Why Can't They Just All Be Bells?

Black bells
White Bells
Yellow church steeple bells
Little tinny trinket bells
Cracked, broken, beaten bells
Bells that ring
Bells that ring if you'll listen
Still ring for me
Still ring if you'll let them
Let them be
Let them be.

Test annouced:

Early Next week.

Questions nine and eleven on the worksheet assigned today.

12-7 Quiz moved to tomorrow, article due.

Study hard!!

Peter and Laura

“Goddammit Laura, I'm feeling better.”

“that's great!” she shouted back, her mouth filled with Chinese sesame noodles.

“It's not great.” he shouted. “It's anything but great. It's abysmal, it's terrifying, it's unheard of. I'm a writer. I write. I love to write. I don't know anything else. My melancholy writes the checks. It pays the bills. It's my constant companion. I'm feeling better. The well's dried up.”

Laura swallowed her mouthful. “Peter, you're the only person I've ever met who's so screwed up. Do you hear yourself? You're miserable because you're happy.”

“damn straight” Peter said, before they both burst out laughing at the absurdity of it.

“Goddammit Laura, I'm feeling better”

Her mouth was full of Chinese sesame noodles, so she didn't respond.

“Don't you hear me?” Peter questioned, a little offended.

“My mouth was full Peter. I'm glad you're feeling better.”

“Well I'm not.” Peter complained. “I'm a writer Laura, no one's going to like what I write now.”

“that's ridiculous.” Laura said, putting another forkful of the cold and slimy noodles into her mouth, savoring the carbs and calories.

“Maybe you're right.” Peter said. “Maybe you're right.”

“Goddamit Laura, I'm feeling better.”

“Oh no! The horror” Laura responded sarcastically. “What are we ever going to do?”

Peter was taken aback. Laura looked very pretty with her thin lips taking in mouthfuls of cold sesame noodles. She had spice, she had this fire to her. She had wit and personality and daring. But she was cruel, and he'd had just about enough of her.

“I'm a writer Laura.” Peter nearly pleaded, vying for her sympathies or at least some reaction other than her sarcasm. “They pay me for my tortured soul.”

“They pay you?” Laura sneered. “Since when?”

“Get out.” Peter said simply. And Laura left.

Fire and Ice

Jeremy Schatten

AP List

Ms. Johnson

Nov. 16th 200

It was the physicist Niels Bohr who said “There are trivial truths and great truths. The opposite of a trivial truth is plainly false, but the opposite of a great truth is also true.” Robert Frost’s Fire and Ice is a poem compositing opposites. He uses the metaphors of fire and ice to represent passion and hatred respectively. His ultimate conclusion is that both are equally destructive. Though the poem is short - only nine lines, the narrator who conveys Frost’s message has his own character. Though often disputed, the poem is written from the perspective of a narrator personally experienced in the opposing forces of fire and ice.

Author John N. Serio from Clarkson University maintains that Frost’s narrator is objective and somewhat detached. Serio says “When Frost speaks of hatred, instead of seeing it as an emotion or feeling, like anger, he presents it as a consequence of thought.” Serio goes as far to compare Frost’s work to Dante’s The Inferno. Serio argues “Frost employs a modified tersa rima, the rhyme scheme Dante invented for his Divine Comedy : aba, abc, bcb.” While this is indeed true, it needs to be questioned whether Frost’s work truly mirrors Dante’s Inferno. In his explication, Serio makes the narrator out to be objective, and in doing so is missing a very big concept of the poem.

Frost uses personal language frequently. Not only is the poem told in the first peron, but it frequently makes reference to the depth of experience of the narrator. Lines such as “From what I’ve tasted of desire” or “I think I know enough of hate” illustrate this as well. The poem is suggesting that both passion and hatred are strong enough to bring about the end of the world. At first glance the line “I think I know enough of hate” seems almost as if the narrator is unsure of himself. Upon closer inspection however, it is made apparent that this line is one of many examples of Frost exuding the wry wit this poem is famous for. Taken in conjunction with the line “Some say the world will end in Fire”, it is easy to see how Frost is being almost sarcastic. Deirdre Fagan explains it well. She says ‘ “Some say” is wryly derisive of the sort of light conversation to be had on a topic of such great magnitude. It is also clearly meant to posit the poet as one who filters the impressions of those around him and who arrives at deeper and more more meaningful conclusions.’ Frosts use of the phrase “but if it had to perish twice”, adds to the aura of lightheartedness. Associated content agrees. They say “he says this would happen if the world were to perish twice. It almost sounds like a joke.”

