And I said, “Sister, once you’ve reached a place where casual use of plaid is not only possible, but applauded, you’ve ascended to a higher than fashionable platform of style.” Silence. “Seriously, you can now painlessly defy all laws of color, pattern, texture and gravity.” I said. Silence. “Plaid is in a league all on its own, apart from pinstripes, polkadots and piano key neckties. It’s a gift from the garment gods, presented only to those daring enough to experiment with it, while remaining respectful to the wonder that is, in it’s most simplified yet glorified form, plaid.”
Cakes have influenced me a lot over the years. I still remember my third birthday cake, it was shaped like Barney, and it was the most delicious cake I’ve eaten, to this day. Cakes have a special place in my soul, but so do a few people, who have also contributed to the construction of my sense of self and outlook on life.
Of course, my parents, through good and bad have probably had the most influence on me, but no one wants to be like their parents.
Back in the summer between grade 7 and grade 8 I discovered a movement so powerful, so extremely life changing, that it changed me life. It was called, Pop Punk. Yes, this sugary main stream stab right into the black heart of a retro musical phenomenon, was to me, an open window, just waiting to be leapt out of. The first band to spark my interest was Good Charlotte, their heart felt songs of rebellion and the good old times combined with their dreamy looks soon ignited a wild fire of obsession.
It wasn’t just me, there was a select group of us who finally felt understood, and we took to the trend like tight pants on a lead singer. It just seemed to fit. We began basing our entire existence around these bands, Good Charlotte always being center stage was surrounded by bands like Blink-182, Simple Plan and Avril Lavigne. We dressed like them, we talked like them, we would’ve started to cry in the invent of actually meeting any of them.
Of course even at the height of the GC frenzy we knew they had no street cred, they weren’t musical geniuses and they were music critic’s favorite punching bag. But that didn’t matter, because we too felt like nothing more than cynisized punching bags. They were widely popular across the continent, however within the confines of our own little Junior High School, our obsession with the band made us the freaks. We wore black, sometimes highlighted with red. Our heavy eyeliner dripped down our faces and our hair was unconventionally bright and unbelievably tall. This was also the time when our interest in poking holes in our faces began. Little metal studs garnished our pimply little faces, and the increasing diameters of our earlobes shocked our grandparents.
When I look back now, I realize this fad, trend, phase, was more than just superficial. Through Good Charlotte, my love of music truly began to blossom. They introduced me to the real punk of the 70′s and 80′s, to genres I didn’t even know existed, and to silverchair, who I still think is one of the worlds most talented and groundbreaking trios. However they infused us with even more than just fashion and music, they were the first voice we actually felt compelled to listen to. When they talked about their absent father, it helped me deal with the death of mine. When they stood up for animal rights we followed in step, and many of my friends are still vegetarians. And when they advocated peace and acceptance towards everyone, we tried to apply this to our own lives.
So in reality, it wasn’t just a pre-teen phase. The Good Charlotte phenomenon was what ignited the fire inside me, it caused my sense of self to extend its curious mind and explore new ideas, thoughts and contemplations. Through following a craze, I found myself. I wouldn’t call it conforming, but growing. They showed us that being different, being socially conscious, being accepting, was being relavent. This time in my life began to shape the person I want to become. However, just being part of a crowd, united for a single purpose, would have been enough for me.
• Have you been diligent and productive in your use of class time?
Well…in a way. You see I can’t just sit and write at a computer because I find it very uninspiring. However our little discussions are somewhat inspiring and I’ve filled up quite a few journal pages from them. Except then when it comes to posting this stuff on my blog I’m like, THATS HORRIBLE! So then I don’t.
• Have you shown steady progress in writing skills?
I think I’ve made some progress in my writing skills. I think it’s impossible not too to make progress if you’re doing something regularily. I think I’ve expanded my topics and I’ve written about things I probably wouldn’t have in the past, some sort of abstract ideas…some Burroughs inspired ramblings.
• Do you write at home three to four times a week?
I write in my notebooks fairly often, but not long stories and stuff, just ideas and thoughts that then lead to stories later when I’m bored. Theres a lot of stories in my notebooks that I’ve written while traveling, they’re my favorite because its usually things that don’t happen in every day life. Such as, visiting the police station in one of the richest areas of london, hiding from the NAVY in Mexico, chasing reindeer in Lapland ect.
• Do you actively initiate conferencing with peers and the teacher about your writing?
Yes, when there is something I’m proud of or just want an opinion on. In fact I had Alesha read an old piece of my writing this weekend. We decided it would be best not to post that on this blog though.
• Do you actively participate in discussions and group share?
No less than I usually do in other classes. Except half the time when I have something to say, someone else says it first so then I get sad. But I did volunteer for the very first share day.
• Have you completed work for your portfolio?
I’ve completed a few things, and theres a few things I could complete in the near future. Theres just a lot of stuff I have to get around to typing and prefecting.
Today, while staring blankly at the sunny YVR tarmac, I had an epiphany. It happens sometimes.
It circled vaguely around thoughts I’d thought once or twice before. The idea that once we are born, we grow a bit, and then spend the vast majority of our insignificant little lives, decaying. I sat there all smugly and smiled at my own intellectual ingenuity.
