"I look no more for her to be my lover
As I love her. That thing could never be.
Nor pray I for her purity––that's over.
Only this much I pray, that I be free.
Free from insane desire myself, and guarded
In peace at last. O heaven, grant that yet
The faith by which I've lived may be
rewarded.
Let me forget."
– Catullus
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
What Is A Teacher?
“So, who learns more? You or your students?” Many teachers half-jokingly ask this question of each other, expecting the same answer every time: “Sometimes, I’m not sure whether it’s me or the kids doing the teaching in my class. My students teach me things I would never have dreamed of.” It seems that instructors in all fields encounter new experiences and challenges every day. The competent ones learn to adapt. Quickly, they begin to understand that their days of study have not ended, but, instead, have just begun. So, who learns more?
Most would indignantly argue that the entire purpose and definition of a student is to engage in the exercise of learning. After all, if a pupil is not gaining anything from his or her studies, he or she must be a very poor learner! However, the abilities of an instructor are certainly reflected in the aptitude of his or her students. Significantly, it is only possible for students to learn from material and lectures that they have read or observed, either directly or indirectly. Because the teacher generally regulates what is presented in class, his or her choices vastly impact potential to understand the topic at hand. If pupils desire to effectively complete all that is required for class, they will be influenced by the methods their professor uses to teach. Studying what is assigned in class is a common-sense way to pass tests. However, is studying the best way to learn?
Essentially, the act of teaching is the sharing of knowledge. When students sit down in class, they naturally expect the instructor to have some level of familiarity in the subject being taught. For instance, most students would be astounded to discover that a professor of economics is teaching their music theory course! Immediately, the instructor loses credence in the eyes of his or her pupils. To some degree, all teachers must possess the capacity to impart knowledge. But, where does this ability come from? It only comes from a genuine understanding of the subject being taught. In fact, all instructors must find some way to gain the necessary experience.
The truth is, a teacher must learn in order to teach. Academia is dynamic. Ideas, theories, and preferred techniques are always responding to new discoveries and research. How can an instructor cope in this ever-shifting environment? Qualified instructors can only survive through continuous learning. And, unlike students, who can only learn through observation, capable teachers are presented with the invaluable opportunity to learn through teaching. Students can only read pertinent material, listen to offered lectures, and utilize methods practiced by their teachers. Instructors can and should do all of this as well, in order to become familiar with their subject matter. However, they also spend time delivering lectures, choosing material, and designing the methods used by their students. These practical applications effectively reinforce the teacher’s understanding of his or her field.
What do students and instructors have in common? Both are professional learners. In order to excel at what they do, both must become effective at studying. Both must continue to read, write, and research. In a way, are not teachers students, too? Ultimately, any person who wishes to teach must also be willing to learn.
Most would indignantly argue that the entire purpose and definition of a student is to engage in the exercise of learning. After all, if a pupil is not gaining anything from his or her studies, he or she must be a very poor learner! However, the abilities of an instructor are certainly reflected in the aptitude of his or her students. Significantly, it is only possible for students to learn from material and lectures that they have read or observed, either directly or indirectly. Because the teacher generally regulates what is presented in class, his or her choices vastly impact potential to understand the topic at hand. If pupils desire to effectively complete all that is required for class, they will be influenced by the methods their professor uses to teach. Studying what is assigned in class is a common-sense way to pass tests. However, is studying the best way to learn?
Essentially, the act of teaching is the sharing of knowledge. When students sit down in class, they naturally expect the instructor to have some level of familiarity in the subject being taught. For instance, most students would be astounded to discover that a professor of economics is teaching their music theory course! Immediately, the instructor loses credence in the eyes of his or her pupils. To some degree, all teachers must possess the capacity to impart knowledge. But, where does this ability come from? It only comes from a genuine understanding of the subject being taught. In fact, all instructors must find some way to gain the necessary experience.
