve improved over the past quarter. With Sutherland’s advice and my own realization that he was right, I dedicated myself to making my paper’s more balanced when it came to detail. Although I’ve never posted it (which I might, maybe, possibly) I wrote an essay for writing class that turned out better than I’d expected. I just need to ask Mrs. Corbally if that's alright before I take any actions. My writing has already improved, and I’m having fun with every minute of it. In fact, sometimes I think I write and make posts too much... Even though I was reassured it’s OK...

*Aka Freddy.

Rhythm

Feel it in the air around you. The way the cars pass by outside at a steady pace, then way the pencil seems to swish along the flesh of the paper as you write on it your words and formulas. You could hum a tune to that beat, that seemingly endless thud of life, filling your ears with the sound of living, breathing atmosphere. Take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, closing your eyes and tapping something with your finger. Find your rhythm- don't be concerned if it takes a while, you'll find it eventually.

Your rhythm is your lifestyle. It's like a snowflake- no two rhythms are alike. Not completely. If you're experiencing the harsh reality that Life is Violence and there's a heavy weight on your shoulders like no other, simply return to this rhythm. Keep a certain peace within you while knowing, for certain, that this specific rhythm is your own. It belongs to you. It defines you. No one else can have your rhythm, and it sets you apart from everyone else in the entire world. Always remember about this beat. No matter how difficult the times are, no matter how much spoil these wars bring upon you, you will always have your rhythm.

All you've got to do is listen to the way the air moves around you, close your eyes, hear your heart beating, and begin to tap your fingers. There it is. There's your rhythm.

It may change over time, but that's natural. Just as you may change- your tastes may branch off from what they once were, your outlook on life may take a drastic turn (for the better or the worse)- your rhythm will change. Don't fret- it is still yours and only yours, to carry with you from the moment of your birth to the last breath you take. It will remain a snowflake among other snowflakes- always different.

Your rhythm is a beautiful thing. It makes you beautiful.

Of Mice and Men

(Seriously, Mr. Sutherland, how can you sit there and go through the same essays over and over again? Doesn't it get boring after a while? I mean, even if everyone did a perfect essay, it'd still be a lot of repetitive information, just written differently. How much coffee do you drink to stay awake, man?)

The novella Of Mice and Men, by author John Steinbeck, written in 1937,  is about two men, George and Lennie, who are constantly having to move from town to town because of Lennie’s mistakes. Lennie has some kind of mental disability that makes him not remember things and makes him really stupid. He especially enjoys touching soft things, which is the main cause for conflict in the story.
  
Speaking of conflict, I think the main type of conflict in the story is character vs. society. This includes character vs. character, self, and society because everyone is part of the greater community, even oneself. If a person hates themselves for some reason, they are hating a part of someone that’s in a community.

At first it’s character vs. character- Lennie vs. George. At one point on page eleven George says, “You crazy son-of-a-bitch. You keep me in hot water all the time.” Throughout the course of the book it is made clear that Lennie is holding George back- he’s slow, and he’s always getting into trouble that makes them need to move around and start over somewhere else. Like any normal person, George is getting sick of it. He often calls Lennie a “crazy son-of-a-bitch” and tells him just how much he holds him back. Lennie threatens to leave, go off the live in the mountains, if he bothers George that much.

That’s when it becomes character vs.self. Almost immediately after George blows up at Lennie and starts shouting at him, he begins taking it all back and apologizing. On page thirteen after Lennie had been threatening to run away, George says, “I want you to stay with me, Lennie. Jesus Christ, somebody’d shoot you for a coyote if you was by yourself. No, you stay with me.” This sort of love-hate-tug-of-war is hidden in the background for the rest of the book, until the last chapter. George tries to be nice, because on the inside he’s shooting himself ten times over for ever being mean to someone as mentally messed up as Lennie.

The people outside of the pair (George and Lennie, that is) are the source of the character vs. society, although Lennie or George could, at any time, be counted in as part of society. Anyways, every man (and woman) on the farm or ranch has something to do with the conflict in the story. Crooks scares the daylights out of Lennie when he says, “S’pose George don’t come back no more. S’pose he took a powder and just ain’t coming back. What’ll you do then?” (Page 71) Curley causes much conflict with the way he’s always getting angry and trying to find any reason to pick a fight with Lenni, who never wanted to hurt anyone. Curley’s wife is a big part of the conflict- she just had to be the biggest whore around. Marriage and a home isn’t good enough- she’s got the flirt with every guy she can rest her eyes on, and do much more than that if she can. Poor Lennie falls into a trap of seduction, but things go much differently than she’d planned, especially when she ends up dead.

Everyone is part of society in some way, even the main characters. That’s why, if you single out one character, everyone else (even the other main character) is also just another part of society. That’s why I think that the main conflict is character vs. society. It’s a big enough umbrella to cover most of the basics.

