A fire place burnt out,
A ceiling with holes,
Some toys thrown about.
The house of logs has started to mold,
The floor boards fall apart,
The sheets are torn.
A mantle with broken picture frames,
A desert outside that never rains,
A frame fromed from the window pane.
Scattered clothes left on the floor,
Brown pants and red dresses worn no more,
Once would have been worn in the days before
This day here.
This day now - the present.
There is nothing left anymore.
What happened here?
There are no bodies, no graves
Where are the people
That once called this home?
Where are they?
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
What The Thunder Said
Edgar Allan Poe was born January 19, 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts. The United States had just finished finalizing the Louisiana Purchase and further expanding into what would be known to American culture and mythology, as Manifest Destiny. Poe was a revolutionary of literature. He was an early pioneer of genres that wouldn’t have names until two hundred years after his death. His influence on literature is unprecedented and indisputable.
His most enduring work is his poem “the Raven”. It tells of a man alone in a house reading and mourning some lost love until suddenly he hears knocking at his door. He shrugs it off thinking, “tis some visitor… only this, and nothing more.” But the knocking resumes and still he shrugs it off saying to himself, “Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my door… This is it, and nothing more,” Finally he opens the door apologizing to the person knocking only to find, “darkness there, and nothing more.” The narrator looks out to the darkness and hears something whisper the name of his lost love, Lenore. He says it back and reassures himself, “merely this and nothing more.” He turns inside once again reassuring himself, “Tis the wind and nothing more!” But suddenly a raven flies in after he opens a shutter. The raven stands on a bust above the door. The man begins to questions the raven, trying to find out its character. It tells him its name, “Nevermore.” The raven drives the man insane and soon the raven’s apathy at the man plight drives the man to succumb to it. It ends with him under its shadow and he will be lifted “Nevermore”
It has been more than a hundred and fifty years since Poe died in Baltimore. The country he was born into has changed since his time. Industry was advanced through the cotton gin and soon consumerism and industrialism followed. After the civil war, when agriculture was made obsolete, urban centres with factories were being built. America was no longer a nation struggling to survive, but now an empire, a new kind of World Empire. Eventually the United States would spread its revolution like by osmosis to the rest of the world. But soon they would start noticing problems. Welcome to the future.
In humanity’s collective house, we are starting to realize that something’s outside, knocking on our door. The world of humans is facing 26 incredibly serious environmental issues with sub divisions numbering the hundreds and examples numbering the billions. Still the machine of human progress continues turning despite the fact that it very well may kill us. Tis the wind and nothing more. No matter how many times scientists show graphs of the polar ice caps melting, rivers and other fresh water beds dried up, the captains of industry ignore them. Darkness there, and nothing more. Civilization just wants to run its course in the way it’s always done.
It isn’t simply death knocking at the narrator’s door in the Raven, but nature. It is the nature that he’s chosen to ignore even though it was always inevitable. Soon nature finds its way to the man and he is even worse off from ignoring it. Poe’s America has changed and it will continue to change. The world of humans must decide what its future is. We as a species stand on the brink of something dark and horrible. And if we don’t act we may be trapped under it and we will be lifted nevermore. But there’s something else that Poe tells us, something about loss. It’s the loss of not taking action when we could have. It is that maybe we should take a step outside before it is night.
His most enduring work is his poem “the Raven”. It tells of a man alone in a house reading and mourning some lost love until suddenly he hears knocking at his door. He shrugs it off thinking, “tis some visitor… only this, and nothing more.” But the knocking resumes and still he shrugs it off saying to himself, “Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my door… This is it, and nothing more,” Finally he opens the door apologizing to the person knocking only to find, “darkness there, and nothing more.” The narrator looks out to the darkness and hears something whisper the name of his lost love, Lenore. He says it back and reassures himself, “merely this and nothing more.” He turns inside once again reassuring himself, “Tis the wind and nothing more!” But suddenly a raven flies in after he opens a shutter. The raven stands on a bust above the door. The man begins to questions the raven, trying to find out its character. It tells him its name, “Nevermore.” The raven drives the man insane and soon the raven’s apathy at the man plight drives the man to succumb to it. It ends with him under its shadow and he will be lifted “Nevermore”
It has been more than a hundred and fifty years since Poe died in Baltimore. The country he was born into has changed since his time. Industry was advanced through the cotton gin and soon consumerism and industrialism followed. After the civil war, when agriculture was made obsolete, urban centres with factories were being built. America was no longer a nation struggling to survive, but now an empire, a new kind of World Empire. Eventually the United States would spread its revolution like by osmosis to the rest of the world. But soon they would start noticing problems. Welcome to the future.
