The Tell-Tale Heart

              Edgar Allen Poe is seriously one of my favorite writers. When you just get a craving for the macabre Edgar Allen Poe has got your fix. The Tell Tale Heart is one of my favorite, but The Raven is one that I literally know by HEART.

             Anyway, in the Tell-Tale Heart the narrator is truly insane. When you have to repeat to people or keep trying to convince them your not insane, your insane. But the narrator is an evil genius, well at least according to him. He murders the old man without a single visible drop of blood. When the police go around asking about the scream, what gets him to confess to what he has done is his madness. I know a lot of people say that it is not really guilt that gets him to confess but I think guilt may have played a tiny role in his confession. After all he actually liked the old man, it was just his evil eye that bothered the narrator. That is why he hesitated each night. Why it took eight days for the narrator to kill the man. All those other nights the man was asleep, the evil eye nowhere to be seen. On the eighth night, though, the evil eye made an appearance and that’s what drove the narrator to commit murder. For in some cultures the only way to get rid of the evil eye is to destroy it. But then after killing the old man the narrator could no longer see the evil eye. He just saw the dead old man and that’s when a little speck of guilt entered the narrators mind. This speck of guilt and the madness was what drove the narrator to confess.

And Now The Falling Stars

            Legends, myths, and just any sort of stories are created and then disappear. Such a story is that of Stardust. When one looks up at the night sky, mesmerized by the stars, and takes the time to just look, you have to make sure to count a hundred falling stars. Then while dreams shelter you from the outside world, stardust appears on your hair, bringing good luck and that which you most desire. Over time though, people have become preoccupied with other things, no longer looking up. No longer taking the time to breathe. Few know the story now and even those that know it, do not believe it.

            A light summer breeze encases around those still weaving through quiet Chicago streets. Curtains turn into waving colorful flags peeking out of open windows.

           With the clock just shy of midnight, while many ready themselves to escape into dreamland, Selene’s night has just begun. She gathers her lawn chair, a small bag that contains some snacks and a light blanket, a flashlight, and her telescope. She makes sure to have her keys, locks her door and walks toward the back of the little garden.

            It is the type of garden that has a certain magical quality to it. It is surrounded by a six foot wall, covered in miles and miles of curling vines. Some look as if they are reaching and waving towards the sky and defying gravity to do as such. Once Selene’s feet touch the watered grass, she smells the always comforting aroma of roses, cosmos, forget-me-nots, lilies, and the damp earth underneath her. The most magical part of the garden was the fact that once in the garden the sky opens up. It is as if you have been transported to another place. There is no evidence of ever being in the city. Millions of stars become visible and the only true light is borrowed from the silvery moon.

            Today the annual Perseids meteor shower will be making an appearance.

            Every year Selene convinces her parents to let her stay up to watch. Every year she falls asleep before her eyes have time to adjust to the night sky and be able to see the falling stars. She had been drinking coffee since the morning. She was becoming quite jittery.

            It was now one o’clock and Selene starts to assemble her telescope. It is nothing fancy. It had been a Christmas present from her eldest sister and she loved it. She does not know how to work it properly, but it would have to do. She prefers to just stare up and see how much her eyes can catch.

            A small movement caught Selene’s eye. The small rose bush rustles as if someone was trying to escape its thorny grasp. She quickly runs to retrieve her flashlight to see what was behind the bush. As soon as she turns on the flashlight a small, dark furry thing jumps out. A small scream starts to build up in her throat but before she has the chance to let it surface she realizes what it is. The neighbor’s cat, Skittles.

          “Skittles, you scared me. What are you doing here?”

           Of course the cat’s only response is to meow.

           It is a beautiful cat. Black fur with small white ear tips. Its eyes the same color of a lemon. It was a very playful cat and Selene always liked to have her around.

