Wilson's Creek Essay Rough Draft

Wilson’s Creek National Battle Field Hal Reynolds English 101, Sect 108 Wilson’s Creek National Battle Field is a sight in Springfield Missouri where on August 10, 1861; the second major battle of the civil war was fought. According to a local sight for the city of Springfield, more than 2500 soldiers on either side of the conflict had been killed by the conclusion of the battle of… The sight has a rather informative visitor center, and preserved on the grounds are the historic John Ray house, and the Edwards cabin. Trails both large and slightly more obscure lace the property, leading to various sights of significance. As well as being a very important attraction for both Springfield, and the state of Missouri, the park has come to have personal significance for me. Though I have not been to the park in many years, I, for some reason or another, found myself visiting the location. A fourth grade trip to the park was marked by Mrs. O, my teacher at the time, giving us a run down on the dialogue had at the Edwards house just prior to the battle. The notable thing about this story at the time was that we got to hear our teacher say the word “Hell”. Other trips to the park have been more about exploring the parks many trails. It is a beautiful piece of ground, and as you walk along the old trails, some of which I believe are just well beaten deer paths, you can get a little feel for what the grounds must have been like all those years ago. It wasn’t until years later that I learned that The grandfather of my mother’s father (My great great grandfather?) was, it is believed, the first person killed at the sight the day of the battle; catching a musket ball to the head while eating his breakfast…
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"Counting My Regrets To Pass The Time"

"Counting My Regrets To Pass The Time"
I pulled this from the YOLO prompt post because it stuck out to me. In a way its kind of a caution, I suppose, and a sort of end game evidence that the whole YOLO thing should be embraced. Again, I find the whole YOLO phenomenon to be pretty abrasive, and really, I think people do enough stupid shit on their own that they don’t really need a permission giving mantra to act a fool. My opinion.

But, as I stated in the Yolo post, I have spent the better part of my life being an overly cautious person. Ironically, I have probably made more stupid and life altering mistakes than the majority of the population will ever have a bad dream about. I think as good a reason as any for these senseless mistakes is repression. That is too say, trying to be so careful that life becomes all frustrating and weird, until all that spontaneous energy finally has to spill over somewhere, for good or ill.

I have had instances where that "I finally snapped" moment to indeed result in a positive outcome: kiss the girl, stand up to the asshole, break the proverbial ties that bind, etc.. Unfortunately, without a little bit of practice with relaxing and taking the world by storm, more often than not these bubble over points are usually marked by some very unpleasant consequences.

What Does YOLO Mean To You?

You only live once huh? True enough I guess. Where I think that the mantra YOLO has become an excuse for some really stupid behavior, and though I never actually SAY YOLO myself, if only because everybody else is doin it, I do use a kind of this philosophy in my everyday life.

I try to be cautious mostly. Sometimes that caution is just a little too over bearing to really be conducive to a fulfilled life. Sometimes, you just gotta cut loose and let the chips fall where they may. To me, at its best this mantra literally means you are gonna die. And you don’t get any do overs. Life is too short to spend it cooped up ion relative safety, never taking a chance in your life, just to try and preserve that very life which, let’s face it, is gonna be over before you know it. If there is an option to be explored, an adventure to be had, or a high pay off risk to take, why not take it. We don’t have any idea what this life is really for anyway. I tend to get by on the assumption that the meaning of life is just to live life for the sake of itself. Don’t squander the opportunity that you have been given to live a life that is truly amazing, weird, difficult and interesting. Hey, you only live once here. I don’t want to live to be 110 years of age only to find myself on my death bed, counting my regrets to pass the time. I won’t do. Sure, I’ll continue to be cautious in certain aspects of my life, but when it comes right down to it, when random adventure comes my way, I gotta hop on the train.

The Sign

Long ago, there lived a man by the name of John Oswald. Legends of him had been told at many a gas station; about his careful way of life, his strange demeanor. I had never heard any of these legends.

One night, I had a goal, a mission from my creator himself. The mission, steal a sign from D highway to present to my friend of the same name. I stole my mother’s car from her house, my father’s chainsaw from his, and I was off to a desolate stretch of highway to acquire the sign. I was 15 years old.

The sign presented with some difficulty. For one thing, I had never chain sawed anything before. For another, there was traffic. I decided to go with a less aggressive approach and try to take the screws out of the sign. To do this, I had to stand on the car, get it done, and arouse no suspicion from passersby.

