Author: hgr2020

HGR

Peace, but with a drumming heart! The darkness, in her nightly mercy, covers you; she hides you, her child, but can bear it no longer when the murder of the sun rises, so haste! She begs you with the churning of the stars. Out of respect, or fear, or both, you obey, but caution fills your head, lest the slither of grasses and molding of wind caress you in gentle betrayal.

You look apon her: your goal, your enemy. She is no gracious queen; trenches deep with hissing water, though now defeated, whimper at the comparison of her stones. They are bold, calloused, impenetrable, binded together by broken hands and weeping men whom families and funerals have long forgotten. Her spired crown encases her many eyes, and in their protection they survey the kingdom. The eyes loom over all, sans love—plus pride, plus hate, plus indignation.

It is from them you refuse their gaze to meet. And you shall not, because you have calculated. Waited. Hated. Thought. Breathed.

Silence.

Nothing.

Something.

HELL! 

It is your first thought when you snap upward toward its carved jaws—demon! Wrinkled, folded, bent towards you in perfect victory, crouching from the gate. Its hunched body, though in position for a pounced kill, knows its true infliction comes from within the deep, black infinity rested behind its teeth. From that infinity rises a slithering hiss, and from your heart: hopelessness.

And here it comes: the ooze, the shine, the glimmer. Brief beauty, dashed to shatters, by a single point upon your skin.

Pure, liquid hell seeps into your eyeballs and slithers down your throat. Disintegration flows into your very being, transforming you, becoming you. All you feel is hell. No, you are not there, not yet: the twisting burn will grant you no such mercy. No, there is no mercy, for this is religion pouring into your veins and replacing your blood. It searches, begging for your sins, clawing away at them in the passing of your bones, burning all till there is an absence of self, for your soul was deemed unworthy and it shall break you by the very kingdom you were built up. Under the mourning moon you disintegrate—not to ashes, but to pulp, as the nethlands pour from the heavens and boil you alive.

For this is the Roman Catholic Empire, and you have trespassed on holy ground.

“Mamaaaaaaaaa! OooooOooooOoooooo!” 

My muscles lifted and adjusted as I passionately mouthed the words.

“Sometimes I wish I’d never been born at aaaallll! Carry on, carry on!” 

Those dark lyrics, though laidened with dispair, filled me with glowing electricity as I finished my stretches. In the empty cold of my basement, I felt inspired to crank up Spotify as loud as I pleased, free from the annoyed repercussions of my family. Within the randomized selection, luck picked out for me one of my favorite choices.

“Anyway the wind bloooooowwwwwwss….”

The song was over, and so was my grace period. I put my back to the ground, allowed myself one final breath, and moved. Legs up, legs down. Stomach pulling, heaving, curling, realesing. Burning. Break. Thirty seconds. Breathe. Lift. Legs up, legs down.

“Can anybody find meeeeeeeeeeee?!”

I have a love-hate relationship with the pain. I love the gallop of red pulsing through my body, beating at every limb. I love the determination and power of it. I love the sense of crushing through it. But I do hate it.

“Ooooooo somebody–Ooooooh somebody–“

Done! My abdomine teared at the seams as it blew up and imploded with air. The chilled stone ground pressed into the back of my head. Dehydrated, gasping, and burnt, I pathetically attempted to sing.

”Can anybody find meeeeeeeeeeeee…somebody to loooooooooove?!” 

On to the next one. My legs, no longer lifting, we’re now folded in front of me, my feet firmly tucked underneath weights. I raised my back and slammed it on the ground. Lift, slam, lift, slam. But the pain was not located on my back–it was, again, applied to the weakened stomach. The burning continued. Temptation crept in. Then–

“All we hear is: radio gaga–radio googoo–“

I should have spent my thirty second break breathing; instead, I allowed myself to swing my raised arms in a simply silly dance.

”Radio gaga (clap clap)!”

I was energetic, but spent. Low on air, water, and food, I rolled back to my feet to start the final round. Stoopped down, my spine bent with the effort to reach relatively light weights. One in each fist, they paralleled my shoulders in position for the simple movements.

