In class on Tuesday myself and other group members voiced how we thought the authors of the poems we were discussing went to far in glorifying nature. One question raised was whether or not it was right for people to love nature on the same level they love other people. While talking with Professor Corrigan we came to the conclusion that we do have a responsibility of stewardship over God’s creation. However, many people take this too far and there are plenty of examples of people taking their devotion to nature to far. Some examples are PETA radicals breaking into department stores and throwing paint on the fur coats of rich old ladies, or crazy hippies living their lives chained to trees that are scheduled to be cut down. People can also go too far in the other direction wanting to cut down all the trees and build parking garages in their stead. Neither is a correct approach and moderation seems to be key to success.
Usually when nature is portrayed in poetry it is given a sense of nostalgia. A lot of people would agree with this associating nature as a simpler and more peaceful existence than the world we have built ourselves today. I however don’t buy into the idea that nature is full superior wisdoms and living a life highly in touch with nature is a better way of living. Not even the good old days were the good old days. Nature is harsh; people forget this because living with in civilization removes humans most often from the food chain. Perhaps we have lost some good aspects of life before industrialization took its hold over nature, but I enjoy living in a world where medicine and reliable food and shelter are available. I am aware that we are reliant upon nature for our own survival still today, but I still don’t think that we should assume that just because something is natural it is good. Dr. Davis illustrated this point in ethics class by saying “hug a cobra”.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Truth is Stranger than Fiction
The play An Enemy of the People is a story about a man, Dr. Thomas Stockmann who discovers that a Norwegian town’s water supply has become contaminated and is threatening the lives and business of the whole town. Through the play his struggles to convince the citizens of the town of the danger they are in. At first it seems many will listen to him when the newspapers and and many important people side with him. Slowly though, through a series of corrupt negotiations Thomas’ brother Peter uses his political leverage to sway the people over to his side. With the newspapers in his pocket Peter makes Thomas out to be nothing more than a trouble causer trying to destroy the town. The weak minded masses quickly buy up this story choosing to believe what is easiest for them.
While watching the play, An Enemy of the People, I was reminded heavily of our last presidential election. Afterwards I shared this with several other people who all said that was what had immediately come to mind for them as well. For me this is how I relate the characters to major players in the last election, first Dr. Stockmann represented Mitt Romney, the most intelligent candidate who actually had a plan to save a country. Peter Stockmann is very characteristic of Barrack Obama, he holds the opinion of the masses in his hands and is capable of manipulating the media to serve his own devices. No one really knows why they listen to him though. Alasken fits the role of Joe Bidden, he originally seems like he’s out to do the world some good but later severs his loyalties stabbing old friends in the back to side with Peter Stockmann. Finally, Captain Horster plays the role of John McCain. He is well intentioned and posses noble character but really isn’t cut out to lead the town in any capacity nor is he capable of changing their current situation. An Enemy of the People was accurately able to convey the real life absurdity of mob mentality and how corrupt political organizations can easily become.
While watching the play, An Enemy of the People, I was reminded heavily of our last presidential election. Afterwards I shared this with several other people who all said that was what had immediately come to mind for them as well. For me this is how I relate the characters to major players in the last election, first Dr. Stockmann represented Mitt Romney, the most intelligent candidate who actually had a plan to save a country. Peter Stockmann is very characteristic of Barrack Obama, he holds the opinion of the masses in his hands and is capable of manipulating the media to serve his own devices. No one really knows why they listen to him though. Alasken fits the role of Joe Bidden, he originally seems like he’s out to do the world some good but later severs his loyalties stabbing old friends in the back to side with Peter Stockmann. Finally, Captain Horster plays the role of John McCain. He is well intentioned and posses noble character but really isn’t cut out to lead the town in any capacity nor is he capable of changing their current situation. An Enemy of the People was accurately able to convey the real life absurdity of mob mentality and how corrupt political organizations can easily become.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Treasure Island
For the read your own book Presentation I choose to read Treasure Island. Part of my interest in it was that it has been depicted in film and television so many times and referenced by so many other works but I had never read the actually book. I really enjoyed reading and felt the author, Robert Louis Stevenson, creates an imaginative story full of adventure. Treasure Island begins with the story of Jim Hawkins, a teenage boy, who works in his family’s Inn. One day a man named Billy Bones comes and begins an extended stay in the family’s inn. Billy is constantly drinking and singing sea shanties but always has an eye open for other someone or something. As it turns out he is keeping an eye out for his old pirate crew. When the crew catches up with him they send a messenger to deliver him the ‘Black Spot’ marking his death. Shortly after Billy’s health fails him. Before dying he tells Jim that in his possession is a treasure map to the famous Captain Flint’s treasure. This map will lead Jim on adventurous voyage across the ocean to Treasure Island where he will battle mutinous pirates and meet many strange characters on his quest for riches.
