tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73045587036748138062024-03-05T09:45:03.213-06:00New Day, New Month, New SeasonThere are seasons to life, this is my record of the spring of my youthMhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-87339816051911559682012-01-11T16:54:00.000-06:002012-01-11T16:54:01.767-06:00What does it mean to be "feminine"?As I was debating the topic on which to write (cleaning, cabin fever, dancing like a maniac with my best friend...), this question came to me: what does it mean to be truly "feminine"?<br />
A few weeks ago I got a new pair of sweatpants. They're black with blue and teal letters stitched on that say something about Aeropostle. These pants are warm, comfy, flattering by conventional standards, and slightly to long. Right after I bought them, I walked into the living room to show them to my Mom who said "You know, I think you look for feminine in those pants than you do in your long skirts," (I wear a lot of long skirts). To this I had a brilliant reply! It was something about her merely being subject to the conventional rules of society regarding femininity, which translates into showing off your figure... and skin. She completely bashed my argument by saying she could actually tell I was a girl when I wore the pants since they showed that I possess legs. <br />
That argument makes me wonder, do I need to show my legs and chest to be seen as a woman? If I do, I gather lustful attention, which obviously I do not approve of; however, when I wear skirts, people avoid me like the plague! Seems lose-lose to me.<br />
In my religion class last semester, there was a decent amount of discussion on sexual equality (or lack of), particularly in Eastern religions. For example, in India there are lots of arranged marriages, particularly in more rural communities. Aside from the women being property aspect and often being murdered by the grooms family, the idea of arranged marriages in America seems horrific. A new side was presented to me though: that that way the girl can focus on her job and her family and religion and not need to worry about exposing herself to attract a mate.<br />
Here in America in order to be considered "attractive" or even "pretty" you need push up bras and short shorts and low cut tops. Most people know this, of course. Why is this needed though? In our over sexed society, lust rules. Unfortunately, it is justified by saying that it's "natural", but that reduces us to animals.<br />
So I petition a different way, one that I feel is often overlooked. Yay moderation! In other words, not wearing man clothes, feeling obliged to long skirts (unless you like them as much as I), and also not dressing up like a hooker. Shorts can be nice and feminine, but really ladies? I don't want to see your underwear hangin' out. It's just trashy. What about that GORGEOUS yet sadly low-cut top at the mall? Cami's are a girls best friend (especially the bright colored ones that can really spice up an outfit!).<br />
Gosh, I sound old-fashioned... but smart girls, kind girls, modest girls, and the girls who don't walk like ducks to draw attention to the boobs and butts are the best kind. Not saying you can't kiss the boyfriend or wear a skirt above the knee, but having a line drawn is something that I wish I'd done from the very beginning. <br />
This is very ramble-esque, so I think I'll stop now. Having a line drawn on cussing, clothing, boys, and the amount of pink you wear are all important to think on though ;)Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-63122602004558591412012-01-11T00:27:00.000-06:002012-01-11T00:27:22.149-06:00PrivacyI hide my thoughts inside my head,<br />
It's the only safe place left.<br />
Pages are easily opened and read,<br />
While the mind is not easily cleft.<br />
<br />
There is no privacy in sight.<br />
I must not leave a living light,<br />
An active thought recorded.<br />
All that comes of dreams is plight.<br />
Who can say when musing is right?<br />
<br />
When subconscious music,<br />
Droning placidly hypnotic<br />
Finally finds the surface,<br />
It wanders, stoic;<br />
Ever tracking the chaotic.<br />
<br />
They flit aimlessly, lost.<br />
Confused, cold as frost<br />
They linger, like long winters.<br />
With anger they're embossed,<br />
Finally, they're glossed.<br />
<br />
In other words, I dare<br />
To challenge that it's fare<br />
To hold my mind captive;<br />
Without a breathe of air, <br />
Or a neighbor to compare.<br />
<br />
Through this exposure,<br />
I now plea:<br />
Give me some closure<br />
Or privacy!<br />
<br />Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-25166149788347785462012-01-10T21:23:00.002-06:002012-01-10T21:23:44.372-06:00Lets Fight.I have improved. At least that's what I've been told, and that I have a good aptitude for fighting. If I could only silence my anger and fear, then things could be golden.<br />
<br />
A couple weeks back I sparred with my "brother" Lee (who happens to be a black belt), both because it sounded fun and because I'd like to know how to defend myself. For a long time, as long as I can remember, I've wanted to know how to fight. To be one of those bad ass chicks who can wipe jerks who step out of line on the floor, doesn't that sound thrilling? Having the swag of someone who has nothing to be afraid of... that feeling of confidence lures me like mermaid song. <br />
<br />
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth... I mean, in the beginning, I really sucked. Almost all the punches and pokes got right through my feeble blocks and I was clueless as to how to defend myself against locks. When we finished I was covered in bruises, rather sore into the next day, but confident that I could get better. Even throughout that evening I learned a few things, like how to keep myself from getting choked, how to break my wrists free if someone has them, and to NEVER expose my back (while I learned this, I still forget from time to time...).<br />
<br />
