Why I Write

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Sun, 07 Apr 2013 13:22:18 -0400

Menachem Begin - From Rebel Fighter to Peacemaker

Sat, 09 Feb 2013 14:16:35 -0500

“The life of every man who fights in a just cause is a paradox. He makes war so that there should be peace. He sheds blood so that there should be no more bloodshed.” Begin, as a freedom fighter and as prime minister, realized that it was crucial to sacrifice land, and even lives, in order to achieve freedom and peace for the country he was so dedicated to.

Begin, who was born 1913, already began his Zionist activities at a young age in Poland, such as joining the Beitar movement, inspired by Ze’ev Jabutinsky. After moving to Israel, he became head of the secret freedom fighter group called HaEtzel, who fought against the British mandate in Israel. Although the Hagana was the official army of Israel with the country’s establishment, the Etzel ordered a ship full of weaponry to fight for their freedom. David Ben Gurion, as head of the Hagana, ordered the ship to be shot, but Begin ordered his men to surrender, insisting that it was against his views for Jews to shoot other Jews. By surrendering, he managed to avoid a civil war and show his love for his fellow Jews. Begin became involved in Israeli politics with the establishment of Israel, and was elected Prime minister and head of the Likud political party in 1977. During his term of office, Begin contributed greatly to Israel, mainly by signing the famous peace treaty with Egypt, and going against his extreme right wing beliefs by agreeing to sacrifice parts of Israel for the sake of a peace treaty. For this he was awarded the Nobel Prize for peace.

Begin had a very special personality. He always held on to his values and principles, although he was willing to sacrifice them for peace, and was very humble, honest and entirely devoted to Israel. Begin is an example of a Jewish leader, who dedicated his entire life to establishing and improving his country. Whether part of a guerilla freedom fighting group, or as prime minister, Begin understood that sacrifices were needed to be made if he was to fight for a just cause, which was how he was able to achieve his dreams and goals.

Paris

Tue, 04 Dec 2012 16:16:18 -0500

Paris

Paris – one of the most gorgeous cities in the world. During my stay in Paris in the summer, the usual stereotype of warm weather and short clothing was blown away by the cold winds and constant rainy weather that enveloped Paris. Paris, the city of lights, is the capital city of France, which is in Europe, and is full of contradictions. On one hand, the city is brimming with rich history and centuries old buildings, yet on the other hand, it is a giant metropolis with gleaming skyscrapers and modern sculptures. I’m happy to have been able to visit this glamorous trend-setting city, and realize firsthand how important Paris is to the whole world, as a leader in fashion, business, architecture and more.

Some of the most distinguishing features of Paris, in my opinion, are the cultural activities, the beautiful monuments and landmarks, and the French “cuisine” (kitchen). Paris is known for its amazing variety of museums, such as the Louvre, the museum of Rodin, the Dorsey museum, and more, and also for its gorgeous opera building. The most famous monuments and landmarks in the city are the Eifel tower (construction by Gustave Eiffel for the 1889 Universal Exposition), Arc de Triomphe (victory arch), the Notre Dame church, and more. As mentioned before, the Parisians take great pride in their French cuisine, and a short walk down any street in Paris reveals numerous restaurants and coffee shops, that sell delicious French pastries and food. The most dominant public transportation in Paris is the “metro” – an underground train that connects countless stations through an underground network of tunnels. Like most countries in Europe, it is usually cold and rainy in Paris, even during the summer. Short periods of rain during the day are very common, but the rain washed cobbled sidewalks and crisp cool smell of fresh rain are very enjoyable with a cup of steaming hot chocolate strait from the local Starbucks. Aside from the buildings and manmade structures, a wide river called the “Seine” snakes through the city, and is the main reason settlers first came to the area, because of the trade opportunities.

“Paris, je t’aime” – a phrase that has already been said by the millions of visitors who come each year to the city of light, and that translates to ”Paris, I love you.” Even from my short visit of two weeks in the city, I’ve already fallen in love with it. But I don’t think I fell in love with the city because of the art, the culture, or even the monuments. I think I fell in love with Paris because of the atmosphere, the language and the smells. The simple aroma of fresh coffee and warm pastries waiting to be eaten that wafts from the open doors of the many coffee shops in the area is enough to make me smile in delight. Words cannot describe abstract feelings, and the only way to really “feel” the city is to be in it, to walk the streets, to get to know every bohemian section, and every “petite” (small) bazaar in it. Only when one has really traveled the city, one can really love it, and I hope I’ll be able to visit this sophisticated and chic city again.

