One of the hardest things I run into while trying to write a novel (other than losing focus on where I was going with the story), is re-reading and feeling that it is inadequate, that it sounds fake and like a five-year old wrote it.
Well, I got confirmation of that yesterday.
I was cleaning out some papers and ran across a book I had started writing earlier this year. We had travelled to Ohio shortly after I started, and I had thought that I left it up there. I had decided to chuck the idea after I first thought I left it up there since I didn't cherish the idea of trying to re-write the whole first two chapters by memory. Well, it turns out I did not leave it in Ohio and someone read it.
This person, whom I have only seen twice and didn't really meet at all, left me a fantastic note which she titled "feedback" that says not only is this the dumbest book she's ever read, but she could write a better book taking a crap. That's literally what she said.
That was an incredible boost to my writer's confidence. Yes.
Makes me want to keep writing.
Insert sarcastic face here.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
The Longest Night
The reasons that caused the argument would become inconsequential as the situation progressed, dragging hearts like cans tied to the back of a car. The outcome would be so much more important.
They were not a violent couple. You would not see them duking it out in the front yard or hear the sound of hand hitting face. They imagined they fought in average quantities for a couple living together, although, during their arguments it seemed to them that they argued all the time.
The beginning was a normal Saturday afternoon: kids running around the house, football on t.v., everyone getting ready for the weekend shopping trip. But an incident caused a rip in their fabric. The man, like many other men, wanted to ignore the situation, just stop talking about it, pretend like it never happened. The woman, like many other women, wanted validation of their relationship, an (honest) apology, a resolution before forgiving and forgetting. Neither one was giving in.
Sometimes, when one person has such greater emotional needs than the other person, or so it seems to them, and the other person refuses to acknowledge their own feelings, much less those of their partner's, and their partner is stuck between needing emotional comfort and being pushed up against a wall of distrust... Violent ends come to pass.
The tears wouldn't come this time. Somewhere, deep inside her beyond where even she could consciously fathom, something had changed. Or died. But she couldn't cry. She was hurting... It felt like her heart was being stretched out from her center, like a piece of Laffy Taffy, and was at the point of tearing apart. There was a tight burning in her chest that she couldn't describe if she wanted to, and a bitter tension in her belly. She was hurting, and she wanted him to hurt like he had hurt her.
In her mind, though, she believed he had no feelings. His heart was cold and small and existed only as a mechanism for pumping blood through his frosty veins. So she lashed out in the only way she knew how.
She threw the remote at him.
The back of the remote popped off, and the four AAA batteries scattered across the floor, hiding under toys and the couch. Later, she would find one in the bedroom, though how it ended up there no one would ever know. He laid there and smiled the rictus of a demon, daring her to do it again. She wanted to, but she couldn't find the other battery. He stopped smiling and stood up.
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again," he said, and tried to wrap his arms around her. But she'd heard it before, she didn't want to hear it again. She was sure he asked her at some point what she wanted him to do to make it all better, but she couldn't think of anything except "fix it." But that would entail going back in time and just not doing it to begin with. She wanted him to say an honest apology and not a shut-up apology. And yes, somewhere inside, she wanted him to hurt like he had hurt her.
So, she punched him in the chest.
Moments later, she was on the chair against the wall, and he was above her, on her, choking her, screaming at her. She fought him for a second, but an anger and sorrow cocktail is a strange and mysterious source of adrenaline, and she barely noticed his hands around her neck. He released her and went through their bedroom and into the master bathroom, where he began pulling his clothes out of the closet. She followed him. There were quite a few minutes of "you need to fix this," and "I already apologized," and "how am I supposed to trust you when you'd already promised not to do this again?"
As angry as she was, the woman could not fathom wanting him to leave, so she blocked his way in the narrow bathroom. He threw his clothes down and threatened to leave through the window, she grabbed his wrist and told him he couldn't leave...they had kids. There was pushing and shoving, and once again, his hands found themselves around her neck and this time she was up on the bathroom sink and against the mirror.
