*So, for my gift for my loving mater, I decided to write her a poem, for lack of money to buy her a real gift with ;) Anyway, this is it. If any of you are lacking gifts for your mamasitas, feel free to use my poem :)*
The one to clean, to cook, to scrub is my Mother.
Who else will do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me to shine.
The one to read aloud, to sing songs, to talk with is my Mother.
Who else will do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me be kind.
The one to teach me, to feed me, to guide me is my Mother.
Who else will do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me to shine.
The one to give me life, to make me who I am is my Mother.
Who else could do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me be kind.
There can never be another
To take the place of my Mother.
I love her, and will love her forever,
The only thing a Mother asks from her Daughter.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Excerpt from Giselle: A Ballet Re-told
*When I was little, my mom bought me a book of classic ballets. I was just re-reading it lately, and decided that the ballet "Giselle" would make a really interesting story. So here's the prologue for my retelling of this story. BTW, you don't have to be familiar with the ballet to understand the story, it will all be explained soon enough in the book :)*
Prologue
Cold, wispy tendrils of fog wrap around my ankles as I walk lifelessly through the graveyard. I stare at my white, frozen hands and mourn the warmth they once possessed. Haunting peals of sad laughter echo all around me, and I feel a strong, feminine arm wrap around my shoulders.
"Giselle, my dear, wait over there for me to introduce you to the other wylies," instructs Queen Myrtha, ruler of the wylies. I want to run away from her, from all the wylies, from my gloomy fate. But I cannot. I am destined to live as a broken-hearted ghost forever. I look at the Queen once, then slowly turn and walk to the brink of the lake at the edge of the forest where the Queen had pointed. As I silently wait to be introduced, I listen to the Queen and the wylies speak.
"My dears, my dears, let us all settle down," begins Queen Myrtha. Silence ensues. "Let us remember who we are and why we are here. Who broke our hearts and caused us to die?" she questions.
"Faithless men!" the wylies respond enthusiastically, tears in their eyes. I feel tears in my own eyes as I think of Albrecht.
"And what happens to those despicable men who dare trespass upon our land?"
"We kill them!" the wylies shrill, tears dissipating and eyes flashing with anger instead. All my life, before I died that is, stories have been told in a warning manner, telling of the heartbroken women who haunt the woods at night from sunset to sunrise. Any man foolish enough to cross paths with a wylie was never seen of or heard of again. I had never believed in the wylies, those ghostly women who had been victims of faithless men. And now I am one of them.
"Good, good! I am glad to see that you have not forgotten your purpose. Now, I would like to introduce our newest member, Giselle," says the Queen. Right on cue, I step forth from the mist that had previously enshrouded me, and stare at the countless number of wylies before me. They are all clothed in white, their skin cold and pale, their eyes lifeless and sad, their faces pained and angry. I wonder if I look the same way.
"Tell us a little about yourself, dear," the Queen prods. I know what she wants. She wants me to be spiteful and and furious, to shout in agony my story, to bitterly swear that I hate all men and will wreck my vengeance on them all. But that is not how I feel. I may be broken-hearted, but I am not bitter.
So instead, I say softly, "I loved to dance." The Queen's eyebrows raise.
"Ah, is that so? Well, then, fortunately for you the wylies dance often," she tells me. I nod.
"I was quite good at it, too. But Mother didn't like it because my heart is-...was too weak. That's how I died," I explain, my eyes growing moist as I think of my mother and my last moments alive. The Queen smiles, sensing a good heart-break story for her to grow even more bitter upon.
"Why don't you just tell us the whole story, dear." I sigh. I know I'll have to do it sooner or later anyway. I have all eternity. But part of me wants to share my misery, my sadness, my heartbreak...the wylie part.
"It all started when I was dancing in the meadow, the one on the other side of this lake," I begin. This is my story.
Prologue
Cold, wispy tendrils of fog wrap around my ankles as I walk lifelessly through the graveyard. I stare at my white, frozen hands and mourn the warmth they once possessed. Haunting peals of sad laughter echo all around me, and I feel a strong, feminine arm wrap around my shoulders.
"Giselle, my dear, wait over there for me to introduce you to the other wylies," instructs Queen Myrtha, ruler of the wylies. I want to run away from her, from all the wylies, from my gloomy fate. But I cannot. I am destined to live as a broken-hearted ghost forever. I look at the Queen once, then slowly turn and walk to the brink of the lake at the edge of the forest where the Queen had pointed. As I silently wait to be introduced, I listen to the Queen and the wylies speak.
