In a world less known for its heroes and more known for its actors, there is something terribly amiss. Idolization of those born out of fiction is all well and good, but the fact remains that there are heroes that exist in the world who are ignored on a constant basis. They don't have the powers of Superman, the resources of Batman, the ragtag team of compatriots like the X-Men, but they walk by us in stores, restaurants, and the streets every day, yet not a single glance is thrown their way. Ian thought all these things as he walked down the halls of the memorial for fallen soldiers. He wished he had the gifts, the courage, to become like those who will be eternally remembered in their stone tombs. His eyes and fingers traced across every name and achievement, oblivious to the shaking heads of old women who thought he was being disrespectful and the silent approval of old veterans who thought he was acting appropriately. His mind was full of great ideas, fantasies where he lived to return to accolades, parades, Presidents giving him medals of valor, but he also thought of dying gloriously in battle, a firefight or saving a group of stranded orphans from a fire maybe. Ian looked around for a moment, noticing his friends had wandered away and were watching a video that was playing the storming of the beach at Normandy over and over. As he made his way over, a small hand latched onto his and, surprised at the feel of the small, warm hand, he looked down into a pair of shimmering blue eyes.
The child had to be no more than five and stared at Ian with tears brimming but not falling. Courageous, Ian thought, as he knelt down to be at eye level with the young boy. He asked the child what was wrong and learned that he lost his parents. The child was eerily calm about it, but Ian knew that the fear inside the young man would eventually lead him into a mistake, in fact, it already had, he was talking to a stranger. Ian comforted the boy as much as he could and glanced at his friends, noting that they haven't seen what was transpiring yet. Ian gave the child a comforting pat on the shoulder and said he would help him find his parents. As they moved through the memorial hall, the child kept glancing around, eyes searching the crowd for his missing parents, while Ian searched as well. This would be his moment of courage, he kept thinking. He walked the young man through the crowd, searching, but never finding the parents. The child, Ian could tell, was beginning to lose some of that bravery he had before. Ian told the little blue eyed boy that they should get out of the crowd for a minute so the child could calm down. He agreed and they stepped into a small room off the hall. As Ian closed the door, he felt his hand tremble as he latched the lock tightly. He turned and faced the young boy, who glanced at him with growing alarm, knowing, as he approached him, that today, along with all his yesterdays and tomorrows, he would never be on that wall. He was one of the monsters those who died had fought against.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Commentary: English vs. the World (of Degree Programs)
I was taking my daily perusal through CNN.com this morning and saw an article about why possible engineers are getting English degrees. Oh! Wonderful, maybe this will say how awesome English is!, I thought with childlike flights of fancy. My dreams quickly faded into the nether region where unrealized dreams go as I read through the entire five pages of the article. All in all, the article was about how people are dropping out of hard majors and switching to easier ones. That is correct, my friends, enemies, and friendemies, people are switching from the HARD degree programs and into the EASY ones.
Now, I am not going to downplay the sciences. It takes tremendous skill, willpower, and intelligence to make it through any of the sciences, maths, etc. When a person graduates with a degree in engineering, they should be proud that all the hard work they did will pay off. The problem I have is the assumption that English is not a hard degree to get. As a graduate of Buffalo State University with my B.A. in English Literature, I must humbly disagree with the "easy" label given to my major.
On the surface, you can see why people would say that English is not a hard major. You have no math, no sciences, no history, no physical requirements what-so-ever, and so on. While we aren't blasting out multi-line equations or creating medicines that will cure whatever the cast of the Jersey Shore is infected with, we are learning to be articulate, well read, researchers, and yes, scholars in the history of the world. How are you scholars in history, don't you just sit in the house and read books?! First, books require no power source, so we can take them *gasp* outside! Secondly, history is written as well as passed down orally or through artifacts. It takes a command of language, any language, to tell the tale of a people in a way that makes people think you know what you're talking about. Research needs to be done to study history, which includes diving through book after book. Thirdly, there is a little thing, very hard to know, since only those who have taken the test of one thousand swords can learn about... books have been written longer than any one person has been alive.