In the process of trying to do this a truck, of course, pulled in in front of my car. I was sitting in the driver’s seat, discretely, I might add.

A hooded figured stepped from the truck. It began to shamble over. I ran my hand over the tire iron in the floor bored, prepared to bash this horrible apparition until the movement ceased.

The man approached, and I got out and stood behind the open door.

"Car trouble", I proclaimed. "Damn thing overheated." The visage that stood before me did little to ease my mind. Neither, for that matter, did his constant attempts to try and get me to go with him to his home, which was 'just over the hill' to get the necessary supplies to fix my vehicle.

I had to stall. It was surely my only chance of survival. Furthermore, I couldn’t allow myself to be separated from my life saving tire iron of justice....err....sign stealing....Whatever.

So I had to bullshit. And bullshit we did.

His name was John. He was heading home. His wife had left him. Somewhere around this point in the story John produced a small bottle of whiskey from his hoodie pocket, took a hard swig, and offered me the bottle. Could I refuse? Hell no. I took the drink, and I took it in stride. As the warmth washed over me, I was emboldened.

"John", I said. "Can you keep a secret? There's nothing wrong with my car man. I’m here for this sign."

Silence. He eyed me carefully, then the sign, then me again. For a moment I wasn’t sure what I had done. Then the figure spoke.

"Hell", he says, “Back your car up and I'll run over the damn thing with my truck."

 

The Old Cellar

It is cold. Rainy. Overcast. The kind of gray day that makes a person want to run and hide. I think hard about a place I would rather be than here, far from home on a gloomy day. I am told money is no object. The possibilities it seem are endless, yet there its only one place that I can picture in my mind.

The deep, dimly lit basement of what would almost seem to be some sort of industrial center. The ceiling is high. The corner, dark; and in the center, or perhaps one corner, is a larger and ominous stove. By the stove there is a cot, though I think it would like it more comfortable that what you might imagine the standard cot to be. Nearby, a desk of some sort. Maybe an additional place to sit. The glow furnace; the only light that fills the room. It seems somehow comforting, like a large, concrete womb. I know it sounds dreary. As I think of it, I think of how odd that I can think of no other place to go on a day such as this.

 

The fire. The dominate, overwhelming smell is whatever is burning in the fire. The smell of concrete. A hard sort of smell, if so it could be described. Moisture in little corners of the room give almost the aroma of a cave. The cot itself, like old army fabric; that kind of scratchy, nylony substance that seems not to be a fabric at all. Some sort of canvas? Maybe. I don’t know, but the smell of it has its own, independent little personality. Oil maybe. Bits of oil in the room. I smell them. The desk even smells of it.

 

Laying on the cot, the surface of it is firm and secure. You know you are in it because it lays back on you. The heat of the fire on skin, I must occasionally flip side to side in order to keep one half of me from cooking. I go temporarily to the corner, feeling the heat recede, like immersion in water after baking in the hot day sun. The desk is an old one, rough to the touch. An occasional splinter can be gained by a careless brush across its surface. The cool, floor: damp only in the furthest corners of the room.

 

There is not much to see down here- not at first glance- and I think that’s part of the appeal. Of course the light from the stove, and its mysterious contents, is the major force in the realm of sight. Like a huge pot belly, its chimney rises to the high ceiling and on out into whatever I am missing in the world. I need not know what I miss though, because not a stitch of outside light may enter the chamber; if indeed there is any. As I lay on the old cot- green, of course, what else? - I stare into the darkness around the room. The desk shines back a little light.

 

Pop. Pop. Sizzle? Don't know if I’d quite call it a sizzle. There is life in the old stove. I listen. It sounds not so much like it is talking, but thinking very loudly. I hear its story, a rambling as old as time. Except for one drip, far removed from the last, and way off in the corner, it’s the silence that I hear. My ears turn also inward, following the strong example of the old rambling stove. My heart beat. Breathing. If I listen very closely, the sound of my blood. Is it my imagination?

 

The air; not stale, but definitely not so fresh in origin. It tastes like a cave, but not a cellar. The desk is stocked sparsely with little snacks, mostly sweet and salty in variety. As I live and breathe- and move, I must say- one side of the room tastes very different from another. The dipping corner, the source of all the noise, tastes like a root; the under half of some tired old tree.

 

It is hard to imagine this place as every having an occupant, yet shadows of an old mind seem to linger on the walls, seen only as they jump at the occasional flick of light from the stove. The old man wrote his book here. Weeks upon weeks he never left, convinced that the world was coming to an end. They said the old man was crazy, and sane is not what I would have called him, but here is where the old man lost his mind. It reads out in the script, between the lines, as first the comfort of the place enclosed him; then, the loneliness overcame him.