After reading I decided to do some more research on my own about the story and about the author. I learned that Robert Louis Stevenson first began writing Treasure Island while on a family vacation. It was a rainy day and one of the people he was staying with drew a map. With that map started the story of Treasure Island and an entire adventure developed around it. Stevenson originally had his work published in a series of installments in a magazine. It was only later that the full story was compiled into the novel we have today. In reading Treasure Island it is easy to see its influence in many of today’s works of literature. It has many of the stereotypical pirate images coining things like ‘X’ marking the spot and the pirate with a peg leg and a parrot on one shoulder. Over all I would recommend reading treasure Island to others.
After reading I decided to do some more research on my own about the story and about the author. I learned that Robert Louis Stevenson first began writing Treasure Island while on a family vacation. It was a rainy day and one of the people he was staying with drew a map. With that map started the story of Treasure Island and an entire adventure developed around it. Stevenson originally had his work published in a series of installments in a magazine. It was only later that the full story was compiled into the novel we have today. In reading Treasure Island it is easy to see its influence in many of today’s works of literature. It has many of the stereotypical pirate images coining things like ‘X’ marking the spot and the pirate with a peg leg and a parrot on one shoulder. Over all I would recommend reading treasure Island to others.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Special Post
It was early, real early. The sun was just starting to come up. He didn’t want to get up but the ride was going to be long, long and difficult. He thought about shaving, but decided against it. It didn’t seem to make any sense. Who would be there to see him? Slowly he dragged himself to the closet, taking out faded blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt and putting them on. Last he laced up his boots and head for the door taking care to be quiet on the way out, so as not to wake anyone else. On his way to the front door he grabbed his old leather jacket draped over the edge of the railing in the foyer.
In the drive way was parked a 1957 Harley-Davidson Panhead. For years his friends had teased him about the old thing. There were newer, smoother running models, that didn’t leak oil like a sieve they said. Their foreign bikes were much lighter and could go much faster he’d been told, but that’s not why he rode. He rode for the freedom, the feeling of the open road and wind in his hair. Nothing compared to the feeling of the rough engine rumbling between his legs, the pipes in back thundering out as he tore up the road. Getting on the bike he kicked the starter once, twice and then the engine roared to life.
The weather was cool, the air was crisp and the leaves were just beginning to change. Under normal circumstances it would have been the perfect day for a ride through the mountains of New Hampshire. Today was different however, today he had knots in his stomach. His mind wandered. Some people just keep on taking, even after they are dead they the demand they place on your life only gets heavier. Why should he go to the funeral of someone who was never there for him? This question remained in his head as mile after mile of mountain highway flashed past him.
The pace began to slow as he took his next exit off the highway. He knew the course he was taking very well; he had traveled it many times before a long time ago. Now however the small town seemed strange to him. It wasn’t that the town had changed; it was that his place in it no longer existed there, being forfeit many years before.
Taking a left onto Elm St. he quickly slowed and then came to a stop. The little league field was on Elm St. and a game had just gotten over. A crossing guard stood in the road to let out all the cars from the game. He could hear all the children yelling and playing as their parents tried to get them into the cars to leave. Memories came flooding back of all the baseball games he had played before on that same field. Home runs and strikeouts, he was the star player on his team. Then it was cut short. No one was ever there to cheer for him, no one ever took him out for ice cream after wards. Images of a boy waiting for his dad to show up a long time after everyone else had gone home crept into his mind.
After being allowed to pass down Elm St. he took a right on to Washington and kept driving. He had never liked riding down Washington. Up ahead there was a car stopped in the road. As he got closer he could see that there had been an accident, a man leaving the Legion parking lot had pulled out with out looking and hit another driver. The damage wasn’t bad and no one appeared to be hurt so he kept driving. The Legion was where his father used to go to drink. When he was younger and his father was still around some, he would be sent down there to bring him home at night by his mother. As things got worse he would just stop coming home. By the time he was twelve it was normal for his father to show up drunk even though he didn’t live there anymore. He’d show up after long periods of time with no word at all, overly friendly, riding in like a returning champion. That would last until his mother realized he had come by, then the fighting started. Then as quick as he came he was gone.
