Edward Teach, mysterious fellow.
I had him at Cambridge. Rather shy. Not an outstanding pupil, but curious enough. Absent-minded, I remember thinking of him, but not the idle sort that frequented my classroom. That mind was always somewhere specific. I wasn't surprised when I heard he left for a sea voyage.
Ed, yeah. Nice enough fella. A bit of a drunk on Sunday afternoons. He'd rear himself up and holler all sorts of fancy philosophy at me. I just tried to say 'yessir' to everything but that got him right mad and he got to more drinking. Had a few friends, lowlifes if you ask me. A cripple, and some soldiers... oh, and that preacher. Strange bunch. Talked up storms.
Ohh, Ed. Sweet man, sweet man. Those eyes! Softest brown you'd ever seen, but so fiery too. You always could count on a lark and a laugh in his company. Not that he was without his faults. Such a man for spirits, and so moody, like a woman, he was.
Excellent seaman. Really took pride in his work. A steady hand, even green.
Jun 2, 2006
Apr 4, 2006
Blackbeard was not always so mean. Dorothy Hudson can attest to that. She met him on the docks at Charleston. He wasn't like other seamen. He was educated, thoughtful and colorful. He was no Blackbeard then, but relatively cleancut.
He was a man in desperate need of adventure. The schools of England had not sufficed, the long ocean voyage, the exotic ports: all were trifles in his bored, cynical mind.
He was a man in desperate need of adventure. The schools of England had not sufficed, the long ocean voyage, the exotic ports: all were trifles in his bored, cynical mind.
Apr 3, 2006
first scene of the coaster
The first scene: the first dance class of the season begins. Clive always shows up for such events, to see if John can hook him up with a hot dish. Alex, tired of studying, shows up, too. There are never enough guys.
Sure enough, only one guy shows up: a tall, handsome German named Nick, with girlfriend Gretchen. John sends Alex downstairs to fetch Sal to even things up. Out of the entire group, only John, Charlene and the nordic Gods, Nick and Gretchen, seem to be at ease. Molly is boy crazy, Clive is girl crazy. Alex is always nervous about physical contact. Ashley is struggling under the weight of her emotional baggage. A bespectacled, frumpy looking girl named Lily doesn’t seem pleased with the selection of guys to dance with. The token large woman, Pat, is, of course, a little worried.
The initial pairings: Nick and Gretchen, Clive and Ashley, Sal and Molly, Alex and Lily and John and Pat. John rotates once every five minutes. Gretchen draws the intial attention for her striking blonde hair, severe gray dress, slender figure and goddess bearing. That she had a Calvin Klein type foreign model hanging on her arm and ignoring all outsiders only added to her intrigue. Ashley, though pretty, can’t compete with exotic mystery, at least on a first glance scenario. Molly, an average looking girl with extra weight around the hips, only registers as an annoying man-chaser. Pat is to be avoided like the plague. Lily is frightening with those alien goggles.
John, though handsome, is not initially attractive for his critical eye and business-like manner. Clive and his black forest of hair is striking in appearance and engaging in manner, but too obviously ogling Gretchen to even disguise himself enough to deceive any but Molly or Lily. Alex is cute in his shy way, but too fumbling in the dance to impress any one but Molly, who’s ready to dive on anything with a good face. Sal is older and grumpy, practically shoving his partners around. He and Pat get into it. Nick is skilled and effortless in his dance, but frustrated and snobbish when dancing with anyone but Gretchen.
When Charlene shows up John is surprised. She’s wearing a black hat, her white hair curled, her blue dress sharp and pretty. John breaks off the rough beginning of the dance to dance with her. The business-like manner and piercingly critical gaze dissolve into gentle strength and cooperation as they danced the waltz. Ashley is immediately effected by both. Charlene squeezes John’s hand and smiles to the crowd before walking out.