On Sunday night we sparred again, and I was faced with ankle locks, twisted arms, painful blocks, over-stretched muscles, and blocked arteries. Evidently, I almost blacked out, but I don't remember that. However, even though I got more injuries than the last time, I managed to deal out my share! More than once, even if it didn't last, I was on the offensive with all the advantage. Lee received a fair share of bruises. All that was missing was my will, the actual desire to win.<br />
<br />
That needs to be rephrased. I WANTED to win with all my heart, but even though by nature I am a violent person, even though I talk some smack, I never truly want or enjoy inflicting pain on others. In order to succeed, a few rules need to be broken. This is generally true of most things in life. My fear of failure, my fear of actually hurting someone (which is for somewhat selfish reasons I'd rather not speak of), and my fear of success to some degree, keep me where I am.<br />
<br />
Now, through my desire to overcome fear and reach a goal I've had for so long, I will continue to fight with a slightly bigger purpose than I originally intended. At least I can have fun with this goal! I'm thankful for those in my life who help me to see my problems and address them in ways I understand. Whether they be Lee who helps me fight, my sweetheart who helps me with things of the soul, or my Mother who helps me in daily life. So now, my loves, for all that matters in this life and the next, lets fight.Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-57313343882045759602011-12-22T23:27:00.001-06:002011-12-22T23:27:27.524-06:00Unjournalling, Day 19Create five different descriptive phrases that all equivalent "like looking for a needle in a haystack".<br />
1. Like trying to make a slinky actually tumble down a whole flight of stairs.<br />
2. Like trying to say the alphabet backwards.<br />
3. Like trying to find your keys in the place they should be...<br />
4. Like trying to find the right receipt in your purse.<br />
5. Like trying to remember what you were thinking five minutes ago... (and this is oh, so true! What were you thinking five minutes ago?)Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-70933755213972617192011-12-21T23:15:00.002-06:002011-12-21T23:15:31.197-06:00Unjournalling, Day 18To viewers, the painting "Polar Bear Eating Vanilla Ice Cream in a Blizzard" looked like blank canvas, how would the artist of that painting describe a blue canvas and a black canvas?<br />
For the black, I think (if I was said artist) it would be... A crow on a black oak gazing at a darkened house at midnight.<br />
Blue is substantially more difficult, but here goes! Swiftly, a blue-jay swoops through a cloudless sky, chasing a shimmering dragonfly over a pristine lake.<br />
That last one actually sounded rather poetic, although the painter would have to be five for all of those colors of blue on a painting to be the same... None the less, at least the child would be using art!Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-40651391464822239202011-12-20T23:59:00.001-06:002011-12-20T23:59:37.328-06:00Unjournalling, Day 17Elaborate on the sentence "The dog barked" by making it as interesting and detail filled as possible.<br />
Barking softly under it's breath, the moose sized dog twitched in it's sleep.<br />
<br />
Well that was easy (ooh, Staples, what now?). I would like to wish everybody a happy Hanukkah, may the festival of lights shining brightly reflect your hearts! Now, I do need to say that I *am not* Jewish, but I do enjoy participating in the Jewish traditions that so fervently influences my own faith. Yeshua was Jewish, not Christian, so there doesn't seem to be any reason to me to part from the ways He doubtlessly followed. Obviously I do not perfectly follow the Torah (nobody can really...), but I do make a decent effort with what tools I have available. Since I am still learning, as we all are, I may make incorrect statements from time to time. Feel free to correct me!Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-44241077613492216142011-12-19T17:03:00.002-06:002011-12-19T17:04:07.243-06:00Unjournalling, Day 16Writers can describe the character, at least to some extent, through how they speak. I have to tell how each of the following would turn down an offer to a fishing trip:<br />
1. A teenage boy turning down his grandfather<br />
2. A business man eager for promotion turning down his boss<br />
3. A wife just back from her weekly spa trip turning down her husband<br />
<br />
1. Sorry Gramps... I, uh, I have some, uh, stuff to do. My mom, like, wants me to do some lame chores and stuff!<br />
2. Sir, I would absolutely love to go with you! I love fishing! You see, though, it's my anniversary this weekend, and if I didn't take my wife to dinner she would be very upset. Maybe next weekend? I don't get to go fishing as often as I would like, and the opportunity to do so with you would be a pleasure!<br />
3. Really, honey? Me, fishing? My hair just got done, and fish smell bad. Take one of your drinking buddies. Oh, and don't drown!Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-72502779950719627782011-12-19T16:55:00.002-06:002011-12-19T16:55:26.958-06:00Unjournalling, Day 15I have to pretend I am the writer for a clothing catalog who has to describe a brown, beige, red-orange, and purple sweater using two word descriptions for each color.<br />
This long sleeved, v-neck sweater is a beautiful combination of woodland shadow, dessert sand, sunset orange, and dark lilac. It's length and diagonal stripes make it attractive on practically any body type. Made of 100% wool, this sweater is perfectly suitable for this damp and chilly winter climate!Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-18073516259234176492011-12-19T16:48:00.001-06:002011-12-19T16:55:35.908-06:00Unjournalling, Day 14Write a sentence that makes sense reading both forwards and backwards. Oh gosh, I don't want to do something like "Bob liked Mary and Bill", so how about this: I was lurking in the home of the free, (yay for Yoda speak!). Or maybe: Sally and Josh hated Andrew! That is almost a carbon copy, but at least it makes sense. It must count for something!Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-37337898277595695352011-12-18T22:16:00.003-06:002011-12-18T22:16:48.890-06:00RunningRecently my life has just been run, run, run, all day long. On Friday I got up early, went to the boyfriend's house, and was there until midnight. Yesterday I went to the closest big city with Byron and another friend for his birthday. After I got home, I went out with my dad bowling and to get some ice cream. That was another long day, till about midnight. Now<i> today</i> I was woken up by James walking into my bedroom, it was rather embarrassing. He's never seen me before taking a shower and brushing my teeth before! We hung out all day, went to a Christmas party, and he just left a little while ago.<br />
