New Moon (Meyer) Book Review

Reposted from last year.

“A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.” –G,K. Chesterton

DISCLAIMER: Twitards, this review may hurt your feelings. You have been warned, so don’t you dare flame me.

SUMMARY AND CRITICISM

New moon, the second installment of the Garb-- Twilight Series, began where the first book left off, with Mary Sue Meyer and Edward Cullen in the throes of chaste passion. What's that? Who’s Bella Swan? Nah, believe me, that was Mary Sue. And they were mostly still just staring googly-eyed at each other.

On Mary Sue's 18th birthday, the sparkling vampire family threw her a sparkling party—literally. Due to Meyerrific creativity, the conflict begins when Mary Sue gets a paper cut (yes, it bled), thus causing Jasper Hale to attempt to suck her dry. Edward prevents this from happening via really fast footwork and snarling.

Moments afterward, Edward and the other sparkling vampires left Spoons-- I mean Forks-- to avoid any further mishaps. The exhausted "I must leave to protect you" excuse.

Yes, Edward broke up with dear Mary Sue, and she ended up unconscious with disbelief on the forest floor, after wandering aimlessly chanting "Edward, Edward, Edward..."

Not exactly, but close.
It's true, when your boyfriend breaks up with you, you must lose your sanity.

Then Stepheni-- I mean Bell-- I mean, Mary Sue launched into what has got to be The Longest post-breakup drama in the history of mankind. She became a self-declared zombie; withdrawn, not able to think about anything else but Edward's hair, Edward's voice, Edward's eyes, Edward's hands, Edward's skin, Edward's... you get the idea. She also had nightmares and screamed herself awake for the next, oh, 6 months, because of the "gaping hole" in her heart. I kid you not.

At the mere mention of the name "Edward," she went all diva like this:

"I shook my head, recoiling. The sound of his name unleashed the thing that was clawing inside of me—a pain that knocked me breathless, astonished me with its force."

and this:

"His name sent another wave of torture through me."

Boring, the "I am depressed, hear me whine" lament. She seriously did not say anything else.

By the hundredth page of this "I miiisssss Edwaaard sooo muchhh, boo hoo hoo," Mary Sue discovered that when she placed herself in danger, she could hear Edwardo's voice telling her to, well, get herself out of danger. So she gets herself into more danger. Brilliant ploy, yes.

So she turned to the most dangerous, most death-defying thing she could think of: motorcycles. I know right. So she took two motorcycles from the scrap heap and brought them to Jacob Black in La Push. Jacob was previously known as “only non-cardboard character in Twilight,” but is now known as “excuse to have a topless Indian in the movie.”

Mary Sue: College, schmollege, I thought to myself. It wasn't like I'd saved up enough to go anywhere special—and besides, I had no desire to leave Forks anyway. What difference would it make if I skimmed a little bit off the top?

This was the part where she was getting the motorcycles fixed so she could slam herself into a tree with it, and needed money for parts. And the "no desire to leave Forks" thing? She could not bear to leave Forks for it had all her memories of Edward. Nothing, repeat, NOTHING is worth living for except Edward. Without Edward, the sun does not shine and the rivers do not flow... Life is not life without Edward, oh you dazzling, wonderfully sparkling vampire you (excuse me while I laugh my head off at this idiocy).

Mary Sue (On motorcycles): Many of the words they used were unfamiliar to me, and I figured I'd have to have a Y chromosome to really understand the excitement.

I don't even want to ponder upon the implications of that statement.

So anyway, when she started hanging out with Jacob, she stopped thinking about Edward. And what did she think of? Jacob!!! Meyerrific logic.

Mary Sue: I enjoyed myself. I was beginning to think it was mostly Jacob. It wasn't just that he was always so happy to see me, or that he didn't watch me out of the corner of his eye, waiting for me to do something that would mark me as crazy or depressed. It was nothing that related to me at all. It was Jacob himself. Jacob was simply a perpetually happy person, and he carried that happiness with him like an aura, sharing it with whoever was near him. Like an earthbound sun, whenever someone was within his gravitational pull, Jacob warmed them. It was natural, a part of who he was. No wonder I was so eager to see him.

Oh, look, an earthbound sun and its gravitational pull. Just... wow.

Mary Sue (on Leah Clearwater): She was beautiful in an exotic way—perfect copper skin, glistening black hair, eyelashes like feather dusters...

Eh?

Mary Sue: I was beginning to get annoyed with myself.

Good for you, you're catching on. I was annoyed with you a book and a half ago.