He drove past Sycamore and planned on taking Lincoln St. to the Church. When he came to the end of the road where Washington met Lincoln he had to turn around due to road construction. The detour led back through Sycamore. Driving down Sycamore his jaw tightened. In the front yard of his old house a man and his son were tossing a football. He longed for that kind of relationship. He wanted it more than anything. It was for that very reason that he had never missed a single one of his own son’s hockey practices let a lone an actual game. He couldn’t imagine not being around to see his son grow up, it was for this same reason he had never had a drink in his life, It was why he went to work everyday and gave his best, working with all he had to keep a job even when times were tough, and why he was the man he was.
He pulled up to the church, the end of his long journey. Coming to a stop he put his feet down and the thundering of the engine cut out. Slowly he moved out the kickstand with his foot and dismounted. He walked slowly, slightly bowlegged from the long ride, up the stairs of the little white country church. The door creaked as he opened it slowly. No one was inside apart from an old man who was clearly dressed as the minister. A few people had sent small flower arrangements but not bothered to show up. None of it was surprising but it still caught him off guard.
There, in the front pew, all by himself, a hardened man sat alone, His face rough and unshaven, hair wild from the wind, the smell of exhaust on his clothes and sunglasses on his face. He sat quietly while the minister said what few words he had written, and mostly generic at that. A lone tear fell from underneath one of the dark lenses. When the minister finishes, where does he go from here? He lets out a deep breath and with it taking in the realization that forgiveness is like breathing, you can’t take the next breath without releasing what’s already inside you.
In the drive way was parked a 1957 Harley-Davidson Panhead. For years his friends had teased him about the old thing. There were newer, smoother running models, that didn’t leak oil like a sieve they said. Their foreign bikes were much lighter and could go much faster he’d been told, but that’s not why he rode. He rode for the freedom, the feeling of the open road and wind in his hair. Nothing compared to the feeling of the rough engine rumbling between his legs, the pipes in back thundering out as he tore up the road. Getting on the bike he kicked the starter once, twice and then the engine roared to life.
The weather was cool, the air was crisp and the leaves were just beginning to change. Under normal circumstances it would have been the perfect day for a ride through the mountains of New Hampshire. Today was different however, today he had knots in his stomach. His mind wandered. Some people just keep on taking, even after they are dead they the demand they place on your life only gets heavier. Why should he go to the funeral of someone who was never there for him? This question remained in his head as mile after mile of mountain highway flashed past him.
The pace began to slow as he took his next exit off the highway. He knew the course he was taking very well; he had traveled it many times before a long time ago. Now however the small town seemed strange to him. It wasn’t that the town had changed; it was that his place in it no longer existed there, being forfeit many years before.
Taking a left onto Elm St. he quickly slowed and then came to a stop. The little league field was on Elm St. and a game had just gotten over. A crossing guard stood in the road to let out all the cars from the game. He could hear all the children yelling and playing as their parents tried to get them into the cars to leave. Memories came flooding back of all the baseball games he had played before on that same field. Home runs and strikeouts, he was the star player on his team. Then it was cut short. No one was ever there to cheer for him, no one ever took him out for ice cream after wards. Images of a boy waiting for his dad to show up a long time after everyone else had gone home crept into his mind.
After being allowed to pass down Elm St. he took a right on to Washington and kept driving. He had never liked riding down Washington. Up ahead there was a car stopped in the road. As he got closer he could see that there had been an accident, a man leaving the Legion parking lot had pulled out with out looking and hit another driver. The damage wasn’t bad and no one appeared to be hurt so he kept driving. The Legion was where his father used to go to drink. When he was younger and his father was still around some, he would be sent down there to bring him home at night by his mother. As things got worse he would just stop coming home. By the time he was twelve it was normal for his father to show up drunk even though he didn’t live there anymore. He’d show up after long periods of time with no word at all, overly friendly, riding in like a returning champion. That would last until his mother realized he had come by, then the fighting started. Then as quick as he came he was gone.
He drove past Sycamore and planned on taking Lincoln St. to the Church. When he came to the end of the road where Washington met Lincoln he had to turn around due to road construction. The detour led back through Sycamore. Driving down Sycamore his jaw tightened. In the front yard of his old house a man and his son were tossing a football. He longed for that kind of relationship. He wanted it more than anything. It was for that very reason that he had never missed a single one of his own son’s hockey practices let a lone an actual game. He couldn’t imagine not being around to see his son grow up, it was for this same reason he had never had a drink in his life, It was why he went to work everyday and gave his best, working with all he had to keep a job even when times were tough, and why he was the man he was.
