Charles stood in front of the congregation giving his sermon. This was his favorite part of the service. He loved to look out at everyone in the congregation. The adults would all watch intently, except for the few whose eyes were slightly glazed—they would spend of the rest of the day begging forgiveness whether he told them to or not. The children would sit quietly, their eyes drifting from one spot on the back wall to another, trying desperately to entertain themselves without getting in some sort of trouble. Every now and then a sound would radiate through the silence of the congregation. Heads would not move, but eyes would shift. Movement would be seen rarely, usually a mother or father hitting their son to be quiet as he tried to whisper the name of the young girl in front of him without notice. He would not bother to deny that he did not take his pastoral duties as seriously as many of the other reverends in the Puritan church. This fact did seem to distress a few of the older members of the church, but only a few. The rest seemed somewhat relieved to have a reverend who was not forcing things down their throats every sermon. Being a rather soft spoken man with an even softer heart, Reverend Charles Harris felt no need to truly scold someone unless they had truly done something wrong. Having lived in Hawley Village his entire life, he could contest to the faith, good will and honesty of any man there. Even though born sinners, he has little doubt that every person in the village held a place in God’s city. As he finished his sermon he looked finally at Christina, as he often did, almost as though searching for approval. She sat in the front row alone, staring blankly into the wood before her.
Slowly people stood to leave, moving silently out of the church, waiting until they were down the steps to scold their children for being so noisy. Charles went into the back room to remove his robes while Christina remained in the front pew waiting. She ignored the glances of the other women. If she ever heard her name spoken in conversation, she attributed it to paranoia and convinced herself she was no t hearing it at all. After all, Puritans don’t gossip. Relief flowed through her when the door to the back room finally opened and her husband emerged. She saw his eyes following some of the town’s members as he walked toward her, the smile in his eyes gone. He sat beside her.
“Christina—” he began just above a whisper.
She closed her eyes, bowing her head.
“I need to go see the Lawrence family before we leave for Andrew Blakely’s home. I’ll be home relatively soon.” He stood and left her sitting quietly in the pew, alone once again.
01 June 2010
31 May 2010
Meeting the Prince
The sun shone a bright, warm light on his cold, pale face. He dared not open his eyes, knowing what pain would befall him to expose them to the light from which they had been hidden for a time so long. He felt the soft grass rustle between his spidery fingers. He listened for the wind—this was his mistake. The sound of dripping water and the moans of people in pain snapped him away from his dream. He opened his eyes to the nothingness of darkness that awaited him. An ache pulsed through him as he sat straight in his stone throne. The excitement of his title, “prince,” had long since worn off, leaving only the rage of rebellion and a longing for warmth rushing through his icy veins.
A long table appeared before him, covered in foods so wonderful he could only have dreamt of them. A screech of nails called the workers to the meal. He stared longingly at the meal as the crazed humans rushed in, their bodies mere skeletons. They fought over chairs and dishes, shouting at each other in rage and envy, each wishing they could have what was on the plate of the one beside them. He watched in a sort of pitied awe as each of them tried failingly to feed themselves with the long-handled fork. Every rare occasion, one of them would figure out to feed the person across themselves and the warm light would fall upon them, causing the others to scream in fright and pain. He would merely close his eyes, hoping to feel just a flicker of the warmth. Most nights, however, the workers would each gradually give up and sit at the table until it would disappear. As the table disintegrated from sight and the newcomers clawed hopelessly at the dissolving food, chains would appear around their ankles and he would lead them to their cells, locking each cell with a silver skeleton key, promising them they would be released soon and let to be with Him—a lie that far less than few of them believed until the Silver Tongued Prince let it slip from his cold, black lips. Anything seemed possible when he said it.
He walked down the stone hallway, ignoring the skeleton hands that reached out to touch him, wanting merely physical affection.
Entering the doorway hidden by the shadow of his throne, he removed the black cape that rested on his shoulders, and arched his back, unfolding his black wings. They would hang in sorrow, broken and bleeding, as he stood, his head bowed in an aching tire, never looking up at the bleeding heart before him.