Alors. Must fast-forward, I'm getting bored. So Mary Sue, now somewhat out of depression, went to La Push and got on the reaaally dangerous motorcycle and made this comment:

"I tried to tell myself that the fear [of riding the motorcycle] was pointless. I'd already lived through the worst thing possible [breakup]. In comparison with that, why should anything frighten me now? [Yes, why?] I should be able to look death in the face and laugh."

She’s just so deep.

Then when she got on the reaaally dangerous motorcycle, she heard Edward's voice telling her to stop. But she wanted to hear the sparkly vampire's voice again so she didn't.

She went reaaally fast, heard the sparkly vampire in her head saying "stop, stupid!" (fine, not exactly) and, surprise surprise, hit a tree. Her head split open.

Gas wafted out instead of brain matter.

The End.

Okay, not the end. I just wish it was.

Jacob took her to the hospital. On the way, she said:

"I just hadn't realized before. Did you know, you're sort of beautiful?"

Er, yeah. And Edwardo...? Never mind. Ew.

She got stitched up and went home. Then...

Mary Sue: I panicked, worried that Charlie [dad] was about to lay down some kind of edict that would prohibit La Push, and consequently my motorcycle. And I wasn't giving it up—I'd had the most amazing hallucination today. My velvet-voiced delusion had yelled at me for almost five minutes before I'd hit the brake too abruptly and launched myself into the tree. I'd take whatever pain that would cause me tonight without complaint.

Even now I'm still not sure if this series isn't just a joke.
A bad joke.
Or satire. But Meyer's not that deep, so no.
This would be much, much more tolerable if this were satire.

Mary Sue (ranting, again): There had to be a place where he seemed more real than among all the familiar landmarks that were crowded with other human memories I could think of one place where that might hold true. One place that would always belong to him and no one else. A magic place, full of light. The beautiful meadow I'd seen only once in my life, lit by sunshine and the sparkle of his skin.

Gag.

Eventually, Jacob professed his love for Mary Sue, right before (or was it after?) he found out he was a werewolf. Yeah, yeah, Mary Sue's life is, like, so exciting. He left Mary Sue to figure out that he was a werewolf, which unsurprisingly took forever given her lack of a proper brain. But of course, her heart was still with Edwardo.

Jacob distanced himself, and Bella-Stephenie-Mary Sue went:

"Jacob was better, but not well enough to call me. He was out with friends. I was sitting home, missing him more every hour. I was lonely, worried, bored… perforated—and now also desolate as I realized that the week apart had not had the same effect on him."

Desolate? Perforated?
Sigh.
That paragraph takes the Nobel for Literature, no question.
The Feminist Book of the Year Award too.
And makes me want to hit Meyer over the head with her own thesaurus.

Mary Sue then revisited the meadow. The one that was lit with... The sparkle... Of Edward’s... Skin...

Gag.

There, she found Laurent, the other vampire who was with James (main antagonist, book 1) and Victoria (main antagonist's girlfriend). He also wants to kill her, I wonder why. Long story short, Jacob and the other werewolves saved Mary Sue and killed Laurent.

Wait, I just can't not mention this: "Charlie's eyes grew round with horror. He strode quickly to me and grabbed the tops of my arms."

Hmmm. Anatomy, Mary Sue style.

So, it turned out that the other vampire, Victoria, was hunting Mary Sue down. The werewolves, who wanted to protect Mary Sue, hunted Victoria. They didn't find her. They also welcomed Mary Sue into the "pack."

This is the part where Meyer totally plagiarized her other cra-- book, Twilight. She replaced every "vampire" with "werewolf"; every "Edward" with "Jacob"; every "James" with "Victoria"; every "Carlisle" with "Sam"; every "Esme" with "Emily," and so on.

It was such Meyerrific creativity. It takes astounding skill to plagiarize yourself.

Moments later, Mary Sue decided, in a fit of "I want to hear Edward's voice," to ditch motorcycling and go cliff-diving. So she went to La Push, la pushed herself off the cliff, and plunged straight into the riptide. She would've (should've) drowned, but Jacob rescued her.

Meanwhile, in Sparklyland, Alice saw that Mary Sue jumped off. She didn't see that Jacob rescued her though. So Alice went back to Spoons to check on Charlie, Stephenie's dad. I meant Bella's dad. Oh wait, that's Mary Sue's dad. Never mind they're one and the same.