           With Skittles curled up on the lawn chair and two o’clock nearing, Selene aims the telescope towards the sky and waits for her eyes to adjust. At first the only thing to be seen is the speckled sky. Stationary stars and the moon. But then the smallest hint of movement and ribbons of light begin to appear. The view is truly spectacular. More and more frequently the stars travel their journey through the dark sky.

            She remembers a story her grandmother had once told her. A story about counting a hundred falling stars. She forgot most of the details, but she begins to count anyway.

            Selene stays up for the whole thing. Coffee had been a great idea even though she was a bit too jumpy.

            As the sun starts to streak the sky with pink, orange, yellow, and blue hues, Skittles and Selene lay nestled on the lawn chair. The chill of a new day wakes them up. The grass is covered in newly formed dew and birds sing their morning songs. She gathers her things, heads for home and collapses on her bed. Sometime between dreams of next year’s Perseids and summer days, shimmering hints of stardust cover her dark, ebony hair.

On The Reservation

Once the sky was filled with owls, fireflies, any other creature that could fly.

The Earth was loved and filled with life.

The ritual drums, every single heart, the owl's wings beat in unison. 

Thump-Thump Thump-Thump.

Every soul was free. Free to sing, free to howl, free to dance around the fire.

But then everything shattered.

There was fighting and shouting.

The earth, and every creature in it, held its breath, awaiting the next step.

They were rendered powerless and were forced to give up their wings.

No longer were they free to choose their song, their home, their dreams.

Now the land on which they stand is stained.

Sorrow holding tight to a corner in their hearts.

They were molded into the "perfect" creature.

The "civilized" creature.

But deep into their souls you can still see

their original, beautiful culture. 

Their hearts still beat in unison with the Earth and Life around them.

Thump-Thump 

Their spirits are immortal.  

             Ahhh Beat Street...yet another reason to look forward to 2nd period. When we first started watching Beat Street I felt........... actually I don't really remember how I felt all I was really thinking was that we were watching a movie and that I had no idea what Beat Street is.

             Well, Beat Street is EPIC. The break-dancing, the music, the graffiti... all of it is just a big pile of epicness. But then which 80's movie isn't? There is something about the 80's that just never ceases to entertain me. Specially if you have a mom like my mom. Someone who is always blasting 80's music and I just can't help but dance around the house with her. With music like this you just can't help but enjoy what the 80's have to offer. Something else that makes Beat Street so amazing is how the smallest things can make you laugh. THE FASHION. So disastrous yet so awesome.

             The only thing is that I can't seem to follow any sort of plot in this movie. It's a bit too all over the place. But I really don't think it matters. It's the type of movie that you can just sit back and enjoy. Can't wait to finish it and then re-watch it over and over.



           ^^^^^ My favorite part... so far.

Hungry For Attention

        Everybody needs attention. The teeniest amount of it can make a huge difference. But if we can't get it we usually go and find it not caring whether its because of something good or bad that we did. Usually it is something negative that we choose to do. Richard decides he wanted to see the curtains burn and although he said he did it out of curiosity, I think deep down he was looking to drive the attention toward himself. And of course he continues his quest to get attention. He kills the kitten. He runs away from the orphanage. He gets drunk and goes along with what the people in the saloon want him to do. Definitely not the best way to try to get attention but nonetheless his mother starts to pay attention to him.

        We need the most attention when we are just little tiny kids. I think that if we don't get attention early on, then that is when we start to crave it and don't care what it takes to get attention, be it bad or good. As little kids we need to feel that there is someone there that cares about us, that play with us, that listen and love us. 

As we grow older I think we don't need as much attention. Sometimes we wish to be left alone. I know I do. As we grow older we still need and desire attention but we are probably smarter in the way we react if we are not receiving what we think is the right amount of attention for us. Some seek the "good" attention in a healthier way.

         I don't think we necessarily need attention to survive but it is something nice to have. Probably something that keeps us sane. 