A long table appeared before him, covered in foods so wonderful he could only have dreamt of them. A screech of nails called the workers to the meal. He stared longingly at the meal as the crazed humans rushed in, their bodies mere skeletons. They fought over chairs and dishes, shouting at each other in rage and envy, each wishing they could have what was on the plate of the one beside them. He watched in a sort of pitied awe as each of them tried failingly to feed themselves with the long-handled fork. Every rare occasion, one of them would figure out to feed the person across themselves and the warm light would fall upon them, causing the others to scream in fright and pain. He would merely close his eyes, hoping to feel just a flicker of the warmth. Most nights, however, the workers would each gradually give up and sit at the table until it would disappear. As the table disintegrated from sight and the newcomers clawed hopelessly at the dissolving food, chains would appear around their ankles and he would lead them to their cells, locking each cell with a silver skeleton key, promising them they would be released soon and let to be with Him—a lie that far less than few of them believed until the Silver Tongued Prince let it slip from his cold, black lips. Anything seemed possible when he said it.
He walked down the stone hallway, ignoring the skeleton hands that reached out to touch him, wanting merely physical affection.
Entering the doorway hidden by the shadow of his throne, he removed the black cape that rested on his shoulders, and arched his back, unfolding his black wings. They would hang in sorrow, broken and bleeding, as he stood, his head bowed in an aching tire, never looking up at the bleeding heart before him.
30 May 2010
The Little Town
The carriage ride came to end much later than I wanted it to. I was sick of sitting down and I was very happy when the Small Faced Man came to help us out of the carriage. A tall man came up to Lady Kate and welcomed her to the Little Town. He asked who her companions were, looking over us with a curious glance. She said we were her nieces. I didn’t know I had an aunt, so that news was especially surprising to me. The tall man then asked about the Small Faced Man, looking him over with an almost angry glare. Lady Katie dismissed him as being only her driver. She changed the subject quickly, saying something about somewhere to stay and a place to put the girls. It was all very confusing. My older sister kept tugging at my sleeve, I brushed her off. I don’t understand what could possibly be so fun about tugging my sleeve that she insisted on doing it so much.
She stopped when Lady Kate came over by us. She and the Small Faced Man led us into the Little Town. They walked us down the road to a very little house. The Small Faced Man opened the door and held it for us as all of us ladies walked inside. As he was moving Lady Kate’s bag inside, Lady Kate took us around to find us our room.
It was a small room, but I supposed it would do. We didn’t seem to have much other option; this game was taking us in a very strange direction. I didn’t like it very much. I usually shared a room with my younger sister, so it wouldn’t be very different from home- although the room we shared at home was so much larger.
She stopped when Lady Kate came over by us. She and the Small Faced Man led us into the Little Town. They walked us down the road to a very little house. The Small Faced Man opened the door and held it for us as all of us ladies walked inside. As he was moving Lady Kate’s bag inside, Lady Kate took us around to find us our room.
It was a small room, but I supposed it would do. We didn’t seem to have much other option; this game was taking us in a very strange direction. I didn’t like it very much. I usually shared a room with my younger sister, so it wouldn’t be very different from home- although the room we shared at home was so much larger.
29 May 2010
January 1st 2008
January 1st 2008
Dear Diary,
I officially declare you my dream diary. In here, I will record all of my dreams… or at least the parts I remember.
A group of people and I were at a water park and we were having fun. Then, it’s time to leave, and my mom makes me get into my Christmas dress. I don’t want to, but I do it anyway.
Then I woke up for a little.
I’m at a retreat camp and I hear that there was a plane crash and a boy in my class was killed. I see my friend’s mother putting the box holding his ashes into the water and think about how cool that is that he was buried where he died. The plane had crashed into the lake area of the retreat camp. There were a lot of gruesome details, such as the fact that he died because he was run through with a broom stick that a chef was holding, and that the plane crash would otherwise not have killed him. But I think I really just thought it was cool because he got to be buried in the water—essentially. The rest is a blur, until I’m sitting in the auditorium, watching the musical. I suddenly feel like something isn’t right. Then, everyone on the stage dies, I run down to the stage, and there is green goop all over the sheets of music sitting on the music stand. I’m desperately trying to get it all out, but I can’t. Finally I think, “Oh duh!” and I find the word God in all of the sheets and pull the goop off of the word, and in doing so, pull out the word. And everything stops. Then my sister walks in and I say, “You have to see this.” I rewind it the way you would a movie. When it begins to “play” again, I’m sitting by this guy wearing a red cloak (who I had seen earlier) and his son, also wearing red. The son looks at his father and says he’s bored. The father pulls out a gun-like thing and pulls the trigger. Everyone on the stage cringes, covering their ears. He walks down to the front and sits in front of a kid on the stage. The kid, if I remember correctly, was Sam Xiao. Sam is shouting at him to stop and that if he doesn’t they would explode. The guy says he knows, and after a really long time, Sam explodes. I frantically search for the word God, and when I find it, I hit it repeatedly with a red slingshot/hammer thing until it’s destroyed and the word God isn’t there anymore. Everything stops.
