I don't know where my days are disappearing to, but I am trying to keep up with this along with my full-time job, trying to get overtime to pay for bills and get ahead on Christmas, my three sons, and now, the possibility that one of them, my youngest, may have asthma.
The essay I read today was Short Essay on Asthma. Honestly, this was really more for me to get a better understanding of what we may go through as opposed to any advancement for this blog, so I'm not going to comment on it.
The poem I read was For Whom my Heart was Made by The Rebel Cloud. I clicked on this poem because it was listed in the Featured for Comments section of AllPoetry. I've never read him before or even heard of him. Probably because I don't spend too much time there anymore except for this blog.
I loved the title (don't you?). The poem was also fantastic. He is, apparently, also a musician whose music can be found on SoundCloud, though I have not had a chance to listen, yet. It's a beautiful poem of love. Don't mistake that as being cliche. It was a beautiful read. Great imagery.
I read A Poison Tree by William Blake. It's a well-told warning about the dangers of bottling your anger inside. I have to say, however, as a first hand witness to people who don't bottle their anger and let it out every single day, they don't appear to be any better for the wear than someone who might bottle things inside. On the other hand, I may be wrong. Health seems to be in good condition. Physical, anyway...
I returned to the short story The Model Millionaire by Oscar Wilde yesterday as I watched The Raven. As Edgar was riding away from Emily's father to find her and rescue her, I thought I bet her father will let Edgar marry Emily now, which led my mind back to the story. Though this was more heroic than some eccentric fellow giving someone $10000 pounds to buy his lover's father's acceptance...
So I decided to read another Wilde story. I chose The Nightingale and the Rose. It seems to me that Wilde was a very dark person. His humor seems to extend from the desire to build someone up on expectation, then drop them from quite a height. This is a perfect example of why I don't like Oscar Wilde. Even more than the last story, which had some redemptive qualities, this story had a wretched ending that made me wish I had not read the thing at all. For the entire build up was fantastic. Indeed, as I was reading it, my mind was changing about Wilde like a slowly opening rose bud. But, like the rose in the story, he threw my hope in front of a carriage and it was trampled upon. I'm sure he's laughing is his musty grave.
I also want to add that I watched The Raven last night, which is a (fictionalized) movie about the last days of Edgar Allan Poe, which speculates that he had a copycat murderer who used his stories as inspiration for murders. I loved it. I love his stories, I love the movies that are inspired by his stories (i.e., Murders in the Rue Morgue, 1932). This was every Poe fan's dream. Speculative fiction that incorporated his stories into the plot. Agh! I was so happy.
No comments:
Post a Comment