"My dears, my dears, let us all settle down," begins Queen Myrtha. Silence ensues. "Let us remember who we are and why we are here. Who broke our hearts and caused us to die?" she questions.
"Faithless men!" the wylies respond enthusiastically, tears in their eyes. I feel tears in my own eyes as I think of Albrecht.
"And what happens to those despicable men who dare trespass upon our land?"
"We kill them!" the wylies shrill, tears dissipating and eyes flashing with anger instead. All my life, before I died that is, stories have been told in a warning manner, telling of the heartbroken women who haunt the woods at night from sunset to sunrise. Any man foolish enough to cross paths with a wylie was never seen of or heard of again. I had never believed in the wylies, those ghostly women who had been victims of faithless men. And now I am one of them.
"Good, good! I am glad to see that you have not forgotten your purpose. Now, I would like to introduce our newest member, Giselle," says the Queen. Right on cue, I step forth from the mist that had previously enshrouded me, and stare at the countless number of wylies before me. They are all clothed in white, their skin cold and pale, their eyes lifeless and sad, their faces pained and angry. I wonder if I look the same way.
"Tell us a little about yourself, dear," the Queen prods. I know what she wants. She wants me to be spiteful and and furious, to shout in agony my story, to bitterly swear that I hate all men and will wreck my vengeance on them all. But that is not how I feel. I may be broken-hearted, but I am not bitter.
So instead, I say softly, "I loved to dance." The Queen's eyebrows raise.
"Ah, is that so? Well, then, fortunately for you the wylies dance often," she tells me. I nod.
"I was quite good at it, too. But Mother didn't like it because my heart is-...was too weak. That's how I died," I explain, my eyes growing moist as I think of my mother and my last moments alive. The Queen smiles, sensing a good heart-break story for her to grow even more bitter upon.
"Why don't you just tell us the whole story, dear." I sigh. I know I'll have to do it sooner or later anyway. I have all eternity. But part of me wants to share my misery, my sadness, my heartbreak...the wylie part.
"It all started when I was dancing in the meadow, the one on the other side of this lake," I begin. This is my story.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Questions
Does a name define a person, or does a person define a name?
Do we really know as much as we think we know, or do we only know what we think?
Do we see what we want, or do we only want what we see?
Are we what we seem to be, or do we seem to be what we are?
Is hope really imagination, or is imagination really hope?
What is better to have: love of knowledge or knowledge of love?
Do we really know ourselves as well as we assume, or do we assume to know ourselves as well as we know everybody else?
Do we want what we need, or do we need what we want?
Are there ever any answers to questions such as these? Or do we remain ignorant until death and perhaps even beyond? Will we ever know the answer at all?
Do we really know as much as we think we know, or do we only know what we think?
Do we see what we want, or do we only want what we see?
Are we what we seem to be, or do we seem to be what we are?
Is hope really imagination, or is imagination really hope?
What is better to have: love of knowledge or knowledge of love?
Do we really know ourselves as well as we assume, or do we assume to know ourselves as well as we know everybody else?
Do we want what we need, or do we need what we want?
Are there ever any answers to questions such as these? Or do we remain ignorant until death and perhaps even beyond? Will we ever know the answer at all?
Monday, March 15, 2010
Ode to Andrew
Tears have streamed down the face of many a person since you've left this world. I don't think anybody realized that when we said good-bye, it would be our last good-bye to you. Is there anyway for you to know how greatly you're missed? Anyway for you to know how many people's lives you've touched? I really hope you do. I really hope you know how much everyone loved you, how much everyone still loves you, how much everyone will always love you.
You made mistakes. We all make mistakes some time or other. I just wish the price hadn't been so great. I never knew you that well. I only remember that you were always kind. When all the cousins were gathered together, you made sure I wasn't forgotten. When I complained of boys who pulled on my pigtails, you taught me how to punch. Perhaps not the greatest solution to the problem, but it was much appreciated. And it was never forgotten. It wasn't that I could now defend myself because you taught me how to punch someone correctly, but that you had taken the time to even teach me at all. You cared. You cared about everyone. And people remembered that you cared. At your wake, the line of people to say their last good-byes to you continued out the door. And people didn't stop coming until the very end. You cared, and people cared in return. And so your legacy will live on. People will always remember you. Remember your passion for art and music. Remember the small acts of kindness you did. Just know, Andrew, that you will always be remembered with love by all who knew you. I will always remember you.