By this time, I am just so worn out that I'm thinking of canceling my morning plans with Byron and just sleeping in. That, in other words, was my long excuse for slacking on the daily posts. Tomorrow afternoon I shouldn't be doing anything, and will be getting caught up. Sorry about the delay, but soon things should be back to normal. The holidays justs ruin everything, ya know?Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-54716846216238657442011-12-15T13:41:00.003-06:002011-12-15T13:41:53.621-06:00Unjournalling, Day 13Creatively producing a "sentence" consisting entirely of multiple syllable dialog excluding: "a", "an", "the".<br />
That sentence was... special, and a failure, so lets try this again!<br />
Surprising the Elephant, a beautiful lioness sneakily ambulated, fearsomely adjacent. <br />
Not exactly prise winning as far as... word on tip of tongue... structure! However, when you read it out loud the words chime together in a rather pleasing way. When I read a new book, if the words sound beautiful together regardless of the meaning then I'm pretty much a fan for life.Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-26722990074395160692011-12-14T16:01:00.000-06:002011-12-14T16:01:16.163-06:00Unjournalling, Day 12This time I am going to describe someone who looks bored, without using the words <i>yawned</i>, <i>stared</i>, or<i> sighed</i>.<br />
<br />
The boy was about five, with shorts stained from playing in the grass and shoes to match. As he sat in his doctors office, waiting for his check up, he fidgeted. Rhythmically he would bang his shoes on the chair leg, wiggle from side to side, and eventually slouch over in dejection. Just to watch him made other people in the room come to notice how bored they were as well, though they responded in more adult manners such as toe-tapping, blank faces, and poor posture.<br />
After twenty minutes or so, the boy finally gave up on his antsy behavior to curl up into a ball in his chair, rest his chin on his knees, and pout. In an effort to get his mothers attention, a little tear dribbled down his cheek. When his mother noticed, he said in a frustrated child's voice "I'm so BOOOOORED", but his mother merely instructed him to be patient. Once again, the boy started to wiggle with barely contained energy.Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-52532049926259759232011-12-13T22:47:00.001-06:002011-12-13T22:47:41.570-06:00Tell Me a StoryThis afternoon I had a "final" with my English teacher. Actually, all it was was a conference where we discussed my writing and where I was going from comp 1. It went very well, and she turned me on the the website www.smithmag.net (really cool site, definitely worth going to!). Tonight I went there, turned in a few 6 word memoirs with back story, one longer memoir (it was ok, didn't bother with too much editing though), and had a good evening.<br />
It's all I can hope for that my memoirs and writing gets noticed, I should probably edit them more in order to legitimately hope though! When I have that new memoir fixed I'll post it here and fix it there. Impatient me though couldn't wait to edit.<br />
Sidetracked! I know not many people read this, but as a person who is curious about <i>everything</i> I'd love to know your stories, or at least one of them. Give me a six word summary, a six page story, or a whole lifetime, it all sounds fascinating to me. We all deserve our thousand words, and sometimes it's easier to type or write than to speak.<br />
I found a cool picture, what does this evoke to you?<br />
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<br />Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-30436240744198558252011-12-13T17:35:00.000-06:002011-12-13T17:35:53.977-06:00Unjournalling, Day 11In one paragraph I have to describe a scene from any sport using these words: bounced, struggled, collapsed, and giggled. I am choosing to describe when my sweetheart got racked with a soccer ball a year ago, and I just want to make clear that at the time I didn't <i>actually</i> giggle...<br />
<br />
The ball flew through the air, and bounced toward the Viking's goal. A member from each team spied the ball, and they both struggled furiously to gain control. The apposing team landed a harsh kick on the ball, but it was stopped, unfortunately, by a Viking defensive player. He fell to the ground in pain. After a moment, the audience realized what had happened, and they roared in shock. Being the horrible person I am, I couldn't restrain my giggles at the fallen player's bad luck.<br />
<br />
A few things must be clarified now: his dad "giggled" more than I did; and since it was November, 30 something out, and raining there wasn't a big enough crowd to actually make a roar. Regardless, it was a pretty intense scene for those who were there and were paying attention. The Vikings didn't win, but they fought hard all evening. Even better news was that James took no permanent damage! <br />
<br />
<br />Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-36543647991149561402011-12-12T16:46:00.000-06:002011-12-12T16:46:19.360-06:00My Kitchen, Finally, Is Clean! (to me...)Due to how short that last pathetic little unjournalling post was, I think I'll share my life story. Not really. Just a segment, like how<em> amazingly clean</em> my kitchen is. Check this out:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EIwRE3y0QjHo1cec4xqebhjVx-HDbPVcBy601jRi0n6yoAjg3Wj1KofezdNT_v3T0yOV7F34Z7tvZeLbZN4U8VPr_z5PqSAQ7GumZ-vKbCoVezvFXTQUKjkzkWON9ZXwz_jcpxwcvmiE/s1600/Clean+kitchen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EIwRE3y0QjHo1cec4xqebhjVx-HDbPVcBy601jRi0n6yoAjg3Wj1KofezdNT_v3T0yOV7F34Z7tvZeLbZN4U8VPr_z5PqSAQ7GumZ-vKbCoVezvFXTQUKjkzkWON9ZXwz_jcpxwcvmiE/s320/Clean+kitchen.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Now, I realize to all the neat-freaks out there (for whom I have the highest respect, I might even sell my soul to join your ranks) this might look filthy, but for me this is the product of 3 hours of labor. The sink does not shine like a Fly-Lady sink, the floor doesn't sparkle, but to me it is beautiful in almost every way. I am proud. The countertops do not have food on them, no dishes are coated in mold. There is even usable space available for cooking! <br />