Edward, the sparkliest of them all, called Sue's house, looking for Charlie. Jacob, who answered the phone, said that he was "at the funeral," and Sparkly assumed that he meant it was Mary Sue's funeral. How I wish.

Anyway, Edward goes, "Oh no, I cannot live without Bella/ Stephenie Meyer/ Mary Sue!!! I must kill myself!!!" Idiocy goes both ways, people.

So he flew off to Italy to find the Jonas Brothers-- I mean, the Volturi-- the only vampires who can kill other vampires. (As opposed to the only boy band who can kill other boy bands...)

I know, OMG! That is like, sooo sinister.

By the way, the Volturi realm is called VOLTERRA. Bet you didn't see that coming.

Alice quickly realized that Mary Sue Meyer, unfortunately, wasn't actually dead and decided to fly to Italy with Mary Sue to stop Edward from making fish food out of himself. Why fish would want to eat him, I have no idea.

Apparently, the Volturi kill vampires who want to expose their secret. So Edwardo decided on walking out into the sunlight and "glowing, shimmering like his skin was made of a million diamond facets" so that people would know he's supernatural. Again, gag.

Mary Sue got to Italy just in time, and threw herself at Edward. Wait, she's been doing that forever, what's new. The Volturi foot soldiers, relieved that Edward did not get to, you know, sparkle, invited Edward back to The Lair and told him to bring Mary Sue along.

Joe, Kevin and Nick then made their grand entrance. Wait, no. That's Aro, Caius and Marcus. Really. With Miley Cyrus and the cast of Hannah Montana! Uh, I mean, Jane and the other vampires of Volterra.

Anyway. They said that Mary Sue Meyer, who has knowledge of vampires, must be killed or must be turned into a vampire herself. Mary Sue, who wanted to change species for the love of her life all along, was pleased. Mr. Sparkly wasn't, because he didn't want her to be eternally damned. Alice, who was with them kind of promised to turn Mary Sue into a vampire if they let all of them get back safely home.

They did get home. Awww. Yeah, right. Back in Spoons, the Cullens decided to vote on whether Mary Sue should really be turned sparkly. Edward and Rosalie said no. Carlisle was the one who would do it after graduation.

Edward: "If you don't mind, I'd much rather you didn't hide your face. I've lived without it for as long as I can stand. Now… tell me something."
Mary Sue: "What?"
Edward: "If you could have anything in the world, anything at all, what would it be?"
Mary Sue: "You."
Edward: "Something you don't already have."

Excuse me, again, while I laugh my head off. Good lord this book is just hilarious. And then, Edward asks Mary Sue to marry him. She was saying no, but just when I thought she had a brain... No, no. The reason she was saying no was that her mother wouldn't like it... Or so she says. But we know better. If she already said yes, there would only be room for one more book. A boxed set of four sells for more than a boxed set of three. Smart Meyer, smart.

When Edward got back into the scene it was just cheese. And cheese. And cheese. I couldn't stop laughing. But I won't paste those lines here, you need to see it for yourself. Coupled with the bad writing, well, I can't ask for more.

"Epilogue Treaty."

Everything is back to normal in Spoons, with Edward in all of Mary Sue's classes and them spending every waking and sleeping moment together, literally. College is still Plan B, congratulations. In her words, "The fairy tale was back on. Prince returned, bad spell broken."

Wait, wait. It's not over yet. I need to put this here, for all my fellow feminists.

"Thank you," Edward said, and his voice throbbed with the depth of his sincerity. "I will never be able to tell you how grateful I am. I will owe you for the rest of my… existence."
Jacob stared at him blankly, his shudders stilled by surprise. He exchanged a quick glance with me, but my face was just as mystified.
"For keeping Bella alive," Edward clarified, his voice rough and fervent. "When I… didn't."

Fabulous statement, I know. Edward and Jacob: Mary Sue Life-support Machines. Because she can't survive without a guy telling her to "inhale, exhale... inhale, exhale." What? You thought she could? How could you?!

So, how did it end? For all those fortunate creatures who didn't read this, here:

Edward squeezed me gently. "I'm here."
I drew in a deep breath.
That was true.
Edward was here, with his arms around me.
I could face anything as long as that was true.
I squared my shoulders and walked forward to meet my fate, with my destiny solidly at my side.

Awww... NOT.

RANDOM BITS:

---"He sighed a heavy sigh."
(And later)
---"I sighed a heavy sigh."
(Alright then. Let’s all sigh a heavy sigh.)

---"Emily," he said, and so much love saturated his voice that I felt embarrassed...
(Romantic AND scientific.)