 

Grey

Blah. Grey day. Its a dark, rainy day. The clouds roil over the land. They cast their shodows over all the little people. How is your day"? they ask. "How are those responsibilities that youve irked out for yourself? Go. Do youll little tasks. Live your little lives. I will be heree, watching. Enveloping you with my cold imbrace.
Steely gray. The color of slate and shale. A shade somehow more devoid of life than black, but with a distinct voice all its own. Grey things in life denote a serious, sort of modern feel. The gray of old was a standard. Today gray finds itself ss almost a novalty. A world of eccessable color has to grey into a choice, rather than a base.
But not on a day like today. No, today grey rules the land; with an iron fist, or perhaps, more appropriately one of steel it would seem. It give ruse to our insecurities. It lets our little gloomt demons brweath. Could there be a benifit to this release of meloncoly? Perhaps. But its hard to see what it could be through the rain clouds. Just rain clouds, not even storm clouds. Storm clouds have more personality. Eyeor would have been pleased.

Our Different Words

I was walking down the street on a Thursday night, definitely knackered from a crazy night at work. The streets were quiet and deserted. Most of the buildings loomed as dark, silent witnesses, bending their necks to try to catch a glimpse of the warmth; like the soft, buttery glow of that bled into the street from Suzy’s Kitchen

The diner was sparsely populated with some wonkey looking characters. I took a seat at the counter next to a couple of hippies.

“whadda’ya have?” asks the waitress.

“Something with caffeine,” I reply.

“You can stand a spoon up in the coffee,” she says. “You want it?”

“Definitely.”

Turning to me, the hippie man says, “You look like you could use some happy, summer colors in your life.”

“I don’t go out for all that bubbly crap,” I say.

“I’m talking the kind of bubbles you get between your toes at the beach, friend,” he smiles back. “You look like you need a day off.”

“Maybe,” I allow. “But nobody else is gonna pay my bills for me. You wanna get by, you gotta do it yourself. You can’t count on nobody but you.”

“Fungo.” my furry friend replies. “A nasty concept if ever I heard one. Why take it all on your shoulders? Why not cut yourself some slack?”

“I got kids,” I say. “Gotta support ‘em somehow. No, I think I better keep ole nose to the grindstone.”

“Hey, we got little goobers at home, too. Aint that right. Sugar?”

“That’s right, Monkey-darlin’,” she says, dreamily. “And crazy little terrors they are, too.”

“Well, that’s all well and good,” I say, with strained patience. “But I hope that you won’t find me rude in saying that I have nothing but disdain for your crazy, hippie subversion. I’m an American, damnit. No, there’s no way I could support my family on whatever it is that you two pull in.”

Sugar looks up again. “You are laboring under the assumption that our lifestyle is indicative of poverty, man,” she says. “It doesn’t work that way. We live in a community. What comes around goes around. Everything is cyclical. We make it with alittle help from our friends.”

“Yeah, well, no offense, But I think I’d rather tongue-kiss a badger,” I say evenly. “I think it’s about time I hit the old, dusty trail. Waitress, how much do I owe ya for the coffee?”

The grizzled-old waitress saunters over. “Here ya go, Hun,” she says with a smile. She hands me the ticket. Scrawled all across the front is a phone number and a little message: Call me sometime, Sweetness. XOXO, Margaret.

“Nooo,” I state, flatly.

Rising to leave, I slap some cash down on the counter and get the Hell out of there.

 

Hal
Indicative- is something that seems to directly suggest something else by being a kind of product of that something.

Disdain- an almost exaggerated hate or severe distaste for something else.

Subversive- and action or idea having a kind of undermining effect of some other idea or structure.

Cyclical- of or relating to cycles. a suggestion of continuity or balance.

Badger- a medium sized North American Land mammal known for its ferocity, ill temper, and strength.