It suprises me every time I clean how easy it is to keep that way. For about two weeks or I spend time with friends anyway! Hopefully (I do pray this now with all my heart), I can make this last for a whopping <em>three weeks</em>! Dreams do come true, right? Especially when you pay your best friend to do it for you... he's just cool like that. <br />Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-86479177794113355672011-12-12T16:24:00.000-06:002011-12-12T16:33:40.479-06:00Unjournalling, Day 10I have to create a sentence with each word beginning with the next letter in the word "sentence". <br />
<br />
Secretly exposing the evil, nobody cared; ever. <br />
<br />
That deserves a back story, I'll write it down sometime.Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-21563702506088171552011-12-11T23:41:00.001-06:002011-12-11T23:41:43.091-06:00Unjournalling, Day 9So much shame! I was out all day studying for finals with a friend, but here I am, with still 32 minutes to go. Never again shall I be so late in the day, hopefully tomorrow I'll get this taken care of before noon.<br />
This assignment was an activity to learn tone. I have to write a letter to the owner (Ms. Applespot) of the non-existent store, Widget World, to ask for a raise. However, the owner hasn't noticed how well I do my job and I must use tact as well as be to the point.<br />
<br />
Dear Ms Applespot,<br />
Throughout my five years as manager of Widget World, I have fully fulfilled all responsibilities as well as increasing productivity. All of the employees are happy, and the store receives very few customer complaints. I would like to address at this time therefor, the state of my pay. <br />
In the past few years I have not received very high wages for my position, but none the less have continued to serve this store diligently. I would like to request a pay raise of $1.50 an hour for my services and continuous loyalty to the store.<br />
Thank you for your time,<br />
*insert name here*<br />
<br />
I can't imagine how it would be to request a raise like that in real life, the thought terrifies me! Hopefully I will never have to do so. Oh, and *insert name here* was because I do not feel obliged to present my own name, not just because I tend to be uncreative in that area! When me and Byron play life we have to get out his mom's baby book to figure out the children's names... We were a tad crazy about that game for a few weeks.Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-51668215102255878662011-12-10T22:19:00.001-06:002011-12-10T22:23:55.145-06:00Unjournalling, Day 8Today I had to write 10 ways to say no without using the word "no", one of them I had a bit of fun with, so I wrote 11.<br />
1: I'd rather not...<br />
2: Negative.<br />
3: Of course not!<br />
4: When pigs fly.<br />
5: You couldn't pay me to.<br />
6: As if!<br />
7: Absolutely not.<br />
8: When said by a parent- maybe<br />
9: That isn't happening.<br />
10: I refuse.<br />
11: Because 9 was joking, here's my extra- I would if I could, but I can't so I won't.<br />
<br />
Those were actually more difficult to come up with it than it seems. If you can think of anything else, let me know!Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-4438868115298005942011-12-10T00:19:00.001-06:002011-12-10T00:55:55.764-06:00Bummin'May the picture below of a wadded up hoodie chilling on my bed set the tone for this post. That's pretty much how it'll go, just bummin'.<br />
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Just have to say, tight writing kills my soul a little when I use it so much. Since it's midnight on a Saturday and I have nothing to do, I think I'll roll up my sleeves and have a little fun. Loosen the metaphorical corset that makes my writing sound like I have a stick up my bum and dress down my writing to a sweatshirt.<br />
<br />
What to say what to say... In class, my English teacher always tells us to "Cut all the fluff from your writing! Any extra words just sound like hiccups that trip the eye, it's distracting and not a good form of writing." She would be so ashamed of me! On the general road of quotes here, my mother has been getting onto me to post about my real life, and not just prompts or tight essays, humor is difficult for me though, being the perfect child I am! As if, of course, however, this is going nowhere...<br />
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Tonight my dad came over, every Friday we have a "date", you know. The general routine is dinner, movie or TV show, then he leaves. Recently, however, I have successfully coaxed him into playing wii games with me (those games are never fun by yourself). On this lovely and cold evening, I got the privilege of gently laughing at his epic failure at golf, tease him about tennis, and help him <em>not</em> to throw the ball into the crowd in bowling. We give each other a hard time, and that's usually the best part.<br />
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Out of all the games we played this evening, Dance on Broadway (or some similar name, I have no intention of getting up to find out, it's 50-something in this house) was the best. Of course, me being the<em> star</em> at heart that I am, went all out. My hands hit the ceiling fan in my sporadic jumping, I grinned like an idiot, and laughed with all my heart; that's the nice thing about family, you can be stupid and still be loved. Even better than the time I had, was watching my dad. Picture this: a six foot, heavier, tired, 40-something man with grey hair dancing around a dirty living room to the song Supercalifregilisticexpialidocious (a couple letters wrong, but my point is made). It was a sight fit for kings! No offense to my dad of course, after all, I was just as silly.<br />