With the study of Literature, a student delves into history through those such as Ernest Hemingway, William Shakespeare, William Beckford, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Henry Fielding, Miguel De Cervantes, and Ludovico Ariosto, just to name a few. We take in history at a personal level, where many of these writers have written with certain aspects of current (for them) society influencing them. History, life, and art blend in the words each puts to the page. Morality and ethics are explored, dissected, and reimagined. Take away literature from the history of man, just as if you took away mathematics, and the world would be drastically different. Engineering, Mathematics, the Sciences, English, Art, Music, and all the other degrees are needed in some aspect and no one is more important than the other. Before you rip apart another degree program as being less important than yours, take a moment and think before you speak. That is something I wish that the reporter from CNN.com did before publishing their article.
Now, I am not going to downplay the sciences. It takes tremendous skill, willpower, and intelligence to make it through any of the sciences, maths, etc. When a person graduates with a degree in engineering, they should be proud that all the hard work they did will pay off. The problem I have is the assumption that English is not a hard degree to get. As a graduate of Buffalo State University with my B.A. in English Literature, I must humbly disagree with the "easy" label given to my major.
On the surface, you can see why people would say that English is not a hard major. You have no math, no sciences, no history, no physical requirements what-so-ever, and so on. While we aren't blasting out multi-line equations or creating medicines that will cure whatever the cast of the Jersey Shore is infected with, we are learning to be articulate, well read, researchers, and yes, scholars in the history of the world. How are you scholars in history, don't you just sit in the house and read books?! First, books require no power source, so we can take them *gasp* outside! Secondly, history is written as well as passed down orally or through artifacts. It takes a command of language, any language, to tell the tale of a people in a way that makes people think you know what you're talking about. Research needs to be done to study history, which includes diving through book after book. Thirdly, there is a little thing, very hard to know, since only those who have taken the test of one thousand swords can learn about... books have been written longer than any one person has been alive.
With the study of Literature, a student delves into history through those such as Ernest Hemingway, William Shakespeare, William Beckford, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Henry Fielding, Miguel De Cervantes, and Ludovico Ariosto, just to name a few. We take in history at a personal level, where many of these writers have written with certain aspects of current (for them) society influencing them. History, life, and art blend in the words each puts to the page. Morality and ethics are explored, dissected, and reimagined. Take away literature from the history of man, just as if you took away mathematics, and the world would be drastically different. Engineering, Mathematics, the Sciences, English, Art, Music, and all the other degrees are needed in some aspect and no one is more important than the other. Before you rip apart another degree program as being less important than yours, take a moment and think before you speak. That is something I wish that the reporter from CNN.com did before publishing their article.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Writing: Moment in Time - Down the Rabbit Hole
He glanced over his shoulder, scratching absently at his arm, feeling the skin peel off with every movement of his fingers. He needed to fix what was wrong with him, though he couldn't pinpoint what was wrong. The world looked fine, what with its undulating sky, flame-like grasses, and monstrosities dressed in suits and ties. He felt the blood in his body flow out through his arm, watching it seek out a new home, perhaps one without a window that unexpectedly gets installed. He wondered, as he walked, what would replace the blood, but that thought soon left his mind as he saw a man staring at him. He couldn't tell who the man was, but the horns, tail, and pitchfork gave him some hints. He climbed up the sidewalk that tried to form into a roller-coaster loop and saw his destination. The only problem was that he had to walk through a large, milling swarm of those insurance agent-looking monsters. He shuddered at the thought of their insect-like arms and hands reaching out and touching, grabbing him, maybe thrusting pens and papers at him, begging in voices that sound like pigs stuck inside of a gristmill for him to sign off on a one-hundred percent profit venture. He wanted nothing to do with that, he only wanted to fill the emptiness inside himself since his blood voided its lease to his body.