Alex gets Ashley for a partner in that vulnerable moment: he’s fascinated by her obvious thoughtfulness (he’s just danced with Lily, Pat and Molly). Studying her distant face, it doesn’t take him long to realize she’s pretty in a subtler way than anyone he’s met before. Ashley, coming partially back to earth from her thoughts, is mildly intrigued by this young guy who looks at her with such gentle interest and without glance at her chest or attempts to show off on the dance floor. They begin to talk in between rock steps.
Sure enough, only one guy shows up: a tall, handsome German named Nick, with girlfriend Gretchen. John sends Alex downstairs to fetch Sal to even things up. Out of the entire group, only John, Charlene and the nordic Gods, Nick and Gretchen, seem to be at ease. Molly is boy crazy, Clive is girl crazy. Alex is always nervous about physical contact. Ashley is struggling under the weight of her emotional baggage. A bespectacled, frumpy looking girl named Lily doesn’t seem pleased with the selection of guys to dance with. The token large woman, Pat, is, of course, a little worried.
The initial pairings: Nick and Gretchen, Clive and Ashley, Sal and Molly, Alex and Lily and John and Pat. John rotates once every five minutes. Gretchen draws the intial attention for her striking blonde hair, severe gray dress, slender figure and goddess bearing. That she had a Calvin Klein type foreign model hanging on her arm and ignoring all outsiders only added to her intrigue. Ashley, though pretty, can’t compete with exotic mystery, at least on a first glance scenario. Molly, an average looking girl with extra weight around the hips, only registers as an annoying man-chaser. Pat is to be avoided like the plague. Lily is frightening with those alien goggles.
John, though handsome, is not initially attractive for his critical eye and business-like manner. Clive and his black forest of hair is striking in appearance and engaging in manner, but too obviously ogling Gretchen to even disguise himself enough to deceive any but Molly or Lily. Alex is cute in his shy way, but too fumbling in the dance to impress any one but Molly, who’s ready to dive on anything with a good face. Sal is older and grumpy, practically shoving his partners around. He and Pat get into it. Nick is skilled and effortless in his dance, but frustrated and snobbish when dancing with anyone but Gretchen.
When Charlene shows up John is surprised. She’s wearing a black hat, her white hair curled, her blue dress sharp and pretty. John breaks off the rough beginning of the dance to dance with her. The business-like manner and piercingly critical gaze dissolve into gentle strength and cooperation as they danced the waltz. Ashley is immediately effected by both. Charlene squeezes John’s hand and smiles to the crowd before walking out.
Alex gets Ashley for a partner in that vulnerable moment: he’s fascinated by her obvious thoughtfulness (he’s just danced with Lily, Pat and Molly). Studying her distant face, it doesn’t take him long to realize she’s pretty in a subtler way than anyone he’s met before. Ashley, coming partially back to earth from her thoughts, is mildly intrigued by this young guy who looks at her with such gentle interest and without glance at her chest or attempts to show off on the dance floor. They begin to talk in between rock steps.
Mar 23, 2006
ENGL 231
Sam Lively
Romantic paper
03/23/06
The Monster of the Upper Sky
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were – I have not seen
As others saw – I could not bring
My passions from a common spring
-Edgar Allan Poe ("Alone")
It is ironic that the poet's isolation is part of what makes him compelling to so many people. It may be the artistic expression of a "pity party," a ceremony of misery that somehow brings pleasure. The Byronic hero (who drives Lord Byron's dramatic poems and has migrated to a number of other works) suffers under such isolation, but does so with an entirely different attitude. In the dramatic poem, Manfred, Byron magnifies the suffering to a suitably romantic extreme. In it, he portrays Manfred not as a simpering victim, but as monster with only himself and his fate to blame.