--- "...promptly at nine by a grimly gleeful Charlie..."
(How's that for masterful writing skill?)

---"...I have lost the truest of true loves, as if that wasn't enough to kill anyone..."
(Just priceless.)

But I don't want to be that unfair. (Really?) Here's a part I liked:

"It's not a trick. It's Carlisle. Take me back!"
A shudder rippled through his wide shoulders, but his eyes were flat and emotionless. "No."
"Jake, it's okay—"
"No. Take yourself back, Bella." His voice was a slap—I flinched as the sound of it struck me. His jaw clenched and unclenched."Look, Bella," he said in the same hard voice. "I can't go back. Treaty or no treaty, that's my enemy in there."
"It's not like that—"
"I have to tell Sam right away. This changes things. We can't be caught on their territory."
"Jake, it's not a war!"
He didn't listen. He put the truck in neutral and jumped out the door, leaving it running.
"Bye, Bella," he called back over his shoulder. "I really hope you don't die."

(Bye, Bella. I really hope you do.)

VERDICT:

Hahaha. Yeah, like you don't know yet. Just when I thought Twilight couldn't get any worse. But I was amused... In a perforated, saturated, desolate sort of way. Of course, I only read part two. You never know. But, really, can it get any worse than "truest of true loves"?!

PS:

Me: Twilight sucks. F*** Edward.
Fangirl: Yes!

Oh.

Water Days

Today is delivery day. I cruise along effortlessly along streets of the exact color and quality which King Henry VIII, to name at random, would have ordered the execution of his road builders for. I have about two tons of bottled water in the back compartment, and they thud against each other in the annoying manner of two women talking too loud in the theater. The noise irritates me, I almost run over a yellow-striped cat darting from behind a ratty box. I miss it by a heartbeat. To forget the noise I turn on the stereo, the radio station blares angry metal music. The exact song, in fact, which probably made van Gogh cut off his own ears. It was the furious sort of song that would have made World War Two Prisoners confess to fictional crimes lest be forced to listen further. But I don’t turn it off. Suddenly I feel like the boy in Clockwork Orange listening to his Beethoven while smashing people’s faces. Maybe a little like a French Revolutionary excited at the prospect of putting aristocratic heads on La Guillotine. Now I know all these stories because I used to drive around with someone who swallowed an encyclopedia or two. The singer screeches himself past oblivion even before the second verse, I tilt one wheel and send a trash bin flying into a corner store. I spot an orange something in the distance and gun the engine, it looks up and I see it is another cat before it makes that definitive squelch under the tires. I hit a few mailboxes, send envelopes fluttering like birds escaping from iron cages. More screeching, more noise than I can ever imagine shrieks out from the truck’s radio. A child is crossing the street, but is on the curb before I can do anything, but I catch his trolley and drag it fifty feet before it breaks and clatters back onto the hot pavement. I skid and slip and smoke my way through the streets. I don’t slow down when I see the humps, I go at it with full speed, and I literally fly off and come crashing down with a deafening thud. I figure some of the water bottles finally broke. Finally the song fades; I carve heavy black skid marks when I brake to stop in front of a water station. My driver, a heavyset man in his forties, frantically pushes open my door. He’s been trying to open it for the last four minutes, but I made the point to lock it. Can’t have him flying off at a hundred miles an hour, can I? He jumps down, knees weak and buckling, almost smashes into the store manager. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks, shaking him by the shoulders. Burned rubber stings the air. My driver is pale and sweaty and chokes off his own voice. “Something... Is... Wrong with that goddamned truck!” he drops onto the floor and tries desperately to breathe. He claws at his throat because the smoke is burning it. The store manager coughs, then stares at me and my overheating engine, he doesn’t know what to make of it. I laugh my little truck laugh they mistake for loose gears, shut my engine off and drift to sleep. Tomorrow is another delivery day.

Monty Python's Life of Brian

Background: Monty Python was a highly influential team of British and American television comedians who later branched out into films and other forms of entertainment. The group is best known for the television series Monty Python’s Flying Circus (1969-1974) and the motion picture Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975). [Microsoft Encarta 2007]

Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979) is a biblical satire that is unlikely to tickle the funny bone of the devoutly Catholic. It did cause controversy in religious circles, but it’s one of their most critically acclaimed. I watched this film during freshman year (in an Archaeology class with a German professor, what it has to do with the subject I have no idea) and I watched it again last weekend, and I just want to say without the shadow of a doubt that

THIS IS ONE OF THE FUNNIEST MOVIES EVER.
EVEEER!