In humanity’s collective house, we are starting to realize that something’s outside, knocking on our door. The world of humans is facing 26 incredibly serious environmental issues with sub divisions numbering the hundreds and examples numbering the billions. Still the machine of human progress continues turning despite the fact that it very well may kill us. Tis the wind and nothing more. No matter how many times scientists show graphs of the polar ice caps melting, rivers and other fresh water beds dried up, the captains of industry ignore them. Darkness there, and nothing more. Civilization just wants to run its course in the way it’s always done.
It isn’t simply death knocking at the narrator’s door in the Raven, but nature. It is the nature that he’s chosen to ignore even though it was always inevitable. Soon nature finds its way to the man and he is even worse off from ignoring it. Poe’s America has changed and it will continue to change. The world of humans must decide what its future is. We as a species stand on the brink of something dark and horrible. And if we don’t act we may be trapped under it and we will be lifted nevermore. But there’s something else that Poe tells us, something about loss. It’s the loss of not taking action when we could have. It is that maybe we should take a step outside before it is night.
Super People
Good afternoon everyone. This will most likely be your last opportunity to see me, as I will be shortly leaving to fame and success. Now, I don’t particularly know much about public speaking. When I’m speaking, I’m either quiet or perpetually yelling, neither of which would lend themselves well to this sort of ceremony. So I won’t give a typical graduation speech. To my knowledge they usually begin with saying how we, that is to say my fellow students and I, have made it.
But I don’t want to talk about how we’ve made it. How we’ve gone through tough times and emerged victorious. I don’t want to talk about that because I don’t believe it. What I’d like to talk to all of you about, is Superman.
He was born on Krypton, a planet dying from an environmental collapse. His father, a scientist used a space ship to send him away to the closest plant, Earth. He was found by an average American couple. They gave him a name, Clark Kent. They taught him everything and raised him normally, including what was right and what was wrong. But it was evident that he was different, being incredibly fast, strong, and invincible. He could fly, use X Ray vision, and ricochet bullets off his chest. His origin ends with “Early Clark decided he must turn his titanic strength into channels that would benefit mankind and so was created Superman”. Superman officially debuted in the first edition of Action Comics in 1938. His origin story numbered 6 panels. Superman has endured in fiction for more than eighty years. Over his many decades of existence, Superman has undergone constant revision in an attempt to remain relevant and profitable, but more and more his cape is fading away.
In the first action comic Superman saved two women from being murdered. He stopped a corrupt senator in the white house, all while trying to maintain his life as Clark Kent. This sort of hero has no place today’s culture. For the most part, our heroes and heroines are brutal and cruel. They are ironic and sarcastic. Our heroes aren’t Superman; they’re just like us. The reason people don’t like Superman is that he is too powerful and therefore never faces any difficult challenge. I say that these people, that our society, has missed the point.
Our society, our progress has made us miss the point. We are mechanical. We go so fast and yet we go nowhere. We think too much and understand so little. We have forgotten kindness and replaced it with irony. Our knowledge isn’t enlightening but hard and cruel. It dismantles our natural selves. Our economic system tells us that we should live in each other’s misery rather than each other’s kindness. We have the Internet. We, my fellow students are the first generation to be raised on it. This invention unifies man by its very nature but we’ve learned no unity from it. We’ve only found only more opportunity for apathy and nihilism. We live without fear and that is why we live without compassion. We believe this because we think we are nothing. We believe this, because our world makes humans powerless.