Red

Red is the color of passion, I supose; unless it is pink... Hell, I dont know. Red is, however, the color of violence, rage and fury. Red is used by a madidor to antagonize the bull. If you drive a red car you have to pay more for insurance, so I guess, theoretically, your red car either indicates that you are a more aggressive driver, or that the sight of your red car will somehow inspire others to violence.
Even without the promise of violence, red carries with it a history of severity or seriousness. A code red is always a very serious affair- It never indicates a shortage of puppies, anyway. The emergeny phone in movies is always red. I have always wanted a big red phone for this reason, with a little flashing light, so that all of my phone calls would seem like the hight of urgency. The red in peoples eyes, that a biological response not subject to metaphorical contruity, is usually indictative of some kind of serious strain or stress; anger, fatige, ect. And of course it must be stated that red is the color of blood. How ohsovery appropriate. So, are all of these other serious implications of red due to the fact that the color of blood instills strong emotions in us? Or is that fact that blood is red just another happy coincidence is this interesting little chain of events?
Not that red isn't a lovely color.

We 3 Letters, O' The Family

Dear, Joe.
You're coming to spend the summer? Well, okay, let me give you alittle run down of how things kinda run around here. Guess you'll have to decide whether to stay with me or dad. I live in Buffalo with my girl and her three kids: Chaos ensues. I think youll have fun there, but you also might lose some hair when the kids go to killing eachother and/or dividing assets of somekind.
Dad of course lives in the middle of nowhere. Should you stay out there youll be spending alot of time at the river, watching CBS, and probably having early morning theological/political discussions. I'll come out and provide you with back up. Dad and I get along well, but in a cold, detatched sort of way, unless we are ranting about something.
I know you haven't seen Mom in a long time, so you should probably say hi. Mom is witty and eccentric as always. You won't be able to pick up on our conversations because no one does.
Mom's been spending alot of time fixing her old house, and stays alittle frazzled. We help her work on the house when we can, and I guess thats where most of our "family time" takes place.
Bev is Mom's friend, and she's almost indescibable. She's sort of Worldly and Back-Home all at the same time. She makes her living trading things that retailers don't want around anymore, and as such knows how to make the best of things. If you spend anytime at Mom's with us, there is no telling what sort of conversation you may find yourself involed in.
We all try to keep our noses pretty much clean these days. We're all getting older, but in different respects, I supose. You'll find that much of our perspective comes from leading a hard and rather unorthodox life, but really I think these kinds of families are becoming more common all the time.

Admissions Board
I come from what might be called a broken family. My parents split up when I was 4, and were divorced when I was five. I lived with my mother, who was somewhat broken by the incident. I saw my father maybe once a year. I was raised with a strong sense of dysfuntion.
I was a very angry child. I think I came by it honestly. As I started to mature into a teenager, I began to get in more and more trouble, and it was my policy to differ the causation of the trouble onto another person. Looking back now, I dont think I was ever fully accountable for anything I did. It was when the trouble started that Dear Old Dad decided maybe he should have a role in my life. I went from living with a broken mother whom I could control, to living with a stern old outlaw father with very little evidence of compassion or human emotion. My strategy changed considerably during this transition.
They never got along, Mom and Dad, and their only unifying factor was trying to find a way to keep me out of a long term shit storm. Part of me resented them both for their attempt to stifle an already broken child, and part of me was wracked with guilt that I could never live up to their expectations, modist though they were.
I eventually moved back with my mother, abandoning my angry father, and running the muck that I had always dreamed of. I always had certain standards for myself, and as long as they didnt involve me submitting to any kind of authority I was pretty good about adhearing to them. I was considered oddly moral for the crowd that I ran in........._unfinished_

China Kid.
Dear Eastern Student Counter Part.
I only know bits and pieces about your culture. I am very interested to hear about your family life in particular. I hope I am not off base by asking. Perhaps it would help if I told you something of my own family dynamic.
I am a child of divorce. This is now a pretty common thing in my country, almost a cultural norm, or at least it is in my mind. Certainly nothing to be too very broken up about. My parents are two very different people, with their own inherent merits and faults, and I can't even imagine them sharing a living space. I love them both seperately, and never had any childhood fantasies about their reconciliation. It's much better that way for all of us.
My family is pretty much limited to Mom and Dad. I know Mom's family, but I dont mesh with them well, so it is Mom and Dad that we will focus on.
They disagreed about much during the course of my childhood. It is really only now that I am an adult that they have a civil relationship betwen them even in my absense. They have actually been spending alot more time together than either of them do with me. No, they are not getting back together. I shudder at the thought, as do do they, as far as I know, but I believe that they have accepted the fact that we are some kind of family for eachother. Even if our family isn't exactly textbook, I believe that there comes a time when you realize that the people that are in your life, whoever they are, are there for a reason.
We went out the other night. Me, Mom, Dad, and Lindsay- my girlfriend- all together at a bar. It was odd, definately, but not at all awkward. I happen to like my closely-independent little family, and I don't believe I would trade them for all the tea in China.