Brian is the satirical Jesus, who happens to be born in the stable next to the Messiah’s. He is then thrust into a whirlwind world of Roman-haters, not-so-mute men and Messiah groupies, to name a few. Because of unlikely circumstances that mirror some of the events in Jesus’ life, a cult is built in his name. And you won’t believe how it ends. But I won’t spoil the fun here, you’ll have to watch it for yourself.

I just love Monty Python’s unapologetic humor. Their movies are intelligence and good old fun combined. And they’re not afraid to question the conventions and traditions.

And their scripts are terrific.

Brian: You don’t have to follow me! You are all individuals!
The Crowd: Yes, we are all individuals!
Brian: You have to be different!
The Crowd: Yes, we are all different!
Small lonely voice: I'm not!

Wise Man #1: Ahem!
Brian's mother: Oh!
[falls over in chair]
Brian's mother: Who are you?
Wise Man #2: We are three wise men.
Brian's mother: What?
Wise Man #1: We are three wise men.
Brian's mother: Well, what are you doing creeping around a cow shed at two o'clock in the morning? That doesn't sound very wise to me.

Reg: All right, but apart from the sanitation, medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, the fresh water system and public health, what have the Romans ever done for us?
Attendee: Brought peace?
Reg: Oh, peace - shut up!
Reg: There is not one of us who would not gladly suffer death to rid this country of the Romans once and for all.
Dissenter: Uh, well, one.
Reg: Oh, yeah, yeah, there's one. But otherwise, we're solid.

Ex-Leper: Okay, sir, my final offer: half a shekel for an old ex-leper?
Brian: Did you say "ex-leper"?
Ex-Leper: That's right, sir, 16 years behind a veil and proud of it, sir.
Brian: Well, what happened?
Ex-Leper: Oh, cured, sir.
Brian: Cured?
Ex-Leper: Yes sir, bloody miracle, sir. Bless you!
Brian: Who cured you?
Ex-Leper: Jesus did, sir. I was hopping along, minding my own business, all of a sudden, up he comes, cures me! One minute I'm a leper with a trade, next minute my livelihood's gone. Not so much as a by-your-leave! "You're cured, mate." Bloody do-gooder.
Brian: I'm not the Messiah! Will you please listen? I am not the Messiah, do you understand? Honestly!
Girl: Only the true Messiah denies His divinity.
Brian: What? Well, what sort of chance does that give me? All right! I am the Messiah!
Followers: He is! He is the Messiah!
Brian: Now, fuck off!
[silence]
Arthur: How shall we fuck off, O Lord?

Matthias: Look, I don't think it should be a sin, just for saying "Jehovah".
[Everyone gasps]
Jewish Official: You're only making it worse for yourself!
Matthias: Making it worse? How can it be worse? Jehovah! Jehovah! Jehovah!
Jewish Official: I'm warning you! If you say "Jehovah" one more time (gets hit with rock) RIGHT! Who did that? Come on, who did it?
Stoners: She did! She did! (suddenly speaking as men) He! He did! He!
Jewish Official: Was it you?
Stoner: Yes.
Jewish Official: Right...
Stoner: Well you did say "Jehovah. "
[Crowd throws rocks at the stoner]
Jewish Official: STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! STOP IT! All right, no one is to stone... anyone... until I blow this whistle. Even... and I want to make this absolutely clear... even if they do say, "Jehovah."
[Crowd stones the Jewish Official to death]

The movie was sort of a synthesis of everything I criticized about The Stories—oh hey, I’m agnostic, in case you were wondering.

It’s not for everyone, as it pokes fun at many religious concepts and at religion itself, but it’s something that makes you think. And that’s always a good thing. It’s satire at its best, even Ambrose Bierce would have been proud.

Ten Basic Myths and Truths

Myth: Her name is Roseann.
Truth: Her name is Marie Julianna Eleonore Rosalinde Florence-Guadiela Bashevis.

Myth: She speaks three languages.
Truth: She speaks six languages, namely: Filipino, English, French, Nadsat*, Newspeak**, and Turtle.

Myth: She is 18 years old.
Truth: In 1512 she beat Juan Ponce de Leon to the Fountain of Youth, and is in fact over 497 years old today.

Myth: She is a feminist.
Truth: She is the reincarnation of the Amazon Queen Penthesilea.

Myth: She is a Political Science major in the University of the Philippines.
Truth: She obtained a double major in Archaeology and Forensic Pathology from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 1991.

