The Death of Light

          Give me violet, paint me blue; turn my eye a different hue. Nestled light's prolonged death due. Give me violet, paint me blue.
          Keep your silver, send me gold; resemblance of day's story told. And relics from each hour pulled. Keep your silver, send me gold.
          Touch sun-blushed clouds, live boldest red; power of words left unsaid. Write them for when your sky is dead. Touch sun-blushed clouds, live boldest red.
          Give me violet, paint me blue; turn my eye a different hue. Nestled light's prolonged death due. Give me violet, paint me blue.

Meet Your Maker (otherwise known as "Producer Who?")

Below is the third essay written for my writing class this past term....it is likely a bit dry for anyone not studying the philosophy of consumerism...but thought I'd post in on here anyhow, so at least it has someplace to call home other than my computer's document files...so...yeah.

 

I recently went clothes shopping with my mom and sister in a quest for a suitable cold-weather wardrobe. While searching for the perfect pair of jeans, we were intermittently greeted by signs plastered to walls in designated sections of the store that declared which name brand the clothing in that particular area belonged to. While I was there, I might have noticed if brand “A” was having a sale on a certain item, or if a coat in brand “B’s” territory was of a popular fashion. But one thing that did not occur to me until much later was that something very important had been missing; the true producers of the denim I now wear were nowhere to be seen. Sure, the jeans may be stamped with their “creator’s” imprinted name on the tag or pocket, but it is highly unlikely that the “creator” actually stitched together a single pair of their jeans, let alone every item on their shelves. Rather, countless workers and machines at a factory bearing the “creator’s” name made the clothes, piecing and sewing together each item and its identical siblings which were then purchased by me and other consumers who probably never gave thought to the behind-the-scenes effort it took to produce their clothing.

            In recent years, our society has become ignorant of the skill and work put into making the products we consume. Before the onslaught of mass-production, it was commonplace for an individual to know the people who produced the goods they consumed, because the producers were usually present in both the creation and sale of their products. As it was found to be more convenient to mass-produce and sell products to a greater population of consumers, large corporations’ wares appeared in an increasing number of stores. This expanded the number of sales but eliminated the relationship between an item’s maker and its buyer. The narrator in the movie Fight Club effectively sums up the flippant attitude of many a present-day American consumer when he describes a new purchase he made while furnishing his apartment: “I had it all. Even the glass dishes with tiny bubbles and imperfections, proof they were crafted by the honest, simple, hard-working indigenous peoples of... wherever.” When the personal connection relating a producer to a consumer is severed, the consumer’s recognition of the producer is also lost. If an individual or business creates a product and sells it in person rather than sending it to various locations to be sold anonymously, the idea that work and skill are behind the product are easily apparent to the consumer. However, although mass-production can be a less costly way to sell a product, it often warps a consumer’s unconscious perception of where their purchases come from and leads to a mindset wrapped around the item itself instead of how it was made. In other words, if the producer of an item does not readily appear to the consumer as directly related to their product, they will likely be overlooked.

            Our culture’s transformation from being consumers of mostly small-business’ goods to buying many of our products from larger corporation has also led to a loss of social individuality, particularly in house wares and clothing. When many styles of a product are available for purchase, each product will likely be very similar if not identical to every other of that style, leaving behind the potential for uniqueness which comes with products that are made one or a few at a time. As Henry David Thoreau points out in his book Walden: “The head monkey at Paris puts on a traveler’s cap, and all the monkeys in America do the same.” The mass-production and popularity of a certain fashion are precisely what steal its individuality, and the one who wears or uses it isn’t the owner of a special item so much as they are one of many consumers of the same product.

            To be fair, the mass-production of some products can make them both more affordable and attainable. For instance, many basic, commonly-purchased wares would not be nearly so widespread in availability if they were not manufactured and distributed in large numbers. Also, the financial efficiency of producing items in bulk can often help reduce their sale price. However, having taken all of this into consideration, a consumer may be left wondering if it is worth the price to pay less; i.e. if mass-production destroys much of the appreciation for and individuality of a product, will its lowered cost make up for the item’s lowered intrinsic value? The decision, of course, is solely each consumer’s, and should reflect how important they personally find the knowledge of their purchase’s origin and its financial cost to be in relation to each other.

            Though we were once at the mercy of whatever our local manufacturers produced, corporations’ use of mass-production has enabled an immense variety of the types and sub-types of products we have come to expect to be found in numerous locations, while widening the gap between producer and consumer. Whether we individually feel it more valuable to purchase a cloned item from an unknown source or a somewhat rarer (though not as readily available) specimen directly from the people who physically created it, it is clear that our society has undergone a dramatic shift in how we usually acquire our products. On a personal note, no matter from where I obtain my next purchase, it will not be with the naïve idea that if the product I buy has been manufactured with innumerable duplicates it remains exclusively “mine”.  Nor will I take an item home with the same complete disregard for its origin that blinded me in the past. And, if I’m very lucky, I just might be able to shake the hand of its creator.