Straightening his shoulders to the point where he feels his shoulders burst out of his leather jacket and form bone and sinew wings, he wishes that they were strong enough to lift him over those parasites, watching as they begin to devour each other and not a few of them begin to procreate right on the street, letting the ground that rolls beneath them as a sexual helper. He folds his wings in and squints his eyes, feeling the jelly inside them press against the inside of his head. He takes a step forward that shakes eyes and ground equally, alerting the mass in front of him to his presence, though they don't make a move. He continues walking forward, his arm itching so much he feels on fire, he feels so much on fire that he thinks he might be on fire. He begins to think how good fire would be to help him pass these giant bugs, but then again, behind on fire like the eye of Sauron won't help him here, he would only burn to ash before he could get what he came here for. He begins to pick up his speed, rushing into the pile as a linebacker through an opposing team. He feels hands and claws and tentacles and other appendages he can't even name grasp at him while all the time he hopes none of their reproductive organs search out those sensitive areas on his body. He drops to a knee only a few feet from the door, but his body turns to liquid as he flows over those creatures, drowning them in his own fluids, fluids he is surprised he has seeing as his blood probably bought a flat somewhere in downtown Buffalo at a reasonable rent in a good school district. As his body regains form, he flashes his wings in a flourish and steps through the door. Not opening it, he steps through it.
Once inside, he enters a land of gold and marble, almost as if he had entered heaven...or some form of high-end brothel. Maybe a brothel outside of Vegas or Amsterdam. He walks through those gold halls and up stairs and down stairs, sometimes he walks in circles, and sometimes he doesn't walk at all, but floats on a cloud of silk towards the upper reaches of this heavenly brothel. He finally reaches the top, the walls giggling at him and he bowing in return. He steps to the door and knocks politely, allowing the door to wake up and realize he is there and open. Once open, he walks through and steps towards the gentleman who rests upon a cross, looking around him with a bored expression, like a man who has beaten all his PS3 games and now has nothing to do. Once the cross-bound man notices him, he smiles and beckons him forward the best a man who is crucified can do. The cross-man points to a small bronze box and he opens it, taking the small sword from the box and sliding it against his arm where he scratched the hole in. The world suddenly jerks and flattens. He watches with amazement as the walls begin to peal away, almost like a Silent Hill game, and are replaced with torn wallpaper in a puke green color. The crucified man is suddenly no longer crucified and sits upon a worn and torn couch, boiling something over a small bunsen burner. Once the world straights into its hopelessness that he realized he was trying to escape, he glances at the man on the couch who looks up to him and, with glazed over eyes, says, "You want to go back down the rabbit hole?"
Straightening his shoulders to the point where he feels his shoulders burst out of his leather jacket and form bone and sinew wings, he wishes that they were strong enough to lift him over those parasites, watching as they begin to devour each other and not a few of them begin to procreate right on the street, letting the ground that rolls beneath them as a sexual helper. He folds his wings in and squints his eyes, feeling the jelly inside them press against the inside of his head. He takes a step forward that shakes eyes and ground equally, alerting the mass in front of him to his presence, though they don't make a move. He continues walking forward, his arm itching so much he feels on fire, he feels so much on fire that he thinks he might be on fire. He begins to think how good fire would be to help him pass these giant bugs, but then again, behind on fire like the eye of Sauron won't help him here, he would only burn to ash before he could get what he came here for. He begins to pick up his speed, rushing into the pile as a linebacker through an opposing team. He feels hands and claws and tentacles and other appendages he can't even name grasp at him while all the time he hopes none of their reproductive organs search out those sensitive areas on his body. He drops to a knee only a few feet from the door, but his body turns to liquid as he flows over those creatures, drowning them in his own fluids, fluids he is surprised he has seeing as his blood probably bought a flat somewhere in downtown Buffalo at a reasonable rent in a good school district. As his body regains form, he flashes his wings in a flourish and steps through the door. Not opening it, he steps through it.
Once inside, he enters a land of gold and marble, almost as if he had entered heaven...or some form of high-end brothel. Maybe a brothel outside of Vegas or Amsterdam. He walks through those gold halls and up stairs and down stairs, sometimes he walks in circles, and sometimes he doesn't walk at all, but floats on a cloud of silk towards the upper reaches of this heavenly brothel. He finally reaches the top, the walls giggling at him and he bowing in return. He steps to the door and knocks politely, allowing the door to wake up and realize he is there and open. Once open, he walks through and steps towards the gentleman who rests upon a cross, looking around him with a bored expression, like a man who has beaten all his PS3 games and now has nothing to do. Once the cross-bound man notices him, he smiles and beckons him forward the best a man who is crucified can do. The cross-man points to a small bronze box and he opens it, taking the small sword from the box and sliding it against his arm where he scratched the hole in. The world suddenly jerks and flattens. He watches with amazement as the walls begin to peal away, almost like a Silent Hill game, and are replaced with torn wallpaper in a puke green color. The crucified man is suddenly no longer crucified and sits upon a worn and torn couch, boiling something over a small bunsen burner. Once the world straights into its hopelessness that he realized he was trying to escape, he glances at the man on the couch who looks up to him and, with glazed over eyes, says, "You want to go back down the rabbit hole?"