Image Response

1.Pimp my Kettle. The image shown on the board- the little mullet man with the pimped out kettle- has an image below it I can barely see except that is says chicken. Could this image be for instant rice? I have never cooked chicken with a kettle. I would like to think that the image is actually for really hardcore tea drinkers. Tea is awesome. I believe this, though I dont drink much of it. However, tea has sort of a wimpier, froo froo, vaguely english feel. here is a harder one.

2.Hot air balloon downed over a billboard of an upsidedown vacuum... ummm. okay you got me with this one. Is the vaccuum devouring the balloon? Im just not really sure what to make of this. I feel like I'm Mising the obvious statement, but I just cant quite put my finger on it... Who might the audience be for this? Motorists?

3. Coca Cola add. This one is abunch or various sports players on a faded, oldtimey backround of bright, happy color. That sort of leads to the idea that the audience is athletes. The caption says 130 + years of coca cola posters past to present. I think the measage is that coke has always been with you, since before you were born. Drink coke and recapture the pleasures of the past, playing on people's nastalgia. Coke people are happier, they're always doing exciting things, making friends, and enjoying life.

4. The hoodlum is incapacitated, underneath the walker of what is presumable a little old lady. The logo reads "Senior Self-Defense". Im taking it to be a literal add for a senoir self defense program, Unless of course the "Senior" is a name, a title, or a distinction of experience, and the picture is just a clever illustration.

5. The tree parking space. "reserved for drunk drivers". It is obviously part of the large public saftey add campaign against drinking and driving. Since there is not a product, the target or audience is the potential offenders themselves. I also feel that the general public is a target here, I mean those that never drink and drive, because the very image and idea instill some fear, and promote more support of law inforcement, though indirectly.

6.The image of a child lying facedown on a beach towel UNDER the water. The target is parents and families that frequent pools and swimming  holes. Here, again, we have a public saftey add. Playing on fear. The image is disburbing, but there again is the light humor, like he is actually hanging out down there on a towel, to lighten the mood, and make it more palatable. This one, despite the humor, I think is effective. The child walking by looking at him is also wearing a life jacket.

The Melting Pot of Traits- "Study But Don't Stalk"

I am slouched in a chair, distant from the atrium full of people blocking me from my class. I'll be late soon. I'm anxious because this particular crowd is so off-putting. I don't fit with them.
I'm confused as to why I wore these dirty old girl jeans. I've just gotten my hair done, you see. It's a new style of mullet gaining quick popularity in the U.K.: Guy-feathered in the front, messy windblown in the back. I look like an Abercrombian Medusa. Therein lies the problem. The super mullet is itchy, and goes badly with the girl jeans, which are also quite itchy.
There is only one way to get through this crowd: The mustache. With the mustache's new found popularity comes the ability to look like a freak and still be hip. I have grown this emergency mustache for just such an occasion.
The distorted tattoos on the sides of my wrinkled old face would also have the crowd upon me in a heartbeat. I've had to grow sideburns in order to conceal them from prying eyes. The mustache and the sideburns are locked in a battle of facial hair bravado, and I find it hard to keep my attention on the matter at hand.
Im anxious. I fear that even if I do penetrate the crowd, that I will not know the place in which I end up. I consult with the voices in my head. They are chatty today, to say the least.
"Where are we?" they ask.
"Where have we ever been?"

Keyword Traits:
Confused
Distracted
Off-Put
Rushed
Distant
Talkative
Anxious
Lost
Itchy
Tattooed
Wrinkled
Mustached
Grundgy
Girl-Jeans
Super Messy Hair Style
Sideburns
Feathered Guy-Hair
Slouched

-15 Marked
Here I slouch in a chair, distant from the atrium full of people blocking me from my class. I'll be late soon. Anxienty hits, because this particular crowd is so off-putting. I don't fit with them.
So confused as to why I wore these dirty old girl jeans. My new hair style do, you see. A new style of mullet gaining quick popularity in the U.K.: Guy-feathered in the front, messy windblown in the back. I look like an Abercrombian Medusa. Therein lies the problem. The super mullet is itchy, and goes badly with the girl jeans- also quite itchy.
I find only one way to get through this crowd: The mustache. With the mustache's new found popularity comes the ability to look like a freak and still be hip. For just such an occasion, the emergency mustache came to be.
The distorted tattoos on the sides of my wrinkled old face would provoke the crowd in a heartbeat. New sideburns, in order to conceal them from prying eyes. The mustache and the sideburns, locked in a battle of facial hair bravado, make it hard to keep my attention on the matter at hand.
So anxious. I fear that even if I do penetrate the crowd, I will not know the place in which I end up. I consult with the voices in my head. Very chatty today, to say the least.
"Where do we go?" they ask.
"Where from here?"