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One would think that after that mild exercise, long week, and long day that I would be tired, but no. At least I have the benefit of reading my Bible <em>without</em> drooling on it for once (no, I've never actually drooled on my Bible, but I have come close). I have a few things to study that were given to me by my pastor as well, but that requires such heavy thought... My brain wishes to swoon at the very mention of effort! <br />
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There, now I have shown my true colors. The past week of posts, while genuine, were my academic self; not the self that wears cuddly shirts with a mug of tea. Honestly, I want with all my heart to teach, to have what I write respected, and to feel the glow of success. Don't we all? Darling English teacher, once again I quote thee "What makes the difference between good writing and great writing is depth. When you reach down into an experience and pull out the fundamental universal truths and show your humanity". This is my humanity I suppose, the realization that I am still a child at heart, but my hope for using its flamboyancy to pursue my dreams.Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-32347742595726580842011-12-09T16:09:00.001-06:002011-12-09T23:40:47.538-06:00Research EssayMost important of all my papers this semester was the 4-7 page research essay. Worth a whopping 120 points, this one concerned me. However, I believe it turned out well (as is attested to by my grade!) and that it is worth sharing here. <br />
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Slang Unites, Slang Divides<br />
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Recycled, Innovative, and Collaborative<br />
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The slang that is used in standard American English separates and unites social groups such as ages, economic classes, and races. Slang is often recycled from generation to generation, high collar individuals use different words than the homeless, and African American Vernacular English is clearly different from Chicano English. As a result, the average 16 year old will most likely understand other people in his or her age group better than they would, say, a 70 year old grandfather. The same concept can be applied in turn to each of the other concepts mentioned.<br />
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Slang is Creative<br />
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This raises the question of what slang actually is. Slang can be eloquently defined as, “…the start of fancy, imagination and humor, breathing into its nostrils the breath of life’” (Dalzel). In other words, slang invites new and creative ways of self expression into language, allows both embellishment and simplicity into all forms of communication, and gives new windows of possibility into satire and impels ecstasy in living. It is often created, quite simply, by reusing words from previous generations. Research asserts that very fact, as demonstrated by past research and documentation, “At North Carolina in 1851... to study hard at the last minute was to cram” (Eble) and, “The appropriation of ‘fly’ as a prime piece of the vocabulary of hip-hop and rap in the 1980s was no more than a salvage operation from the slang of jazz musicians of the 1930’s, which in turn drew from the 1870s” (Dalzel).<br />
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The definition of a dialect, as asserted by Eble is “any regional, social or ethnic variety of a language” (Sociolinguistics Basics). By that definition, slang could be called a dialect. In the south people put groceries in sacks rather than bags, the average student will not speak the same way as a professor, and of course there is the slang more commonly used in African American Vernacular discourse rather than in the dialect of the Boston area. Although, some forms of slang are pouring out into other areas of speech. For example, Eble also states that “White adolescents might speak approvingly of the style of a peer by saying she money or he be jammin’” (Sociolinguistics Basics). <br />
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Together, Descriptive!<br />
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Practically everybody, in one social circumstance or another, will use slang. People from every walk of life go through their day inadvertently saying words like ‘yo’, ‘sup?’ or even ‘fo shizzle!’. Slang is often enjoyable to use as well, can be illustrated as “by design, slang is wittier and more clever than standard English” (Dalzel). By it’s very nature, slang is fun! <br />
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Quite often slang is more effective at describing sex, sports, and alcohol/drug related experiences, as is also alluded to by Tom Dalzell. It also shows allegiance to a specific group, this can be demonstrated as how “When slang is used, there is a subject to the primary message” (Dalzel). In other words, only members of the assemblage will understand the slang that is being used. It creates a sense of commonality amongst the speakers and forges intimacy of speech. <br />
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Bias Towards Slang<br />
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With unmitigated frequency, those people who use informal English regularly can be unjustly classified or even prejudiced against. Code-switching (alternating between two languages) while they speak, or just their using rarer dialects, can also be contributing factor to the misunderstandings. This problem can be concisely summarized as “Often, children who speak non-standard dialects may be inaccurately classified as ‘not knowing much English’ or even ‘having a speech defect’” (Fought). <br />