Then I woke up.
Dear Diary,
I officially declare you my dream diary. In here, I will record all of my dreams… or at least the parts I remember.
A group of people and I were at a water park and we were having fun. Then, it’s time to leave, and my mom makes me get into my Christmas dress. I don’t want to, but I do it anyway.
Then I woke up for a little.
I’m at a retreat camp and I hear that there was a plane crash and a boy in my class was killed. I see my friend’s mother putting the box holding his ashes into the water and think about how cool that is that he was buried where he died. The plane had crashed into the lake area of the retreat camp. There were a lot of gruesome details, such as the fact that he died because he was run through with a broom stick that a chef was holding, and that the plane crash would otherwise not have killed him. But I think I really just thought it was cool because he got to be buried in the water—essentially. The rest is a blur, until I’m sitting in the auditorium, watching the musical. I suddenly feel like something isn’t right. Then, everyone on the stage dies, I run down to the stage, and there is green goop all over the sheets of music sitting on the music stand. I’m desperately trying to get it all out, but I can’t. Finally I think, “Oh duh!” and I find the word God in all of the sheets and pull the goop off of the word, and in doing so, pull out the word. And everything stops. Then my sister walks in and I say, “You have to see this.” I rewind it the way you would a movie. When it begins to “play” again, I’m sitting by this guy wearing a red cloak (who I had seen earlier) and his son, also wearing red. The son looks at his father and says he’s bored. The father pulls out a gun-like thing and pulls the trigger. Everyone on the stage cringes, covering their ears. He walks down to the front and sits in front of a kid on the stage. The kid, if I remember correctly, was Sam Xiao. Sam is shouting at him to stop and that if he doesn’t they would explode. The guy says he knows, and after a really long time, Sam explodes. I frantically search for the word God, and when I find it, I hit it repeatedly with a red slingshot/hammer thing until it’s destroyed and the word God isn’t there anymore. Everything stops.
Then I woke up.
28 May 2010
Notes on Pessimism
Pessimism is certainly not the worst condition a person could have. After all, what is pessimism but a severe case of idealism? If you look at all of the other things that you could have, be it schizophrenia or cancer, pessimism looks pretty dang good. I suppose I’m more here to talk about idealism- how it causes pessimism, anyway. It’s an interesting enough topic, and I find it consuming many of my moments of thought.
This is the time at which I would love to talk about the origins of idealistic study: in 1736, a man named…; however, there really is no history to idealistic study. If I were to tell you that idealistic study began with me, I would probably be wrong. On that same note, I would probably be wrong to say it began with any other specific person. Honestly, I think about idealism just about as often as Plato thought about the four elements- in other words, enough to be a philosopher on the subject.
Idealists, in the early stages of their career are upset very often and very easily. This is not to say that once they pass this early stage that they are never disappointed or upset, but the caliber of these feelings is significantly lower with each passing day. Idealists envision the world as it “should” be (according to their perspective). This includes all matter of subjects; ranging from world peace, to health care reform, to the number and gender of children. What I have just described is what many people would call “woman.” Anyone who takes the description I just wrote and tags it as “woman” deserves to die. Many women are what I like to call “romantics.” There is a key and important difference between idealists and romantics, which I will try and remember to discuss later on.
Perhaps the problem with idealists is that they see world as something that is totally and completely logical, when in fact the world is created with anything but logic. Yes, the evolution of creatures is a fairly logical process, but it is mastered by the environment- which, might I remind you, is completely unpredictable. If something is unpredictable, we can hardly call it logical. As such, idealists are often disappointed with what they encounter in the “real world.” And thus, a pessimist is born.
What I find most miraculous is when an idealist remains an idealist and yet does not become a pessimist. The questions of fate, freewill and luck suddenly become more than questions, but actual thoughts with processes that form and alter with time and study. Being an idealist and a pessimist myself, I find it highly unlikely that these people are lucky, but rather that they are naïve- they simply don’t realize that nothing works out the way it should.