Myth: She is a Filipino Citizen.
Truth: She is half-Olorian*** and half-Ursa Minor Betan****.

Myth: She is a vegetarian.
Truth: While attending a Toltec ritual in Tula, she got into a heated argument with the soil fertility god Quetzalcoatl and has vowed ever since to solely devour plants for revenge.

Myth: She hates children.
Truth: She has a rare medical condition which makes her allergic to children within a twenty-foot radius, and long term exposure causes severe anaphylactic shock. This has led to 22 of her 31 near-death experiences as of 2009.

Myth: She is strong, independent, mercurial and neurotic.
Truth: She is nice, kind, sweet, forgiving, innocent, fragile and harmless.

Myth: She likes writing about herself in the third person.
Truth: Her alternate identity wrote this while she was talking with her turtles.

__________
*Nadsat: language invented by Anthony Burgess in the novel Clockwork Orange; most of the words are of Russian origin.
**Newspeak: language invented by George Orwell in the novel 1984.
***Oloria: Dimension between Narnia and Mordor, west of Oz. Accessible by tsunamis.
****Ursa Minor Beta: Headquarters of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. “It is a West zone planet which by an inexplicable and somewhat suspicious freak of topography consists almost entirely of subtropical coastline.” (Chapter 5, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, Douglas Adams)

This is how it sounds like in my head.

My French homework is about Geography, and we have to make these questions about geographical locations of countries. One question per person, so I have to pick a country. Of course I could be random but it’s nicer to have some sort of significance. So I go thinking about which country is significant, and for some reason Nepal enters my head. I’ve never been to Nepal, but I wrote about it once upon time because of an essay contest about Ramon Magsaysay Awardees. I didn’t win that contest, but I won another when I used the same material, a regional journalism contest, which then sent me to nationals, which made February of 2008 one of the most interesting months ever, but that’s a story for another time. Anyhoot. Nepal. There’s this doctor from Nepal who ended up with the award in 2007 because he cured people with eye diseases for free. I wrote about him because he had such an interesting life story, and also because I distinctly remember having no other freaking idea at the time. For the life of me I can’t remember his name now, which is sad, because I do owe the guy somehow. So this gets me thinking, besides its bordered by India and the Chinese Tibetan region, and its capital is Kathmandu, and that doctor guy, what do I know about Nepal? Zilch. So I look it up and I come across something more interesting than their flag. In 2001, their crown prince Dipendra shot to death the king and the queen. Then he decided to commit suicide and failed, and went into a coma. He died eventually, which made his uncle, of the ridiculously difficult name, king. So I think, there’s a really great story in this tragedy, and then it hits me. Somebody already wrote this! And the title is: Lion King. No, really. They thought Simba killed Mufasa, but it was actually uncle Scar who framed Simba, then Scar became king. So, what if Gyanendra Bir Bikram Shah (that’s the uncle) actually orchestrated this ala Lion King? So this also gets me thinking like, wow, for a kid’s story it actually had heavy material. And also is this one of those life imitates art things, and is there a psychological phenomenon here? Maybe uncle difficult name overdosed on Lion King? Maybe Disney has long term traumatic effects? You know they say Bambi is the most traumatic movie EVER? Maybe it made people convert into poachers, I don’t know. (Tangent: In Political Science there’s this term, “Disneyfication,” which is like McDonaldization, and they’re both what you think they are.) So anyway I figure I have to write a story about this, about the Nepalese Royal Massacre, not Bambi or whatever, just because it’s a brilliant scenario already. But I’ll do that after I actually finish that French homework.

Smoke

Unlit, orange and white, pencil-thin and three inches long, you watch as it is twirled on fingers with nails dirty and yellow. Your eyes travel to the arm, its prickly skin and little scars, focus on a red welt just above the elbow. Then you turn the other way when you see the drying gash on the thin, bare shoulder.

You are sitting in a jeep caught in the afternoon traffic. The man beside you reeks of the day’s work. Two women in front gasp, giggle and whisper. They pout their painted lips. An old man in the far corner sleeps even as music blares from the dashboard. A squat man in his thirties has on huge black headphones; the office woman beside him worries her cuticles. Coins rattle almost imperceptibly, the engine is idling, the heat threatens to suffocate. You look back at the seven-year old boy holding the cigarette.

He is in faded blue with the sleeves ripped off, his shorts brown and two inches too short. You see the spindly legs, the knobby knees, the feet caked with dirt. He sits nonchalantly on the curb. You see there are others around him, older but no better off. He twirls and twirls the cigarette until someone throws him a light. The match flares and smolders, the tip is lit. He takes a long slow drag.