The narrator’s take on the concepts of the destruction of the world are clearly personal, with a breadth of experience alluded to by said narrator. The narrator is even able to make a value judgement. “I hold with those who favor fire.” Only someone with experience in both areas would be able to choose between them, and ultimately declare them equals. “But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate, to say that for destruction ice, is also great, and would suffice.” In Serio’s criticism, he quotes Jay Parini as saying “The poet-narrator seems to have been through the torrid and frigid zones, to have loved and hated.”

The question still remains though, whether the narrator of the poem is Frost himself, or an alternate persona created for the piece. Though one could never deduce for sure, Frost’s own life offers subtle clues into his experiences with passion and hatred. After Frost published his first poem, he was so caught up in self pride that he asked the girl he was seeing to Marry him, a Miss Elinor Miriam White. She denied him, insisting that she needed to finish her schooling. this suggests that Frost did indeed know the utterly destructive nature of passion, as he must have been crushed. They did later marry, exposing Frost, and by extension the narrator, to both sides of love’s pull. Frost also understood the gamut of hatred. Both Frost and his mother suffered from chronic depression after Frost’s father died of tuberculosis. One of Frost’s children died from Cholera. Taking these events into consideration, it makes perfect sense that Frost is well versed in the pangs of passion and hatred. Associated content goes as far to say “By comparing fire to desire and ice to hate, he emphasizes their destruction. This catches the reader’s attention and helps to convey Frost’s meaning in the poem. Frost is also comparing acts of nature to acts of humans.” Frost, through the narrator is essentially saying that though “fire” as love has had more of an impact on his life, and he’d consider it even more destructive than the hatred he’d felt, but that the hatred was so great it too could have destroyed the world. One can work with this conclusion, that because Frost is experienced in the subject of the poem, that the narrator is Frost himself.

Another piece of evidence to support the worldliness of the narrator, is his macabre longing for the world to end. In the poem, he talked of hatred “sufficing”, almost as if he looks forward to it. Fagan insists “The suggestion that the world may end because of desire suggests much about the longings and loneliness of humanity and the constant striving after excess that can eclipse our awareness of the consequences of our actions, particularly those affecting the natural world.” This is much in sync with Associated content’s claim that “Frost is also comparing acts of nature to acts of humans”

Though Frost’s poem is short, it contains several layers of meaning. Fagan says “... while on the surface it is an easy read, it says a great deal more than is at first apparent.” Serio concurs that “the poem is a marvel of compactness...” The length of Frost’s poem is an example of his wry wit. Such a grave topic is reduced to nine lines, some of them fewer than four words. This too illustrates the experience of the narrator. The narrator relates the poem so simply, so matter-of-factly, that his experience is loathe to be questioned.

All in all, despite Serio’s questionable comparison to Dante, the narrator is deeply entwined in his own work. The narrator speaks from experience, from nostalgia. Not from the detached “compression of Dante’s Inferno [sic]” that Serio suggests. The piece has a life of its own, ending with a grand finale. Frost says “I think that for destruction ice, is also great and would suffice.” He is not amending his previous assertion that he “hold[s] with those who favor fire”, but rather creating a more vivid image. Neil’s Bohr would consider Frost’s assertion a “great truth” : both the flames of passion and the freezing depths of hatred are strong enough to bring about the end of the world.

Photoshop Project I'm working on

I don't think anyone reads this, but this is a project I'm working on in photoshop for my computer graphics class.

http://i651.photobucket.com/albums/uu231/domini17/Updated.jpg?t=1258243387

it's almost finished. ^.^

Here's to Lisa. Part one of my tribute to those I care about.