Now, as promised, I shall discuss the difference between a romantic and an idealist. It is true that many idealists are romantics, but a romantic is not necessarily an idealist- kind of like how a square is a rectangle but a rectangle is not a square. Romantics have an idea in their head as to what should happen in the world, however, they do not rely quite so much upon the successful happening of these ideas. While a romantic will look at a situation and see what should happen, an idealist looks at a situation and sees what must happen. Idealists fill their theories with logic and reason while romantics simply have the ideas. Essentially, romantics are people who think idealistically; idealists are people who live idealistically. The result is one group that is mentally happy and another that is mentally disappointed.
Pessimism is not always a bad thing. In fact, pessimists are more fun to surprise because they are so thrilled by the fact that something in the imperfect world in which they are forced to live made them happy. Pessimists are not people suffering from depression, they are more similar to people with depressive personalities. I know, the difference seems hardly noticeable, but it is a crucial one. The point is, if you have a friend who is a pessimist and they seem to be having a bad day, don’t treat them they way you would someone who is suffering from depression, as you are more likely to cause the depression than cure the depressive feeling that may or may not have been there to begin with. The best way to deal with a pessimistic friend is to treat them like any other friend. What a concept, right? Who would have thought that we would be just like regular humans too?
Be careful where you step, young one. The water is only shallow for so long.
This is the time at which I would love to talk about the origins of idealistic study: in 1736, a man named…; however, there really is no history to idealistic study. If I were to tell you that idealistic study began with me, I would probably be wrong. On that same note, I would probably be wrong to say it began with any other specific person. Honestly, I think about idealism just about as often as Plato thought about the four elements- in other words, enough to be a philosopher on the subject.
Idealists, in the early stages of their career are upset very often and very easily. This is not to say that once they pass this early stage that they are never disappointed or upset, but the caliber of these feelings is significantly lower with each passing day. Idealists envision the world as it “should” be (according to their perspective). This includes all matter of subjects; ranging from world peace, to health care reform, to the number and gender of children. What I have just described is what many people would call “woman.” Anyone who takes the description I just wrote and tags it as “woman” deserves to die. Many women are what I like to call “romantics.” There is a key and important difference between idealists and romantics, which I will try and remember to discuss later on.
Perhaps the problem with idealists is that they see world as something that is totally and completely logical, when in fact the world is created with anything but logic. Yes, the evolution of creatures is a fairly logical process, but it is mastered by the environment- which, might I remind you, is completely unpredictable. If something is unpredictable, we can hardly call it logical. As such, idealists are often disappointed with what they encounter in the “real world.” And thus, a pessimist is born.
What I find most miraculous is when an idealist remains an idealist and yet does not become a pessimist. The questions of fate, freewill and luck suddenly become more than questions, but actual thoughts with processes that form and alter with time and study. Being an idealist and a pessimist myself, I find it highly unlikely that these people are lucky, but rather that they are naïve- they simply don’t realize that nothing works out the way it should.
Now, as promised, I shall discuss the difference between a romantic and an idealist. It is true that many idealists are romantics, but a romantic is not necessarily an idealist- kind of like how a square is a rectangle but a rectangle is not a square. Romantics have an idea in their head as to what should happen in the world, however, they do not rely quite so much upon the successful happening of these ideas. While a romantic will look at a situation and see what should happen, an idealist looks at a situation and sees what must happen. Idealists fill their theories with logic and reason while romantics simply have the ideas. Essentially, romantics are people who think idealistically; idealists are people who live idealistically. The result is one group that is mentally happy and another that is mentally disappointed.
Pessimism is not always a bad thing. In fact, pessimists are more fun to surprise because they are so thrilled by the fact that something in the imperfect world in which they are forced to live made them happy. Pessimists are not people suffering from depression, they are more similar to people with depressive personalities. I know, the difference seems hardly noticeable, but it is a crucial one. The point is, if you have a friend who is a pessimist and they seem to be having a bad day, don’t treat them they way you would someone who is suffering from depression, as you are more likely to cause the depression than cure the depressive feeling that may or may not have been there to begin with. The best way to deal with a pessimistic friend is to treat them like any other friend. What a concept, right? Who would have thought that we would be just like regular humans too?
Be careful where you step, young one. The water is only shallow for so long.
27 May 2010
Louisa Carpenter
Louisa Carpenter exited the church, ignoring the whispering from the women who had apparently been more focused on the reverend’s wife than the reverend’s words. Having grown up in a much stricter Puritan town, she was surprised by the lack of discipline among the adults. Gossip was hardly tolerable.