The truth is, a teacher must learn in order to teach. Academia is dynamic. Ideas, theories, and preferred techniques are always responding to new discoveries and research. How can an instructor cope in this ever-shifting environment? Qualified instructors can only survive through continuous learning. And, unlike students, who can only learn through observation, capable teachers are presented with the invaluable opportunity to learn through teaching. Students can only read pertinent material, listen to offered lectures, and utilize methods practiced by their teachers. Instructors can and should do all of this as well, in order to become familiar with their subject matter. However, they also spend time delivering lectures, choosing material, and designing the methods used by their students. These practical applications effectively reinforce the teacher’s understanding of his or her field.
What do students and instructors have in common? Both are professional learners. In order to excel at what they do, both must become effective at studying. Both must continue to read, write, and research. In a way, are not teachers students, too? Ultimately, any person who wishes to teach must also be willing to learn.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
"The Poor Need It More" by Andrew Dawes
Not so long ago, in a land not too far from here, there once lived a happy, hardworking carpenter. Contentedly, he lived in a humble country cottage, kindly caring for his beautiful wife and two playful daughters. Although the carpenter was poorer than some, he was certainly well-off enough to adequately feed and clothe his own family. Four times a year, at the end of every season, he would trek to the nearest town in order to buy meat, to replace his tools, and to mend his family’s clothes. And, without fail, each one of these trips was more successful than the last.
One year, however, everything changed. The town often visited by the carpenter spontaneously implemented several new welfare measures. The town’s officials suddenly concluded that the poor and impoverished in their land, both citizens and non-citizens, hardworking and non-working alike, required immediate financial assistance. Therefore, they declared, the rich must be taxed in order to feed the poor. Their reasoning was simple: “The poor need it more!”
That spring, the unsuspecting carpenter fell prey to these new ordinances. The town’s officers were lurking in the streets, waiting for a decently-fed citizen like him. Spotting the carefree carpenter, they stopped him and began to search his person. He feebly attempted to protest, but the officials only responded by patronizing him with haughty sermons on the betterment of society, and smugly lecturing him on the dangers of the wealthy accumulating too much wealth. Before the carpenter could open his mouth once more, they deftly plucked the money bag right out of his hands. Enraged, the carpenter demanded to know why his hard-earned money should be taken from him in this way. After all, without his wallet, how would he manage to feed his family? Loudly, and with feigned surprise, the officials answered this apparently thickheaded fellow’s question with what could only be the most plain, obvious answer: “The poor need it more!”
After this, the carpenter only made two more trips to town. During the first, at the end of summer, the carpenter did not bring any money with him, but instead brought his carpentry tools. After his previous encounter with the town’s officials and their new ordinances, he wisely decided to offer manual labor in exchange for the goods and services he and his family so desperately needed. However, those cunning officials, after once again apprehending this hardworking man, proceeded to mercilessly snatch his entire toolbox! Dumbfounded, the carpenter, struggling to speak, began to inquire as to how he might work and feed his family without saws, hammers, or nails. The officers did not hesitate to answer him. They informed him that there had been an unusual amount of unemployment around the town as of late, and that any spare tools would assist the impoverished in their search for sustainable income. Then, they departed from him, cheerily singing, “The poor need it more!”
The last time the carpenter visited town, in the the late chill of fall, he arrived as a much poorer man. In fact, he only traveled to beg for food and to seek a benefactor who might offer to patch his hole-torn coat for the winter. The officials found him anyway. Seething, he remained silent while the the officers roughly tore that ragged coat from his back. In stark contrast to his stillness, they spoke plenty, babbling to him about the sickness that had spread among the town’s poor, possibly because of the fast approaching winter. As they ran off to find another unjustly prosperous capitalist, who would also be strongly encouraged to donate in such a time of need, they flippantly reminded the carpenter, “The poor need it more!”