Manfred is a tortured young nobleman, seeking relief through his mastery of the dark arts of sorcery. A terrible wrongdoing haunts his memory; forgetfulness and death are his goals. He describes himself by means of his guiding star:
… a star condemn’d,
The burning wreck of a demolish’d world,
A wandering hell in the eternal space (44-46, Act I)
This description certainly has elements of self-pity and victimization; fate can be blamed for his condemnation and the wreckage of his life. Yet the sentiments here are much more powerful than moping: hell implies an active torment. After Manfred summons the spirits of nature to do his bidding, the spirit of his guiding star expands on his previous description:
The hour arrived – and it became
A wandering mass of shapeless flame,
A pathless comet, and a curse,
The menace of the universe;
Still rolling on with innate force,
Without a sphere, without a course,
A bright deformity on high,
The monster of the upper sky! (116-123, Act I)
Manfred breaks from the mold of tragic victims in this portrayal: he is not in danger, but dangerous; he is not pitiful but spectacular in his plight; he is not cursed, but is a curse. He is not bound to any path of fated misery, but is a free-roaming inferno, unable or unwilling to restrict himself, and perhaps without a greater power to contain him.
Manfred does not seek any to contain him. He refuses subjugation to spirits and does not condescend to lesser men. In response to the friendly injunction of a fellow man to befriend humans, he says:
I could not tame my nature down…
And be a living lie – who would become
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such
The mass are: I disdained to mingle with
A herd, though to be a leader – and of wolves.
The lion is alone, and so am I (116, 119-123, Act III)
Though Manfred's loneliness is part of his anguish, it is self-imposed, not for any lack in himself, but for his superiority. The one being he desired relationship was the woman he wronged and indirectly destroyed (Byron dances around the exact situation, but it strikes of Byron's own affair with his half-sister). It is this vulnerability that links him to humanity, and ironically it is his own unrestricted power, "rolling on with innate force" that strikes at his weakness. He likens himself to the deadly Saharan dust storm called the Simoom:
The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom,
Which dwells but in the desart, and sweeps o’er
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast,
And revels o’er their wild and arid waves,
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought,
But being met is deadly (128-133, Act III)
Such is Manfred's plight: his innate destructiveness makes any relationship tragic, yet he is too human not to want one. He is his own tormentor, but he will not deny himself. He seeks death as his relief, and will accept no other: not even penitence, offered by the Church. He achieves his death, his victory the absence of redemption and the making of his own way, even as a "wandering hell."
Byron constructs in Manfred a terrifying object; his existence is a horrifying one, but, in its horror, commands awed attention. He is all at once the fire and the tinder: he exists to destroy himself. He is the "monster of the upper sky" that draws all eyes upward, until he burns to nothingness. None would aspire to become him, but all find a form of fascination with him.
Works cited:
Poe, Edgar Allan. "Alone." Lays of the New Land.
Gordon, George. "Manfred." Norton Anthology of English Literature.
Sam Lively
Romantic paper
03/23/06
The Monster of the Upper Sky
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were – I have not seen
As others saw – I could not bring
My passions from a common spring
-Edgar Allan Poe ("Alone")
It is ironic that the poet's isolation is part of what makes him compelling to so many people. It may be the artistic expression of a "pity party," a ceremony of misery that somehow brings pleasure. The Byronic hero (who drives Lord Byron's dramatic poems and has migrated to a number of other works) suffers under such isolation, but does so with an entirely different attitude. In the dramatic poem, Manfred, Byron magnifies the suffering to a suitably romantic extreme. In it, he portrays Manfred not as a simpering victim, but as monster with only himself and his fate to blame.
Manfred is a tortured young nobleman, seeking relief through his mastery of the dark arts of sorcery. A terrible wrongdoing haunts his memory; forgetfulness and death are his goals. He describes himself by means of his guiding star:
… a star condemn’d,
The burning wreck of a demolish’d world,
A wandering hell in the eternal space (44-46, Act I)
This description certainly has elements of self-pity and victimization; fate can be blamed for his condemnation and the wreckage of his life. Yet the sentiments here are much more powerful than moping: hell implies an active torment. After Manfred summons the spirits of nature to do his bidding, the spirit of his guiding star expands on his previous description:
The hour arrived – and it became
A wandering mass of shapeless flame,
A pathless comet, and a curse,
The menace of the universe;
Still rolling on with innate force,
Without a sphere, without a course,
A bright deformity on high,
The monster of the upper sky! (116-123, Act I)
Manfred breaks from the mold of tragic victims in this portrayal: he is not in danger, but dangerous; he is not pitiful but spectacular in his plight; he is not cursed, but is a curse. He is not bound to any path of fated misery, but is a free-roaming inferno, unable or unwilling to restrict himself, and perhaps without a greater power to contain him.