She was barely four steps out the door when Edward Porter appeared at her side, asking permission to escort her home. She accepted and almost smiled as she saw the disappointment that crossed over the face of Joseph Hale. Every day the two men seemed to race to her: eager to escort her to wherever she was headed.
Edward Porter was a man of 22, with significantly worse prospects. He had extremely strict views, very similar to her own--not that he would ever know such a thing. She was a woman and therefore had no opinion of anything as far as he was concerned. But he was a nice enough man and did show sincere interest in her. She was quite convinced that he would be capable of caring for her. But she did not wish to be cared for.
Joseph Hale was 20 with fairly good prospects. He was the youngest of three sons and very much in need of some property to attain, as one of his older brothers was sure to receive their family’s land upon his father’s passing. He had virtually no opinions on anything, and rarely ever spoke—no doubt due to his lack of opinion. He showed keen interest in Louisa but didn’t seem to even try giving her a reason as to why she should consider him at all.
Louisa and Edward walked down the slightly winding dirt road to her home. She had listened quite honestly fascinated to Edward’s ranting for the first five or so minutes of their slow walk, but was now beginning to doze in her attentiveness. Her mind wandered away from Edward as they came into view of the house that was hers. The house was large for just her and the land was even larger. The home had belonged to her father until his death when it was signed to her in his will. He had been assuming that she would soon receive an offer for marriage. The assumption was not unwarranted. In fact, she thought it remarkable that after two years of courting and no parental consent required that neither Joseph nor Edward had proposed. But it was well enough. She wasn’t sure that she’d actually ever accept either one of them. They were walking through the fields that surrounded her house when a man about 2 years older than Edward standing in currently barren the field. He seemed surprised to see them at first.
“Mr. Clay,” Edward said somewhat snobbishly, “were you not a service?”
“Indeed I was, Mr. Porter. I came right here afterwards. It is planting season now, and Miss Carpenter can’t be expected to do it all herself.”
“No, I would imagine not. However, I am sure she could find suitable workers herself.” He puffed his chest a bit as though to imply that, had Miss Carpenter been given the chance, she surely would have asked him to do it instead.
“I did ask Mr. Clay to do it, Mr. Porter,” Louisa said rather pointedly.
She was barely four steps out the door when Edward Porter appeared at her side, asking permission to escort her home. She accepted and almost smiled as she saw the disappointment that crossed over the face of Joseph Hale. Every day the two men seemed to race to her: eager to escort her to wherever she was headed.
Edward Porter was a man of 22, with significantly worse prospects. He had extremely strict views, very similar to her own--not that he would ever know such a thing. She was a woman and therefore had no opinion of anything as far as he was concerned. But he was a nice enough man and did show sincere interest in her. She was quite convinced that he would be capable of caring for her. But she did not wish to be cared for.
Joseph Hale was 20 with fairly good prospects. He was the youngest of three sons and very much in need of some property to attain, as one of his older brothers was sure to receive their family’s land upon his father’s passing. He had virtually no opinions on anything, and rarely ever spoke—no doubt due to his lack of opinion. He showed keen interest in Louisa but didn’t seem to even try giving her a reason as to why she should consider him at all.
Louisa and Edward walked down the slightly winding dirt road to her home. She had listened quite honestly fascinated to Edward’s ranting for the first five or so minutes of their slow walk, but was now beginning to doze in her attentiveness. Her mind wandered away from Edward as they came into view of the house that was hers. The house was large for just her and the land was even larger. The home had belonged to her father until his death when it was signed to her in his will. He had been assuming that she would soon receive an offer for marriage. The assumption was not unwarranted. In fact, she thought it remarkable that after two years of courting and no parental consent required that neither Joseph nor Edward had proposed. But it was well enough. She wasn’t sure that she’d actually ever accept either one of them. They were walking through the fields that surrounded her house when a man about 2 years older than Edward standing in currently barren the field. He seemed surprised to see them at first.
“Mr. Clay,” Edward said somewhat snobbishly, “were you not a service?”
“Indeed I was, Mr. Porter. I came right here afterwards. It is planting season now, and Miss Carpenter can’t be expected to do it all herself.”
“No, I would imagine not. However, I am sure she could find suitable workers herself.” He puffed his chest a bit as though to imply that, had Miss Carpenter been given the chance, she surely would have asked him to do it instead.
“I did ask Mr. Clay to do it, Mr. Porter,” Louisa said rather pointedly.
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