"You've just hurt me like that and now you're going to hurt me like this?" she tried to scream, though his fingers caught some of the projection.
"You just can't let anything go, even after I apologized. Then you strike me?" At that point, she got the strength to throw him off of her.
"Yes! Yes! I want you to hurt like you've hurt me," which was followed by a lengthy string of obscenities from both their lips. Hard to believe those lips kissed each other passionately, dropped "I love you"s on a regular basis, or talked gently to each other at all.
They stared at each other for a moment; perhaps in that moment, one or both of them were about to give in, but their pride and emotions had forged a wall around each respectively, and he forcibly removed her from his path, and left.
Even if he had said he was going leave before, he never had. In the initial moments after watching him drive away, she was in denial. She was certain he'd drive around the block and come back home and just go to sleep and ignore her for the rest of the night, which was standard in particularly heated debates. Their middle child, a toddler, held his daddy's shirt and cried for him. When he didn't come back around the block, she thought, well, maybe he drove into the city and he'll be back.
As the minutes passed, she began to suspect he wasn't coming back.
As coincidence or fate would have it, as she was pulling out money from an ATM to try to save some for her and the kids in case he didn't come back, he was at another ATM pulling out money, and they both walked away with about half.
The hours passed. The three children played on the floor at her feet in the living room, and how can a mother not smile when her children are so joyous? But the tears finally threatened to come, and the fear grew with each passing minute.
"He's just gone driving," she thought, followed by "or perhaps he went driving then grocery shopping, and he'll walk in any minute now carrying diapers and milk." But he didn't.
The children watched Disney movies, pretended to read books to each other, made the little baby giggle, and kept a distant smile on their mother's face. When she went outside to see if he was parked and just stewing in the driveway, they followed her, mostly unaware of what was going on.
The kids went to bed. She sat alone outside, praying endless just one sentence: "bring him home."
Her mom stayed, sitting in the living room, and listened for the kids, while she went out for a few hours, looking in the parking lots of hotels, motels, bars, and restaurants. She came home lost, without answers. Shouldn't he have called, even if just to check how the kids were doing?
"He's gone shopping, then maybe he went to a bar to play some pool," she thought, though he'd never done this before. As the night burned away, she waited for closing time, then time for a drunk man to get home, and finally, some time after 4 a.m., she fell into a fitful sleep.
"I'll watch the kids if you want to go look again," her mother said as she sat crying as quietly as she could on the couch around 7:30. She bust out crying harder and thanked her mom, slipping her feet into her shoes and grabbing her purse. After another round of searching, she went home shaking. Every truck she saw that resembled his, she had to turn and study. Fearing getting into an accident, she had given up.
Somewhere, in the vicinity of where she had gone looking the night before, at a faceless bar that played Tejano music, he sat. He played some pool with some strangers to pass the time, take his mind off of the events that had transpired, but after a few games, he sat back in his corner, and drank the night into oblivion.
Somewhere, in the vicinity of where she had been driving around, around the time she had been looking, he pulled into a gas station, pulled out some money for a hotel room.
Not long after she got home, he walked in the door. He picked up one of the children and looked at her. She couldn't move for a moment. She couldn't tell if he was still mad, if he had come to pack his things and leave, or if he was calm. Moments passed.
"What have you done?" she whispered.
"What do you mean what have I done? I drank." He put the one child down and picked up another one. She got up, shell shocked, grabbed her cigarettes, and walked outside. He rarely followed her, so she thought she was safe to cry. But as soon as she began to sob against the rail of the porch, she heard the screen door open behind her. She tried to look away, but he leaned in to look at her.
"We need to talk," he said.
They wonder if they've broken something, mended something, or something else. 18 hours is a black hole for one partner to have no proof of fidelity from the other. For the meantime, they're grateful it didn't go farther than it did, and that when the day came back around, they were back in each other's arms. Their mundane doesn't seem so inconsequential anymore, as the notion of taking each other for granted as been, at least temporarily, suspended. Only time will tell if it does, indeed, mend broken hearts.