That winter, the hardworking carpenter caught sick and died. Perhaps it was because he could not afford the medicine needed to recover. Perhaps it was because there had not been enough food for him or his wife or his two daughters. Perhaps it was because he had come home half-frozen, night after frigid night, after scrounging for bits of kindling in the forest surrounding his shabby cottage. His beautiful wife and two playful daughters wretchedly mourned his passing. His last act in life had been to construct a coffin out of extra materials left over from his career of carpentry. This way, he had reasoned, his family would not be forced to sell themselves to properly bury his remains. By now, the officials had taken to roaming the countryside too, searching for unwilling benefactors. Most likely, they would have taken the coffin too, in order to bury the perished poor among them; however, they had not yet located the small country cottage.
Three days after the carpenter’s burial, a harsh knock sounded on the door of the neglected cottage. The carpenter’s widow screamed and almost fainted when she recognized the very officials that her husband had vividly described time and time again. As she lay on the dirt floor, pleading for mercy, promising that she had nothing more to give, the officials glanced at each other, genuinely bemused and not recognizing this soiled, impoverished woman. They were not come to do any harm, they proudly assured her. Instead, they were bearers of great news and glad tidings. With that, the head officer violently spilled a bag of various odds and ends on the mean, cold floor. Silenced, the wife stared at the soil-spattered contents of the upended sack. There was a small bag of coins. Next to that was a familiar yet well-used toolbox full of saws, hammers, and nails. Finally, there was a long, weather-worn coat desperately in need of patching. With a trembling lip, the carpenter’s widow numbly gazed at the floor, questioning the officials with her silence. The officers smiled in smug satisfaction, and, glancing around the hovel, lightly commented on her obvious poverty. These things on the floor, they loftily intoned, had been acquired from some nameless woodworker who was guilty of hoarding wealth, thereby forcing the poor to suffer. Now, in true generosity, they, the heroes, had come to bring these items to her and to her meager household. After all, they proclaimed, “The poor need it more!”
Three days after the carpenter’s burial, a harsh knock sounded on the door of the neglected cottage. The carpenter’s widow screamed and almost fainted when she recognized the very officials that her husband had vividly described time and time again. As she lay on the dirt floor, pleading for mercy, promising that she had nothing more to give, the officials glanced at each other, genuinely bemused and not recognizing this soiled, impoverished woman. They were not come to do any harm, they proudly assured her. Instead, they were bearers of great news and glad tidings. With that, the head officer violently spilled a bag of various odds and ends on the mean, cold floor. Silenced, the wife stared at the soil-spattered contents of the upended sack. There was a small bag of coins. Next to that was a familiar yet well-used toolbox full of saws, hammers, and nails. Finally, there was a long, weather-worn coat desperately in need of patching. With a trembling lip, the carpenter’s widow numbly gazed at the floor, questioning the officials with her silence. The officers smiled in smug satisfaction, and, glancing around the hovel, lightly commented on her obvious poverty. These things on the floor, they loftily intoned, had been acquired from some nameless woodworker who was guilty of hoarding wealth, thereby forcing the poor to suffer. Now, in true generosity, they, the heroes, had come to bring these items to her and to her meager household. After all, they proclaimed, “The poor need it more!”
Thursday, November 24, 2011
"34 Words" by Andrew Dawes
In 34 words, such bleak concepts as death, grief, and eternality are expertly examined and exposed. Filling the space of approximately two written sentences, Emily Dickinson’s poem “The Bustle in the House” perfectly illuminates these sombre, murky issues. Although Dickinson wrote this concise yet powerful piece in 1866, it was not published until after her death (“Emily Dickinson: The Poetry Foundation”). This poem is still as passionate today as when it was first penned. For modern readers, “The Bustle in the House” closely relates to those who are currently wrestling with grief and loss. In a comforting fashion, its solemnly warm tone radiates consolation and sympathy while brashly fingering the freezing emotions connected with death. Both painful grief and healing hope underlie this short poem’s intriguing message, tone, and themes.