He pulled up to the church, the end of his long journey. Coming to a stop he put his feet down and the thundering of the engine cut out. Slowly he moved out the kickstand with his foot and dismounted. He walked slowly, slightly bowlegged from the long ride, up the stairs of the little white country church. The door creaked as he opened it slowly. No one was inside apart from an old man who was clearly dressed as the minister. A few people had sent small flower arrangements but not bothered to show up. None of it was surprising but it still caught him off guard.
There, in the front pew, all by himself, a hardened man sat alone, His face rough and unshaven, hair wild from the wind, the smell of exhaust on his clothes and sunglasses on his face. He sat quietly while the minister said what few words he had written, and mostly generic at that. A lone tear fell from underneath one of the dark lenses. When the minister finishes, where does he go from here? He lets out a deep breath and with it taking in the realization that forgiveness is like breathing, you can’t take the next breath without releasing what’s already inside you.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A Tale of Despereaux
In the past I have not enjoyed movie nights for other classes. It was nice to watch a film for a class that hadn’t out lived its time nor was archaic. Although the film version of A Tale of Despereaux was clearly intended to be marketed towards children I not only enjoyed the story as a whole and the way it was produced but many of the underlying elements and literary themes contained with in it.
The theme I most enjoyed seeing explored was characters overcoming who they were born to be. In our society we like to think that people are free to rise socially or economically but I often wonder if that is the case. Many places in the world it isn’t even an option. As a Christian this concept takes on new meaning. The idea that Jesus died in order for us to be able to be someone other than we were born to be is central to the Christian faith. It is very similar to the journey Roscuro makes; being born as a creature whose only option was to have evil tendencies. In the end he is given a shot at redemption and to step outside of who he was born as and play a more noble role in life. This same principle is also demonstrated with Despereaux, being born a mouse he was supposed to be afraid the whole world around him. He was even small in comparison to the other mice. Yet despite what would seem like his natural handicaps Despereaux proves that there is more to a person than his lineage and that no one is truly constrained by who other people think you were born to be, our destinies lie outside the hands of men.
The theme I most enjoyed seeing explored was characters overcoming who they were born to be. In our society we like to think that people are free to rise socially or economically but I often wonder if that is the case. Many places in the world it isn’t even an option. As a Christian this concept takes on new meaning. The idea that Jesus died in order for us to be able to be someone other than we were born to be is central to the Christian faith. It is very similar to the journey Roscuro makes; being born as a creature whose only option was to have evil tendencies. In the end he is given a shot at redemption and to step outside of who he was born as and play a more noble role in life. This same principle is also demonstrated with Despereaux, being born a mouse he was supposed to be afraid the whole world around him. He was even small in comparison to the other mice. Yet despite what would seem like his natural handicaps Despereaux proves that there is more to a person than his lineage and that no one is truly constrained by who other people think you were born to be, our destinies lie outside the hands of men.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Nana and Poppa's House
It was Sunday afternoon. Scott was spending it the same way he spent most Sunday afternoons, at his grandparent’s house for dinner after church. Scott was only six years old. He loved dinner at his grandparents largely because of how they spoiled him. No one made better cookies than Nana, no one. Even when he would grow up every time he would smell chocolate chip cookies it in the oven it would remind him of the many Sunday afternoons spent talking with his grandmother about school or what ever other activities he was involved in. After cookies and milk that followed dinner, Scott went into the living room to spend time with Poppa. Scott took out the old photo album from Poppa’s Navy days from under the coffee table, carried it over to Poppa and climbed up to sit in his lap. Sitting there listening to his grandfather’s stories one of his favorite things. His favorite stories were about World War II. Poppa started off as he usual did, “Have I ever told you about…” Scott answered “No, tell me”, even though he was pretty sure he had, it didn’t matter. Slowly Poppa began to talk about far off places, further than Scott had ever imagined the world stretched. The places in the stories seemed near magical. He looked wide eyed at all the photographs. It was difficult to believe the young man in the pictures was really his grandfather. The edges of the pictures were beginning to fray and crinkle. Although the image of the man was younger, the paper it was backed on was old and wrinkled the same as his grandfather’s skin. Poppa spoke softly and turned the pages slowly with his large rough hands. He smelled of Cherry Pipe tobacco. It wasn’t long before Scott began to tire, he yawned, the cookies and milk had taken their toll, then he fell asleep.
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