But then I began to listen closely to the ear tingle of a familiar song my little thinker box speakers were speaking. “Teen Angst” by one of my most favorite modern philosophers, Placebo, the trio.
“Since I was born, I started to decay” as the song goes.
Well fancy that. Not only am I unbelievably wise beyond my years, reaching great spiritual realizations in everyday mundane moments, but I’m on the same thinker train with the likes oh a great modern poet and international rock star.
There was a hollow thump.
I looked out through the dirty sliding glass door to see a small brown bird hanging from the rosemary bush sitting on the porch, on the other side of the door.
It fell.
Its sitting on the weathered grey deck now, breathing rapidly. blinking, trying to open it’s eyes. It hasn’t moved from the place where it fell. It’s awkwardly placed feet don’t as much as twitch, and its neatly folded wings are motionless.
There’s birds chirping, unseen. Maybe they’re calling it, the little brown bird is silent.
It’s breathing doesn’t slow, but gets heavier. It makes a small movement with it’s head, as if swallowing, and turns it’s head. Eyes closed.
I wonder if it’s scared. When I touch it’s delicate body it shows no signs of recognition. It is still.
A tiny shiver runs through it’s body.
I feel cold.
Dear Editor,
I am writing this letter in response to the all the freakishly tall people that I encounter every day. There seems to be an abundance of them around here and for a quiet gal of average height, this can prove quite frustrating. I pay for a concert ticket, and get to watch strangers heads bobbing up and down for 3 hours. I go to a movie and have to interpret the cinematic brilliance of it through the dialogue and whatever I can catch glimpses of at the very top of the screen. It’s really difficult going through life never being able to experience the view from the top. I know what you’re thinking, “well this is a dilemma, why don’t we just dispose of all the tall people?” Well it’s not that easy, but it is possible, and we can address several importent issues while we’re at it.
First of all, “tallies” as I like to call them, make up a large chunk of the population. If we were to murder them all, there would be a stunningly massive pile of decays corpses to deal with. Not to mention that fact that we would suddenly be missing all of our pro athletes and super models. And really, without them how would young boys and girls learn how to feel inadequate? No, genocide is no the answer in this case. I do however have an answer that will make everyone happy.
We will simply, make all the tall people into synthetically short people. It’s obvious I think. It’s the gangely intrusive legs that make tall people tower over the rest of us, so we’ll cut them off! Now you’re thinking, “wow that’s going to messy!” But it won’t, and I’ll tell you why. Everyone will benefit. Med students will be able to use this mas surgical undertaking as great hands on practise, preparing them for the real world of medicine. The tall people themselves will be able to reap the benefits of becoming amputees, such as getting to ride in wheelchairs or on skateboards that they push along with their hands. The fashion industry won’t have to deal with the bottom half any more, since none of the models will have one. They can put all their focus into the top half of fashion, which will be great since everyone owns way more shirts than pairs of pants anyway. Sports fans will just have to adjust to watching wheelchair basketball instead of legs basketball, but wheelchair basketball looks like more anyway.
It really won’t be that hard to adjust to a society where half the population has no legs. What may be more difficult to accept however, is what I propose we do with the legs once they’re separated from the bodies of the tallies. Rather then a massive pile of corpses, we will be faced with a fairly large pile of lifeless limbs. But I don’t like to think of it that way, I like to think of it as a blessing, and brand new renewable resource.
We all know that the meat industry is disgustingly horrendous. The treatment of animals is despicable and the quality of meat we’re shoveling into our bodies is less than satisfactory. What we all don’t know, is that one of the finest cuts of meat, comes from the human thigh. Yes, I know, shocking. But honestly, we could have an endless supply of fresh, free range meat. Even the toes could be ground up for fast food burger patties and hot dogs. As soon as someone hits a certain height, I’m thinking about 5’7″, they’re a couple weeks worth of protein for their short families and friends. The only problem here is, what do we do with the huge pile of human bones we’ll be faced with?
I’ll tell you what, we’ll provide affordable housing for short families in need. Bone isn’t the strongest building material on the market, but it is stronger than cardboard, and step in the right direction. By cutting down the number of tall people in our community, we will not only be satisfying the selfish desires of short people, but we will also be eliminating homelessness and unneccessary hunger. You see, tall people are the cause of and answer to many of societies most serious problems, and be illegalizing exessive height, we can eliminate more than one of the them.
Well well well. What are the 6 traits anyway? I can honestly say when I’m writing, the back of my mind isn’t occupied with silly little rules. It’s busy thinking about what I’m going to write next. Or what I am going to eat next, more commonly. However, in saying that, I’m not saying that this has been completely uselss. One of the 6 traits is focus/organization, something I struggle with. So having this time, I like to call it “special time” has been very useful to meint he respect of I’ve had to sit and think about my writing. During “special time” I’m not always writing diligently, but without “special time” I probably would be to lazy and unorganized to write anything ever. So this has helped me improve my focus in life, as well as in my writing. cough.
Dear Mrs. Corman, my deepest apologies, but I will not be able to do any work today, whatsoever.