Although it is concise, “The Bustle in the House” still manages to masterfully explain life after loss. Describing events that take place after the death of a friend or family member, this poem pictures the tumultuous flurry of activity that inevitably follows:
The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth. (quoted in “RPO -- Emily Dickinson: The Bustle in the House”)
The “bustle” referred to in this first stanza paints dreary images of melancholy funeral preparations. Although the work is bitter, preparations for the deceased must be seen to, even if such proceedings are the “solemnest of industries.” The tone is immediately gloomy and dark, and the first stanza is largely overwritten by the theme of death. However, the second, and last, stanza of Dickinson’s poem subtly injects a foreign contaminant of hope into the corpse of depression:
The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity. (quoted in “RPO -- Emily Dickinson: The Bustle in the House”)
While the emotional texture of the poem remains thick with sorrow, the last two lines lighten the mixture considerably. The word “eternity” implies a life-after-death situation, one in which the individual who has lost a loved one can eventually restore this relationship and love the deceased once again. Even though that love must be temporarily stowed away, it will be retrieved for use at another, more distant time. This theme of hope stands in stark contrast to the first stanza’s despondent bustle and mindless industry. In a mere 34 words, Dickinson navigates from the deepest shades of sorrow to the loftiest heights of hope.
A powerful message lies underneath. Mourning the mortal end of a close relationship can strenuously tax an individual’s willpower and faith. In the midst of the dismal activity and unhappy adjustments, it is easy to lose sight of the person who has been lost. However, though it is impossible to love the deceased in exactly the same manner as when they walked the earth, glistening hope remains for those who can wait until eternity. Love shall be used again. It is this final guarantee of hope that defines Emily Dickinson’s poem as more than aimless ramblings. Although grief destroys, love yet remains. In this way, “The Bustle in the House” is truly death brought to life in 34 words.
A powerful message lies underneath. Mourning the mortal end of a close relationship can strenuously tax an individual’s willpower and faith. In the midst of the dismal activity and unhappy adjustments, it is easy to lose sight of the person who has been lost. However, though it is impossible to love the deceased in exactly the same manner as when they walked the earth, glistening hope remains for those who can wait until eternity. Love shall be used again. It is this final guarantee of hope that defines Emily Dickinson’s poem as more than aimless ramblings. Although grief destroys, love yet remains. In this way, “The Bustle in the House” is truly death brought to life in 34 words.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Within a Dream
Without a doubt,
Within a dream,
A tortured sound,
A voice can seem,
Reversed in half,
Within a dream,
Attempts to laugh,
All come out screams.
Light jests offend,
Within a dream,
They sickly bend,
Become obscene.
Encouragement,
Within a dream,
Is only meant,
As evil scheme.
A plea for help,
Within a dream,
Is seldom felt,
Unheard, unseen.
If I meet you,
Within a dream,
Perhaps, in view,
I won't be me.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Stranded
The light was cold.
In fact, everything here was. The air. The floors. The beds. And, of course, the light. But nothing–not even the sharp, icy-blue illumination–could distract Evan right now. Although his ears felt like they might freeze and fall off his skull, he was too concerned with the task at hand to take even a moment's notice. Expertly sliding through the multitude of useless frequencies, Evan hastily dialed up the only clear channel. He couldn't miss this. A frown briefly crossed the young man's face as the radio cut in and out a little before settling on the announcer's droning voice. Pushing on his temples, Evan kneaded the worry out of his mind. He played with his short, dark hair, waiting, as the announcer aimlessly drifted through what passed for "entertainment news" these days.
In that short wait, the frigid temperature finally got to him. Evan blew on his hands, which were turning red and going numb. He watched his breath condense and form dozens of miniature, foggy shapes–the only "clouds" he had seen in months. Finally, just before Evan completely lost patience with the grating voice of the radio-man and went back to sleep, where he could at least shut out the headache-causing brightness of the ceiling lights, the station crackled and a brief, introductory theme played over the static-filled waves. He sat bolt upright, and strained his slowly-freezing ears.