The world is burning. Great fires roaring around our house, spiting and spurting flames. The heat...

Sat, 04 Aug 2012 10:57:00 -0400

The world is burning. Great fires roaring around our house, spiting and spurting flames. The heat scorching my body & parching my throat, breathing black smoke with every breath instead of oxygen. Fires. Burning. Me. Mom, Dad & Bonnie are dead on the floor – the fire reached them first & tore their soles away from their bodies. Pain. Smoke, clouding my vision & clogging my thinking. Fires spinning around me, hissing & taunting, reaching out & licking my bare arms. Coughing. Have to get down, down, down, away away from the smoke. Tilting. The world tilting sideways, then back up again. Falling through the gaps in the burning floor, falling, falling… Pain. The monsters & devils of the fire laughing at me, laughing at my desperate attempts to save myself. Voices, calling me to come home after lunch. Mom setting the table for us, laying the chicken on the table & laughing at a story from Dad. I smile a secret smile to Bonnie. Because we both know that we will be together as a family. Forever.

Quotes and explanations from Macbeth

Sat, 19 May 2012 06:28:00 -0400

Blood imagery

“What hands are these…Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.”

In this quote, Macbeth is appalled and horrified by the blood on his hands from killing Kind Duncan, and says to Lady Macbeth that all of great Neptune’s ocean wouldn’t be able to clean the blood from his hands, because the blood would turn the ocean red. This quote is the blood imagery Macbeth uses in order to describe his hands after the murder, and how the murder itself affected him.

“Out damned spot! Out, I say…What, will these hands ne’er be clean…Here’s the smell of the blood still, all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.” (Act 4 Scene 4)

In this quote, Lady Macbeth is talking to herself while sleepwalking, and is overheard by a doctor and a gentlewoman. As she sleepwalks, Lady Macbeth confesses to the murders Macbeth and her committed. In this quote, Lady Macbeth is trying to wash her hands clean of the blood from the murders, but doesn’t succeed in doing so. Even all the perfumes of Arabia, she says, won’t sweeten the strong smell of the blood. Lady Macbeth uses this blood imagery to describe her guilt of murdering the king.

“…And such an instrument I was to use…and on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood…It is the bloody business which informs thus to mine eyes.” (Act 2 Scene 1)

In this quote, Macbeth is talking about the drops of blood on the vision of the dagger that he sees. Macbeth sees the “dudgeon gouts of blood” on the dagger, as a symbol for the “bloody business”of murder he is planning to commit.

Manhood imagery

“…(Lady Macbeth) And live a coward in thine own esteem letting ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would’…(Macbeth) I dare do all that may become a man…(Lady Macbeth) when you durst do it, then you were a man, and to be more than what you were, you would be so much more the man…” (Act 1 Scene 7)

In this quote,Lady Macbeth is scolding Macbeth for not “being a man”, and not being brave enough to do all in his power to gain his desire to be king. In order to goad him into committing the murder of Kind Duncan, Lady Macbeth appeals to his weakness of wanting to be brave

“(Macbeth)…Are you so gospell’d to pray for this good man and for his issue…you to the grave and beggar’d yours forever? (First murderer) We are men my liege (Macbeth) Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men…the valued file distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle…(Second murderer) I am one, my liege.” (Act 3 Scene 1)

In this quote, Macbeth is talking to the two murderers, who he is trying to goad into murdering Banquo and his son, by asking them if they are so holy and forgiving that would pray and forgive Banquo for ruining their lives, while they could be men and avenge their misfortune. He then goes on to describe the different types of men, and how there is one type of special and valued men, who the murderers would become if they would commit the murder. Macbeth knows the murderers want to be considered valued men, and therefore goads them by using their desire to become real men to his advantage.

“(Malcom) Dispute it like a man (Macduff) I shall do so, but I must also feel it as a man.” (Act 4 Scene 3)

In this quote, Malcom tells Macduff that he should take his family’s death like a man, and Macduff answers him that he shall do so, yet he must also grieve for them and feel it like a man. This quote proves the theme of manhood in the play, because it talks about how men should take serious and horrid situations - without showing any emotions or feelings.