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More dangerous than the changes brought by slang to communities and even America as a whole, is the bias against those who speak differently than the established norm. Often it is assumed that if speech is broken then the speakers mind must be as well. This is attested to by Amy Tan, who recalls how she herself believed that because her mother’s speech was “fractured” her mother’s thoughts were as well “…because she expressed them imperfectly her thoughts were imperfect” (Tan).<br />
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Together in Slang<br />
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Just as much as slang separates people, sparks debates, and angers those of older generations or different races, it also brings people together into a complete unit. Slang is not just conjunctions, linking vowels in new way, or dropping consonants. It is a dialect all of its own. As such, those who speak it have something in common, a way to belong. One creative way to view this bonding amongst people can be pronounced to be “Because ‘tribe’ identity is so important, slang as a powerful and graphic manifestation of that identity’s benefits” (Dalzel). There is safety in numbers, and expressing your belonging to a group is something both accidentally and intentionally done by everyone. <br />
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Needless to say, there are specific groups of people who use the same slang; it is not uniform all over America. “...youth is the most powerful stimulus for the creation and distribution of slang” (Dalzel). Naturally then, of course each generation will speak its own individual dialect. There are also varieties of language spoken within an ethnic group. For example, there are two predominant varieties of speech spoken by African Americans: the vernacular African-American English, as well as a standard African-American English.<br />
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In bilingual situations (such as might happen in a Hispanic community), there is even more room for creativity within language. Far more forms of slang are available to them. The bilingual can code-switch between two languages, making them not inadequate in either, but very fluent in both. Sometimes, however, in immigrant families a new dialect is created because of how tightly knit a community may become. Some families may be segregated from the outside world by language barriers, and thus have their own dialect of “standard” as well as slang. This can be demonstrated by Tan, who found that those communities became more “insular”.<br />
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Slang is Fun, Funky, and Functional<br />
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Overall, slang is beneficial for social groups. It allows us to feel unified with other people, enhances some descriptive modes of speech, and practices recycling! Everybody uses it, although not everybody understands it. This concept could not be demonstrated better than as “Of all the vernacular, slang is the most spectacular. Slang Swings. Slang moves and grooves. Slang rocks, slang rules.” (Dalzel).<br />
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Works Cited <br />
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Dalzell, Tom. “The Power of Slang.” www.pbs.com/speak. National Endowment for the Humanities, 2005. Web. 16 Nov. 2011.<br />
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Eble, Connie. “Campus Talk.” www.pbs.com/speak. National Endowment for the Humanities, 2005. Web. 16 Nov. 2011.<br />
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- - -. “Sociolinguistics Basics.” www.pbs.com/speak. National Endowment for the Humanities, 2005. Web. 16 Nov. 2011.<br />
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Fought, Carmen. “Watch Your Language.” www.pbs.com/speak. National Endowment for the Humanities, 2005. Web. 16 Nov. 2011.<br />
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Tan, Amy. “Mother Tongue.” Patterns for College Writing: A Rhetorical Reader and Guide. Comp. Pine Tree Composition, Inc. Ed. John Sullivan, Ryan Sullivan, and Karen S. Henry. 11th ed. Boston: Bedford/. Martin’s, 2010. 477-482. Print.<br />
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<br />I feel as though this was very repetative, but for an introduction piece to sociolinguistics it would be adiquate. <br />
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<br />Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-53511373493413825552011-12-09T11:44:00.001-06:002011-12-10T00:03:43.812-06:00Unjournalling, Day 7Describing the gunk at the bottom of a sink was nasty, telling the story of a cowboy was long, but this I think was by far the most difficult. The task was to write a paragraph (about anything I wanted, at least there was that kindness) using 20 words containing double vowels (needle, cool, room, etc). <br />
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At the center of the room sat a drooling poodle. The poodle had a horribly bad rap, which generally was well deserved. It peed on carpets, bit children, and stole food right off people's plates! Not even a beetle or flee would dare to land on it. A baby crawled into the cool room, and cooing all the while, made its way up to the devil poodle. Its mother ran in and snatched up the child, she was no fool to leave it be. She felt woozy, and set the baby down right outside the door. stepping out of its pool of drool, the poodle slowly walked up to the kid. Reaching out with soft hands, little babe wiped some of the drool off, and in surprised the evil poodle wagged its tail. It ceased its looming, stooped down, and licked the baby's face. When the mother came back, she nearly swooned! Even to this day, the child and poodle are the best of friends.<br />
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Wow... just wow is all I can say. It does sadden me so that "poodle" was the only noun I could think of to write about that contained a double vowel. However, cuteness has been attained. Or I think it has...Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-12679941891734471172011-12-08T15:20:00.001-06:002011-12-10T00:03:43.797-06:00Unjournalling, Day 6Today I had to write a story about a big bad guy walking into a bar in the old west, only give it a happy ending. I had thought about trying to make it only a paragraph, but that wasn't exactly possible. At least not for me!<br />
