Ooh! Ooh!, Pick Me!

Q: Why do you think Jim all-of-a-sudden decides he wants to ride on the carousel again?

December Freewrite

You gaze out your window in a pensive serenity while letting an ivory smile escape the long closed cavern of your mouth as you thought of the almost bashful behavior of the winter. Seeing past the frosty portal to catch a glimpse of the outer realm of suspended crystal dancing about on airy footholds proved to be futile from the frosty curtain the winter coyly put forth all around your window frame, and makes you smile all the more. With pen and paper you sit down and idly write of your lowly passing thoughts.

Wonders and delights,

Taking flight,

Like the stealth of death,

Silent as if a feathery outtake of breath through a sharp tongue

And like death,

With its armies of millions,

Reticent power annihilating everything it touches,

The greed of the year that salted the earth,

The tantalizing temptation of summer sin,

With such ascendancy of all innocence it possesses,

With conviction,

And with assuming and ignorant power,

The mother of the earth washes it way with purity,

Error and beauty frozen shocked and dumbed,

To destroy the sin of the year,

So come spring,

The world will open new eyes to a waking world.

Please note, I only wrote this in five minutes, so it is far from being even remotely good.

Ooo! Ooh!, Pick Me!

Q: Why do you think the Bible does not bother Mr. Dark if he is suppose to be the representation of pure evil?

Ooh! Ooh! Pick Me!

Q: Between Jim and Will, who do you think is the most ignorant and naive and why?

November Freewrite

The world is a cruel thing isn’t it? Or rather, mankind seems to be particularly brutal and savage especially on one specific thing: interpretations. As I have come to understand, ones work could either be open for interpretations or someone could so viciously tell one in a smug tone that the piece can only mean one thing and therefore can only be interpreted as this one single thing. The poem I wrote below these rambling words (that let’s face it, even I don’t even quite know where this is all coming from), unintentionally has three meanings behind it, but it may also be open for  analyzing.

Looking up at my ceiling,

I see my stars,

My stars,

For when travesty strikes,

And wealth runs dry  

I know my stars light reaches me and warms me up on crisp autum nights,

In the truest sense,

Filling me up,

In my whole,

Not a fraction left unshining,

Though by physical means,

I am left to be quite ordinary.

But my darling take a walk with me and don't see me through logics eye,

Look through mine,

Windows to a beacon of the purest form of life and light,

A glimpse into the suns. 

Remember my dear,

The light in which you can see in,

Is only lighted by a single sun, a single beacon,

And what appears to be dark,

without a safehouse for miles around...

Just look around,

For modesty,

For equality.

Look for my stars,

And let them show you,

Just how awe-inspiring,

Just how breathtaking,

Just how beautiful you really are.

Ah, I know, this isn't my best work at all and the figurative language is pretty weak if you ask me....

Mini Piano. :D

Third Times the Charm

Third Person Omniscient

Fredrick the valiant tortoise swing from precarious vine to precarious vine in the Jungle of Goo where one of every creature dwells, almost always in perfect harmony with one another. He enjoyed the feeling of the humid winds dampening his sun-dried and wrinkly skin making it look as though there were a soft drizzle flooding the flesh colored valleys, the sights that he saw as he passed each bungalow dwellings from above and the tree houses he was perfectly level with, but most of all he enjoyed the simple freedoms one was entitled to when they reside in the Jungle of Goo and how he fought off all libertine fiends and villains of the jungle to protect the every single soul of every single creature in Goo. He affectionately thought of himself as a ‘shelled vigilante’, made all the more appropriate by the intricate designs on his large disk-like shell. It appeared as if there was a scowling man, with eye penetrating deep into your soul whenever he had his back turned to your more than likely-quivering being.

However, today was not a day for the tortoise to enjoy swinging with acrobatic mastery from each jungle vine. He was on a mission. He had recently obtained information that the evil mastermind Harold had rebuilt his dastardly domain after Fredrick had thwarted his last plans of wrongdoings to the Jungle. Now he was back, newly equipped the latest Banana Gun model and a new arsenal of a spider monkey military at his disposal.

Fredrick could sense how close he was to the suspended metal lair in the ominous shape of an enlarged ape skull, as well as the feeling that he was being watched from afar. Harold laughed maliciously to himself as he patted his speckled-coco-colored belly. ‘You’re mine now, Fredrick m'boy!’ He murmured with a chilling giggle as he stroked his synthetic handlebar mustache.

Third Person Limited Omniscient

Harold could see from his suspended ape-skulled lair his shelled-arch nemesis fast approaching. As his form came steadily closer as he swung from vine to vine Harold laughed maliciously to himself as he patted his coco colored belly. ‘You’re mine now, Fredrick m'boy!’ He murmured with a chilling giggle as he stroked his magnificent mustache.

Third Person Dramatic

There was once a tortoise named Fredrick with a physique of surprising splendor swinging from the rickety vines of the Jungle of Goo. Upon his face was a peculiar look of utter determination, and if one were to look from space with the power of 'super sight' one would see Fredrick make his way towards an onminous looking metal ape-skull the size of a skyscraper. Within this desloate looking building a hippo laughed cruelly and stroked his belly saying 'You're mind now, Fredrick m'boy!'