I calculated in my head. Maybe I would do less this time, I don’t want to hurt myself, it’s been awhile, why not just—

“Boom boom clap! Boom boom clap!”

A smirk slid into my lips.

“Buddy you’re a boy, make a big noise, playing in the street, gonna be a big man someday!”

Just what I needed: some cheesy old rock music.

HGR

HGR

Cover 22:

Claim: Eggs are an appropriate and fitting addition to the cover of The Great Gatsby. 

Argument: The eggs successfully relate to the content and advertise the book through sybolysym, context, and design.

Body:  1. Eggs suggest deviled eggs, a common hors d’oeuvre. The presence of hors d’oeuvres suggests wealth and plenty.

2. The rich yellow color has traditionally been used to depict gold, money, and happiness.

3. Eggs: something that could bring life, but ultimately failed to do so, evident by their presence at the dinner table. Daisey’s and Gatsby’s eyes in the yoke represent a dream that could have been, but ultimately died.

Conclusion: Eggs magnify the cultural, economical, and literary themes of The Great Gatsby and are an eggs-cellent choice for the cover art.

 

Cover 16:

Claim/analysis: This abstract cover uses visual subjectivity to create pathos.

Argument: the illustrator forgoes concrete imagery to show his/her personal view of Gatsby while captivating the audience.

Body: 1. The used of silhouettes and negative space as opposed to a fully illustrated cover allow the viewer to decide for themselves (and to their preference) what kind of person is being displayed.

2. The audience subjectively judges the cover; meanwhile, Gatsby subjectively observes the letter Y. This four es viewers to realize: Gatsby is thinking, just like they are.

3. The absent background and introspective subject of the cover cause the audience to think: Who is this man? What is he thinking? Where is he? The audience now feels a strong sense of mystery.

Conclusion: the illustrated utilizes abstraction, subjectivity, and pathos to draw customers toward The Great Gatsby. 

Cover 4:

Claim: illustrating the short story at the beginning of The Great Gatsby for the cover, rather than the main story, best represents the book.

Argument:  The short story illustration showcases the theme of the book, rather than the story, and is advertised toward the seasoned, acedemic-reader.

Body: 1. The short story showcases the main theme of Gatsby and sets the tone for a doomed romance. And so, to showcase the whole book  the illustrator chose the scene from the short story in which a man swims in the water as his crush on a boat approaches him.

2. The cover advertises to an audience that has already read the book. Because of the sort story’s obscurity, the acedemic audience will be drawn to the cover, remembering its stark definition and literary importance.

Conclusion: The start of Dexter, not the story of Gatsby, advertises best to educationally inclined fans of the book.

Cover 6:

Claim: The illustrator uses symbolism and exposition to showcase the book.

Argument: The symbols important to Gatsby are presented to customers as the main elements for understanding the story, which creates interest.

Body: 1. The illustrator artistically presents important symbolism in the book. This causes the audience to wonder what the symbols could mean, creating interest.

2. Exposition is used so that the reader finds themselves searching for what is showcased on the cover as they read, urging them to continue till the end and reminisce when they see the cover again.

Conclusion: the symbols shown expositionally interest customers, even after they have bought the product.

HGR

Days become reflections, facing each 24-hour period until you can’t see the end of the rectangular maze, because it is pure, unhinged infinity staring you in the dead eyes. Your sticks move beneath you, bending at the branch; the engine inflates and compresses, forcing hydraulics into your skin sack,  pumping you up and down like a balloon. You hunch, twist, shout—but the one thing you have left to your control, your mind, is stagnant.

Life rolls on. You are but a toiler, your task being to continue as light stretches its same path again and again. You mustn’t faulter, you mustn’t stop: the expectations, in their great power, press into your pores, commanding your unable body to preform. With each discrepancy the pressure builds, and you wade into it faster, not by your own choice, but by some boiling instinct within you that cannot survive without it.

The strings apon your hand clack, the tendons within your back tremble and slump.  You are embraced by black, an embrace so warm it magnifies your discomfort. There is a trapped luminescence hanging over the plateau. It slices through the embrace, allowing the connection between your hands and eyes to strengthen.

