Only the Good Die Young

I've been writing! Well, again this was an assignment but it is still an excuse for writing. I hope you enjoy them.

Only the Good Die Young
On March 14, Jeffery Langford of Ravensborough died at dawn.
He came to the hospital with a gunshot wound.
The doctors said that he should pull through.
Unfortunately, Jeffery reacted badly to some medication.
They never discovered what it was.
He got shot protecting someone.
A girl, I think.
She was alone.
He jumped.
Bang.

My Lord, He Wanders Where He Wills, Alone - A Sonnet

For Renaissance British Lit, my professor had us try to write a traditional sonnet. This is my attempt. I don't think it turned out too horribly, though, the end needs some work I think. Otherwise, I'm pretty happy with it.

My Lord, He Wanders Where He Wills, Alone
My lord, he wanders where he wills, alone,
With little thought to what his love may say.
By night, the stars call, “Come, we’ll show the way.”
He heeds their siren cries; his soul is flown
To heights that only gods can navigate
And runs as free as goats upon the mount.
Enraptured like Narcissus at the fount,
My lord longs to resume adventures late.
So I, his love, am left abandonéd
By his pursuit of planetary odes.
I have no skill that can compare, which bodes
Great ill, for as I lay upon my bed,
I languish like the nymph called Echo who
For love could nothing but repeat to woo.

55 Word Stories

These are some very short stories I found while looking through the plethora of unfinished works that lie waiting in my cache of documents. Each story is only 55 words long. The first sentence is 10 words, the second is 9, and so on until it ends with a single word. It was a really fun exercise and I'm rather impressed with how they came out. I especially like The Light Next Door because there seems to be more of a story there than in Fairy Dances, though that is much closer to the kinds of subjects that I normally focus on.

Fairy Dances
The fairies danced upon the flower’s petals as I watched.
Twirling in the air, they looked like shooting stars.
I wanted so to join their lovely dance.
But I didn't know how to ask.
So I simply watched and longed.
Then, they saw me staring.
They stopped and whispered.
One flew close.
She laughed.
Twinkling.

The Light Next Door
Light shines from the lamp in my neighbor’s upper bedroom.
I've never seen anything in that room before tonight.
It intrigues me so I move in closer.
Perhaps he’s rented out the extra space.
Heaven knows he needs the money.
But why wait so long?
I don’t really know.
I should ask.
Shouldn't I?
Nevermind.

What Are Friends Made Of

As I was looking through some past writing, I found the following musing. I can actually remember writing this piece and how despondent I felt at the time. It never ceases to amaze me how easily my life goes in circles. Again I find myself in a similar place, wondering what it means to be a friend, what it means to be a "neighbor." Am I really a friend? Do I know what it means to be a friend? This is something that I have struggled with over and over. Now living in a small community that has drastically enlarged, I find myself trying to find how to connect with all these new people while still maintaining relationships I already have. Honestly, I often leave those relationships I've already cultivated to the wayside in pursuit of new ones. I always hate myself for this though. I know I will be forever learning how to find the balance between new and old relationships, but I still find it incredibly vexing not being able to do it now.

Friends are hard to come by nowadays. I mean, at any time, it can be hard to make a friend, but, with all the social networking, it can be harder to tell who is really a friend and who isn't. Because of this, you can get to know people on a surface level and think you know them well without ever getting to anything deeper than the current clothes trends or popular music. This is not to say that you can't make real friends over the internet or anything like that. I am merely pointing out a tendency in these types of relationships. And these tendencies can spill over into real human relationships. You can hang out, talk, go on trips, and still know nothing about the real person. It's a complicated maze of give-and-take, revealed and not revealed.

I have a habit of becoming consumed by stories at times, especially those of a chronic nature such as a book series or TV show. Partly, it is because of my natural, and sometimes irrational, love for stories. However, I have been thinking lately that there is more to it than that. I can sit in front of a computer for hours on end without ever thinking of talking to someone or trying to hang out with actual people. It's almost as if the real world doesn't matter anymore, that I am a part of the world of the story. I become so attached to the characters in the stories that I can feel with them. My heart breaks at their losses, soars with their triumphs. I know the inner workings of their minds and hearts, how they process and where they stand. They are my friends . . . as long as the pages or pixels last. When the stories end, there's a hole, an emptiness inside me where my heart for the characters has been. So I'll go and find another story that will take it's place with a new set of characters to befriend.

This becomes a problem when I leave the realm of story and enter that of reality. People won't just tell you all about themselves right off the bat like you can get from characters in a story. Real people expect you to give of yourself as well before they reveal things about themselves. You no longer have an easy access into people's minds and hearts. You have to work at it. You have to build trust. You have to build a relationship. And they don't magically appear. They take blood, sweat, and tears. They take effort and strain. It's a process . . . that never really ends. Like a house, it takes constant vigilance to see that nothing corrupts or begins to decay. You have to be careful about things like that with people.