Dramatic irony

“(Duncan) This castle hath a pleasant seat, the air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses (Banquo) This guest of summer…the heavens breath smeels wooingly here…the air is delicate.” (Act 1 Scene 6)

In this quote, Duncan and Banquo remark about the calm and sweetness of the air, and the nice feeling in Macbeth’s castle. This quote is an example of dramatic irony in the play, because while Duncan and Banquo are remarking about the warm and summery weather, we, the readers, know that meanwhile Macbeth is plotting Duncan’s murder, and that the atmosphere and weather don’t show the day’s true colors.

“…Why do you keep alone…using those thoughts which should indeed have died, with them they think on? Things without all remedy should be without regard. What’s done is done…sleek o’er your rugged looks, be bright and jovial…” (Act 3 Scene 2)

In this quote, Lady Macbeth is trying to lighten up Macbeth’s mood, by telling him not to think about Kind Duncan’s murder since it’s in the past, because she thinks he is still brooding over the murder, and is still ashamed and is feeling guilt and remorse for committing the murder. Little does she know that Macbeth has well forgotten about the previous murder, so much in fact, that he has already set into motion another murder. This quote is an example of dramatic irony, because we, the readers, know that Macbeth is planning another murder, while Lady Macbeth doesn’t, and therefore consoles him about Duncan’s murder.

“(First apparition)…”beware Macduff…(Second apparition)…none of woman born shall harm Macbeth (Macbeth) Then live Macduff, what need I fear of thee…(Third apparition)…Macbeth shall never vanquish until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill shall come against him (Macbeth)That will never be…” (Act 4 Scene 1)

In this quote, the witches show Macbeth three apparitions when he demands answers to his questions that their purpose is to lull Macbeth into a false sense of security, so that he will be ruined and defeated. This quote is an example of dramatic irony, because we, the readers, know that the witches want to ruin Macbeth (even Banquo warned him of the witches evil motives), but Macbeth doesn’t, and therefore believes the witches’ apparitions, which leads to his downfall.

Theme of “fair is foul”

“There’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face. He was a gentleman on whom I built an absolute trust.” (Act 1 Scene 4)

In this quote, Kind Duncan is reflecting upon the Thane of Cawdor, whom he had believed was loyal and trustful, yet had rebelled against him. Kind Duncan says that there is no way to know what someone is thinking based on their facial expression. This proves the theme of “fair in foul” in this play, because this quote shows us how the Thane seemed a gentleman on the outside, but was in reality a deceitful man, who was not loyal to his king.

“…look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.” (Act 1 Scene 5)

In this quote, Lady Macbeth is telling Macbeth to look welcoming and inviting to the king (whom they plan to murder later), yet be cunning and deceitful inside. This quote proves the theme of “fair is foul” in this play, because Macbeth is supposed to act in one way, to mask his true thoughts and feelings.

“False face must hide what the false heart doth know.” (Act 1 Scene 7)

In this quote, Macbeth says that his facial expression must mask his real desires, feelings and thoughts. This quote proves the theme of “fair is foul” in this play, because it shows that things aren’t always what they seem, and although they may appear in one way, they might actually be something else entirely inside.

“False face must hide what false heart doth know.” -William Shakespeare Some people are...

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 13:42:43 -0400

“False face must hide what false heart doth know.”

-William Shakespeare

Some people are just so talented!!! :(

tyleroakley: Perfect.

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 09:43:32 -0400

tyleroakley:

Perfect.

When I try to write Sometimes when I try to write, Nothing seems to come to mind. Ideas disappear...

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 04:56:00 -0400

When I try to write

Sometimes when I try to write,

Nothing seems to come to mind.

Ideas disappear from sight,

And words dissolve before my eyes.

Sometimes when I try to write,

Inspiration floods my mind.

Words and phrases materialize

And I write them quickly before

they ebb away once more.

I can never write with ideas thought of before-

My best work pops in my head while my pencil is poised

Over the endless clean page laid out before me

So full of possibilities.

Sometimes when I try to write,

My poems don’t come out right.

But every time I try to write,

I depict a new idea.