It incourages you. You muse to yourself: the expections, though mighty, have no power over you; who are they to command you? Mere ghosts that you have convinced yourself of reality. So, exorcise them! And finally, sleep.

They have come for you. They are here for you. Wolves in the night, they race. The engine pumps. Fingers flash, eyes dash, bones stiffen! So what can you do but run, because the time is on your back and it becomes heavy as it thins and stagnancy imprisons you to watch with burning eyes as everything tumbles to the bottom of a hill you have built up for a year out of tears and sweat and unhappiness all for nothing and it will crumble beneath your feet in the moonlight if you dare to stop don’t you dare stop. 

Your sagging eyelids raise to find your lamp on your desk, still glowing in the deepening night. You sigh and continue your work.

 

HGR

My NHS application, in my opinion, was subpar; absent from the pages were staggering columns of listed clubs and after-school activities. So my real chance to get accepted lies within my “character essay.” I have mixed feelings about this one: it was either bold and unique, or it missed the mark entirely. Either way, I hope you enjoy reading. Here it is:

The Good Secret

     I tried to write this essay. I did. But I could not, and would not, without the familiar tug in my chest. I tried to ignore it; I always do. Letters pounced from my fingertips, punching off black text. But these words were written in false inspiration as my mind oozed onto the page, clogged by guilt. And so the pattern ensued: type, tug, type, tug, type, tug.

     So I will not write this essay.

     Mind you, I will, of course, write, but it will not be the character essay you have asked for. This is because I have decided to tell you nothing. I will not give you “specific references and anecdotes” in description of my character. I will not tell you how I fulfill “each of the four pillars that define National Honors Society Members.”

     But my rebellion is not without purpose; and neither was the tug. For you see, guilt is a lamppost to me as I walk through the murky paths of choice, and I will regard that light with respect. That light has revealed to me this truth: that to tell you of my do-wells according to the pillars would crumble them entirely. For these pillars are built upon the foundation that service is selfless, not to assure oneself of one’s own moral achievement. That would be folly.

     Service must be done with noble intent. If a man were to give to someone in any form of good deed, how odd would it be for that man to tell his giftee that, “I am only being kind to you in order to feel good about myself.” Most would consider that foolish! But imagine how happier would that same man would be if, despite great inconvenience, he poured out what little he had in true submission to another human being.

     We know this. So why have we taught students differently? Why have we been taught to flaunt our generosities and list them on a paper? It has contributed to a spirit of competitiveness, fueling this young generation to only be kind in the presence of eyes.

     And so, it is my belief that when anyone does kindness, it should be, whenever possible, cloaked in secrecy. And it is by this strategy that one receives an even greater reward than they intended; for to give in secret generates a satisfaction far deeper than pride, which only runs through shallow waters. The satisfaction is this: that you have done something truly good—not in the vain efforts to indulge in the self, but to bring up another.

     So I will not tell you of the gifts I have given, besides this piece of advice: give in secret, so that by doing good, you will be good.

     

 

 

Rub your eye. Blink. Stay awake. This is due in less than two hours. Don’t stop now. Get this done soon, and you can get a full seven hours of sleep. True, that is not enough compared to eight or nine hours; however, it is something. Keep writing. Stop drifting. Stay focused. It’s not that late. Time is an illusion. Plenty of teenagers stay up doing work; why should you get the luxury of getting to sleep at a reasonable hour? Besides, it’s not the late. I already said that. Oh well. This is my brain in the night.

Does this writing suck? Probably. But what choice do I have? It’s 10:40 right now. It’s too late to create something beautiful.

Oh, there you are, old friend guilt. You know I can do better. But consider this: what would my parents think? They have always promoted the idea of plenty of sleep for a growing body. Plus, I’ve got another school day ahead. I have to be prepared for another day at school tomorrow.

Then again, my parents continuously stress the idea of working with excellence…

Keep writing. Don’t slow down. It’s 10:45. Five minutes have passed. Keep up a fast pace. You haven’t reached 300 words yet…

Bare minimum? Really? Is that all that I am capable of? What about your teacher and all the blood, sweat, and tears she pours into your education? And all you give her back is some first-draft, speed-written barf-in-a-blog?