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The Saloon doors slammed open, The Cowboy entered. Rumors held that he once killed a man just for givin' him the wrong kind of beer. The Cowboy rode his big bay stallion across the west, and never stayed in one place very long. No sheriff would arrest him, no posse hunt him down; any feller with any sense stays clear of this one-shot-dropper. Nobody even knew the man's name. He was just "The Cowboy", and ever'one understood. <br />
I started to hyperventilate, The Cowboy sat down next to me! Beside me, a skinny 16 year old boy who wasn't even good with a gun, he seemed like a giant. However, one thing struck me as odd: when I let our eyes meet just for a minute, they looked just like mine. I thought I was looking into a mirror! Groaning under The Cowboy's massive frame, the bar stool he sat on sounded like a shrieking Indian as he turned to face me. My heart lept in my throat, I could already visualize him reachin' for a gun, maybe a knife, killin' me dead right there in my Ma's bar... <br />
When my Ma was fresh married a year, just had me, we was both carried off by the Indians. She used to tell me how when I was a youngun that the Indians would dress me up in their garb and let me play with the wooden tom-a-hawks. <br />
'Course, I don't 'member none o' this, but it's a funny tale anyway. Anyway, one day a band o' men came on horseback and freed all us white folks the Indians was keepin'. Ma figured Pa was dead, and hadn't seen him in years anyway, so she married one o' her rescuers. Jack was his name, he was a good man, but he died last year o' the brain fever. All that was left was the Saloon that Ma runs now.<br />
Staring right into my soul, that's what it felt like when The Cowboy looked me in the eye. In a hoarse voice that was somehow gentle too, he asked "Lad, where's yer ma?". I was scared he wanted her for unholy reasons, so I dropped my gaze to the floor and lied "Don't know". Firmly, he grabbed my shoulder and told me "Boy, when I was yer age I lied the same way, you can't fool me. Now, where is yer ma?". All I could do was pray that Ma wouldn't come out from the kitchen and the The Cowboy would just leave and seek another lady. Just as those thoughts was going through my head, Ma, in her black dress o' mourning, stepped out with a fresh pie in her hands.<br />
For a moment when their eyes met, time seemed to stand still. The black magic holding them still halted when Ma dropped her pie and the dish shattered on the floor. In response it seemed, The Cowboy lunged toward my Ma. Out o' fear for her wellbein' I tried to stop him, but it was too late. The Cowboy scooped my Ma up in his arms, and to my surprise, Ma started laughin' and kissin' the man! I hadn't heard he laugh since Jack died, and she <em>never</em> kissed him in such a vulgar way. <br />
Shocked, the whole bar had fallen silent. Eventually, Ma unwrapped herself from The Cowboy's arms and walked up to me. Softly, like only a mother can do, she hugged me and whispered "Meet Tom, yer Pa". I was dumbfounded!<br />
Ma closed the Saloon early, and "Tom", The Cowboy, started to tell us about his ventures in search of us. He had traveled all across the west, interrogatin' Indians, talkin' to sheriffs, and killin' anyone who got in the way of findin' his wife and son. Not all that shocking, all the killin' had scarred him, changed him. Now, though, all Tom wanted was to be with family, learn to love, work, and fear God again.<br />
At first, I hated Tom. Now, five years have passed and I have my own wife. These days Tom and I git on good, Ma's never been happier, and the Saloon hasn't ever done so well, My wife is even expecting, and I'll git to try my own hand at bein' a father by the end of the month.<br />
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Not exactly short, or well written, but this was a ton of fun. Maybe I'll try short stories more often now!Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-2424892718281637512011-12-07T23:31:00.001-06:002011-12-09T23:40:47.535-06:00Multimedia MemoirFor my finall essay in Comp 1, my teacher gave my class a really easy assignment. It was to write a 2-4 page pager about a strong memory, write it like we talk, and to use a picture, song, poetry etc to enhance it. Overall it's a really easy assignment, but I chose the death of my dog Oreo. I cried while I wrote it, but I think it turned out pretty well. <br />
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Realizations<br />
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Rainy Day<br />
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His eyes were open while he lay on the cold metal table. They moved slowly, dragging as he watched me with nothing but trust. It was all I could do to stay calm, to whisper softly over and over that everything was all right, nothing bad would happen now. The worst had come, and he had been such a brave and good boy. To many times, in order to make up for it lacking in the past, I choked out how much I loved him. Apologies poured out of my mouth like the heavy rain coming down outside. It was a lonely day to die, even if it was in someone else’s arms.<br />
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Prior<br />
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Just a week before Oreo, my dog, got sick, he was a bouncing puppy. Oreo was about one and a half, a black and white cookie pooch. By nature he was a herding dog, and was used to country life. Energy and playfulness and love made his every action glow with vitality. When Oreo would run, it was the gait of a gangly teenager, not yet used to the proportions of their own body. It was sheer joy to watch him play with other dogs, to play tug-o-war, or fetch. Watching him move, it would be easy to imagine him as human. Oreo would be the clueless type, the comedic guy, the one who everybody cared about and considered a friend. While he only lived with me for about two months, it would have been impossible for me to not fall in love.<br />