They were not a violent couple. You would not see them duking it out in the front yard or hear the sound of hand hitting face. They imagined they fought in average quantities for a couple living together, although, during their arguments it seemed to them that they argued all the time.
The beginning was a normal Saturday afternoon: kids running around the house, football on t.v., everyone getting ready for the weekend shopping trip. But an incident caused a rip in their fabric. The man, like many other men, wanted to ignore the situation, just stop talking about it, pretend like it never happened. The woman, like many other women, wanted validation of their relationship, an (honest) apology, a resolution before forgiving and forgetting. Neither one was giving in.
Sometimes, when one person has such greater emotional needs than the other person, or so it seems to them, and the other person refuses to acknowledge their own feelings, much less those of their partner's, and their partner is stuck between needing emotional comfort and being pushed up against a wall of distrust... Violent ends come to pass.
The tears wouldn't come this time. Somewhere, deep inside her beyond where even she could consciously fathom, something had changed. Or died. But she couldn't cry. She was hurting... It felt like her heart was being stretched out from her center, like a piece of Laffy Taffy, and was at the point of tearing apart. There was a tight burning in her chest that she couldn't describe if she wanted to, and a bitter tension in her belly. She was hurting, and she wanted him to hurt like he had hurt her.
In her mind, though, she believed he had no feelings. His heart was cold and small and existed only as a mechanism for pumping blood through his frosty veins. So she lashed out in the only way she knew how.
She threw the remote at him.
The back of the remote popped off, and the four AAA batteries scattered across the floor, hiding under toys and the couch. Later, she would find one in the bedroom, though how it ended up there no one would ever know. He laid there and smiled the rictus of a demon, daring her to do it again. She wanted to, but she couldn't find the other battery. He stopped smiling and stood up.
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again," he said, and tried to wrap his arms around her. But she'd heard it before, she didn't want to hear it again. She was sure he asked her at some point what she wanted him to do to make it all better, but she couldn't think of anything except "fix it." But that would entail going back in time and just not doing it to begin with. She wanted him to say an honest apology and not a shut-up apology. And yes, somewhere inside, she wanted him to hurt like he had hurt her.
So, she punched him in the chest.
Moments later, she was on the chair against the wall, and he was above her, on her, choking her, screaming at her. She fought him for a second, but an anger and sorrow cocktail is a strange and mysterious source of adrenaline, and she barely noticed his hands around her neck. He released her and went through their bedroom and into the master bathroom, where he began pulling his clothes out of the closet. She followed him. There were quite a few minutes of "you need to fix this," and "I already apologized," and "how am I supposed to trust you when you'd already promised not to do this again?"
As angry as she was, the woman could not fathom wanting him to leave, so she blocked his way in the narrow bathroom. He threw his clothes down and threatened to leave through the window, she grabbed his wrist and told him he couldn't leave...they had kids. There was pushing and shoving, and once again, his hands found themselves around her neck and this time she was up on the bathroom sink and against the mirror.
"You've just hurt me like that and now you're going to hurt me like this?" she tried to scream, though his fingers caught some of the projection.
"You just can't let anything go, even after I apologized. Then you strike me?" At that point, she got the strength to throw him off of her.
"Yes! Yes! I want you to hurt like you've hurt me," which was followed by a lengthy string of obscenities from both their lips. Hard to believe those lips kissed each other passionately, dropped "I love you"s on a regular basis, or talked gently to each other at all.
They stared at each other for a moment; perhaps in that moment, one or both of them were about to give in, but their pride and emotions had forged a wall around each respectively, and he forcibly removed her from his path, and left.
Even if he had said he was going leave before, he never had. In the initial moments after watching him drive away, she was in denial. She was certain he'd drive around the block and come back home and just go to sleep and ignore her for the rest of the night, which was standard in particularly heated debates. Their middle child, a toddler, held his daddy's shirt and cried for him. When he didn't come back around the block, she thought, well, maybe he drove into the city and he'll be back.