A new voice, deep and rich, rumbled through the speakers. "You are listening to the McGwire Show! Grab a shirt and get ready to go, 'cause this revolution is rollllling to victorrrrrry! And now, your host, Mr. Garth McGwire!" Evan almost grinned. Garth's chirping pipes and smart-aleck remarks about current events lifted his mood considerably. Besides, news of the Resistance was always welcome out here. However, Evan's lips quickly flattened and his brows knit together as a long, drawn-out pause followed the announcer's introduction.
When he finally started talking, Garth's voice sounded raw, hoarse and very, very solemn. "This is Garth McGwire. Friends, tonight I bring you word of things on the front." Evan's stomach sank. He had been hoping for good news from home, but something was obviously amiss. "I just wanna let you all know right off the bat that it's not good...not good at all. For the past three years, we've pushed and pushed. Our forces have fought and died in defense of our home. Since the forced nuclear disarmament, our boys with stars have known that the only way to save the homeland was to invite the enemy here, make 'em think we were weak enough to be taken. And, they were right: we caught 'em by surprise. We've kept the invaders muddled on the ground, always staying one step ahead of their movements, vanishing when their tactical weapons reached the front, retaking cities after they withdraw their troops. The enemy has been greedy enough to blindly continue the attacks, hoping to capture, undamaged, the multifold resources we possess."
Garth sighed with a long, brooding pause. That's when Evan knew something was really, really wrong. He couldn't move, and he felt his heart rising in his throat. "But now, I've just received word that the Resistance lost contact last hour with the larger part of the West Coast, including all of California and Oregon. Most of Arizo-Mexas has gone dead silent as well. Multiple Resistance bases in western Nevada and eastern Arizo-Mexas report seeing nuclear-fallout debris. We can only assume that our long-held fears have been manifested: the enemy has begun systematically eliminating key strategic points, using orbital warheads." As if from a great distance, Evan watched his hands start to shake. Garth soberly continued. "Our remaining armada informs us that these missiles would be stealth-cloaked, undetectable to all radar devices and nearly invisible to our most powerful observation telescopes. If this is the truth, and we must believe that our sources are reliable, then the end of our fight may be nigh. It is with heavy hearts that we mourn those who have given their lives in the fight for freedom citizens and soldiers alike–"
For the first time in the history of his show, Garth McGwire choked up, sending bursts of scratchy sobs over the airwaves. Evan's brow broke out in a cold sweat, and both his trembling hands jerkily reached up to squeeze his head in a vise-like grip. Garth shakily regained his composure, and went on in a voice thick with emotion, "–including those hundreds of thousands who perished today, no less valiantly than those who died in the attempted defense of Europe and Brazilica. Pausing again, McGwire bit out his next words. "I have a message to the people of Free America: Never forget what it is we fight for. Never forget the taste of freedom. Never forget your dead friends and family. Never forget your former lively-hoods." Here, Garth's voice took on and edge that sent a chill up Evan's spine. "And never, ever forget what the murderous, scumbag enemy did to–"
Evan didn't remember turning off the radio. He didn't remember leaving the room. And he definitely didn't remember taking the elevator to the upper levels. When he came to himself, he was violently shaking. Dazed, he glanced around to take a bearing on his surroundings. He was alone and staring out a heavily-shielded viewport. His body was drenched in sweat, and his clothing clung to his clammy skin. He couldn't stop shivering. His pulse raced. A rancorous headache pounded on the sides of his head, and his breath came in short, raspy gasps. What was he doing here? Then, he remembered. Home was in trouble. Big trouble. And he was stuck here.