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Poetry: We Will Not Die!
Oration,
Exploitation,
Innovation,
Reclamation.
Words stolen and
sold for pennies on the dollar.
Thoughts murdered
for the sake of prosperity.
When the voices fade,
the song is lost.
When the singers leave,
the show is over.
Raise your voices,
as well as your pens.
Shout to the heavens,
'We will not die! '
Ovation,
Exploration,
Intuition,
Imagination.
Break out from the bindings
and free your minds.
Write as if possessed and
sing as your heart would break.
Life is waiting
for you to take hold.
I am waiting on the other side,
baring my soul through my writing.
Exploitation,
Innovation,
Reclamation.
Words stolen and
sold for pennies on the dollar.
Thoughts murdered
for the sake of prosperity.
When the voices fade,
the song is lost.
When the singers leave,
the show is over.
Raise your voices,
as well as your pens.
Shout to the heavens,
'We will not die! '
Ovation,
Exploration,
Intuition,
Imagination.
Break out from the bindings
and free your minds.
Write as if possessed and
sing as your heart would break.
Life is waiting
for you to take hold.
I am waiting on the other side,
baring my soul through my writing.
Poetry: We Can Start Over (All We Need To Do Is Hit Restart)
I showed you how much I cared
to the point I did things I never dared.
What good did it do me
when every night you're in the arms of another?
If you want me to abandon you
tell me and I will let you go alone.
Don't act as if nothing is wrong
when you play these games.
Let's just say no,
this was all a misunderstanding.
Let's backtrack a bit,
and let me introduce myself again.
We'll get off to a better start,
one where words were never said.
Maybe then I can delude myself,
forgetting I ever liked you more than a friend.
to the point I did things I never dared.
What good did it do me
when every night you're in the arms of another?
If you want me to abandon you
tell me and I will let you go alone.
Don't act as if nothing is wrong
when you play these games.
Let's just say no,
this was all a misunderstanding.
Let's backtrack a bit,
and let me introduce myself again.
We'll get off to a better start,
one where words were never said.
Maybe then I can delude myself,
forgetting I ever liked you more than a friend.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Poetry: Giving in to it All
Cold metal on soft skin,
clawing at my life,
seeking my heart,
but it's already gone.
Given to another
for safe keeping,
held in security deposit,
where I can't hurt it more.
If I am giving in,
thinking the battle lost,
I could let the metal in,
but the war hasn't ended
and my heart still beats,
hidden in hands,
gentle and loving.
Defiance raised like a flag,
scars shown that they tried,
but I won.
clawing at my life,
seeking my heart,
but it's already gone.
Given to another
for safe keeping,
held in security deposit,
where I can't hurt it more.
If I am giving in,
thinking the battle lost,
I could let the metal in,
but the war hasn't ended
and my heart still beats,
hidden in hands,
gentle and loving.
Defiance raised like a flag,
scars shown that they tried,
but I won.
Poetry: Yes is the Answer (Until We Are Famous)
Yes, give me your heart
and everything attached.
My kiss in no magic spell,
but its potency is unmatched.
Yes, give me all you have
and everything in between.
I will rain ecstasy upon you,
likes of which you have never seen.
Yes, just say yes
and I will give what you need.
You will tremble at my touch;
from my hands you will feed.
Yes, you like it my way
and you will never leave.
You know I am what you want,
only you are afraid to believe.
Yes, take my hand
and walk away with me.
I will never betray you,
until our names light up the marquee.
and everything attached.
My kiss in no magic spell,
but its potency is unmatched.
Yes, give me all you have
and everything in between.
I will rain ecstasy upon you,
likes of which you have never seen.
Yes, just say yes
and I will give what you need.
You will tremble at my touch;
from my hands you will feed.
Yes, you like it my way
and you will never leave.
You know I am what you want,
only you are afraid to believe.
Yes, take my hand
and walk away with me.
I will never betray you,
until our names light up the marquee.
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