Marianne Wilson once wrote in her book A Return To Love, Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We are all meant to shine as children do. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And when we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.
Superman always had the power to do wrong; in fact, he had the power to do the most wrong. But he never did. We are powerful and we have a choice, to be a Superman or Superwoman, which is to say, a person that understands the importance of standing together in kindness and advancing human beings to a land without cruelty. Or we can be who were destined to be. We can be as we all think humans are and should be. We can be people that work in an office building and pay taxes and drive cars and sit down and watch television and get drunk and do all of that without caring about any other human on this planet. The majority of all us, including myself, will end up becoming this, but to those who won’t, you will be these Super – people. I’ve met them, they work and they do everything like everyone else, but when they smile it isn’t at someone in pain but someone rejoicing in happiness. When they care, they actually go out of their way to help – because they actually care. They are the people who build shelters, while the rest of us are shooting water guns at incoming tsunami. They are people, like Superman, that I aspire to be. I know I will never be Superman, as I am human, but I will always try, because that is the point.
Thank you all, thank you to the teachers that actually taught, thank you to the students that actually learned, thank you to the people who actually cared. I see a few in the audience right now. Thank you all, I couldn’t have asked for a better four years.
But I don’t want to talk about how we’ve made it. How we’ve gone through tough times and emerged victorious. I don’t want to talk about that because I don’t believe it. What I’d like to talk to all of you about, is Superman.
He was born on Krypton, a planet dying from an environmental collapse. His father, a scientist used a space ship to send him away to the closest plant, Earth. He was found by an average American couple. They gave him a name, Clark Kent. They taught him everything and raised him normally, including what was right and what was wrong. But it was evident that he was different, being incredibly fast, strong, and invincible. He could fly, use X Ray vision, and ricochet bullets off his chest. His origin ends with “Early Clark decided he must turn his titanic strength into channels that would benefit mankind and so was created Superman”. Superman officially debuted in the first edition of Action Comics in 1938. His origin story numbered 6 panels. Superman has endured in fiction for more than eighty years. Over his many decades of existence, Superman has undergone constant revision in an attempt to remain relevant and profitable, but more and more his cape is fading away.
In the first action comic Superman saved two women from being murdered. He stopped a corrupt senator in the white house, all while trying to maintain his life as Clark Kent. This sort of hero has no place today’s culture. For the most part, our heroes and heroines are brutal and cruel. They are ironic and sarcastic. Our heroes aren’t Superman; they’re just like us. The reason people don’t like Superman is that he is too powerful and therefore never faces any difficult challenge. I say that these people, that our society, has missed the point.
Our society, our progress has made us miss the point. We are mechanical. We go so fast and yet we go nowhere. We think too much and understand so little. We have forgotten kindness and replaced it with irony. Our knowledge isn’t enlightening but hard and cruel. It dismantles our natural selves. Our economic system tells us that we should live in each other’s misery rather than each other’s kindness. We have the Internet. We, my fellow students are the first generation to be raised on it. This invention unifies man by its very nature but we’ve learned no unity from it. We’ve only found only more opportunity for apathy and nihilism. We live without fear and that is why we live without compassion. We believe this because we think we are nothing. We believe this, because our world makes humans powerless.
Marianne Wilson once wrote in her book A Return To Love, Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We are all meant to shine as children do. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And when we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.
Superman always had the power to do wrong; in fact, he had the power to do the most wrong. But he never did. We are powerful and we have a choice, to be a Superman or Superwoman, which is to say, a person that understands the importance of standing together in kindness and advancing human beings to a land without cruelty. Or we can be who were destined to be. We can be as we all think humans are and should be. We can be people that work in an office building and pay taxes and drive cars and sit down and watch television and get drunk and do all of that without caring about any other human on this planet. The majority of all us, including myself, will end up becoming this, but to those who won’t, you will be these Super – people. I’ve met them, they work and they do everything like everyone else, but when they smile it isn’t at someone in pain but someone rejoicing in happiness. When they care, they actually go out of their way to help – because they actually care. They are the people who build shelters, while the rest of us are shooting water guns at incoming tsunami. They are people, like Superman, that I aspire to be. I know I will never be Superman, as I am human, but I will always try, because that is the point.