Last Revision

Set down deep in this chair, far away from the disturbing tumult of people up ahead. I can't seem to settle my nerves, running so far behind.

Why am I still wearing these jeans? Day 3. I can't get them off-so tight and caked with filth, they've become part of my body.

My skin so irritated. It was all I could do to flip the front of my hair this morning. The back remains the tangled mess gifted me upon waking.

Fur runs down the sides of my face like some old, dirty seadog, and dwarfs the sad tangle found there on my lip.

The scars of my past: old lines on my face; old ink beneath my skin. How I got to this point I cannot discern.

A dialogue, with the demons of that same past, hold me fast to my chair, keeping me from my destination on the other side of the storm.

The Doughnut's Perspective.

Beautiful morning, Agent. Look, there’s a lovely park bent to sit upon so that you may eat me. It is my purpose in life to be enjoyed by a human. My, what a shiny brief case you have. What does that big red button do? I wondered- Hey. What’s that? Pigeon. The dreaded antagonist of all doughnuts. What does it want, agent? Me? Gasp! No, you mustn’t let it have its pigeony way with me or else- OUCH! You have torn my flesh! Why have you... Oh I see. Distract the Pigeon and- HE'S NOT GOING IT. Quick, you have to think of something before he- AHHH. PIDGEON ATTACK! No! Fight em off, Fight em off! IM FLYING! umf. Ahh. The relative safety of the ground. Surely with the pigeon trapped within that shiny brief case nothing can- wait.... What’s the brief case doing? HES GOT A GUN! Run, Agent, run! Take cover! Death from above! If only we could-Wait, What are you doing?! Put me down! I can’t take another hostage situation! Not after the bear claw standoff.

Okay now let’s just think about this... You don’t really want to burn me- YOU NEED ME. You better do what he says, bird brain, I think he means it. Look look, He’s coming out. Now if you can just- NO DONT RUSH HIM! Crap. You really did it now. How’s that missile lookin’? You can’t leave me with him. I’m begging you- OH IM FLYING AGAIN AND umf. Good thing that big red button broke my fall. Hey, where are we going now? I CANT TAKE THESE ARIEL ACROBATICS! What is this dark tension? If only I could see- OH DEAR GOD IM FALLING! UMF. Ahh. The safety of the ground again. Only...OH DEAR GOD NO! STOP THE PECKING! You did this, Agent. you can’t just leave me here like this. Fine just walk away. Wait, is that? Oh Jesus sweet relief.

Everyone needs something to bitch about

I think that everyone needs something to bitch about. How do I explain exactly what I mean by this?...
I am not suggesting that complaining is at all a constructive way to deal with your problems. As a matter of fact, I think complaining is detrimental to well being, and the problem solving process.
I do, however, think that everyone needs that one thing to vent about. True, sometimes the subject itself is so trouble some that it has to be ventd about, but Im suposing that if no seriious enough problem exists, that that steam, even if it is not built over a particular issue, has to have something to be vented out through.
A good example of this line of thinking is the Rant. Sure, some rants are actually hostile and not so very constructive. I think of these more as tyrades. But a rant, a good rant, often has little to do with the actually subject or subjects of that rant, but more to do with the overall pressure of daily life as a whole. When somebody uses the phrase, "dont get me started," it is quite possible that a good rant is in actuallity what they need for what ails them.
Comedy is all tied up in rants, particularlly stand-up. I mean, lets face it, thats what stand-up IS. Stand up is literally some person out of the crowd with a quirky personallity and an interesting manner of desbribing things, standing up out of the audience and bitching about there life, or how silly conventions seem to them.

Belief list

1 I believe that everyone needs something to bitch about.
2 I believe that every human being has the potential to be an addict.
I believe that time is a solid form mosiac.
3 I believe that pain is needed to build real character.
I believe that religion is inherently evil.
I believe that people have complete free will, and no free will at all.
I believe that everything is a balance between two stark contridictions.