You imagine his lungs shriveling into black pulps, his breath turning acrid, his teeth—are all of them even permanent?—becoming frighteningly yellow. You recall that cigarettes have 4,000 chemicals and 43 of them cause cancer. You try to remember the statistics of people who die from it. A film clip of dying lung cells plays in the corner of your mind. You wonder who gave him his first cigarette. Father? Mother? Brother? Sister? Stranger? You imagine him trying to quit, hands shaking, lids fluttering, until he cannot resist the pungent temptation. How young will he be then?

The word carbon monoxide flashes in red neon, then twirls itself into death, death, death. You imagine his eyes, veined and hopelessly worn in a future you are not sure he has, his lips cracked, fingers tar-yellow, hair brittle, as he coughs up blood.

You imagine the poison pulsing through his veins, hypnotizing his fledgling heart into submission.

He exhales, the traffic stirs. Your jeep drives away from the boy whose childhood is being stolen by a pencil-thin stick three inches short. And you do nothing but stare at the smoke.

A Short Story and (Bad) Love Poetry

Some people have read this before. But I just thought of posting it. Written circa junior year in HS, it happened to fit a CW requirement. :)

The night was cold as the wind rattled through the rafters and shingles of the houses near London’s East End. During days of trade or days of worship, the town turned into a restless marketplace with people of all professions and predilections. Nights, however, were almost deafeningly silent. The year was 1888, and it was the seventh day of August. The moon was full and bright, its beams illuminating the deserted cobble-stone streets. A lone wild bird circled stealthily overhead. The last of the panhandlers have retreated into the recesses of the side streets. It seemed an ordinary night, like any other night in England… but, as the clock struck twelve, a bloodcurdling scream resounded in the cold air. Then, as abruptly as it started, the scream faded back into the silence.

They found her body the next day, sprawled on the stairs of an inn called the Whitechapel. Her throat was slashed; her blood pooled around her like a macabre shroud. Her face was unrecognizable with the post-mortem swelling of the soft tissue. The bones of her nose were broken in perhaps three places; the side of her head was obtrusively caved in. But the sadism did not stop there—her belly was cut open with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. Her innards were exposed, yet her kidney was nowhere to be found. Stab wounds ran the length of her body, and, where there was no blood, there were bruises and horrible welts. It was without doubt the work of a bestial, merciless killer.
She was identified as Martha Turner, a scarlet woman. The police started an investigation right away… but it was all in vain. They could not find the cold-hearted murderer, and there were no witnesses. Day after day, the police combed the streets hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who bestowed such a grisly death to the unfortunate victim.

Or, at least they thought there were no witnesses. Someone saw everything… Actually, I saw everything. I watched as her throat was ripped open, I saw her struggling and begging for mercy. I was the one who gazed upon her futile attempts to escape the clutches of death. How, you ask? Because I was holding the knife that snatched her pathetic life away. I dragged her into her death… I did society a favor! I savored the moment that the light was extinguished from her helpless green eyes. I felt exhilaration as her ravaged soul escaped into the gloomy, gelid air, as only an angel of death could. Women like her do not deserve to live… They are the breeders of pestilence! They pollute civilization with displays of immorality... They are the unchaste, the unclean... they show no respect for themselves... and for what? Is it not to no avail? Surely, you must agree with my quest to purify the earth of worthless, libertine scum? Oh, je suis desolée, I almost forgot to say... my name is Jack the Ripper, and on that fateful night of August, I committed my first murder.

(Poetry Attempt 2. She should really stop making us write love poems. I suck, bigtime.)

In the chapel of my sacred art
The stage is black, one spotlight bare
The singer stands in the smoky beam
No other leaps to join her there.
The trombone leads the prelude’s note
The piano peals, Do-Re-Mi-Do
Her voice follows but falls short
The rhythm is lost on the soprano.
The chorus chants, their notes move
She looks up and tears at fugue
She sings the aria, strains her voice
She is a baffled ingénue.
Fast forward past the interlude
Tenor appears, out of tune
He hits a sharp, she sings furioso
The critic writes “Sang too soon.”
Second interlude, he offers a rose
Neglects to remove the sharp thorn
Her finger bleeds, the petals fly
The score pities not the forlorn.
Climax unfolds, neither understands
Sense fades from the libretto
The violin cries, the clarinet gasps
Two voices reach their false-etto.
The climax passes, tragedy done
The onlookers gaze on, upset
They try to make the most of when
Two solos do not make a duet.
The cello weeps, the snare drum sobs
The coda does Do-Re-Do-Mi-Do
The singers exit, voices asunder
As their hearts let the opera go.