As the minutes passed, she began to suspect he wasn't coming back.
As coincidence or fate would have it, as she was pulling out money from an ATM to try to save some for her and the kids in case he didn't come back, he was at another ATM pulling out money, and they both walked away with about half.
The hours passed. The three children played on the floor at her feet in the living room, and how can a mother not smile when her children are so joyous? But the tears finally threatened to come, and the fear grew with each passing minute.
"He's just gone driving," she thought, followed by "or perhaps he went driving then grocery shopping, and he'll walk in any minute now carrying diapers and milk." But he didn't.
The children watched Disney movies, pretended to read books to each other, made the little baby giggle, and kept a distant smile on their mother's face. When she went outside to see if he was parked and just stewing in the driveway, they followed her, mostly unaware of what was going on.
The kids went to bed. She sat alone outside, praying endless just one sentence: "bring him home."
Her mom stayed, sitting in the living room, and listened for the kids, while she went out for a few hours, looking in the parking lots of hotels, motels, bars, and restaurants. She came home lost, without answers. Shouldn't he have called, even if just to check how the kids were doing?
"He's gone shopping, then maybe he went to a bar to play some pool," she thought, though he'd never done this before. As the night burned away, she waited for closing time, then time for a drunk man to get home, and finally, some time after 4 a.m., she fell into a fitful sleep.
"I'll watch the kids if you want to go look again," her mother said as she sat crying as quietly as she could on the couch around 7:30. She bust out crying harder and thanked her mom, slipping her feet into her shoes and grabbing her purse. After another round of searching, she went home shaking. Every truck she saw that resembled his, she had to turn and study. Fearing getting into an accident, she had given up.
Somewhere, in the vicinity of where she had gone looking the night before, at a faceless bar that played Tejano music, he sat. He played some pool with some strangers to pass the time, take his mind off of the events that had transpired, but after a few games, he sat back in his corner, and drank the night into oblivion.
Somewhere, in the vicinity of where she had been driving around, around the time she had been looking, he pulled into a gas station, pulled out some money for a hotel room.
Not long after she got home, he walked in the door. He picked up one of the children and looked at her. She couldn't move for a moment. She couldn't tell if he was still mad, if he had come to pack his things and leave, or if he was calm. Moments passed.
"What have you done?" she whispered.
"What do you mean what have I done? I drank." He put the one child down and picked up another one. She got up, shell shocked, grabbed her cigarettes, and walked outside. He rarely followed her, so she thought she was safe to cry. But as soon as she began to sob against the rail of the porch, she heard the screen door open behind her. She tried to look away, but he leaned in to look at her.
"We need to talk," he said.
They wonder if they've broken something, mended something, or something else. 18 hours is a black hole for one partner to have no proof of fidelity from the other. For the meantime, they're grateful it didn't go farther than it did, and that when the day came back around, they were back in each other's arms. Their mundane doesn't seem so inconsequential anymore, as the notion of taking each other for granted as been, at least temporarily, suspended. Only time will tell if it does, indeed, mend broken hearts.
Monday, November 26, 2012
11/26/2012 - Struggling
I am now two weeks behind in my short stories, and I have not posted anything new for a while. We've been extremely busy at work, which is the place I use the internet to post these (I refuse to get internet at home, thank you). I have also been using a little of my time for Christmas and birthday shopping.
I am going to try to get back into the swing of things, though the holiday season is getting pretty crazy for me.
Also, the lack of response to...anything at all that I post is kind of killing my dreams here. But, that's okay, I guess.
So, the poem I read today was Untangle the Tangle by Blackpooljimmy. He wrote this as an entry to a contest with a picture prompt. I thought it was fantastic. It's a writer's piece, which you'll understand when you read it, which I recommend you do.
I also read The Pleiades at Midnight by Johannes Carsten Hauch. I never grew out of my fascination with night and stars and space, so...the title appealed to me. The poem itself is incredible. It links the stars and time and emotion with incredible fluidity. Highly recommended.