Writing is like painting Writing is like painting, The only difference being words instead of...

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 04:55:00 -0400

Writing is like painting

Writing is like painting,

The only difference being words instead of paint.

Writing is like painting,

Depicting ideas by phrases, words and poems.

Writing is like painting,

A means of beautifying an object or being.

Writing is like painting,

Where the writer is the artist.

"George Orwell Why I Write From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when..."

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 04:41:00 -0400

“

George Orwell

Why I Write

From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books.
I was the middle child of three, but there was a gap of five years on either side, and I barely saw my father before I was eight. For this and other reasons I was somewhat lonely, and I soon developed disagreeable mannerisms which made me unpopular throughout my schooldays. I had the lonely child’s habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life. Nevertheless the volume of serious — i.e. seriously intended — writing which I produced all through my childhood and boyhood would not amount to half a dozen pages. I wrote my first poem at the age of four or five, my mother taking it down to dictation. I cannot remember anything about it except that it was about a tiger and the tiger had ‘chair-like teeth’ — a good enough phrase, but I fancy the poem was a plagiarism of Blake’s ‘Tiger, Tiger’. At eleven, when the war or 1914-18 broke out, I wrote a patriotic poem which was printed in the local newspaper, as was another, two years later, on the death of Kitchener. From time to time, when I was a bit older, I wrote bad and usually unfinished ‘nature poems’ in the Georgian style. I also attempted a short story which was a ghastly failure. That was the total of the would-be serious work that I actually set down on paper during all those years.
However, throughout this time I did in a sense engage in literary activities. To begin with there was the made-to-order stuff which I produced quickly, easily and without much pleasure to myself. Apart from school work, I wrote vers d’occasion, semi-comic poems which I could turn out at what now seems to me astonishing speed — at fourteen I wrote a whole rhyming play, in imitation of Aristophanes, in about a week — and helped to edit a school magazines, both printed and in manuscript. These magazines were the most pitiful burlesque stuff that you could imagine, and I took far less trouble with them than I now would with the cheapest journalism. But side by side with all this, for fifteen years or more, I was carrying out a literary exercise of a quite different kind: this was the making up of a continuous ‘story’ about myself, a sort of diary existing only in the mind. I believe this is a common habit of children and adolescents. As a very small child I used to imagine that I was, say, Robin Hood, and picture myself as the hero of thrilling adventures, but quite soon my ‘story’ ceased to be narcissistic in a crude way and became more and more a mere description of what I was doing and the things I saw. For minutes at a time this kind of thing would be running through my head: ‘He pushed the door open and entered the room. A yellow beam of sunlight, filtering through the muslin curtains, slanted on to the table, where a match-box, half-open, lay beside the inkpot. With his right hand in his pocket he moved across to the window. Down in the street a tortoiseshell cat was chasing a dead leaf’, etc. etc. This habit continued until I was about twenty-five, right through my non-literary years. Although I had to search, and did search, for the right words, I seemed to be making this descriptive effort almost against my will, under a kind of compulsion from outside. The ‘story’ must, I suppose, have reflected the styles of the various writers I admired at different ages, but so far as I remember it always had the same meticulous descriptive quality.
When I was about sixteen I suddenly discovered the joy of mere words, i.e. the sounds and associations of words. The lines from Paradise Lost —
So hee with difficulty and labour hard
Moved on: with difficulty and labour hee.
which do not now seem to me so very wonderful, sent shivers down my backbone; and the spelling ‘hee’ for ‘he’ was an added pleasure. As for the need to describe things, I knew all about it already. So it is clear what kind of books I wanted to write, in so far as I could be said to want to write books at that time. I wanted to write enormous naturalistic novels with unhappy endings, full of detailed descriptions and arresting similes, and also full of purple passages in which words were used partly for the sake of their own sound. And in fact my first completed novel, Burmese Days, which I wrote when I was thirty but projected much earlier, is rather that kind of book.
I give all this background information because I do not think one can assess a writer’s motives without knowing something of his early development. His subject matter will be determined by the age he lives in — at least this is true in tumultuous, revolutionary ages like our own — but before he ever begins to write he will have acquired an emotional attitude from which he will never completely escape. It is his job, no doubt, to discipline his temperament and avoid getting stuck at some immature stage, in some perverse mood; but if he escapes from his early influences altogether, he will have killed his impulse to write. Putting aside the need to earn a living, I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. They are:
(i) Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen — in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all — and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.