The chair

I Live in my girlfriends house. It is our place now, but all the pieces of furnature, appliances, ect, within the house, were there before my time. Lindsays has three kids, 11, 6, and 3, one of whom is a bed wetter, though for reasons of confidentiallity I wont devulge which. The furniture, as you might then imagine, receives an untold amount of abuse, but none quite so much as Lindsay's chair.
When I first moved in, Lindsay was sleeping in the chair. It was summer, so early morning wake ups consisted of children leaping upon her, and the unsuspecting chair. It was Lindsay's base of operations, that chair, and so any suprised attack that was launched against her- kid or otherwise- delt damage also to the innocent chair.
The chair has recieved a small share of pee related injustices to it's chair-person, though not nearly so many as the weaker pieces of furnature in the home. I assume that it is the chair's standing as the dominate piece of furniture that allows it to get up, dust itself off, and recover from a pee incident in a way that none of the other furntinture can quite seem to manage.
We recently moved the chair into the bedroom. Lindsay had just hurt her back, and she thought that she would need the chair to sit in and do homework while she recovered. I could understand that, I suppose. However, the logic of myself and this crippled girl struggling to move a large recliner into her room for the benefit of her back kind of escaped me.
Nevertheless, the trusty chair was moved to the bedroom, and there it stubbornly remained until moving day, when it would depart on it's next set of painful and degrading adventures.

My Class Room Audience

My audience is a demographic of young adults; just starting, getting a taste of the world and a foot hold into life. As one of only five of us over the age of 22, I almost feel like an old-timer, and yet I am just starting out myself.

They’re workers, this group. It seems they’ve all already started somewhere, be it a crappy burger flipping job, a volunteer position turned job, or even something so exotic as tobacco cutter/bundler. We are all now in a position of asking ourselves what’s next.

There seems to be an adventurous vein in this group. When asked about crazy things we have done, jumping off of various things and blowing various other things up were oddly common answers. This group also seems to be very outdoorsy as a rule.

Family is very important to this group, particularly grandparents and siblings. There were several things that brought me to this conclusion, but most notable among them was that many stated that they would spend their last hour with family, which I think is an interesting choice given the average age of this group, their implied adventurer streak, and the light nature of this exercise. Clearly, family plays an important role with this audience.

The group displayed a fairly bold sense of humor with some of their answers to different questions. I would say that some serious things are open for satire with them, as long as the writer knows where he can step.

Despite a few jokers and cut-ups, many members of the group admire some serious historical figures, such as oddly particular presidents and war heroes.

Another departure from the jokester viewpoint is the group’s overwhelming sense of human interest. When poled about career interests, most of the group fell into a broader category of helping others, with choices such as Nurse, Counselor, Therapist, Psychologist, Teacher, Social Worker, and Police Officer. Maybe this bend toward altruism has something to do with the strong family values that my audience seems to have.

Finally, I think it’s worth mentioning that when asked where they were on September 11^th, 2001, most of the group responded that they were in first or second grade. That surprised me, even though the math was there just waiting to be done. My immediate thought after this realization was that these young adults probably find the politics of today confusing and nonsensical. Maybe I’m wrong, but I remember 9/11 well, and our nation’s polices still confuse the Hell out of me.

I expected my audience to be young, strong, adventurous, and cynically witty. I was surprised, however, to find them so family minded, and so inclined to the idea of dedicating their working lives to helping other people. Knowing what I know now, I am more comfortable writing with my own slightly cynical, humorous view of the world. More interestingly, though, is the fact that I now feel more comfortable exploring the more sentimental side of the things that we write about, knowing that my audience is not just a group of vicious, blood thirsty, cynical youth, but are in fact the latest wave of thinkers and feelers in the ongoing flow of people making their way through this confusing, mixed up world.

Introvert or Extrovert? According to Jung.

Am I an introvert or extrovert?
I know that I am an introvert. I have known this for a long time, but how, specifically, I know this, I might have a little trouble explaining. First of all, the test that we took recently, the Jung Typology thing, told me I was somthing with the word introvert in it-an I.N.T.J. (Introverted iNtuitive Thinking Judging)-but we'll visit with that in a moment.

At any rate, my thoughts, feelings and emotions generally stay on the inside. The Typology test made me sound like a sociopath with a sparkling personallity. I think the truth lies somewhere in between. My dialogue is usually an internal one, and though I look to the outside world for clues, much of my life is felt and decided from the inside. Ive always been an inward looker, a processer, an overthinking, and a mostly solitary figure. My ways and social graces just dont always quite mesh with those of others.