Thank you all, thank you to the teachers that actually taught, thank you to the students that actually learned, thank you to the people who actually cared. I see a few in the audience right now. Thank you all, I couldn’t have asked for a better four years.
I'm Sorry
For whatever it is worth, I've tried to remember what happened. To me, my memory of those venerable years in my youth only comes up in bits and pieces. Vaguely I can remember how I felt or imagine what I thought, given what I think I know of myself back then. I've pieced this confession together, using what primary sources I could.
I was seven years old when my grandfather died. He came from Italy during the 1950's to escape the mass poverty after the Second World War. As a child, he worked on a farm with his father and was not allowed to go to school until Mussolini made it mandatory to attend classes. After the war, he worked to bring over his wife and his entire family to their new life in Canada. He worked as a technician for trains, fixing the engines and sucking in the fumes of the railroad, which, combined with his cigarette use, eventually led to his death from emphysema. I visited him the day before he died. He held my hand and smiled at me. I don't remember what he said; I wish I could. Growing up, he did everything he could for me to be happy when I visited him. He forced my mother to teach him how to properly work a VCR so that he could show me the great children's television programming at the time. He used to sit next to me and watch them, even if he could barely understand the language. At his funeral, I saw my father cry for the first time. This came as a shock to me. I had always looked up to my father.
He watched at the casket being stored in the gray wall, sealed shut, with a picture and an engraving to mark it. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he cried. He looked at me with a forced smile and said it was okay to cry. I remember that.
In the school playground, my friends and I were daring each other to eat a leaf from a tree. Ancient history was the topic in the classrooms, and the only information we seemed interested in was how the human tribes would have to eat from the earth. My friend picked up the leaf and showed to me. I remember his smile.
“Eat it,” he said. I grabbed it with curiosity and ate it. It tasted dry and awful, like nothing I had ever eaten before. I spat it all out near them. They laughed and cringed at the same time.
“Now your turn,” I said, still recovering from the ordeal. My friends all said no.
It was time to go back to class. All the children were lining up on the asphalt drive next to the entrance back to the school. I was in the middle of the line waiting to go back to class when the girl behind me called me a nickname. All the time, the girls would tease me with this name, and I would run off and be alone, ashamed and angry. Whenever anyone tells me what I did next, I always remember for some reason the casket sealed away, the picture of my grandfather, and my father with tears and smile saying it's okay to cry.
Everything became more significant for me. The stretch of asphalt in front of me became longer. My classmates’ faces looking at me became distorted. Everything was slower and quiet. The name was the only thing I heard. I turned around slowly in the quiet. I saw the girl who, with a smug look, continually called the name as if to never make me forget it. I haven't forgotten. I punched her. Everyone moved back and turned as she screamed. I pushed her, and she fell to the ground, hitting the pavement hard. My hand was shaking; I felt nothing. I lifted my leg and stomped on her nose before she could scream again. Then there was blood. I stomped again. Something pulled me back. A forceful grasp held me by the chest and pulled me away from her. She began screaming and crying. Everything was normal now. Everything was the same again. People didn't look at the bleeding, screaming, crying girl; they looked at me with a frightful awe and weird curiosity. I remember silence. There was silence even when she was screaming; there was silence even when the teacher was yelling for help. They took me to the principal's office.
I sat in a chair looking at a light blue wall.
The principal bent his knees and got down to my level and looked in my eyes.
“Son, we've called your parents, and they’re on their way.” I wanted to cry. I didn't know why, but I was in trouble. My mom would be mad, and I didn't want that. I don't remember anything. There is this feeling, a memory that perhaps I invented. I'm staring at this light blue wall and feeling for the first time in my life that I am alone. I wanted to cry. I don't know if I did. I want to remember, but I don't remember anything. I remember my hand shaking. I remember the faces of children, scared, or excited, or curious. I remember feeling alone. I remember eating the leaf like an ancient caveman, and it tasted awful. I remember my father crying. I remember my grandfather smiling, but I don't remember what he said. I remember seeing him in the casket. It's okay to cry. Eat it. Your parents are on the way.