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Decline<br />
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Oreo was gone long before his time, immune diseases can do that. For some reason that even our vet couldn’t identify, his doggie sickness struck hard and fast. In a mere three days he went from a bouncing, bubbly, belligerent dog, to… well, gone. On the first day, he had difficulty walking, didn’t want to eat, and jumping got harder for him. By the second day Oreo wouldn’t jump at all, barely moved, and every breath sounded like agony. On the third day, he fainted from the effort of vomiting and couldn’t even make it to the back door to relieve himself... Later that morning, I took him to the vet. <br />
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Prefix<br />
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I waited with Oreo in the tiny vet’s examining room for a few hours; I had hoped to stay while they ran all the tests. Everybody had been kind and understanding to us both, I’m glad we took him there. Eventually I had to go though, and was forced to trust that Oreo would be treated well while I was gone. Just before 1 o’clock I got a call, and his euthanasia was scheduled for an hour later.<br />
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After my last class that day, I walked into that little examining room for the last time. The vet gave me a few minutes alone with Oreo, and in that time he gave a final burst of energy. He picked up his blocky little head, perked his ears, and even wagged his tail at me. I cried and cried, but eventually realized that even if my pup couldn’t see what was coming, he would see my pain. Oreo deserved better than to die worried, which he would have done if I kept sobbing into his soft and shiny fur.<br />
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When five or ten minutes had gone by, the vet poked her head in and asked if I was ready. I told her I was alright, and they should do it. Gently, the vet and her kind assistant lifted Oreo onto a cold metal table. They let me stay with him, and so while the vet searched for a good vein I stroked his floppy ears and held a paw gently in my hand. He wasn’t curious for long about what was happening with the vein search, and instead just basked in the love for a while.<br />
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Death<br />
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I couldn’t stand to watch the blue liquid being shoved into his bloodstream, or tolerate having him watch either. My hand rested next to Oreo’s eye, blocking his view, and slowly his head dropped to the table. When the vet calmly announced “He’s gone,” I didn’t believe her, and when she left the room I listened for his heartbeat. There was nothing, it was like holding a soft log. I tried to close his eyes, but his eyelids just came back up. It seemed so undignified to me… Somehow, he was dead, unmoving, gone, and so hard to understand.<br />
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Aftermath<br />
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That night as I sat in my living room, tuning out the T.V., I thought about it all. Holding something so young and beautiful, watching it fade to nothing, it all made me question God. The innocent shouldn’t have to suffer, the child shouldn’t die, flowers shouldn’t wilt, why must it be part of life? I realized how sheltered I had been, and didn’t understand how other people could cope with how messed up this world is.<br />
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Eventually, a week or two later, I came to peace with Oreo’s death. I still don’t have many answers to my questions, but losing him made me value what I have. Suddenly, my other dog Gigi, my family, my friends, even the ridiculous amount of crazy socks in my drawer became more important and easier to appreciate. Sometimes realizations can be harsh, but it made me see that we as humans don’t truly “possess” anything, because everything can be gone in a flash. <br />
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Even if it isn't the best bit of writing ever, it means a lot to me.Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-78770944650817392162011-12-07T12:00:00.001-06:002011-12-10T00:03:43.820-06:00Unjournalling, Day 5Today my assignment was really... revolting. To be honest, I didn't have much of an idea of how to do it, and I'm not exactly pleased with the result. In following in good faith, but do not expect much from me.<br />
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I must describe the gunk at the bottom of a sink without using the words "disgusting" or "gross", not in of itself that difficult, but non-the-less unpleasant.<br />
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At the bottom of the cleanest sink, at some point has been caught a stringy mass of dead hair, skin, and soap. Every hair seems to congeal to the others, almost in a jelly-like fashion. The chunks of soap and miscellaneous detritus of the average sink give variety to the texture. While nausea often attacks the who attempts to remove it, some have the stomach to taught the damp, moldy, and furry mass. It frequently smells.Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7304558703674813806.post-13772382162008986912011-12-06T17:55:00.001-06:002011-12-10T00:03:43.802-06:00Unjournalling, Day 4Today I shall <span style="background-color: white;">attempt</span> to write a paragraph about a cat attacking something, only I will not use the words "hiss", "scratch", or "pounce".<br />
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Slinking its way across the floor, a young cat eyes its newly found prey. A few feet in front of the cat's delicate paws, a string twitches, agitated. The cat leaps! Its wild eyes dart around the room, following the string. Digging its needle-like claws into the clean, white carpet, the young cat chases the string. Suddenly, the string vanishes! Now there is nothing but a large hand stroking the cat's silken fur, and a lingering echo of laughter.Mhonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15838307321791650708noreply@blogger.com0