The short story I read was An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge by Ambrose Bierce. Bierce has a way of keeping readers reading. What seems to start out as a mundane scene turns out to be intriguing. In this case, the hanging of a man on the bridge. Quite interesting. In fact, it was turned into an episode of The Twilight Zone.
The essay I read was Of Comets and Meteors by Fred Whipple. I don't even know where to start with this. First of all, this man is the more genius version of Taylor Swift. His accomplishments make the rest of us look lazy and slothful. I was completely impressed by the essay, perhaps to a fault because, as I stated above, I never grew out of a fascination with the darkness beyond. He has made military contributions in the form of inventions, and he has discovered some interesting things in his lifetime. I definitely recommend reading this essay. I loved it.
I am going to try to get back into the swing of things, though the holiday season is getting pretty crazy for me.
Also, the lack of response to...anything at all that I post is kind of killing my dreams here. But, that's okay, I guess.
So, the poem I read today was Untangle the Tangle by Blackpooljimmy. He wrote this as an entry to a contest with a picture prompt. I thought it was fantastic. It's a writer's piece, which you'll understand when you read it, which I recommend you do.
I also read The Pleiades at Midnight by Johannes Carsten Hauch. I never grew out of my fascination with night and stars and space, so...the title appealed to me. The poem itself is incredible. It links the stars and time and emotion with incredible fluidity. Highly recommended.
The short story I read was An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge by Ambrose Bierce. Bierce has a way of keeping readers reading. What seems to start out as a mundane scene turns out to be intriguing. In this case, the hanging of a man on the bridge. Quite interesting. In fact, it was turned into an episode of The Twilight Zone.
The essay I read was Of Comets and Meteors by Fred Whipple. I don't even know where to start with this. First of all, this man is the more genius version of Taylor Swift. His accomplishments make the rest of us look lazy and slothful. I was completely impressed by the essay, perhaps to a fault because, as I stated above, I never grew out of a fascination with the darkness beyond. He has made military contributions in the form of inventions, and he has discovered some interesting things in his lifetime. I definitely recommend reading this essay. I loved it.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
11/14/2012
My deepest apologies for the delayed posts, and the lack of a short story so far for week three. I am currently trying to finish the story I began on Monday, November 12, 2012, but I got stuck. How...me.
Today, the first thing I read was The Great Power Outage by emoxninjaxgone. What a mouthful of a name, huh? His name is actually Joshua Rogers (according to his author page). I was struck by the imagery and the word choices in this. I thought it was a nice tale about the war between, as he puts it, Mr. Brain and Mr. Heart.
The flow was somewhat jarred in the last third of the poem. I can't quite place my finger on why. But I absolutely adored the fifth stanza. I thought it was most powerful. There are deep emotions in this. Great read.
I have to say, though, I think every mention of something being monochromatic is always going to remind me of Erin Morgenstern's Night Circus.
I also read Song of Poplars by Aldous Huxley, who most of you probably know more for his book Brave New World as opposed to his poetry. I have to say, I was completely impressed with his book in high school, and I am completely impressed over a decade later with his poetry. I may be a bit late on this, but I am glad I ran across it.
I just adore the imagery in this. He gives a life and emotion to the poplar. Also, did I mention I adore the imagery in this?
That's all I did today. I was very busy, but I did get to post a new story, The Many Suicidal Deaths of Daphne Sprague, which I hope you enjoy. It's my first attempt at any kind of horror.
Today, the first thing I read was The Great Power Outage by emoxninjaxgone. What a mouthful of a name, huh? His name is actually Joshua Rogers (according to his author page). I was struck by the imagery and the word choices in this. I thought it was a nice tale about the war between, as he puts it, Mr. Brain and Mr. Heart.
The flow was somewhat jarred in the last third of the poem. I can't quite place my finger on why. But I absolutely adored the fifth stanza. I thought it was most powerful. There are deep emotions in this. Great read.
I have to say, though, I think every mention of something being monochromatic is always going to remind me of Erin Morgenstern's Night Circus.