I know someone named Lisa, and Lisa manages to impress me always. She's accepting, kind to people, but she still manages to be delightfully cynical. It's something nice to know there are still people like that out there. Lisa's a master at coping with new situations. She's years younger than I am, but oftentimes handles things better and with more consideration than I would. She also loves chocolate, and come on. Anyone who doesn't like chocolate is a zombie. Oh. and Lisa always understands the really obscure things I say. It's incredible how I can throw at her the most arcane knowledge, kinda hoping to have a pedantic conversation, and she always already knows what I'm talking about. It's bloody brilliant. Here's to Lisa!

Lisa!! :D <----- clickable link

AP English Paper

Jeremy Schatten

AP Lit

Ms. Johnson

Nov. 13th 2009

Draft One

It was the physicist Niels Bohr who said “There are trivial truths and great truths. The opposite of a trivial truth is plainly false, but the opposite of a great truth is also true.” Robert Frost's Fire and Ice is a poem compositing opposites. He uses the metaphors of fire and ice to represent passion and hatred respectively. His ultimate conclusion is that both are equally destructive. Though the poem is short – only 9 lines, the narrator who conveys Frost's message has his own character. Though often disputed, the poem is written from the perspective of a narrator personally experienced in the opposing forces of fire and ice.

Author John N. Serio from Clarkson University maintains that Frost's narrator is objective and somewhat detached. “When Frost Speaks of hatred. instead of seeing it as an emotion or feeling, like anger, he presents it as a consequence of thought.” Serio goes as far to compare Frost's work to Dante's Inferno. “ Frost employs a modified terza rima, the rhyme scheme Dante invented for his Divine Comedy : aba, abc, bcb.” While this is indeed true, it needs to be questioned whether Frost's work truly mirrors Dante's Inferno. In his explication, Serio makes the narrator out to be objective, and in doing so is missing a very big concept of the poem.

Frost uses personal language frequently. Not only is the poem told in the first person, but it frequently makes reference to the depth of experience of the narrator. Lines such as “From what I've tasted of desire” or “I think I know enough of hate” illustrate this well. At first glance the latter of the two “I think I know enough of hate” seems almost as if the narrator is unsure of himself. Upon closer inspection however, it is made apparent that this line is one of the many examples of Frost exuding the wry wit this poem is famous for. Taken in conjunction with the line “Some say the world will end in Fire”, it is easy to see how Frost is being almost sarcastic. Deirdre Fagan explains it well. ' “Some say” is wryly derisive of the sort of light conversation to be had on a topic of such great magnitude. It is also clearly meant to posit the poet as one who filters the impressions of those around him and who arrives at deeper and more meaningful conclusions.' Frost's use of the phrase “But if it had to perish twice”, adds to the aura of lightheartedness. Associated content agrees. “.. he says this would happen if the world were to perish twice. It almost sounds like a joke..”

The narrator's take on the concepts of the destruction of the world are clearly personal, with a breadth of experience alluded to by said narrator. The narrator is even able to make a value judgment. “I hold with those who favor fire.” Only someone with experience in both areas would be able to choose between them, and ultimately declare them equals. “But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate, to say that for destruction ice, is also great, and would suffice”. In Serio's criticism, he quotes Jay Parini as saying “The poet-narrator seems to have been through the torrid and frigid zones, to have loved and hated.”

The question still remains though, whether the narrator of the poem is Frost himself, or an alternate persona created for the piece. Though one could never deduce for sure, Frost's own life offers subtle clues into his experiences with passion and hatred. After Frost published his first poem, he was so caught up in self pride that he asked the girl he was seeing to marry him, a Miss Elinor Miriam White. She denied him, insisting that she needed to finish her schooling. This suggests that Frost did indeed know the utterly destructive nature of passion, as he must have been crushed. They did indeed later marry, exposing Frost, and by extension the narrator, to both sides of love's pull. Frost also understood the gamut of hatred. Both Frost and his mother suffered from chronic depression after Frost's father died of tuberculosis. One of Frost's children died from Cholera. Taking these events into account, it makes perfect sense that Frost is well versed in the pangs of passion and hatred. Associated content goes as far to say “By comparing fire to desire and ice to hate, he emphasizes their destruction. This catches the readers' attention and helps to convey Frost's meaning in the poem. Frost is also comparing acts of nature to acts of humans.” One can work with the conclusion, that because Frost is experienced in the subject of the poem, that the narrator is Frost himself.