I remember my social worker asking me why I hit that girl. “I don't know” I said, and I began to cry.
I was seven years old when my grandfather died. He came from Italy during the 1950's to escape the mass poverty after the Second World War. As a child, he worked on a farm with his father and was not allowed to go to school until Mussolini made it mandatory to attend classes. After the war, he worked to bring over his wife and his entire family to their new life in Canada. He worked as a technician for trains, fixing the engines and sucking in the fumes of the railroad, which, combined with his cigarette use, eventually led to his death from emphysema. I visited him the day before he died. He held my hand and smiled at me. I don't remember what he said; I wish I could. Growing up, he did everything he could for me to be happy when I visited him. He forced my mother to teach him how to properly work a VCR so that he could show me the great children's television programming at the time. He used to sit next to me and watch them, even if he could barely understand the language. At his funeral, I saw my father cry for the first time. This came as a shock to me. I had always looked up to my father.
He watched at the casket being stored in the gray wall, sealed shut, with a picture and an engraving to mark it. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he cried. He looked at me with a forced smile and said it was okay to cry. I remember that.
In the school playground, my friends and I were daring each other to eat a leaf from a tree. Ancient history was the topic in the classrooms, and the only information we seemed interested in was how the human tribes would have to eat from the earth. My friend picked up the leaf and showed to me. I remember his smile.
“Eat it,” he said. I grabbed it with curiosity and ate it. It tasted dry and awful, like nothing I had ever eaten before. I spat it all out near them. They laughed and cringed at the same time.
“Now your turn,” I said, still recovering from the ordeal. My friends all said no.
It was time to go back to class. All the children were lining up on the asphalt drive next to the entrance back to the school. I was in the middle of the line waiting to go back to class when the girl behind me called me a nickname. All the time, the girls would tease me with this name, and I would run off and be alone, ashamed and angry. Whenever anyone tells me what I did next, I always remember for some reason the casket sealed away, the picture of my grandfather, and my father with tears and smile saying it's okay to cry.
Everything became more significant for me. The stretch of asphalt in front of me became longer. My classmates’ faces looking at me became distorted. Everything was slower and quiet. The name was the only thing I heard. I turned around slowly in the quiet. I saw the girl who, with a smug look, continually called the name as if to never make me forget it. I haven't forgotten. I punched her. Everyone moved back and turned as she screamed. I pushed her, and she fell to the ground, hitting the pavement hard. My hand was shaking; I felt nothing. I lifted my leg and stomped on her nose before she could scream again. Then there was blood. I stomped again. Something pulled me back. A forceful grasp held me by the chest and pulled me away from her. She began screaming and crying. Everything was normal now. Everything was the same again. People didn't look at the bleeding, screaming, crying girl; they looked at me with a frightful awe and weird curiosity. I remember silence. There was silence even when she was screaming; there was silence even when the teacher was yelling for help. They took me to the principal's office.
I sat in a chair looking at a light blue wall.
The principal bent his knees and got down to my level and looked in my eyes.
“Son, we've called your parents, and they’re on their way.” I wanted to cry. I didn't know why, but I was in trouble. My mom would be mad, and I didn't want that. I don't remember anything. There is this feeling, a memory that perhaps I invented. I'm staring at this light blue wall and feeling for the first time in my life that I am alone. I wanted to cry. I don't know if I did. I want to remember, but I don't remember anything. I remember my hand shaking. I remember the faces of children, scared, or excited, or curious. I remember feeling alone. I remember eating the leaf like an ancient caveman, and it tasted awful. I remember my father crying. I remember my grandfather smiling, but I don't remember what he said. I remember seeing him in the casket. It's okay to cry. Eat it. Your parents are on the way.
I remember my social worker asking me why I hit that girl. “I don't know” I said, and I began to cry.
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