I also read Song of Poplars by Aldous Huxley, who most of you probably know more for his book Brave New World as opposed to his poetry. I have to say, I was completely impressed with his book in high school, and I am completely impressed over a decade later with his poetry. I may be a bit late on this, but I am glad I ran across it.
I just adore the imagery in this. He gives a life and emotion to the poplar. Also, did I mention I adore the imagery in this?
That's all I did today. I was very busy, but I did get to post a new story, The Many Suicidal Deaths of Daphne Sprague, which I hope you enjoy. It's my first attempt at any kind of horror.
Friday, November 9, 2012
11/09/2012
If this is your first time visiting my blog, please read the reason behind it here.
Today, I began with a poem. I read The Boy Made of Paper by Vex Darkly. I rather like his author page... But that is of no consequence. I do love the poem. I, like others before me, kept returning to the fourth stanza in the piece, for it held a stinging amount of emotion, especially to a mother of 3 boys. It was a fantastic, powerful poem with beautiful imagery and masterful metaphors. If you haven't read any of the other poems I have read and blogged about, read this one. Read it anyway.
Okay. So, via this article on the Scientific American website, I linked to FQXi's 2012 Essay Contest. The topic? The Nature of Time. Whew. I could already tell that whichever essay I chose (for it was a contest), that I would probably not understand a word of it.
The thing is, even though it is an essay, the title means a lot to me. I skipped over the titles "Things Happen" and "Time is Local," eventually choosing A Mystic Dream of Four. I was right, I did not understand most of it. I got that there are two theories that are incompatible. Honestly, this is 10 pages long, and I was lost by the second paragraph.
So. What I am going to do is print it out, read it, have my phone beside me to look up strange words, theories, etc., and get back to you on that. Probably not anytime soon.
Another Oscar Wilde story, anyone? No? I didn't think so.
Today, I chose to read Thank You M'am by Langston Hughes. It was a sweet story about a kid who tries to steal the purse off of a woman. I have to say, whoever put the story up on the website, though, did a lousy job of editing it.
The classic poem I read was A Clear Midnight by Walt Whitman. I must admit that Whitman, like Shakespeare, is one of those writers whom the idea of which is greater to me than the writing. I cannot bring myself to enjoy deciphering their language in order to enjoy the writing. Blasphemy, again. My insincere apologies.
Today, I began with a poem. I read The Boy Made of Paper by Vex Darkly. I rather like his author page... But that is of no consequence. I do love the poem. I, like others before me, kept returning to the fourth stanza in the piece, for it held a stinging amount of emotion, especially to a mother of 3 boys. It was a fantastic, powerful poem with beautiful imagery and masterful metaphors. If you haven't read any of the other poems I have read and blogged about, read this one. Read it anyway.
Okay. So, via this article on the Scientific American website, I linked to FQXi's 2012 Essay Contest. The topic? The Nature of Time. Whew. I could already tell that whichever essay I chose (for it was a contest), that I would probably not understand a word of it.
The thing is, even though it is an essay, the title means a lot to me. I skipped over the titles "Things Happen" and "Time is Local," eventually choosing A Mystic Dream of Four. I was right, I did not understand most of it. I got that there are two theories that are incompatible. Honestly, this is 10 pages long, and I was lost by the second paragraph.
So. What I am going to do is print it out, read it, have my phone beside me to look up strange words, theories, etc., and get back to you on that. Probably not anytime soon.
Another Oscar Wilde story, anyone? No? I didn't think so.
Today, I chose to read Thank You M'am by Langston Hughes. It was a sweet story about a kid who tries to steal the purse off of a woman. I have to say, whoever put the story up on the website, though, did a lousy job of editing it.
The classic poem I read was A Clear Midnight by Walt Whitman. I must admit that Whitman, like Shakespeare, is one of those writers whom the idea of which is greater to me than the writing. I cannot bring myself to enjoy deciphering their language in order to enjoy the writing. Blasphemy, again. My insincere apologies.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
11/08/2012
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.
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.
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