Now hold on there. I’m working, aren’t I? If I wasn’t trying, I wouldn’t have said something as clever as ‘barf-in-a-blog’—see? You just used illiteration (a rhetorical device), and some really fancy punctuation work.

Come on. You’re impressed with your punctuation? Look at those contractions! Shame! That is no way to write an essay! And you only used the — because you know your teacher thinks it looks good in scholarly articles! That is no way to create art! 

Would you look at that. 327 words, increasing. And it’s only 10:55.

Nice time management, right?

 

My blogpost is quite late. Also, I am still recovering from a miserable sickness. Though I usually have a desire to practice writing on this blog, today it felt like just another chore to get done.

HOWEVER, you can imagine my surprise when I saw me, yes me, staring back from the screen! But there I was. In the portrait, I am crafted from rich ink, colored with the harvested vision of deep oceans and twilight skies. I am supported by what seems to be mere lines, but lo, these are the foundations on which I walk the tumbled earth, so my two-dimensional body can face all adversary. My arm is raised in greeting to welcome my allies. I am weaponized with a towering smile, the most powerful weapon in the war that is life. Also, my hair is fabulous!

I was so excited to read Shoutout to Hannah that I almost read it too fast. I had to read the first sentance twice! With confidence, I can declare this essay was the best compliment of my writing I have ever received! It gave me, what I would like to call, that fantastic fuzzy feeling; a mixture of joy, gratefulness, warmth, and…..AAAH! (“AAAH,” is an emotion that cannot be described without a vocal onomatopoeia.) It makes me never want to stop writing!

HOWEVER, there is a problem! (Gasp!)

For an unknown reason, WordPress is glitching. Everything works fine, but it is glitching just enough that I cannot find any of the author’s names! I do not know who wrote the blogpost! 

And so the blog has become shrouded in mystery. The author, I can assume, is a woman. She is a maiden cloaked in kindness, hidden behind the fairy lights of her computer screen. With grace and poise, she dances from phrase to phrase; diction is her dancefloor, and we are all merely her audience. Her lips are sealed with a smile, imprisoning her benevolent secret.

Whoever you are, you goddess of good-deed, I thank thee! May you never cease your wordly spells!

It is with great inspiration and eagerness that I come to you today. In the past hour, I have constructed what I consider to be a beautiful monstrosity that must be shared with the world. That monstrosity, in all its glory and elegance, is known by a better name: chocolate.

In the past, I had previously discovered a recipe for self-crafted chocolate that satisfied me; but alas, this was during the time when that foul villain coconut oil was considered an angelic substance. When the secret of the oil’s 90% saturated fat content was released, the masses, in their innocent nievity, neglected this information; I among them. But with new-found maturity, have sought for a replacement fat that would aid my body, and today that search had ended. Avocados have been gifted to me, to which I show no reluctance.

So the avocado, dressed in its dark rode, made its presence known to me, for which I embrassed it with open palm. Its green flesh overpowered the vein-clogging properties of the coconut oil, and so made its way into the heavenly mix that is chocolate. Here are the components:

• One whole avocado
• Half a cup of cocoa powder
• a capful of vanilla
• 4 tablespoons of honey (or more to your preference)

Call, by the mighty power of your lungs, the ingredients to you; draw them close, and let them know of your steadfastness. Then, in a fiery burst of betrayal, throw them all into the iron jaws of a food processor. The avocado should be the first to go for its thick body takes longest to be murdered into a fine pulp. Throw the rest in as a family, and spare no pity for your edible companions, as they were foolish enough to trust you. You may desolve the mixture currently in the hell that is your stomach, or you may store it in the machanical tundra for an hour to complete the solidifying process.