           

           

Fading Night

This is a poem I wrote after Writing class a few weeks ago. Yeah, yeah, I used to say I didn't really do the whole "poetry" thing...but then I read some poetry that was actually really good, and my opinion about it always being overly wishy-washy and gag-inducing changed a bit. ANYHOW, it's been a LONG TIME since any new material has been posted here, so I kinda figured it was time....and, considering this is one of my very first (and quite possibly very last) poems written, please bear with me...

The sun's authority closes the day; all life is laid to rest. As darkness pours into every crevice, who am I to protest? If Earth is blackened empty space, the sky above is full; pulling every illumined sphere to its heart, leaving none below. So I draw mine eye to the cylindrical glass; magnified portal to the moon. When the sun alights the breaking morn, it will have come too soon.

Noble Earth

Eyes uncover, revealed to a roughly sketched world;

Not colorless, but shades of every light wavelength smeared like a confused prism.
Heavy, heavy, your arms, and weighted your chest with a beautiful pain that only you and the rest of existence knows; a bittersweet everyone tastes, and some even crave, until it touches their lips and its potency is far too strong. Steady now your wavering knees and fickle courage. Weak and brave you are to ask for it again; your exposure proves both honesty and folly as your uneasy feet inch stoutly before you. If these steps never reverse, bless the ground ahead and continue on; but if they do, bless it anyways and run again to this place, where you may simply be and wait in expectation of nobler earth to tread.

Of Destruction and Vacancy

Not sure if I'll keep the above title for this one...but that is what it shall be called for the time being. As for this piece, like many of the others that have been posted here, it may be changed, revised, etc. to some degree at a later time...however, it is also likely that I will never touch it again. As to why it was written, well, I'm not going to explain this one. It just is, and shall remain that way.

Another week, another row unravelled; six more seams torn out and fabric rotting. Patches don't last and mending heals little. Knots help just till the thread turns brittle. A lifetime pulled apart, piece by piece. Scraps float to the floor until it is covered with an incomplete puzzle of memories. Another day, and it is gone. Swept up and pushed out of sight, leaving empty table, empty floor, empty hands without their master. Grasping for the last remaining shreds could not rebuild it, or even save the tiniest remnants. Melt into the floor-boards, you pile of an ended life. Break into unseen dust, and leave only the knowledge of your former brilliant existence to take your place in this empty room.

The City

Whoa nelly, it's been a long time since I've posted anything on here. I guess there just hasn't been a whole lot of time for writing recently after an early spring full of family stuff followed by a maxed-out late spring. So now, as things have wound down a bit, I have finally composed the following which is a brief, incomplete description of the city which I live near, and I wrote it while flying above my city in an airplane on my way to see my best friends. So, without further ado: The City.

         They lived in a carved-out forest, clusters of evergreens and concrete buildings rising up from the ground as they each pushed to claim the majority of land. The City's atmosphere was secure and comfortable, if not fairly mundane. Despite a few curious locations and the ever-present panoramic views of the Mountain, valley and hills, the area remained, as it had always been, a collection of knolls, woods and city blocks, criss-crossed by bridge-spanned rivers and protected by an almost permanent, though often cracked, cloud cover.
        Nearly all of the city's residents, providing that they had lived there long enough to become accustomed to the weather, could, for the most part, really take or leave the cool, damp climate they were forced to embrace day after day. Some, however, found the grey, rainy skies quite unbearable, indeed, and could usually only be found in a cheerful humour on the few cloudless, sunny days they were privileged to experience in any given year. Still fewer thoroughly enoyed living out their lives driving in early-morning fog, and slogging through mudpuddles in calf-high wellies like some two-legged, advanced evolution of a newt.

Young Goodman Brown: Alternate Ending

Hey! So, a few weeks ago my English class got to do a super fun project, which was choosing a short story we read this past semester and rewriting the ending differently. One of the requirements was to attempt to write with a similar "voice," or style of writing as the original author, so that the story would still read smoothly as though all of it was penned by one author. So, for anyone who has read "Young Goodman Brown," hope you enjoy the twist on the conclusion of this classic short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne. If, however, you have not read "Young Goodman Brown," I definitely recommend it! It doesn't take super long to get through, and the symbolism and descriptions that Hawthorne uses are very interesting. Again, I am most grateful to my wonderful English teacher who corrected the rough draft, and made completing this project both fun and challenging. I'm also really hoping that this turned out well, although this is definitely not as good as Hawthorne's writing. So....enjoy! (hopefully ;-)  )  p.s. (The first sentence or two are Hawthorne's, not mine. I had to begin with a few words from the original story so that my teacher would know where the original left off and the alternate ending began).

He staggered against the rock, and felt it chill and damp; while a hanging twig, that had been all on fire, besprinkled his cheek with the coldest dew. What an awful dream had come upon him! He forced his body upright, and with a great deal of effort collected his thoughts enough to make his way out of the forest by the same path that his mind had traveled so sinfully earlier. How long had he been asleep? Minutes? Hours? Try as he might, he had no sense of what time of night it was, how long he had been away, or how he had taken leave of consciousness during his walk. Only one thought remained clear in his mind: he must return to his Faith at once; he must see that she is safe after all.