Manfred does not seek any to contain him. He refuses subjugation to spirits and does not condescend to lesser men. In response to the friendly injunction of a fellow man to befriend humans, he says:
I could not tame my nature down…
And be a living lie – who would become
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such
The mass are: I disdained to mingle with
A herd, though to be a leader – and of wolves.
The lion is alone, and so am I (116, 119-123, Act III)
Though Manfred's loneliness is part of his anguish, it is self-imposed, not for any lack in himself, but for his superiority. The one being he desired relationship was the woman he wronged and indirectly destroyed (Byron dances around the exact situation, but it strikes of Byron's own affair with his half-sister). It is this vulnerability that links him to humanity, and ironically it is his own unrestricted power, "rolling on with innate force" that strikes at his weakness. He likens himself to the deadly Saharan dust storm called the Simoom:
The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom,
Which dwells but in the desart, and sweeps o’er
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast,
And revels o’er their wild and arid waves,
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought,
But being met is deadly (128-133, Act III)
Such is Manfred's plight: his innate destructiveness makes any relationship tragic, yet he is too human not to want one. He is his own tormentor, but he will not deny himself. He seeks death as his relief, and will accept no other: not even penitence, offered by the Church. He achieves his death, his victory the absence of redemption and the making of his own way, even as a "wandering hell."
Byron constructs in Manfred a terrifying object; his existence is a horrifying one, but, in its horror, commands awed attention. He is all at once the fire and the tinder: he exists to destroy himself. He is the "monster of the upper sky" that draws all eyes upward, until he burns to nothingness. None would aspire to become him, but all find a form of fascination with him.
Works cited:
Poe, Edgar Allan. "Alone." Lays of the New Land.
Gordon, George. "Manfred." Norton Anthology of English Literature.
Sep 24, 2005
Love and the Assassin
I despise Matthew McConaughy (sp?). Imagine liking a girl from afar and working slowly to gain her respect and trust, only to have Smooth Matt drive his motorcycle right between the two of you, pull off his helmet and shake his golden brown locks, before turning on the faky charm and southern drawl to sweep her off her feet.
I'd be a little T.O.ed, myself. See, I don't see Matt as any kind of realistic Mr. Right for all the searching women out there. I see him as the wolf in GQ clothing. His style is much more insidious than that of a wold: he's got the glinty eyes and oily demeanor of a stone-hearted predator. Like a sable, prized for his looks and grace, but really a killing machine.
In pondering my distaste for his character, it struck me that he's really good at irritating guys like me, and that could be used to great effect in a movie. For best effect, Matt would be the villain, infuriating some average guy with sensibilities similar to mine.
Enter Arthur Pal, a bright, handsome, young diplomat (see the similarities to me?), fully enjoying life in his New York highrise apartment. He loves his job: it's prestigious, meaningful and high-paying. There is an added hop to his step that could only be attributed to youthful love; yes, he's just met a girl. She lives in the apartment next door. She works a simple job, but she's obviously a little lonely, and very appreciative of Arthur's friendship. He helps her with her little balcony flowerpot garden. They hit it off.
Enter Bill, the new neighbour, played with oozing charm by Matt. Bill is an assassin. Not a bloody one. He deals in poisons. He doesn't believe in causing pain. He's guarded with this information. He calls himself a freelance public relations consultant, but he says he wants to retire and settle down. He wants to buy a vineyard and make wine.
Both Bill and Arthur think the girl would make a fine lifelong companion.
If anything like a plot develops, or any kind of personality for the girl, I may try and turn this into a screenplay.