And that is how one makes chocolate, not from the meadows of your kindness, but through unhinged destruction. For chocolate is not for the faint of heart; if it is true that man is what man consumes, then I am dark and bitter, but with a hint of sweetness, for my small stature and chubby cheeks shall betray me to such an impression. But, dearest brothers and sisters, do not fear the darkness, for is will make you strong. The deep of the cocoa powder will fortify your heart for the trials and tribulations. For truely I say to you, the day shall come when the pillars of the earth crumble beneath your feet and death shall be your lover, but you shall mirthfully laugh, riding on the wings of heart health gifted to by your decadent creation. No longer shall your tears lie on the shoulders of friends. No longer shall the musings of young lads crumble your mind. You, being rooted and grounded in chocolate, shall be immortalized in all the ways of the spirit, for your heart shall be strong.

I recomend snacking on chocolate in between meals to boost your metabolism. It is also made vegan, for your health.

 

Tomorrow, on January 22, I turn 17 (yay!). So, instead of writing you a normal essay (in which I usually write something very arty-farty), I will write 17 lessons/peices of advice I have learned in my (almost) 17 years of living. Mind you, a lot of these I still struggle with and do not follow, but have nearly found to be little nuggets of wisdom I have noticed in my life. Furthermore, they are in no peticular order of importance; pick and choose whatever you like the most to remember.

1. When doing homework, take breaks. I used to think that the most efficient way of working was to plow through non-stop. However, I quickly discovered that I would become tired, slow, and half-hearted in my efforts. Taking 10 to 20 minute breaks keeps you focused and energized.

2. Take care of your body. Salads do not taste as good as pizza and exercising hurts, but you will feel AWESOME afterward. Tip: do not start exercising by running for 10 miles and doing 100 squats. You will die. Start small, then work your way up.

3. My great-grandfather survived WWII, raised four girls, and climbed across long,  rocky beaches into his senior years. His advice? Chocolate is “healthy for you” and ice cream is “good food.” He lived to be 94.

4. Spend time with your family. For a lot of my education, I was homeschooled. This meant that I spent a lot of time with my two brothers. I am so thankful that we are still friends and enjoy each other’s company as teenagers.

5. Things that seem mediocre now will become nostalgic later.

6. Like what you like. Confession: I like (cringe) emo music. And alternative. And flannel. And coffee. And art. Gosh darn it, I’m an accidental, stereotypical, arty-hipster-teenage-girl. Oh well. It’s better to shamelessly enjoy what you like than crumble under socialital pressure.

7. When making any work of art, whether it’s writing, performance, or visual, throw rules out the window. The old writing masters like Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, or Shakespeare never studied the rhetorical devices (sorry, Ms. Durkee). They just wrote, straight from the heart, and people loved it! (Disclaimer: if a certain Mr. Arenstam or Ms. Durkee tells you to use your vocab and rhetorical devices, please don’t be a butt. Follow the rules.) 

8. Homework is hard. But imagine doing your homework, reviewing all of your classmate’s homework, personally writing comments on their homework on how they could do better, and re-telling them what the previous lesson was about because they were not paying attention in class. Teachers do all this on a daily basis. Be respectful, and turn in your work on-time.

9. Try to see your parent’s side of the story. Parenting is really hard work, and no one is perfect at it. Be respectful.

10. Sometimes, homework forces us to stay up past our bedtimes later than we prefer. However, it is still important to get at least eight hours of sleep. When I get sleep-deprived, my schoolwork suffers, creating a vicious cycle of staying up late to do homework, then working slowly the next day, forcing me to stay up and do homework…

11. Drink more water!

12. Spend time with your pets! They are so excited to see you at the end of the day. To your dog/cat/fish/etc., you are a superstar!

13. It is okay to make mistakes. Really. If you are reading this, chances are you are still growing. Growing up takes a lot of mistakes.

14. Pens are better than pencils. Their markings are always visible. and the feeling they give when they glide across a page is buttery and smooth. Plus, you do not have to resharpen them or to erase anything. What if you make a mistake, you ask? Did you not just read number 13? 

15. When your friend is venting, try not to give advice. People have the inherent desire to help, but sometimes the best way to help is to just say nothing.

16. Crying is good for you! It is ok to cry, even if it’s over spilled milk. But…

17. Try to be positive! Spilling milk sucks, but you can get yourself another glass later.