Currently Listening Hang on Little Tomato By Pink Martini see related

The follwing is another essay for english III AP, Read and enjoy (or hate see what I care)

Don’t Ever Wake Up

            Like a wilting dreary summer flower, struggling to exist in spite of its prime season’s departure from earth, dreaming has folded, crushed, under the current mechanistic outcome obsessed society.  With this volatile need, desire, to reach this continuously moving target of success, mankind has turned from question, turned from excelling in thinking.  Dreaming is not dead.  Dead would imply its departure from society, its life force depleted, no, dreaming is still alive.  Dreamers are still out there, out, wandering through a world that has forgotten their craft.  With the mass populous conforming to a nihilistic view on life, dreaming will soon be extinct and the world will be less whimsical, less human, less beautiful. 

            What exactly is a dreamer?  How often this question appears would surprise even the most informed ladies and gentlemen in the world.  Due to societies unfortunate loss of creativity and imagination, the dreamer has become the equivalent of ancient forms of English, lost but a faint whisper is imbedded into the social subconscious of the current state.  To be a dreamer requires you to realize your infinite nature and ability in your waking state.  The ability to understand that you are capable of any thing, any nature, any project is a repulsive thought in today’s current social state.  What! You think you’re capable of anything! That’s ludicrous!  Those reactions, they are what a dreamer is.  Don’t fret if you’re combated with response like those, a great dreamer once said “True genius is never understood in his time”, those who mock you are simply bi-products from the era, lacking any forms of philosophical thought patterns or

concepts.  A dreamer is constantly arriving when he or she is departing; a dreamer is a raging apathetic. A dreamer. 

            To be a dreamer, one must be able to dream.  Yes, dreams.  Everyone in this vast world in which we physically reside in, knows what a dream is.  The meager minimalist definition can be seen in Merriam-Webster Dictionary; “a series of thoughts, images, or emotions during sleep.” Though correct, this stripped down definition lacks the heart and soul, the essence of the word.  Dreaming occurs in your wake state as well as your slumber.  Though society has taught us that daydreaming and pondering is aloof and wastefully, its society that is currently aloof. Lost.  Through these daydreams, or wake dreams as I prefer to call them, one can explore the infinite abyss in which their souls lay.  Jump aboard, be the captain, the explorer, the navigator into the wilderness of your untamed mind.  Dreams are continuously drifting though the hollows of your mind as you read this paper, bouncing off the gray walls, inserting images and concepts, inspiring you, leading you.  How can this inspiration be wrong?  Not wrong. Wrong. Society.  Dreams.

            How can we be forgotten?  Forgotten.  Lost. Gone. Outcasted. Forgotten.

Currently Listening Guero By Beck Girl see related

I saw her, yeah I saw her with her black tongue tied
Round the roses
Fist pounding on a vending machine
Toy diamond ring stuck on her finger
With a noose she can hang from the sun
And put it out with her dark sunglasses
Walking crooked down the beach
She spits on the sand where their bones are bleaching
And I know I'm gonna steal her eye
She doesn't even know what's wrong
And I know I'm gonna make her die
Take her where her soul belongs
And I know I'm gonna steal her eye
Nothing that I wouldn't try

Hey, My sun-eyed girl
Hey, My sun-eyed girl

I saw her, yeah I saw her with her hands tied back
And her rags were burning
Crawling out from a landfilled life
Scrawlin her name upon the ceiling
Throw a coin in a fountain of dust
White noise, her ears are ringing
Got a ticket for a midnight hanging
Throw a bullet from a freight train leaving
And I know I'm gonna steal her eye
She doesn't even know what's wrong
And I know I'm gonna make her die
Take her where her soul belongs
And I know I'm gonna steal her eye
Nothing that I would not try

Hey, My sun-eyed girl
- Beck "girl"

Breaks up the monotony of my writing

Currently Watching Waking Life By Richard Linklater, David Sosa, Soderbergh, Wiley Wiggins see related

Correct This!

An injustice occurs every day in the English classrooms inhabited by the youth of America, a travesty commonly referred to as “forced peer editing groups”, or as one frightened individual exclaimed, “a nightmare!”  While on paper, this ritual sounds practical, as it saves the teacher from an infinite amount of little grammatical corrections and gives the students an ample opportunity to practice their hidden talents as editors. It also allows them to socialize among each other; however in application, peer editing leads to nothing but resentment and utter chaos.  Although editing is necessary to the writing process, forced peer editing groups must be halted because of their impersonal nature and usual outcome of writer apathy towards his project. 

This concealed discrimination begins innocently enough with a division of the class.  Of course, the class, the body, must become separated so this hate inspiring process can slowly push its noxious venom into the class’s bloodlines.  Once disjoined, the students are shoved forcefully into groups of four.  Yes, count them, four students who maybe total strangers to one another.  Instead of becoming socially accustomed to each other, they are obligated to pass around their literature, which they have formed out of their own creative womb by slaving for hours over the florescent glow of a computer monitor to complete the product in their image.  Up to this exacted fabric in time, the event is utterly pointless and nothing short of ludicrous; the true demon of this process is about to wake from its dormant state and reek mayhem and utter pain upon all those who partake in this event.    

Following the juxtaposing of the unfamiliar students, they are required to materialize a crimson marker or writing utensil, with the devious task “correct” or more properly scorn another’s literary composition.  Of course, their task is not merely to edit for simple errors, such as incorrect uses of commas or apostrophes, but also to critique the paper, to examine it, to ridicule it.  To aide their hostile task of  “correcting” is a teacher issued worksheet, which gives examples of how to breed all kinds of malevolence all over the page.  With such asinine and inane tasks such as “underline all verbs in paragraph two” or “please suggest a new title for the paper”, it’s evident that the teacher is just buying time to catch up on some other parallel work or activity.   This mindless drudgery repeats its self, like a child with his or her mind set on a particular task, as all four members must take shots at the papers broken state.  After this grueling task is complete, the composition returns to its creator, now emotional hardened by the harsh judgment of his or her “peers”.  With the paper, now bleeding uncontrollably with luminous scarlet ink, the students are forced to return to their origins, their assigned seats, leaving only a strong distaste for their unknown classmates as well as literature as a whole. Because of this hatred that brews within, the writer is likely not to fix his or her errors and instead simply try to repress this horrible event from their memories. 

This process needs to be discontinued, or at very least modified from its current spontaneous state.  If the students were allowed to elect their groups, comprising them of friends and close colleagues and then simply correct grammatical errors or spelling mishaps, this situation would be cleared and the strong feelings of hatred and distain that run through every second one spends doing this jejune activity would cease to exist.       

Currently Reading The Pleasure of My Company: A Novel By Steve Martin see related

For every good deed done, their must be a bad deed done as well, to balance out the world's concious and synergy.  Whether it be a simple "hello" to a lonely wallflower or rising the spirts of a down trotted friend, someone must die or become hurt to balance out the galaxy.  

Currently Reading Running with Scissors: A Memoir By Augusten Burroughs see related

We are not who we are because of our abilities or skills, but we are who we are by the people and the situations we endure....

Still working on the degree....