I'd be a little T.O.ed, myself. See, I don't see Matt as any kind of realistic Mr. Right for all the searching women out there. I see him as the wolf in GQ clothing. His style is much more insidious than that of a wold: he's got the glinty eyes and oily demeanor of a stone-hearted predator. Like a sable, prized for his looks and grace, but really a killing machine.
In pondering my distaste for his character, it struck me that he's really good at irritating guys like me, and that could be used to great effect in a movie. For best effect, Matt would be the villain, infuriating some average guy with sensibilities similar to mine.
Enter Arthur Pal, a bright, handsome, young diplomat (see the similarities to me?), fully enjoying life in his New York highrise apartment. He loves his job: it's prestigious, meaningful and high-paying. There is an added hop to his step that could only be attributed to youthful love; yes, he's just met a girl. She lives in the apartment next door. She works a simple job, but she's obviously a little lonely, and very appreciative of Arthur's friendship. He helps her with her little balcony flowerpot garden. They hit it off.
Enter Bill, the new neighbour, played with oozing charm by Matt. Bill is an assassin. Not a bloody one. He deals in poisons. He doesn't believe in causing pain. He's guarded with this information. He calls himself a freelance public relations consultant, but he says he wants to retire and settle down. He wants to buy a vineyard and make wine.
Both Bill and Arthur think the girl would make a fine lifelong companion.
If anything like a plot develops, or any kind of personality for the girl, I may try and turn this into a screenplay.
Aug 13, 2005
HR, 42
When the steam parted a few minutes later, Peg appeared, flapping her way over the northwest wall. She cooed and squawked and beat her wings together to rouse the creatures of the field from their holes and hiding spots.
"Dogs all gone. General gone. Big mean dog gone. We win! We win!" She repeated this last part excitedly as she flew around the field.
Humboldt jumped to his feet and led the mice in a series of cheers. Sergei and Mitzi cawed happily. The old squirrel danced about with bewildered pigeons, tripping over his own trip wires.
Harlequin sat in the midst of the celebration, his face blank and his eyes fixed on the door in the alleyway. Peg swooped to his side and landed gamely on her sole foot. She cackled in laughter.
"The Big Dog chased me right into human building. Humans were very angry, caught dog. Didn't catch me," she crowed.
"We won battle," she continued, smacking precociously at Harlequin's slumped back with her wings. "Dogs all gone!"
"Hubert's gone," Harlequin mumbled. "The man..."
Peg blinked. She did not understand. Harlequin sniffed a little and shed one tear. With a cough, he cleared his throat, and turned to face Peg, bright resolution renewed in his face.
"You're right. We did win." Harlequin hopped spryly to his feet and joined in the celebration. Within a few moments, Harlequin's sadness departed, replaced by the glorious new ideas he had for the field.
"We're to make this field an animal city for all the animals lost in the human city!" he shouted to cheers led by the zealous Humboldt.
Indeed, they did. The legend of the mighty chipmunk who defeated a demon cat and an entire pack of dogs spread far and wide, and with it travelled the hope of freedom and safety in the city. Animals of every stripe, feather and scale would flock to the field: new friends, new resources and new problems for Harlequin and his band.
THE END (Rough Draft)
"Dogs all gone. General gone. Big mean dog gone. We win! We win!" She repeated this last part excitedly as she flew around the field.
Humboldt jumped to his feet and led the mice in a series of cheers. Sergei and Mitzi cawed happily. The old squirrel danced about with bewildered pigeons, tripping over his own trip wires.
Harlequin sat in the midst of the celebration, his face blank and his eyes fixed on the door in the alleyway. Peg swooped to his side and landed gamely on her sole foot. She cackled in laughter.
"The Big Dog chased me right into human building. Humans were very angry, caught dog. Didn't catch me," she crowed.
"We won battle," she continued, smacking precociously at Harlequin's slumped back with her wings. "Dogs all gone!"
"Hubert's gone," Harlequin mumbled. "The man..."