Almost unintentionally, he gazed out the steel-encased window. It was night, and the only illumination came from the radiant orb hanging in the night sky, which was visible through the circular viewport. The pale glow flooded the floor around Evan's feet in a chilly circle of liquid light. He couldn't see much of the surrounding landscape, but Evan knew that the rocky, barren wasteland would be even colder than the inside of the base–much colder. As he stretched his index finger to feel the frigid window, his headache grew louder, more powerful, and he felt his heart, once again, reach out for home. His eyes slowly turned up toward the source of the cold light. Without compassion, without feeling or remorse, the unforgiving globe stared back at him. With a surge that almost knocked Evan off his feet, pure, harsh emotion completely overwhelmed him. The world turned black for a moment, then the icy brightness trickled back into his optic nerves. Slowly, he realized that he was violently pounding his head against the view-port. The discordant symphony within his temples had reached a tremendous crescendo. The strain of tonight had worn him thin, and lack of sleep and the cold were finishing the job. Still beating his bloody forehead against the resistant glass, Evan moaned in agonized pain. Tears streamed down his battered face, his shivering intensified, and he knew he was on the verge of passing out. The last thing he did before the frigid night turned an even colder black was take one last defiant glance at the green and blue orb he called home. So, he thought, as he collapsed to the icy floor, this is what it feels like to be stranded on the moon!
In fact, everything here was. The air. The floors. The beds. And, of course, the light. But nothing–not even the sharp, icy-blue illumination–could distract Evan right now. Although his ears felt like they might freeze and fall off his skull, he was too concerned with the task at hand to take even a moment's notice. Expertly sliding through the multitude of useless frequencies, Evan hastily dialed up the only clear channel. He couldn't miss this. A frown briefly crossed the young man's face as the radio cut in and out a little before settling on the announcer's droning voice. Pushing on his temples, Evan kneaded the worry out of his mind. He played with his short, dark hair, waiting, as the announcer aimlessly drifted through what passed for "entertainment news" these days.
In that short wait, the frigid temperature finally got to him. Evan blew on his hands, which were turning red and going numb. He watched his breath condense and form dozens of miniature, foggy shapes–the only "clouds" he had seen in months. Finally, just before Evan completely lost patience with the grating voice of the radio-man and went back to sleep, where he could at least shut out the headache-causing brightness of the ceiling lights, the station crackled and a brief, introductory theme played over the static-filled waves. He sat bolt upright, and strained his slowly-freezing ears.
A new voice, deep and rich, rumbled through the speakers. "You are listening to the McGwire Show! Grab a shirt and get ready to go, 'cause this revolution is rollllling to victorrrrrry! And now, your host, Mr. Garth McGwire!" Evan almost grinned. Garth's chirping pipes and smart-aleck remarks about current events lifted his mood considerably. Besides, news of the Resistance was always welcome out here. However, Evan's lips quickly flattened and his brows knit together as a long, drawn-out pause followed the announcer's introduction.
When he finally started talking, Garth's voice sounded raw, hoarse and very, very solemn. "This is Garth McGwire. Friends, tonight I bring you word of things on the front." Evan's stomach sank. He had been hoping for good news from home, but something was obviously amiss. "I just wanna let you all know right off the bat that it's not good...not good at all. For the past three years, we've pushed and pushed. Our forces have fought and died in defense of our home. Since the forced nuclear disarmament, our boys with stars have known that the only way to save the homeland was to invite the enemy here, make 'em think we were weak enough to be taken. And, they were right: we caught 'em by surprise. We've kept the invaders muddled on the ground, always staying one step ahead of their movements, vanishing when their tactical weapons reached the front, retaking cities after they withdraw their troops. The enemy has been greedy enough to blindly continue the attacks, hoping to capture, undamaged, the multifold resources we possess."