You made mistakes. We all make mistakes some time or other. I just wish the price hadn't been so great. I never knew you that well. I only remember that you were always kind. When all the cousins were gathered together, you made sure I wasn't forgotten. When I complained of boys who pulled on my pigtails, you taught me how to punch. Perhaps not the greatest solution to the problem, but it was much appreciated. And it was never forgotten. It wasn't that I could now defend myself because you taught me how to punch someone correctly, but that you had taken the time to even teach me at all. You cared. You cared about everyone. And people remembered that you cared. At your wake, the line of people to say their last good-byes to you continued out the door. And people didn't stop coming until the very end. You cared, and people cared in return. And so your legacy will live on. People will always remember you. Remember your passion for art and music. Remember the small acts of kindness you did. Just know, Andrew, that you will always be remembered with love by all who knew you. I will always remember you.
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Battle of Thermopylae
*For my history course this year (not the AP one), I had to write an essay about a Greek battle. I chose the Battle of Thermopylae, and this is the outcome :) Hope you like it!*
The Battle of Thermopylae
Pain. It is the only feeling I am aware of. My breath does not come easily, but rather in short spurts. I beg the gods to help me. I have been trained my entire life to endure pain, and yet I cannot tolerate this one wound. Groans of pain can be heard from all around me, so I know I am not alone in my misery. With my eyes tightly squeezed shut, I try to accept my fate: I am about to die. I hold no doubts regarding that fact. It is inevitable, expected to say the least. Dear Zeus, please have mercy upon me in my death.
Who am I? Where am I? Why did this happen? Who was it that speared me? I cannot remember my name, only that I am Spartan; only that I once had a brother; only that I am about to die because I defended my country from- who? Ah, yes; the cursed Persians. This battle is all I can remember in detail, this battle where three hundred of my countrymen have lost or are losing their lives defending the pass of Thermopylae. Have we succeeded? I cannot tell, but only hope that we have. It was three hundred of us Spartans against thousands upon thousands upon thousands of Persians. The Persian army was made of numerous men, far greater in number than ours. But our army was made of soldiers. A haze begins to drift over me, slowing my brain, all I can think of is my last battle, the battle I will lose my life to.
We were not the only soldiers there, of course. But we were the only men outside the gates guarding the pass of Thermopylae those first few days. We knew the Persian army was ten times larger than our own in number. But our leaders were certain that this narrow pass would be the only place where we could prevent the Persians from entering and conquering Greece. So we Spartans guarded the entrance through the gate, and the rest of the army was beyond. We spent our time preparing for battle, exercising and combing our hair. It has always been very important to us to insure we looked our best for battle. Four days passed before the cowardly Persians finally attacked. Word spread that our attackers were the Medes. I remember my brother and I exchanging excited, yet grim, smiles as we faced the oncoming men. The battle that ensued lasted most of the day, with few Spartan casualties. But, oh! the many deaths inflicted upon the Medes were beyond counting. Eventually, they withdrew and were soon replaced by more soldiers.
“They call themselves the King’s Immortals,” my brother had said.
“We will see,” I had replied simply. For the rest of that day, we battled the ‘Immortals’, again with few casualties on our side. As for the Persians, well, it became obvious that they were not immortal after all. I begin to recall our retreat feint we used on the Immortals: we would pretend to retreat in fear, the Persians chasing after us. At the very last minute, we would turn and slaughter the men behind us with little difficulty.
On the next day, the Greek armies alternated in who was guarding the pass, and the Persians were no luckier in battle than they were in the previous day. They again eventually withdrew, and we were confident of victory. Very early the next morning we received news of betrayal: a man had revealed the secret road that led behind the gates to the Persians. We knew at that moment there was little hope of survival now. Our leaders were torn on the decision of whether to go or to stay. Our great king, Leonidas, declared that he would stay, since we had originally come to guard this post. He told the others to leave, that we would defend the rear. Those who wished to stay were ordered by Leonidas to leave. Only the Thebans and Thespians remained, the former as hostages, the latter because they refused to abandon us to die alone. And by midmorning, the Persians attacked. My brother and I fought side by side; when our spears broke, we used our swords. I do not think that any army fought more fiercely than ours did. Then, misery of miseries, our great king fell. Immediately, my brother and I rushed to his body, we had been fighting near him before. With a fury unlike any other we defended his remains, gaining and giving many wounds. Our fellow soldiers were able to rescue him, but we were eventually forced to retreat back into the narrow pass. It was now with a desperate fear that we fought. It was clear that we would die, but we tried our best to live.
With a grunt, my brother fell against me and I stared in horror at the long spear protruding from his chest.