Another piece of evidence to support the worldliness of the narrator, is his macabre longing for the world to end. In the poem, he talks of hatred “sufficing”, almost as if he looks forward to it. Fagan insists “The suggestion that the world may end because of desire suggests much about the longings and loneliness of humanity and the constant striving after excess that can eclipse our awareness of the consequences of our actions, particularly those that affect the natural world.” This is much in sync with Associated content's claim that “Frost is also comparing acts of nature to acts of humans.”

Though Frost's poem is short, it contains several layers of meaning. Fagan says “.. while on the surface it is an easy read, it says a great deal more than is at first apparent.” Serio concurs that “the poem is a marvel of compactness..” The length of Frost's poem is an example of his wry wit. Such a grave topic is reduced to 9 lines, some of them fewer than 4 words. This too illustrates the experience of the narrator. The narrator relates the poem so simply, so matter-of-factly, that his experience is loathe to be questioned.

All in all, despite Serio's questionable comparison to Dante, the narrator is deeply entwined in his own work. The narrator speaks from experience, from nostalgia. Not from the detached “compression of Dante's inferno.” The piece has a life of its own, ending with a grand finale. Frost makes an assertion that Neils Bohr would consider a “great truth” : both the flames of passion and the freezing depths of hatred are strong enough to end the world.

I'm a lazy SOB who knows he'll need this later. Please ignore.

127.0.0.1 localhost

127.0.1.1 jeremy-desktop

216.34.181.59 downloads.sourceforge.net

212.219.56.167 kent.dl.sourceforge.net

208.122.28.29 voxel.dl.sourceforge.net

213.203.218.122 mesh.dl.sourceforge.net

# The following lines are desirable for IPv6 capable hosts

::1 localhost ip6-localhost ip6-loopback

fe00::0 ip6-localnet

ff00::0 ip6-mcastprefix

ff02::1 ip6-allnodes

ff02::2 ip6-allrouters

ff02::3 ip6-allhosts

This is a test of new blogging software.

This is a test of new blogging software.

Her Red Glasses: A Poem

The strongest words are born from lust,
the strongest men from deed
but it's my own heartbroken mumbling
that keeps the master in his feed

he comes by day,
takes fears away
but nighttime lets them breed

The strongest scotch
or lemonade
would neither dull my pain
the master speaks, and all obey
his words morbid and deranged

my self esteem,
by cardinal's call
falls swiftly down the drain

he asks the young to take his hand,
the actress plays her part
but she's no marvel, for indeed

with a thickening of the heart
I realize all my love and pride
was empty from the start

and listen well, my words are true
heed the sorrow on my face
"it takes no art to make one believe
what one wants to be the case"

Part III

I looked at Kira in utter shock. Nothing much phases a guy like me, but this was different. This was Kira Keen, and once something like this happened a guy starts to get certain ideas. He starts to dream. And I don't care what they tell you. Sometimes you don't have to work for your dreams. Sometimes they fall right into your lap. Like I said, you'd be a moron to wait for it, but a downright fool to kick it in the jaw. I put my arm around her, and sort of nuzzled her hair just a bit on her far shoulder. She in turn pressed her head into me, and Robin turned redder than the time I slammed by thumb in the garage door and they had to cut a hole in my nail so it wouldn't get infected or something. I dunno, I'm not a doctor. You could see this was a humbling experience for Robin. I liked that. You could also imagine that he might wet himself. I liked that even more. But boy, when Kira Keen kissed me full on the lips, I liked that best of all.