As he walked briskly up the road, his senses heightened, a slight breeze which, under ordinary circumstances, he would have never thought to pose a threat, swept across the trees above him, stirring the leaves as a whirlpool stirs the sea, causing evil whispers to escape into the air which seemed to quickly elevate into a violent hiss all around him. He couldn’t escape this night fast enough and his heart gave a glad jump of joyous relief when his house finally came into view. Oh, to be safe in his warm bed again! Oh, to see his beloved wife’s face! Goodman Brown leapt swiftly over the last few paces to his front door, which opened into darkness deeper than the night sky. Sweet Faith must be asleep, the dear. He made his way carefully down the hall toward his bedroom, halting twice for almost stumbling over rugs and furniture. His right hand ran along the wall as he neared the bedroom, and soon the edge of a doorframe came under his palm. He reached for the doorknob, but as he touched it the door pushed freely open, and he tip-toed quietly inside. The moon’s ghastly glow came through a lone window in the far wall, and shined directly onto a vacant bed.

“Faith?” He shouted anxiously. “Faith!”

 His heart thudded harder and his voice trembled more with each call of her name. He yelled for his beloved in every room of the house and out the door into the ever-oppressive night, but she was nowhere to be found. Surely he was still dreaming. Yes, he would simply lie down and rest, and when he awoke in the morning, this terrible nightmare would finally be over. He went to his bed, pulling the covers tightly around himself in an attempt to keep out the icy feeling that had penetrated both his skin and his chest, and fell into a fitful sleep, his only comfort being the hope of seeing his Faith once again.

His eyes fluttered drowsily open as rays of sunlight shone through the window onto Goodman Brown’s face the next morning. As he turned over, his heart was struck with sudden panic that he was still alone in the bed, and he sat up quickly, searching his surroundings for any sign of his wife, and again called her name. Over and over he called, but the only reply given was his own voice echoing throughout the empty walls of the house. He reluctantly ran out of his secure home, still wearing the previous day’s clothes which were now wrinkled, dirty and torn, and continued into Salem Village, glancing anxiously about himself.

The sky overhead was ironically bright, and pushed glaring light against his eyes as if trying to hinder his gait. Everywhere he looked, droves of people were running about frantically, a few crying uncontrollably while the rest shouted the names of loved ones. Running up to an older woman sitting on a nearby bench, he pleaded that she tell him what had caused this commotion.

“What on Earth happened?” He demanded, but the woman began to sob and could not speak.

“I beg of you, please tell me!” he yelled fearfully, his voice breaking.

“They’re- they’re gone.” She croaked.

 “Who?” He pressed sharply, “Who is gone?”

“Friends, family, neighbors; dozens of them, gone!”

He could hardly take in what he was hearing. It wasn’t just Faith; a whole bundle of the townspeople had simply disappeared. He gasped. It couldn’t be!

“And isn’t it terrible,” the woman continued, “The Reverend and Deacon are missing, too! Who can we look to in a time like this? What will become of our congregation?”

Goodman Brown stood as a statue, stunned by the news, as the cruel world seemed to press in all around him. What he had seen the previous night hadn’t been a dream, but a grim, evil reality. His Faith was truly gone. He tried to make his way back home, but his wobbly knees would not permit his traveling more than a few yards. He collapsed to the cold, unrelenting ground in heaving sobs, muttering: “Faith, Faith.” with every shaking breath, and laid there for hours before being carried home by neighbors.

Weeks, then months, passed after that horrible morning, and never were the lost ones found. Many presumed their loved ones to be dead, and held services despite the absence of a body, as they had no sign of their being alive otherwise, and gradually Salem Village’s inhabitants returned to a state of near-normalcy, while many formed tales and legends about the morning when so many had disappeared, most of which revealed the town’s belief in a common enemy: Indians.

“Make sure to keep a rifle handy.” was advice frequently given among community members. “Never know when the savages might be about.”

However, although this was the most accepted idea, no one ever knew for certain or had evidence of any kind that might aid in proving it as fact, and the mystery lived on for all. For all, that is, except Goodman Brown.

He became a slave to his own fears; locked inside his house which, despite its now dusty, unkempt atmosphere and lonely space, was seemingly far safer than the outside world would ever be again. Countless villagers came by to check on him, but the only answer their knocks received was a dreadful shout from within, warning: “Stay away! I don’t want you here, now leave me be!”
            “Poor fellow,” They would often say, “Driven mad by the loss of his wife.”

            But it wasn’t long before their pity was replaced with annoyance and their compassion turned to frustration, and soon they began to resent his unresponsiveness to their friendly attempts. His life continued to be resigned solely to his home, and he rarely set foot outside its walls apart from an annual venture, on the anniversary of his Faith’s conversion, when he would stroll to the head of the forest path and stand, sometimes for over an hour, with eyes that traveled down the trail, yet pierced backwards through time so much further as he revisited his haunting memories. No one else ever understood what fascination the woods held for him, or why he had shut himself into a hermit’s existence, refusing to move beyond the mysterious incident of years before, but Goodman Brown knew. He was not just the only witness of a horrendous ritual. He was the lone survivor of the devil’s company.