The second list of information for the type indicators put forth from the Jung Typology Test-Typology Indicators- seemed a bit more spot on in places, and I found relations to everything in the opening statement on INTJs except for confident and calm. As a matter of fact, I am usually pretty self critical and at times insecure. I could see how self critical could mesh with the personality indicated here- as it is a very analytical personality, and everything is grist for the mill- but "calm" is in direct conflict with how I am most of the time. It has been stated, though, that I have an anxiety disorder, and this is probably true.
My question now becomes, does this account for the descrepancy in the area of calmness with rest of my markers, or does it indicate that I should actually be in a different classification?
The above question, however, taken as an indicator, would seem to have me firmly seated in the area of INTJ.

The Jung Typology Test's second description left me alittle skeptical after the first page, which had me sounding like some kind of scientist with all the effectiveness and potential in the word. It listed me as organized, focused, good with time management and goal oriented. This is not how I see myself. While, yes, I AM a bit of a perfectionist, with a strong drive to WANT to organize things, this is very seldom how things work out, and my life in general is marked by a fairly frantic sense of chaos. In short, I'm a mess.

It wasnt until I got down to the section on writing that some of these attractive ideas started to reconcile themselves with my actual way of life. The first big thing I noticed was that INTJs are known to spend so much time in the reflective stage, and not quite knowing where to start a paper, that they will sometimes miss starting all together. (Okay, that sounds like me). Another point of interest was how much of the focus was on the end result or conclusion, CAUSING the starting to be very difficult. (Uh Huh. Keep going). I speak often in absolutes, mostly when I write, and a little bullet point told me that I ought to soften my firm statements. I was very angry with the bullet point over this, because another little bullet point had just accused me of having difficulty accepting criticism. (Okay, now I'm mad).

But wait (and yes, I just started this paragraph with "but". Did I mention that INTJs are expected to challenge commonly held ideas and conventions?), there's more. Turns out that just below the main body of bullet points on writing is an entire section on Procrastination. Well... I'll Have to get back to you on that one...
I particularly liked the part where it stated, "Essentially, one side of the INTJ wants to explore the possibilities and the other is looking for closure." Wow. That sure is a nice, clean way to justify putting stuff off. I think I'll keep it.

After taking the Jung Typology Test, and reviewing the indicators on my results, I have to say that, for the most part, it nailed me spot on. The funny thing about this is that I do not feel limited in being so well summed up. For one thing, it is only a little free test, and I dont expect it to have all the answers by a long shot. For another, It listed alot of things that sure sounded like assets in the beggining, and proceeded to demonstrate how they could be challenges further down. I liked that. It was in the recognition of the challenges that I found something that set me at ease. I feel as though the struggles I am facing now are quite natural for a person, we'll say, in the ballpark of like me.
The struggles are infact due in part to a number of characteristics that make me worth while-or, at least, it sounds better that way. While not life altering, Im glad I took this little test, and I would recommend it to others, particularly the inrtospective kind, as we are always looking for new ways to examine ourselves. This exercise, if nothing else, has given me alittle kick in the direction of appreciating some of my little eccentricities, as far as the relm of school is concerned.

The Hawking Effect

This man, in case you dont recognise him, is Stephen Hawking. Hawking is a well known physicist (probably the best known living physicist), and has a severe physical handicap. At this time, I cant remember what the particular affliction Dr. Hawking suffers is, but it confines him completely and totally to his motorized wheel chair, even robbing him of his ability to speak. It could be easily argued the Dr.Hawking is one of the greatest minds of our time- Im not sure who would argue against it.
Dr.Hawking is a brilliant man, has done great things for the field of physics and the advancement of human knowledge, and Im sure that the irony that he is completely confined within his own physical form is far from lost on him. I honestly never gave this man much though-knew he was important, knew who he was, but never gave it much thought-until during a difficult time in my life I read A Brief History Of Time, a book on physics that Dr.Hawking published for the layman. I had decided to read the book because complex thoughts beyond my understanding had plagued and tortured me since early childhood. I learned alot from the book, but mostly, I found it incomprehensible-not because it was badly written, but because I couldn't comprehend it!- but the thing I found most valuable about it was the brief bits of humanity. The witty but almost clumsy little bits of humor. This was a person, a real, live person, who wanted nothing so desperatly as knowledge, and to be able to share that knowledge with another person. Surely Hawking had been plagued for years by his own questions beyong anything I could torture myself over, and he was trapped within himself to boot. In the face of his blinding spirit and humanity, what did I have to bitch about?