Some people say there are fireworks when you kiss. Some people say it's like a moment frozen in time. Me, I just got hard down there, but since I was wearing blue jeans it didn't really matter. I mean, that's a hell of a lot better than fireworks in my opinion. I stayed the perfect gentleman though, and besides, it couldn't have lasted more than forty five seconds at most. But it was enough.

Robin muttered something you couldn't really understand, and he looked like he wanted to sink into the Earth. I wouldn't have minded much. I'd even have helped fix the cement on the pavement.

Kira Keen took my hand and started running some more. I followed, running and running until my legs nearly fell right off. This girl had spice, stamina. I wouldn't have expected anything less. We got to the park about eight or nine blocks down from the school where no one really went much. When you've lived in a town your entire life like most of us at that godawful school, you sorta take the scenery for granted. They say if you've seen one park you've seen 'em all, and mostly I'd agree, but here was one park with a girl whose eyes at that moment made me feel stirrings. Sure as hell they were in my pants, but stirrings in my chest too. Foreign ones. Ones I couldn't rightly explain. Hell, it coulda been a heart attack and I wouldn't of cared. This was Kira Keen. She was as mysterious as she was desirable, as strange as she was darn special. I mean, Jeez. You should get the picture by now.

She looked to her left, looked to her right, and sat down on the bare Earth almost, somehow making it look both like a ritual and something you'd be lucky to ever see again in your life. She told me to sit down in a voice so soft I thought I might have imagined it. I sat.

So there I was, sitting cross legged and awkward across from Kira Keen. She looked me in the eyes, and I was taken for a moment by how plain they were. Brown. Just brown. But they weren't brown. They were the color brown all the other things of brown had to be approved by before they could dare call themselves brown. She had that ability you know. She could take something so ordinary, so mundane, and just make it seem like you were visiting the Pope. I bet the girl even made brushing your teeth something memorable, something that makes you ache kinda like jogging for two hours and lying down just to feel the dull throb of something worth doing.
Kira Keen spoke.

“Spindle, Spindle,” she said my name twice, laughing, letting it roll off her tongue softly almost like you'd repeat something that happened to catch your fancy. She got very solemn all of a sudden.

“Why don't I know you?”

I didn't rightly know how to answer her question, so I paused, took a deep breath, and tried to find words that wouldn't come out harsh and unsophisticated. This was Kira Keen after all.

Part Two

And Robin would be all suave to Kira, bringing her flowers, and chocolates, obviously the kind of guy who watches too lousy romance movies, probably in the hopes of getting with your average susceptible Missy Jezabel. Some girls are suckers for that kinda thing. Not Kira though. Kira always sort of looked at him, smiled a little bit, and continued doing whatever she was doing. Boy did it piss Robin off that she ignored his advances. He got bolder and bolder too, until one day it all came to a head.

I was minding my own business, when Kira came up to me all sweet like, and I could hardly believe it. This girl was everything a guy could want, and nothing I'd ever dared to dream, even in my moments when the rough stuff's put on the shelf for a little bit. If Robin was Mr. Mercedes at our school, I was a lawnmower. No one really paid me any mind, and I never really cared much for books anyway. But it was an alright day I guess, and there were these leaves all over the place. People always describe leaves with all these fancy colors and terms I never really understand. They were kind of murky brown, muddy, with maybe a few yellows or reds in there somewhere. But sheesh, some people go on and on about Fall. It's not that big of a deal. Kira came up to me and hemmed and hawed a bit, and then she grabbed my arm and started running. Well, I could either have stayed still and fallen over like a real moron, or I could have done exactly what I did. I started running with her, almost as if I was a dog on a leash. A dog on a leash to Kira Keen. This I could live with. Anyone else and I'd have been right pissed. Kira jumped into a pile of those brown leaves and took me right down with her.

You know how it is with assholes. They just love Murphy's law, and make sure to make it come true as much as they're able. Robin just happened to come by at the moment. Yeah right. Robin didn't just happen to go anywhere. I sometimes I think he planned out his every move days in advance, when ironing his stuck up shirts and perfectly pressed khaki pants. A real poseur this guy. Down to the core. He came over and accused me of bothering Kira.