          Ever the dignified fan, you sit stiff and posed with your legs wound tightly crossed like vines in front of you all the while staring at the screen looking as though you were sculpted not of marble, but of diamond with your impassive glossy stare. A true sight to see, considering that your insides were on a field day, or a possible mass crime spree with all protection possible to the heart, before it bursts with joy out of its restricting cage. For months you have waited, for months you fantasized about the coming wonders that were about to be brought before you on the big screen, for months you read and reread the books. You gape, open-mouthed at the screen in what can only be described as pure disbelief and disgust. They left out so many great parts crucial to character development! Not only that, but they left out your favorite character. You have been dignified for far too long, you let out a gorilla cry of frustration when you leave the theater. I speak from personal experience when I say that books are ALWAYS better than the poor portrayal of mostly great and exciting literature that is ‘big screen movies.’ Literature is always more beautiful, books leave you to use your imagination, and the story has all of the parts and characters in it without a cheesy add on or any outrageous chapter cuts.

         Romeo and Juliet. I feel like that one simple sentence fragment should be enough said. Just the name opens up your mind to a wide array of subjects that make a heart susceptible, selfless love, forbidden romances, and a tragic ending Shakespeare ends with the haunting line ‘For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo’ I always found their story of two teenagers only knowing each other for a handful of weeks to prove me right in many arguments I pose, but the big one is this: Romance is not a strong foundation for marriage. You cannot create a life with someone who you are constantly uncontrollably smitten with, you cannot be serious or taken seriously for the exact same reason, and you cannot have the cheap tricks of candle light and roses being the main reason why you’re with someone.

(I must say, I held back on A LOT on the last paragraph)

 (Yes Sinatra was a musician Miss Transue, I mention him because afterwards my grandfather ranted about how the music intustry is filled with no-talent harpies who can't even get drunk in the right way like Sinatra. c[:)

‘…And even from the grave, for hundreds of years he’s been inspiring the greats and you could be great too my dear.’ I remember this always as the last line of my grandfathers rant of the truly inspiring literature of Shakespeare giving life to some of the other greatest works in writing (following this rant he taught me a thing or two about music mainly of his love of Frank Sinatra.). It was this that made me feel the deep need to read Mr. Shakespeare’s works…and to ultimately study them. After all, I had to find out how to stand the test of time and funny enough, once I started reading his works....for a few weeks after my mind would start to think in odd manners. I would literally be thinking in Shakepearean with the worlds 'thy' and 'thou' commonly springing into my head and would have to catch myself to I didn't say it to often infront of people. This poem right below this paragraph is a product of this, with some modifications to fit school standards. I wrote it when I was in seventh grade, on the phone with one of my best friends directly after I read A Midsummer's Night Dream by William Shakespeare for the first time and watched the movie (The Christian Bale version of course. (=)  

Perilous cries,

Oh-lonley nights,

The fruitless moon recives many plights

From thy stars

Shooting across your darkened canvas

But what is night?

But a grieving companion by jealous day?

Who is wracked with many troubles,

Of the moons pale beauty,

Of it's many compainions.

Though of hate,

Love lies behind the brightest.

For when they fall at night,

It is not just of thy spiteful hate,

But of love so great, 

One can only fall to the ground and wait,

That thy lover may catch and soften the blow.

But one cannot wait for the moon in the sky.

It itself is waiting for day to come to relieve it of thy sighs.

Unknowing it brought it's lover into a most fatal abyss.

             I cannot say how many times that I’ve stretched out happily with my headphones over my ears only to have a friend walk by, pluck them from my head along with my ease, and listen to the magic pour out of the speakers for a few brief seconds before giving me one of those classic ‘only you Keeley….’ looks. At first I was slightly offended that so many could dismiss the great works of Antonio Vivaldi, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Johann Sebastian Bach, and so many more composers as being as drab as the original music sheets that their scores were written on are dusty. Then I got used to it, but was still a little miffed in a most peciliar way.

       I simply still cannot understand why classical music is carelessly tossed aside and only having it be regularly played on my iPod and on NPR. I make no poorly disguised secret of my loathing of the modern age wave of auto-tuned, no-talent, wannabe-sixties-rockers. I blatantly voice my distaste. However, I was never quite as open with my defending of the classics before (In fact, the majority of my defensive style was glaring like a child who was just denied a quarter for a gumball at he who insulted my music.). I just don’t see why nobody can see the perfection of it. The true blood, sweat, and tears that were poured all over the music sheets, only to have them crumpled up like a grown man forced to his knees in shame for a heinous act of unspeakable evil and rewritten until it is considered pure genius.

       What boggles my mind even further is how teenagers feel nothing when they hear the orchestrated works. A few years ago, when the only Beethoven I heard was from the bathroom door whenever my father took a shower, I was a fan of the worst types of pop music. I remember whenever I was in a bad mood or ‘falling’ for someone hard (or at least a younger Keeley believed she was falling hard) I would listen to music. Instead of stretches of the imagination, I had to do huge leaps and bounds in order to make the lyrics ‘fit’ the exact mood I was currently in. For classical music I never had to do such things. With the rises and falls of the tempos, occasional angry violin segments, and sudden hopeful upturns to the music, almost always ending with a bang, it is the unsaid that matches my mood perfectly, and I filled in my own lyrics. Then when I was in one of those truly awful uproars, the kind where even you cannot quite place the reasoning behind your pent-up rage, I sit down and blast the angriest violin score I can find. Eventually I kick the fury down a few notches, gradually making my progression back to the hopeful upturns to match the chaos of life. I mean, how can you feel nothing towards that?