(ii) Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.

(iii) Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.

(iv) Political purpose. — Using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.

It can be seen how these various impulses must war against one another, and how they must fluctuate from person to person and from time to time. By nature — taking your ‘nature’ to be the state you have attained when you are first adult — I am a person in whom the first three motives would outweigh the fourth. In a peaceful age I might have written ornate or merely descriptive books, and might have remained almost unaware of my political loyalties. As it is I have been forced into becoming a sort of pamphleteer. First I spent five years in an unsuitable profession (the Indian Imperial Police, in Burma), and then I underwent poverty and the sense of failure. This increased my natural hatred of authority and made me for the first time fully aware of the existence of the working classes, and the job in Burma had given me some understanding of the nature of imperialism: but these experiences were not enough to give me an accurate political orientation. Then came Hitler, the Spanish Civil War, etc. By the end of 1935 I had still failed to reach a firm decision. I remember a little poem that I wrote at that date, expressing my dilemma:
A happy vicar I might have been
Two hundred years ago
To preach upon eternal doom
And watch my walnuts grow;
But born, alas, in an evil time,
I missed that pleasant haven,
For the hair has grown on my upper lip
And the clergy are all clean-shaven.
And later still the times were good,
We were so easy to please,
We rocked our troubled thoughts to sleep
On the bosoms of the trees.
All ignorant we dared to own
The joys we now dissemble;
The greenfinch on the apple bough
Could make my enemies tremble.
But girl’s bellies and apricots,
Roach in a shaded stream,
Horses, ducks in flight at dawn,
All these are a dream.
It is forbidden to dream again;
We maim our joys or hide them:
Horses are made of chromium steel
And little fat men shall ride them.
I am the worm who never turned,
The eunuch without a harem;
Between the priest and the commissar
I walk like Eugene Aram;
And the commissar is telling my fortune
While the radio plays,
But the priest has promised an Austin Seven,
For Duggie always pays.
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And woke to find it true;
I wasn’t born for an age like this;
Was Smith? Was Jones? Were you?
The Spanish war and other events in 1936-37 turned the scale and thereafter I knew where I stood. Every line of serious work that I have written since 1936 has been written, directly or indirectly, against totalitarianism and for democratic socialism, as I understand it. It seems to me nonsense, in a period like our own, to think that one can avoid writing of such subjects. Everyone writes of them in one guise or another. It is simply a question of which side one takes and what approach one follows. And the more one is conscious of one’s political bias, the more chance one has of acting politically without sacrificing one’s aesthetic and intellectual integrity.
What I have most wanted to do throughout the past ten years is to make political writing into an art. My starting point is always a feeling of partisanship, a sense of injustice. When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art’. I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing. But I could not do the work of writing a book, or even a long magazine article, if it were not also an aesthetic experience. Anyone who cares to examine my work will see that even when it is downright propaganda it contains much that a full-time politician would consider irrelevant. I am not able, and do not want, completely to abandon the world view that I acquired in childhood. So long as I remain alive and well I shall continue to feel strongly about prose style, to love the surface of the earth, and to take a pleasure in solid objects and scraps of useless information. It is no use trying to suppress that side of myself. The job is to reconcile my ingrained likes and dislikes with the essentially public, non-individual activities that this age forces on all of us.
It is not easy. It raises problems of construction and of language, and it raises in a new way the problem of truthfulness. Let me give just one example of the cruder kind of difficulty that arises. My book about the Spanish civil war, Homage to Catalonia, is of course a frankly political book, but in the main it is written with a certain detachment and regard for form. I did try very hard in it to tell the whole truth without violating my literary instincts. But among other things it contains a long chapter, full of newspaper quotations and the like, defending the Trotskyists who were accused of plotting with Franco. Clearly such a chapter, which after a year or two would lose its interest for any ordinary reader, must ruin the book. A critic whom I respect read me a lecture about it. ‘Why did you put in all that stuff?’ he said. ‘You’ve turned what might have been a good book into journalism.’ What he said was true, but I could not have done otherwise. I happened to know, what very few people in England had been allowed to know, that innocent men were being falsely accused. If I had not been angry about that I should never have written the book.
In one form or another this problem comes up again. The problem of language is subtler and would take too long to discuss. I will only say that of late years I have tried to write less picturesquely and more exactly. In any case I find that by the time you have perfected any style of writing, you have always outgrown it. Animal Farm was the first book in which I tried, with full consciousness of what I was doing, to fuse political purpose and artistic purpose into one whole. I have not written a novel for seven years, but I hope to write another fairly soon. It is bound to be a failure, every book is a failure, but I do know with some clarity what kind of book I want to write.
Looking back through the last page or two, I see that I have made it appear as though my motives in writing were wholly public-spirited. I don’t want to leave that as the final impression. All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.
1946
THE END
____BD____
George Orwell: ‘Why I Write’
First published: Gangrel. — GB, London. — summer 1946.