“Well what the hell are you doing to her Spindle?” he said, thinking he was saving the damsel. That was his problem. Kira was no damsel. She was a woman. A free spirit. She'd be more likely to save his ass any day than he'd be to save her pretty little petut. Kira stuck her tongue out at him.
“that's no way to talk to my boyfriend.”
And that's how I started going out with Kira Keen, and drove poor old Robin off his rocker.

End of Part II

A story I'm working on

Bam! This isn't what you think it is at all. Bam! Look at me, it's like I'm Emeril Legassi or something. That guy's a fucking douchebag. Bam!

Once a writing teacher told me never to apologise for my work. He also told me a lot of other stupid things too. I hope he gets pulled over for speeding or something. So yeah, you can tell he wasn't my cup of tea exactly. So I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're such a goddamn moron, because that's really what all of us are. Morons. We come in all shapes and sizes. All kinds and all flavors. But we're morons all the same.

You might be the kind of moron who sits idly waiting for someone to throw something in your lap

or you might be the kind of moron who enjoys watching soap operas and cries when Roderick finds his long lost baby.

Maybe you're the kind of moron who tries too hard, or the kind of moron who thinks it's cool to pretend not to try at all.

Or maybe you're like me. Maybe you're my kind of moron. My name's Spindle. I'm the king of the morons. The grand poobah of the ill equipped and ill prepared. Try to steal my throne if you dare bitches.


A while back, there was this girl, you see? It's always about some girl. Or some guy if you swing that way. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But in my case, it's a girl. Got it? Good. I don't want you to make the same mistake Byron did. He was bleeding for a week for calling me a faggot. It's not what he called me, it's how he said it. Like there was something base and vile about it. So now he talks to me real nice, smiles and everything. Like I'm the Prince of Siam. It's bloody brilliant.

So the girl's name was Kira. Kira liked this guy named Robin. I admire a guy named Robin. I really do. It's the kind of name that's conducive to a real sensitive cat. Well, this guy was sensitive enough I guess, but he was a dreamer, always blind to anything that wasn't his own bone brained philosophy. His eyes, oh those eyes. The ladies loved his eyes. They were piercing, and deep, and I guess they all wanted to take a bath in them or something, because there were sure lots of stories about how quickly he could get the ladies to undress for him. They were the kind of eyes that were dangerous, the kind of eyes that any guy with a dick would take full advantage of. I didn't like those eyes. They reflected so much in their inky depths that they didn't see anything. You know?

So Kira liked this guy named Robin. But She didn't like Robin. Robin sure as hell liked Kira though. He was obsessed with her. He wanted to prove how high and mighty he was. He wanted to know that any girl worth knowing in the whole god damn school would scream his name real loud if you know what I mean. Normally Robin would have written Kira off as not worth knowing, but Kira was too special for that. She's a presence. A real presence. Everywhere she goes, people see her and yearn. She's everything they wish they could be. Experienced enough to know just how to make your heart slip and slide like sizzling butter in a frying pan, but still naive enough about certain things to be just so damn adorable. I wish I could say I was an exception, but she even makes a guy like me, who's admittedly rough around the edges, go all soft and tender for a little bit.

Anyway, Kira was pretty oblivious to how amazing she was. Everyone who saw her fell in love with her, but she didn't see it at all. The most beautiful women are the ones who don't know they're beautiful. It's just one of those divine ironies I guess.

I think Robin's sort of an asshole. He always came up to me, suave and pretentious, "Well hello my good man" he'd say, and I wanted to give it to him good. The way he called me a "good man" was so fucking condescending. Everyone knew he was an asshole, but no one would ever say it out loud. Kinda like how your grandma can get away with making racist remarks, because she's "a product of a different age". Robin was a product of a different age all right. It's all so damn confusing how a guy like that got all those women. Any other place but this damnable school, and he'd be made fun of just 'cause his name's Robin. But those eyes. They must have been so reflective all the girls saw themselves in them. There's no better way to get a girl to look you in the eye than having eyes that feed their narcissism. So Robin got women.

End of Part 1