Religion

How does Christianity make sense? How does religion make sense?

There are people starving in Africa. There are people murdering, raping, torturing, molesting, abusing (mentally and physically). There are horrible politicians. There are wonderful politicians that should be elected but never were. If there's a God, why isn't he helping these victims? If he were supposed to bring the Rapture in 2000, isn't he a bit late? And why can't anyone see God?

And what about animals? If God made all these different animals, why isn't he protecting them? Animals are being abused and killed every day- from domestic animal abuse to the murder of wild animals. Entire species going extinct all the time. If there's a God, why isn't he helping them?

And why are there other planets? Why, if God made this planet as a special planet, why are there so many others? Why were we able to go out into space without seeing heaven on the way?

I don't consider my own religion really... a religion. In fact, I hate that word. I hate using the word 'religion'. For me, it's a way of living. I spend my days worrying about the planet and the things living on it (other than humans, we're already fucked anyways). I do lots of things with herbology (lavender makes you fall asleep so fast), stone working, and full moons. I'm a spiritual person, but I'm not spiritual in a freaky way. I'm not cultish. I don't sacrifice babies and small animals (that's sick, people). I don't even believe in sacrifice.

Personally, in my opinion religion is merely a tool used by governments and other high powers to control the population. Religion is not something I approve of.

That's just my opinion.

Quiz thing

http://www.wordofmouthexperiment.com/dedpyhto/tests/tibetian/index.htm

It's really cool. I mean, I dunno if the whole "YOUR WISH WILL COME TRUUUUEEEE" thing is right, but the results of the actual quiz made my jaw drop because of how, um, insanely accurate they were...

SO TAKE THE QUIZ.

And perhaps my tiny wish will come true. If it does, I'll tell you guys. :D If not, it's still a damn cool quiz so take it.

Blank

-post edited-

50th Post

Yes, indeed, this is my 50th post since creating this blog.

...

I'm sorry, Mr. Sutherland. And everyone who goes into Google Reader every day and sees "Susan Peevy- seven new posts!"

...

The irony is, this is yet another post that shows up on Google Reader and annoys you just a little bit more. :D

So. Who wants to celebrate my 50th post with me? :D Pepporoncinis for all!!

...not really, they is miiinneeee.

...Elizabeth says hi. :D

Of Mice and Men Essay (First Draft?)

Of Mice and Men is about everyone else being ‘against’ Lennie. Lennie isn’t ‘against’ anyone else, because he’s not sane enough or smart enough to feel that way. Everyone hates him. He just wants something soft.
  
I think the main conflict of the story is character vs. society. At first it’s character vs. character- Lennie vs. George. At one point on page eleven George says, “You crazy son-of-a-bitch. You keep me in hot water all the time.” Throughout the course of the book it is made clear that Lennie is holding George back- he’s slow, and he’s always getting into trouble that makes them need to move around and start over somewhere else. Like any normal person, George is getting sick of it. He often calls Lennie a “crazy son-of-a-bitch” and tells him just how much he holds him back. Lennie threatens to leave, go off the live in the mountains, if he bothers George that much.

That’s when it becomes character vs.self. Almost immediately after George blows up at Lennie and starts shouting at him, he begins taking it all back and apologizing. On page thirteen after Lennie had been threatening to run away, George says, “I want you to stay with me, Lennie. Jesus Christ, somebody’d shoot you for a coyote if you was by yourself. No, you stay with me.” This sort of love-hate-tug-of-war is hidden in the background for the rest of the book, until the last chapter. George tries to be nice, because on the inside he’s shooting himself ten times over for ever being mean to someone as messed up in the head as Lennie.

The people outside of the two are the source of the character vs. society, although Lennie or George could, at any time, be counted in as part of society. Anyways, every man (and woman) on the farm or ranch has something to do with the conflict in the story. Crooks scares the daylights out of Lennie when he says, “S’pose George don’t come back no more. S’pose he took a powder and just ain’t coming back. What’ll you do then?” (Page 71) Curley causes much conflict with the way he’s always getting angry and trying to find any reason to pick a fight with Lenni, who never wanted to hurt anyone. Curley’s wife is a big part of the conflict- she just had to be the biggest whore around. Marriage and a home isn’t good enough- she’s got the flirt with every guy she can rest her eyes on, and do much more than that if she can. Poor Lennie falls into a trap of seduction, but things go much differently than she’d planned, especially when she ends up dead.

Everyone is part of society in some way, even the main characters. That’s why, if you single out one character, everyone else (even the other main character) is also just another part of society. That’s why I think that the main conflict is character vs. society. It’s a big enough umbrella to cover most of the basics.