How Being an Immigrant Shaped My Life

  

After reading “How Being an Immigrant Shaped My Life” by Sonia Pressman Fuentes, there was one part of it that really stood out and that I can relate to.

"The dictionary says that to immigrate is "to come into a new country, region or

environment, especially in order to settle there." The operative word for me in that definition

is new. To immigrate is to come to a new country and to have new experiences. And, like

everything worthwhile in life, to be an immigrant is both a blessing and a curse.

 It's a blessing because it's challenging and exciting to do something new, something

different, something everyone else isn't doing. It's a curse because it's scary to embark on any

new activity. So to be an immigrant is to be continually caught in the tension of the

excitement of being an outsider to a society, and the stigma of being different from those

around you. To be an Immigrant is to constantly reflect on who you are, where you come

from, and how you are different from those around you. When you're an immigrant, you don't

really belong anywhere--and you're never really at home anywhere."

              When I read the part about being an immigrant is both a blessing and a curse I couldn’t help but reflect on this. I never really think of how I feel about being an immigrant. This surely got me thinking.
To me it is a blessing to be an immigrant because there is a sense of adventure. It’s like embarking on a huge, magnificent journey to a whole new place and I get a sense of adrenaline. It’s as if I am an explorer and there is this journey that can impact my life in a way that I could have never imagined. It is a blessing because a challenge is being thrown at you and it’s a challenge that you are willing to take. That you are willing to succeed in. It’s a blessing because you get to experience something that you would have never experienced if you hadn’t immigrated. You get to interact with people that you probably would have never had the chance to. You become multicultural and multilingual, which I think is one of the best parts.( I really love learning new languages.)

             But of course there is the “cursed” part of being an immigrant. Pressman-Fuentes does a good job at naming these curses. I think the first one for me is not being able to adapt well. Having difficulty learning the language. (Although, this is not really a huge problem anymore.) When my family watches home videos I can notice that when I was starting to speak English I would speak with a very thick Mexican accent. It seems to me that it can no longer be noticed but it definitely slips out sometimes. It is a curse because there is this tiny part of me that fears I might forget aspects of my native culture (I think my parents have helped in preserving some of these aspects so I should probably not be worried to loose them.)

            Another part of the paragraphs above that really struck me is; “When you're an immigrant, you don't really belong anywhere--and you're never really at home anywhere” This is true because when the mixture of two cultures are in you and you have embraced both, you don’t really know where you belong. You find yourself confused when it comes to defining “home.” Another reason why I agree with the quote is that I sometimes notice myself randomly saying, “I want to go home” when I am clearly in my house. So is home the place you are living in? The place you were born in? Somewhere else where you have not yet traveled to? or is there no home, am I just a “nomad”?

KING STILL KING!

                Martin Luther King, Jr., I would be willing to bet is someone that every person six years old (if not younger) or older in these United States knows who he was and most likely knows he “ had a dream.”
It is evident that he is still remembered and he will continue to be remembered. Someone who along with other great people fought for their rights will never be forgotten. The era of civil rights movement and the segregation that was the cause of this movement are a great part of the Unites States’ history, a bleak part, but one that truly impacted the course of American history.

                 Could these people have known just how much of an impact they would make? Could they have imagined that their actions would not only inspire their time and people but also future generations? Because of them and what they did, America has become a greater place.

                MLK’s dream has come true. At least for the most part it has. Most are “judged not by the color of their skin but, by the content of their character.” We still experience or see some racism today but definitely not as much or as extreme as it was during his time. The US has definitely come a long way from singing “ If you’re white you’re alright, if you’re brown stick around, if you’re black go back” to praising and singing songs about people like MLK and everyone who fought for their freedom.

                 I have always wondered, and I am sure I am not alone in this, would Martin Luther King be proud of how far the US has come along in the way people are treated? Would something have disappointed him? It is a shame that he is not alive still and cannot see just how much he, along with the other great freedom fighters, have impacted the way many people now live.