“Alpheus…For Sparta,” he had whispered. And he had died. Without another word, he was lifeless in my arms. I swallowed
rising tears. Maron, my brother, my good friend, was gone. I gently laid him on the ground, and looked around me. There were only a few Greeks left standing. Persians overwhelmed us from all sides. With an angry shout, I threw myself upon the Persians with revengeful fury, for my king, for my brother, for my country. It wasn’t long before the spear had hit me. The blinding pain overwhelmed my senses and I fell to the ground.
And so here I am. Breathless. Bleeding. Dying. The Persians have passed on. Will my country prevail? I cannot tell. But I can tell that Sparta will long be remembered for what she has done today, that I will long be remembered for my deeds today. I open my eyes one last time, to look at the sky and to make one last request of the gods. Remember me.
The Battle of Thermopylae
Pain. It is the only feeling I am aware of. My breath does not come easily, but rather in short spurts. I beg the gods to help me. I have been trained my entire life to endure pain, and yet I cannot tolerate this one wound. Groans of pain can be heard from all around me, so I know I am not alone in my misery. With my eyes tightly squeezed shut, I try to accept my fate: I am about to die. I hold no doubts regarding that fact. It is inevitable, expected to say the least. Dear Zeus, please have mercy upon me in my death.
Who am I? Where am I? Why did this happen? Who was it that speared me? I cannot remember my name, only that I am Spartan; only that I once had a brother; only that I am about to die because I defended my country from- who? Ah, yes; the cursed Persians. This battle is all I can remember in detail, this battle where three hundred of my countrymen have lost or are losing their lives defending the pass of Thermopylae. Have we succeeded? I cannot tell, but only hope that we have. It was three hundred of us Spartans against thousands upon thousands upon thousands of Persians. The Persian army was made of numerous men, far greater in number than ours. But our army was made of soldiers. A haze begins to drift over me, slowing my brain, all I can think of is my last battle, the battle I will lose my life to.
We were not the only soldiers there, of course. But we were the only men outside the gates guarding the pass of Thermopylae those first few days. We knew the Persian army was ten times larger than our own in number. But our leaders were certain that this narrow pass would be the only place where we could prevent the Persians from entering and conquering Greece. So we Spartans guarded the entrance through the gate, and the rest of the army was beyond. We spent our time preparing for battle, exercising and combing our hair. It has always been very important to us to insure we looked our best for battle. Four days passed before the cowardly Persians finally attacked. Word spread that our attackers were the Medes. I remember my brother and I exchanging excited, yet grim, smiles as we faced the oncoming men. The battle that ensued lasted most of the day, with few Spartan casualties. But, oh! the many deaths inflicted upon the Medes were beyond counting. Eventually, they withdrew and were soon replaced by more soldiers.
“They call themselves the King’s Immortals,” my brother had said.
“We will see,” I had replied simply. For the rest of that day, we battled the ‘Immortals’, again with few casualties on our side. As for the Persians, well, it became obvious that they were not immortal after all. I begin to recall our retreat feint we used on the Immortals: we would pretend to retreat in fear, the Persians chasing after us. At the very last minute, we would turn and slaughter the men behind us with little difficulty.
On the next day, the Greek armies alternated in who was guarding the pass, and the Persians were no luckier in battle than they were in the previous day. They again eventually withdrew, and we were confident of victory. Very early the next morning we received news of betrayal: a man had revealed the secret road that led behind the gates to the Persians. We knew at that moment there was little hope of survival now. Our leaders were torn on the decision of whether to go or to stay. Our great king, Leonidas, declared that he would stay, since we had originally come to guard this post. He told the others to leave, that we would defend the rear. Those who wished to stay were ordered by Leonidas to leave. Only the Thebans and Thespians remained, the former as hostages, the latter because they refused to abandon us to die alone. And by midmorning, the Persians attacked. My brother and I fought side by side; when our spears broke, we used our swords. I do not think that any army fought more fiercely than ours did. Then, misery of miseries, our great king fell. Immediately, my brother and I rushed to his body, we had been fighting near him before. With a fury unlike any other we defended his remains, gaining and giving many wounds. Our fellow soldiers were able to rescue him, but we were eventually forced to retreat back into the narrow pass. It was now with a desperate fear that we fought. It was clear that we would die, but we tried our best to live.
With a grunt, my brother fell against me and I stared in horror at the long spear protruding from his chest.
“Alpheus…For Sparta,” he had whispered. And he had died. Without another word, he was lifeless in my arms. I swallowed
rising tears. Maron, my brother, my good friend, was gone. I gently laid him on the ground, and looked around me. There were only a few Greeks left standing. Persians overwhelmed us from all sides. With an angry shout, I threw myself upon the Persians with revengeful fury, for my king, for my brother, for my country. It wasn’t long before the spear had hit me. The blinding pain overwhelmed my senses and I fell to the ground.