Peg blinked. She did not understand. Harlequin sniffed a little and shed one tear. With a cough, he cleared his throat, and turned to face Peg, bright resolution renewed in his face.
"You're right. We did win." Harlequin hopped spryly to his feet and joined in the celebration. Within a few moments, Harlequin's sadness departed, replaced by the glorious new ideas he had for the field.
"We're to make this field an animal city for all the animals lost in the human city!" he shouted to cheers led by the zealous Humboldt.
Indeed, they did. The legend of the mighty chipmunk who defeated a demon cat and an entire pack of dogs spread far and wide, and with it travelled the hope of freedom and safety in the city. Animals of every stripe, feather and scale would flock to the field: new friends, new resources and new problems for Harlequin and his band.
THE END (Rough Draft)
Aug 12, 2005
HR, 41
Billows of steam swept over the field, enveloping Harlequin, the General and the creatures hiding from him.
Though sure of his own death, Harlequin found strange comfort in the steam. It had the light, pleasant scent of rice, and it warmed his aching limbs.
The General was apparently hypnotized by it; he stopped his dreaded approach and remained still.
A footstep sounded from the alley; it was a heavy step, certainly much heavier than a dogs. It sounded again rhythmically. These were sure, steady footsteps.
Harlequin, momentarily relieved of his fears, cracked an eye open and strained to perceive a shadowy figure of a man moving forward through the steam. He saw the form reach with it's arm and bring up an object in it's grasp. Light caught the object and reflected back sharply, rays cutting paths through the steam; it was a blade, a butcher's knife.
Harlequin turned, dazed to see the shadow of the General. He was crouched defensively. A growl rumbled from his belly; it was a fearful growl, Harlequin noted with astonishment. The man approached the General, moving forward in great steps as the General slowly backed away. Silently, the man raised the butcher's knife above his head. It's deadly edge glinted in the sun.
The General did not wait for it to come down; he sprang backwards and bounded off the field, his image vanishing in the steam.
Harlequin saw the man come closer. His face was still obscured, but Harlequin saw that we was robed in black, with bright red stitching visible through the cloudiness.
"Ahhhh, the good dog," an accented voice sounded from the direction of the man. It suddenly struck Harlequin that this had been the same voice he'd heard just before Attila had disappeared.
The man bent down and coddled Hubert's limp form into his arms and lifted him quietly. Turning away from Harlequin, he walked off into the steam. Harlequin heard the creak of the door and a thud as it closed.
Though sure of his own death, Harlequin found strange comfort in the steam. It had the light, pleasant scent of rice, and it warmed his aching limbs.
The General was apparently hypnotized by it; he stopped his dreaded approach and remained still.
A footstep sounded from the alley; it was a heavy step, certainly much heavier than a dogs. It sounded again rhythmically. These were sure, steady footsteps.
Harlequin, momentarily relieved of his fears, cracked an eye open and strained to perceive a shadowy figure of a man moving forward through the steam. He saw the form reach with it's arm and bring up an object in it's grasp. Light caught the object and reflected back sharply, rays cutting paths through the steam; it was a blade, a butcher's knife.
Harlequin turned, dazed to see the shadow of the General. He was crouched defensively. A growl rumbled from his belly; it was a fearful growl, Harlequin noted with astonishment. The man approached the General, moving forward in great steps as the General slowly backed away. Silently, the man raised the butcher's knife above his head. It's deadly edge glinted in the sun.
The General did not wait for it to come down; he sprang backwards and bounded off the field, his image vanishing in the steam.
Harlequin saw the man come closer. His face was still obscured, but Harlequin saw that we was robed in black, with bright red stitching visible through the cloudiness.
"Ahhhh, the good dog," an accented voice sounded from the direction of the man. It suddenly struck Harlequin that this had been the same voice he'd heard just before Attila had disappeared.
The man bent down and coddled Hubert's limp form into his arms and lifted him quietly. Turning away from Harlequin, he walked off into the steam. Harlequin heard the creak of the door and a thud as it closed.