”

- http://orwell.ru/library/essays/wiw/english/e_wiw

The Storm The wind howls, the lightning flashes, the thunder booms, the twilight storm strikes...

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 01:36:00 -0400

The Storm

The wind howls, the lightning flashes, the thunder booms,

the twilight storm strikes without mercy at all in its path.

The sea churns, the huge waves flood the shore and town.

The little girl sleeps silently and safely in her home.

And the wind howls, the lightning flashes, the thunder booms.

Now it is night, yet the storm thrashes on wilder than before,

summoning a gigantic tornado to ruin the town.

The sea is agitated, huge waves crash into the shore.

The little girl sleeps on, but the tornado sweeps her away into the night.

And the wind howls, the lightning flashes, the thunder booms.

Now it is morning and the storm is gone,

no more wind, thunder or lightning,

and the town goes on as before -

yet the lives it took won’t return.

And the wind howls, the lightning flashes, the thunder booms.

Two Birds Through the sky flew two birds- one was gloomy the other bright. On and on they flew in...

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 01:30:08 -0400

Two Birds

Through the sky flew two birds-

one was gloomy the other bright.

On and on they flew in light.

Yet once they entered a time of darkness,

The bright bird fought for freedom from her bonds, calmed by her happiness and love.

But the gloomy bird stopped mid-flight, unable to go forth,

and while the bright bird flew into sunlight once more-

the other never emerged.

The Seasons Spring Spring is a paintbrush coloring the world, Using blues and greens of joy and...

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 01:25:05 -0400

The Seasons

Spring

Spring is a paintbrush coloring the world,

Using blues and greens of joy and calm.

Summer

Summer is a lion full of power and energy,

Roaring and shaking the sun, his golden mane.

Fall

Fall is an angry man,

Shattering a stained glass window into shards.

Winter

Winter is the end of a bittersweet book,

Feeling sad and lonely and cold, for he is the end.

"anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn..."

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 01:23:20 -0400

“

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

- e.e. cummings

”

- http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15403

Based on "Anyone lived in a pretty how town" - e.e. cummings

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 01:22:00 -0400

Those who have all and those who have nothing:

In so small a town live those who have all and those who have nothing,

Those who have all are so busy while those who have nothing sit and wait.

When one dares with rules to disagree or beg for the things he has not,

He goes to the unspoken, scary cold floored dungeon for his unknown crime.

In this lonely jail only nothing can survive,

Except for two lovers so young, sorrowful beings, who wish for only the best.

Reach they from close together bars, touch each others frightened faces they long,

But the time-molded-metal firmly in its place stays.

No hope, no sunlight, no freedom, no fun. Only one joyful love keeps spirits up that down they go, retreating back to holes deep in the dark.

Only one old jailer thinks he knows of the love secret kept behind the old prison.

Thinks he help he can but can he not for he will not do such thing as stop his only work.

Lovers two, jailer wrinkled and old, world so frightful and so very cold,

Such a place you would in live?

Deep in dark jail, 140 and 141 room, cold small hands clasp bars,

And the wrinkled old jailer key takes out and bodies remove he,

That are to be with replaced those of Loe and Lae.

And small two lovers dumped in the local grave.

Sunset passes, new day starts, world of cold and pain goes on, and none of those who have nothing go against the rules and none beg. Everyone is afraid.

Pink and Small The house itself may not be magnificent, but it’s colors are: bright, pink...