There is also then the place where people trust you and open up to you and you do the same, just a bit. You have the ability to make people feel at ease with you and trust that you will hold their hearts tenderly, which you will. However, your heart is never really given away at all. You will show parts that look like more than what they are so that the other people think they're seeing the deeper parts of you while you still conceal from them the iceberg of your heart. People will say that you're one of their closest or best friends. On the outside, you smile and laugh and share but inside . . . inside, everything is in chaos. How do you say that you haven't shared anything? That you've been playing a part for possibly years? Do you ever actually tell them that? Do you simply go away and let yourself drift from their life, knowing that what they think is you is not you at all? These and so many more similar thoughts swirl around your head, even as you spend time with those who call you friend.

What are friends made of then? How do you know when someone is a friend and when they're not? When I am a friend? I don't know. Sorry for the ramble.

All's Fair in Love and War

All's fair in love and war, they say. No holds are barred in pursuit of their end. Normally, love and war, aside from this statement, are depicted as opposites. Who can forget the hippie signs of "Make love, Not war." However, could it not be argued that there would be no war without love? Could it not be said that war could be reduced to a love worth fighting for? This may be a stretch, but it seems to make sense, does it not? The wars over territory, depending on the territory, could be rooted in a deep love of money, should the land be financially profitable, or a deep love of family heritage, should the land have historical significance. Wars for independence could spring from a love of liberty while holy wars could come from a pious love of God. In a similar way, it could be said that love is a kind of war: two or more sides vying for the same object in hopes of increasing their own happiness. While shells may not fly and trenches are left undug, emotions of the individuals will often fly in varying directions and trenches will be dug in their hearts as a result. Perhaps, this is all nonsense and groundless conjecture. Perhaps, the extrapolations may be taken too far. Yet, love and war do not necessarily seem so very different as is often presented.

Disclaimer: This is not to say that I believe that all those who instigate or participate in wars are doing so out of love for something. I am not so naive as to not know that there are people who do such things for uglier reasons. I also do not believe, though one may be motivated to war by a deep, perhaps even justifiable, love, that that makes war condone-able. I am not pacifist and do believe that there are things worth fighting for but war should never be glorified as something that every human being should aim for; war comes at a cost, often one that is more than had been expected or desired. Lastly, I do believe that it is through love that war may, at one time, come to an end. I do not think it likely that humans will ever reach that time in this present world, but I do think that there is a Love that can surpass all other loves, and hates, that motivate people to war. I only thought the subject was something interesting to ponder.

Civilization and Its Discontents

Civilization and Its Discontents is Sigmund Freud’s analysis on the nature of civilization and how those within it can become discontent. Beginning with the source of religion, he posits that religion has its roots in infantile dependence on a father figure for its support and provision. From here, he moves into the general realm of relationships between people, namely that he strongest bond is that of sexual gratification, because it provides the greatest amount of pleasure and happiness, which is the goal of human life. Civilization though comes against the pursuit of these pleasures by enforcing a need for communal over personal happiness. This struggle continues into the realm of primal human aggressiveness as well. Freud later says that civilization introduces the super-ego, the initiator of one’s conscience, as a deterrent against aggressiveness, namely the form of guilt. However, Freud believes the restriction of these aggressive impulses can cause more damage to the person than if they had been acted out. Thus, there seems the inevitable, eternal struggle between the individual and civilization.

Frankly, I disagreed with a lot of what he said. I think it may be because he does not seem to have a correct understanding of love, that it is not something that must be selfishly indulged but one of self-sacrifice. He gives his definition of power of love as “the male unwilling to be deprived of his sexual object – the woman –, and the woman unwilling to be deprived of the part of herself which had been separated off from her – the child,” (79-80). In both these relationships, there is nothing of sacrifice on the part of the lover; no thought is given to the well-fare of the beloved. Everything revolves around the maintaining of happiness for the individual, even at the cost of the beloved. No wonder there is so much turmoil in Freud's view of civilization if its basis is such an understanding of love.

Anna Karenina - Part 2

After her recovery, Anna leaves to live her life with Vronsky. Traveling across Europe, they visit the major cities, living in Italy for a short time, before returning to Russia. It seems that nearly all her dreams have true. Her brother Stepan Arkadyich says of her, “She, though, you’ll see how she’s arranged her life, how calm and dignified she is,” (695). Her life is how she’s wanted it. She is no longer under Karenin’s control; she is with the man she adores above all others. She can finally live. So long as she is with Vronsky nothing else matters. So long as he loves her, the rest of the world and all its concerns are irrelevant.

However, the harder Anna tries to hold onto Vronsky, the farther he seems to go from her. “[He] coldly look[ed] at her, her hair, the dress he knew she had put on for him. … He liked it all, but he had already liked it so many times! And the stony, stern expression she had been so afraid of settle on his face,” (667). By all her arts and charms, Anna tries to tie Vronsky inseparably to herself, just as when they first met. Yet, despite her efforts, he keeps pulling away. She cannot live without his love but she cannot seem to keep it now. She has tried, almost smothering him with, love and dependence but still he leaves her. Even when Vronsky says that he cannot live without her, she sees that it is agony for him to be tied to her in the way she desires. “But the look that flashed in his eyes as he spoke those tender words was not only the cold, angry look of a persecuted and embittered man. She saw that look and correctly guessed its meaning. ‘If it is like this, it is a disaster!’ said the look. It was a momentary impression, but she never forgot it,” (668).