And so here I am. Breathless. Bleeding. Dying. The Persians have passed on. Will my country prevail? I cannot tell. But I can tell that Sparta will long be remembered for what she has done today, that I will long be remembered for my deeds today. I open my eyes one last time, to look at the sky and to make one last request of the gods. Remember me.
Ever wondered?
Ever wondered what it was like to be someone else? To feel what they were feeling? To see what they were seeing? To think like them, talk like them, look like them?
Ever wondered why certain things happen? Why people die? Why war happens? Why violence occurs, why people hate, why people love?
Ever wondered how you could make yourself better? How you could be smarter? How you could be nicer? How people would like you better if you were different, prettier, more talented?
Ever wondered why you feel certain ways? Why you're in love? Why you're angry? Why you're sad, bitter, lonely?
Ever wondered what your purpose in life is? What you're meant to do? What God has planned for you? What you should expect, attempt, fail?
Ever wondered what you'll be like when you're 'all grown up'? What you'll look like? What you'll act like? If you'll be married, parenting, working?
Ever wondered about everything? About anything? Ever doubted? Ever worried? Ever cried, missed, laughed, smiled, loved, loathed, regretted, wished? Have you ever felt that aching feeling in your chest when you know you've disappointed a loved one, or when someone has disappointed you? Ever begged to know why? Ever been stunned into silence by the beauty and complexity of what's all around you- the sky, trees, nature in general? Ever wished that you could change something about yourself so badly you swore you would do anything for it? Ever had a hope, a dream, a broken heart? Ever wished upon a falling star?
I know I have.
Ever wondered why certain things happen? Why people die? Why war happens? Why violence occurs, why people hate, why people love?
Ever wondered how you could make yourself better? How you could be smarter? How you could be nicer? How people would like you better if you were different, prettier, more talented?
Ever wondered why you feel certain ways? Why you're in love? Why you're angry? Why you're sad, bitter, lonely?
Ever wondered what your purpose in life is? What you're meant to do? What God has planned for you? What you should expect, attempt, fail?
Ever wondered what you'll be like when you're 'all grown up'? What you'll look like? What you'll act like? If you'll be married, parenting, working?
Ever wondered about everything? About anything? Ever doubted? Ever worried? Ever cried, missed, laughed, smiled, loved, loathed, regretted, wished? Have you ever felt that aching feeling in your chest when you know you've disappointed a loved one, or when someone has disappointed you? Ever begged to know why? Ever been stunned into silence by the beauty and complexity of what's all around you- the sky, trees, nature in general? Ever wished that you could change something about yourself so badly you swore you would do anything for it? Ever had a hope, a dream, a broken heart? Ever wished upon a falling star?
I know I have.
Jacob Riis
For my AP US History class, I am required to write two biography essays. One written like an essay, and the othor as a website. Both were required to be in a creative format. My first essay was completed back in December, and my subject was Sarah Josepha Hale. For my second subject, I chose Jacob Riis and decided to make a blog consisting of diary entries. I have just finished it (yay!), and thought I would share it with you all :) Here's the link: http://jacobriis.blogspot.com
A little background for you: Jacob Riis was born in Ribe, Denmark, and immigrated to America when he was around twenty. He suffered all the prejudices immigrants were submitted to, but managed to rise to greatness and reform New York of its cruel lodging settlements and prejudices against immigrants. He was a close friend of Theodore Roosevelt, and a lover of open air and freedom. It was fascinating to read more about him, and to actually 'experience' the trials and tribulations he bore in his early years in America. Using photography and his gift for writing, he truly *showed* New York what was actually happening in the slums and dark allies that they were blissfully ignorant of. I hope you enjoy the blog about him, and maybe even learn a thing or two, as well ;)
A little background for you: Jacob Riis was born in Ribe, Denmark, and immigrated to America when he was around twenty. He suffered all the prejudices immigrants were submitted to, but managed to rise to greatness and reform New York of its cruel lodging settlements and prejudices against immigrants. He was a close friend of Theodore Roosevelt, and a lover of open air and freedom. It was fascinating to read more about him, and to actually 'experience' the trials and tribulations he bore in his early years in America. Using photography and his gift for writing, he truly *showed* New York what was actually happening in the slums and dark allies that they were blissfully ignorant of. I hope you enjoy the blog about him, and maybe even learn a thing or two, as well ;)
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