Metisse!

Metisse!

Metisse est à propos de une femme, Lola, et sa grossesse. Lola ne sait pas le père de l’enfant, parce que elle a deux petit-amis—Jamal et Fèlix. Jamal est Muslim et noir, Fèlix est Juif et Blanc. Je pense Lola est Chrétien. Aussi, Jamal est le fils des diplomates pendant que Fèlix est... pauvre. Alors. C’est très, très amusant. Drôle et touchant. Je recommande celui-ci. Il a passé TV5Monde hier soir.

Realiser par: Mathieu Kassovitz (1993)
Avec Julie Mauduech (Lola), Hubert Kounde (Jamal), Mathieu Kassovitz (Felix).

CW 10 Poetry Assignment

Believe it or not, this is a love poem. And it's supposed to look like this-- the homework is all about the use of jargon to make a poem that "kind of makes sense."

In the impartiality of my opinions
I find the paradigm shift you
Away from my tyranny
Settling for Oligarchy
Waiting for Democracy
Forgetting that Monarchy
Is not as bad as it looks.
Are you aiming for a polity
Dismissing the Utopia
Of Marxism or Anarchy
Looking for equilibrium
In this unreasonable rapport?
Why was I Bourgeoisie
While you were Proletariat
And where was ideological Third Way
When I was Atomism
And you were Socialism?
But now you're Classic Liberal
And I'm hopelessly lost
In a sea of categories
And rationalization
And vindication
Of the incomprehensible.

Pensées Aléatoire

Vraiment? C’est 9 h 5 et je devenis folle. D’abord, ma main droit a brulé à la vapeur parce que l’eau a été très chaud. Ensuite, la même main a été électrifié par la prise de courant (ouverte, je n’ai pas vu!!!).

Enfin. La derniere semaine, jeudi je pense, j’ai vu le film Marie-Jo et Ses Deux Amours, a comme vedettes Ariane Ascaride, Jean-Pierre Darroussin, Gérard Meylan, Julie-Marie Parmentier, et Yann Tregouët. Le film a réalisé par Robert Guédiguian et sorti en 2002. J’ai regardé le film avec mon ami Mico qui a tout son temps, apparemment, l’étudiant de première année. Je plaisante!

Enfin encore, le film a été interessant. De quio ça parle? La vie de la famille de Marie-Jo et Daniel et la liaison de Marie-Jo avec Marco, un pilote. Le cadre a été Marseilles. Mon lieu préféré a été le piquenique sur la plage! Très gênant. Et quand Julie est arrivée en la maison de Marco pendant que sa mére a été la-bas. Il a été fin bizarre mais pas autant pour moi après l’article de la réaction.

Je l’ai ecrit en Anglais, bien sûr. L’article de la réaction en Français et pour Français 13.

Il y a un film Français, Martyrs (après la traduction). C’est trop bizarre! Mais j’aime la plupart de Marie-Jo et Ses Deux Amours. Il demande, pourquio fait-elle trompé quand elle est heureuse avec son mariage? Et pourquio sont-ils mourir? Encore, il a été fin bizarre.

Le résumé du site Web officiel:

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Ces deux amours sont impossibles à vivre. Il faut bien pourtant continuer.

La lame sur son poignet n'est pas une solution. Les saisons se succèdent, Daniel construit des maisons, Marco conduit des bateaux...

Et comme le soleil naît et meurt chaque jour, Marie-Jo a deux amours...

Sur le chemin des contrebandiers, un jour de pique-nique, Marie-Jo applique la lame d'un couteau sur son poignet.

Elle aime profondément Daniel, son mari, et aime aussi fort Marco, son amant.>>

Oh, voyez. Ce n’est pas très difficile maintenant, ecrire en Français. Bien que de temps à autre je veux abandonner... La grammaire est pas pour le coeur faible. Si j’etais couramment en Français écrire va aller vite. Je “saigne” toujours! Je plaisante.

Mes amis je ne fait pas écrire comme pour mon amusement. Je révisé pour l’examen long à mardi.

Publicité: Lisez le livre “Gem Squash Tokoloshe” par Rachel Zadok. Il est engageant étonnamment, et mémorable aussi. J’ai rêvé de Faith, le personnage principal. Elle a été une vie perturbant. Zadok écrit bien.