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 01:03:00 -0400

Pink and Small

The house itself may not be magnificent,

but it’s colors are:

bright, pink walls that leave spots of vision in your eyes

Go against people’s expectations.

And so it happens that many a townsfolk comes to stare,

Their mouths gawking open,

Their eyes glued for hours

To those dazzling, chromatic, fuchsia walls

Of that small, humble house on Side Street.

The Need to Use Electronic Touch Readers (E.T.R) in Schools Around the World ...

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 01:01:38 -0400

The Need to Use Electronic Touch Readers (E.T.R) in Schools Around the World

Technology has progressed over time, in such a way that now it has reached a level that enables us to make a light weight, touch screen, electronic device. This device can be used as a reading device (regular reading or text books), a writing device (notebooks, organizers), a Wi-Fi connected device which enables the kids to search information on the internet, and more. I believe such devices are essential in schools for the following reasons:

Have you ever had to carry such a heavy backpack home that your back hurt? Or maybe you couldn’t even lift the pack at all! Such situations happen daily around the world. If packs become this heavy every day, they could harm the kids severally and cause spinal damage. Why should young kids be harmed and burdened with their packs? If we stop and think for a moment, we can see that the E.T.R is the perfect answer to this issue – As I mentioned before, the device is light weight and thin, therefore takes barely any space at all.

On one hand we have the weight of school books, while on the other hand we have the financial issues. Every year there is a need for new school books and material ranging from pencils to backpacks which tend to cost a lot of money. Twelve years of school means twelve years on which families have to spend huge amounts of money. Although the E.T.R might be expensive (I am hoping that the Ministry of Education will pay part of the funds), but it will cost nothing when compared to the price of buying school supplies and books from first until twelfth grade.

The E.T.R is also environmental friendly. What better way to help our planet than to stop cutting trees in order to make paper, textbooks, notebooks… The E.T.R is the answer to many of our environmental problems. Using a special pen, students can write on the device instead of on paper.

With so many advantages, the E.T.R proves to be the answer to schools around the world. With this device both the parents, the students and the teachers get what they want-a learning environment where everyone is happy.

My Year in Fads Watching Lost was on my mind from the begging of fifth grade and until Sukkoth,...

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 01:00:41 -0400

My Year in Fads

Watching Lost was on my mind from the begging of fifth grade and until Sukkoth, not to mention after I even finished all six seasons. I started sixth grade with silly bands covering my wrists, and once-in-a-while-writing diary entries. The musical Wicked accompanied me through my Bat-Mitzvah, and I felt as though I was “defying gravity” as I leaped into the pool with a splash. After that Lord of the Rings journeyed with me over the snowy mountains of Harry Potter books, jumped with me 4.00 meters across fields of lava and helped me get 95s in school tests. Whew! I wandered in a daydream thinking of New York for over a month, and I was over excited to see Broadway’s Wicked. And even though I was in New York for about four days, I funnily don’t remember eating a big apple. Back in Israel, thoughts of contact lenses whizzed inside my head as I ran 600 meters in 2.25 seconds-the second best in my grade. News paper articles collecting quickly followed as I saw Porgy and Bess, and “summertime” seemed to go on forever-no winter at all! Later, Neo freed my mind from the Matrix and showed me the real, shocking world by getting an 85 in geometry, my lowest grade ever! And now, when it is nearly time for half year report cards, hot actors and characters like Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, Neo and more are with me as I stumble through tests, homework, Devra work and more. So much has happened until now, and just to think that another year of hard school work makes me want to turn my anger into a harpoon and kill some big white whale. I don’t know who wouldn’t want to if they were me!

Inspired by e.e. cummings

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 00:56:42 -0400

Freedom

Freeeeeeedom, to me coming, takeoff as I from the ground,

The cool wind whooshesatme. Flying I am!!

All noise is growing fainter

and

fainter.

Days into nights and nights into days, I am away from the earth.

Come begging me to down, but airborne I stay.

Caught freedom I have, and I won’t let it escape once more.

Up above the sky is a different place, more fun a place.

A cloud-luscious area, a weather-moody area. And through it all

I zapzipzoop, all the way laughing. What fun it is to stay up here,

Freeeeee , forever.

"Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage..."

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 00:52:04 -0400

“

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

- Dylan Thomas

”

- http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377