Garth sighed with a long, brooding pause. That's when Evan knew something was really, really wrong. He couldn't move, and he felt his heart rising in his throat. "But now, I've just received word that the Resistance lost contact last hour with the larger part of the West Coast, including all of California and Oregon. Most of Arizo-Mexas has gone dead silent as well. Multiple Resistance bases in western Nevada and eastern Arizo-Mexas report seeing nuclear-fallout debris. We can only assume that our long-held fears have been manifested: the enemy has begun systematically eliminating key strategic points, using orbital warheads." As if from a great distance, Evan watched his hands start to shake. Garth soberly continued. "Our remaining armada informs us that these missiles would be stealth-cloaked, undetectable to all radar devices and nearly invisible to our most powerful observation telescopes. If this is the truth, and we must believe that our sources are reliable, then the end of our fight may be nigh. It is with heavy hearts that we mourn those who have given their lives in the fight for freedom citizens and soldiers alike–"
For the first time in the history of his show, Garth McGwire choked up, sending bursts of scratchy sobs over the airwaves. Evan's brow broke out in a cold sweat, and both his trembling hands jerkily reached up to squeeze his head in a vise-like grip. Garth shakily regained his composure, and went on in a voice thick with emotion, "–including those hundreds of thousands who perished today, no less valiantly than those who died in the attempted defense of Europe and Brazilica. Pausing again, McGwire bit out his next words. "I have a message to the people of Free America: Never forget what it is we fight for. Never forget the taste of freedom. Never forget your dead friends and family. Never forget your former lively-hoods." Here, Garth's voice took on and edge that sent a chill up Evan's spine. "And never, ever forget what the murderous, scumbag enemy did to–"
Evan didn't remember turning off the radio. He didn't remember leaving the room. And he definitely didn't remember taking the elevator to the upper levels. When he came to himself, he was violently shaking. Dazed, he glanced around to take a bearing on his surroundings. He was alone and staring out a heavily-shielded viewport. His body was drenched in sweat, and his clothing clung to his clammy skin. He couldn't stop shivering. His pulse raced. A rancorous headache pounded on the sides of his head, and his breath came in short, raspy gasps. What was he doing here? Then, he remembered. Home was in trouble. Big trouble. And he was stuck here.
Almost unintentionally, he gazed out the steel-encased window. It was night, and the only illumination came from the radiant orb hanging in the night sky, which was visible through the circular viewport. The pale glow flooded the floor around Evan's feet in a chilly circle of liquid light. He couldn't see much of the surrounding landscape, but Evan knew that the rocky, barren wasteland would be even colder than the inside of the base–much colder. As he stretched his index finger to feel the frigid window, his headache grew louder, more powerful, and he felt his heart, once again, reach out for home. His eyes slowly turned up toward the source of the cold light. Without compassion, without feeling or remorse, the unforgiving globe stared back at him. With a surge that almost knocked Evan off his feet, pure, harsh emotion completely overwhelmed him. The world turned black for a moment, then the icy brightness trickled back into his optic nerves. Slowly, he realized that he was violently pounding his head against the view-port. The discordant symphony within his temples had reached a tremendous crescendo. The strain of tonight had worn him thin, and lack of sleep and the cold were finishing the job. Still beating his bloody forehead against the resistant glass, Evan moaned in agonized pain. Tears streamed down his battered face, his shivering intensified, and he knew he was on the verge of passing out. The last thing he did before the frigid night turned an even colder black was take one last defiant glance at the green and blue orb he called home. So, he thought, as he collapsed to the icy floor, this is what it feels like to be stranded on the moon!
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Amnesia
Why do I try, can I lie to myself?
Who is this face, that I've put on a shelf?
Nothing is different, yet something is wrong,
Is this a memory or false siren's song?
Can I have known her from some hidden life?
Would she have loved me through peace and through strife?
Staring through storm clouds, she glances my way,
Lightning and thunder can't force me to stay.
How can I stand her when friendship is null?
Should staying close have become my new goal?
Feelings betray us, but yearnings are truth,
Truth tries to tell me to fake it, aloof.
Will we remember when night turns to day?
How will we search out the right words to say?
Dear, do I know you or am I insane?
Dear, I've forgotten some terrible pain.
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