You see, there has been a tragic accident, it happened this morning in my toaster. I got up at my usual getting up time, and decided that this morning instead of my usual bowl of cheerieos/aztec flakes/craisins and banana, I would have an english muffin. Just to mix it up a bit. So I sliced one in half and stuck each half in the toaster, adjusting the little knobbler to the correct cooking intensity.
While I was waiting for my breakfast to pop I got distracted, I had to make a lunch and find some clean clothes and find my homework. I forgot about my english muffin all together, until I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and I heard my mom yell, “I’m gonna warm up you’re english muffin again.”
“Noooo,” I spluttered through a mouthful of toothpaste, but she didn’t hear me. By the time I’d finished up in the bathroom, it was too late.
“Oh so what it’s a little crispy!” scolded my mother, who insisted I eat it.
“I had it the way I like it. You eat it.” was my cold reply.
I stared at the poor little muffin from acorss the kitchen, I couldn’t bring myself to go near it. The way it just sat there, innocently mocking me. My eyes swelled with angry tears. How could anyone think of eating that rock hard, whole wheat hockey puck? It would break your teeth and choke your throat. I tried to imagine slathering it in butter and soaking it in organic honey, but nothing made it seem remotely edible. My whole day was over before it even began.
I thought about waiting until my mother wasn’t looking and just toss it in the can. But she would notice that, and then maybe take it out of the garbage and make me eat it then! That would be horrible! So on my way out the door I clutched it in my clenched fist and carried it all the way to school where I disposed of the burnt bread in the first trash can I came across.
You see Mrs. Corman, when things like this happen to me, my whole day is ruined. It’s all I can think about for hours, and the more I think about it and let it fester in my mind, the more angry I become. And when I’m angry I just can’t focus on working, especially writing, because good writing is dynamic, and when I’m so full of rage my writing quickly becomes nothing but senseless ranting. And I wouldn’t want to make you read anything like that, so I think it would be best if I just took the day off. Anyway, I work very well in class usually, so I probably deserve the day off, to wallow in my own breakfastless misery.
Sincerly, your best student, Carrie.
The fluoresent sign hasn’t been ignited for years. It hangs unlit and spiritless over the desolate back street. The fire escape that we’d made our front door has gone unscaled since that youthful summer so long ago. At the time we hadn’t realized how powerful that time would become, how it would shape us and influence our futures, we were just living our lives, the only way we knew how.
Int he beginning our homely little alley had been nothing more than a dark corner in the underbelly of an unforgiving city. It didn’t take long for it to transform into the epicenter of the cities artistically vibrant, culturally devoid yet characteristically rich underground scene. The vulgarity and madness of our young bodies fueled creativity and expressionism of our blossoming minds.
The endless nights we spent off our heads in the brightly lit, bustling market of our generation spoiled us for the nights we now spend alone, in the dark.
We thrust ourselves onward through the thick undergrowth, machetes swinging violently ahead of us. It had been 4 days since we’d left camp and rations were beginning to run low. The humidity was dampening our ever tiring souls and the swarms of veracious insects were enough to drive a man to lunacy.
Already one of our group of 4 had been wounded severly and was weakening with every step, his twisted swollen ankle was drainging him of all strength and desire to go on. Each of us with still enough strength to be of use, did all we could to aid him through the more trecherous terrain, but our own strength was dwindling with the lack of substacial food and water. According to our maps and calculations we should’ve made a loop to the river and back to our camp within a day of departure, and yet we seem to be delving deeper and deeper in to the unknown of the barbaric jungle.
Late into our fourth day of bush whacking and backtracking we noted something suspicious. We had come across a partially concealed trail through the thick foliage, it looked as if it had been deliberately created and hidden with intelligence. Perhaps we’ve crossed paths with another team of archaeologists, we all agreed it was the most likely possibility and decided to follow the path which would hopefully lead us to the strangers camp, where we could get our barings.
As we continued along the narrow track we noticed some bizarre remains scattered about the bare foot prints that followed the path as well. I stopped to catch my breath and stooped down to tighten the laces on my boots, while i was crouched so near to the ground I noticed that the bones had been broken and scraped excessively, I picked up what appeared to be a rib bone and was shocked to see the apparent teeth marks in it. I know human anatomy well enough to recognize a mans ribcage when I see it, and this battered rib was definatly that of a man.
Not wanting to worry my companions, I didn’t confess my suspicions of foul play, and thought it best to continue in the direction we were headed, hopefully we would come to the river before we coming to harm. Although it wasn’t long past what should be dinner time, but the forests conopy was allowing very little light to reach its dank underbelly. The cold crept out of the shadows consuming our tired, shivering bodies. We couldnt’ stop to rest for fear of not being able to get back on our feet, and the trail was becoming increasingly difficult to follow in the dark, but we trudged along, machetes poised and ready to swing.
Gates, our wounded friend, was barely grasping conciousness now, we tried to drag his limp body between two of us, however this proved to be impossibly impractical. To my greatest regret, we were forced to part ways, going from a united team of four, to two pairs. Mr. Aristle agreed to stay with Gates while Smithers and I went on ahead, in desperate search of hope.
