Hehehe. Slap-happy right now.
Earlier today, I all of a sudden got Tim Burton's "This is Halloween" from The Nightmare Before Christmas stuck in my head. Cannot wait until December to record the movie on my DVR! *huggles dearest Jack Skellington*
Anywho, I thought I'd go ahead and post the brilliantly creepy lyrics (which are epic to sing, by the way). Hurray for October morbidity! I think I'm going to create a monster playlist now... Maybe I'll post it later. :P
Boys and girls of every age
Wouldn't you like to see something strange?
Come with us and you will see
This, our town of Halloween...
This is Halloween, this is Halloween
Pumpkins scream in the dead of night
This is Halloween, everybody make a scene
Trick-or-treat 'til the neighbors gonna die of fright
It's our town, everybody scream!
In this town of Halloween
I am the one hiding under your bed,
Teeth ground sharp and eyes glowing red
I am the one hiding under your stairs
Fingers like snakes and spiders in my hair
This is Halloween, this is Halloween
Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween
In this town we call home,
Everyone hail to the pumpkin song
In this town, don't we love it?
Now, everyone's waiting for the next surprise
'Round that corner and hiding in the trash can,
Something's waiting now to pounce, and how you'll
Scream! This is Halloween,
Red 'n' black, slimy green
Aren't your scared?
(Well, that's just fine)
Say it once, say it twice
Take a chance and roll the dice
Ride with the moon in the dead of night
Everybody scream, everybody scream!
In our town of Halloween...
I am the clown with a tear-away face
Here in a flash and gone without a trace
I am the "who" when you call, "Who's there?"
I am the wind blowing through your hair
I am the shadow of the moon at night
Filling your dreams to brim with fright
This is Halloween, this is Halloween!
Halloween! Halloween! Halloween! Halloween!
(Halloween, Halloween..)
Tender lumplings everywhere,
Life's no fun without a good scare
That's our job, but we're not mean
In our town of Halloween
In this town, don't we love it now?
Everyone's waiting for the next surprise
Skeleton Jack might catch you in the back, and
Scream! like a banshee
Make you jump out of your skin
This is Halloween, everybody scream!
Won't you please make way for a very special guy?
Our man Jack is king of the pumpkin patch
Everyone hail to the Pumkin King now!
This is Halloween, this is Halloween!
Halloween! Halloween! Halloween! Halloween!
In this town we call home,
Everyone hail to the pumpkin song
La, la, la, la-la (....)
Friday, October 21, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Nightmare
Had a series of nightmares yesterday morning. Pretty shaken up. I found the last one to be particularly upsetting, so I attempted to write it down in order to come to terms with it. Honestly, I'm not sure if it helped. In any case, here's my scribbled account of the dream. Maybe I'll come back in a few days and post an interpretation of it.
* * * *
I find myself in a new dream, although later I am unable to recall exactly where one dream ended and the next began. I am seated in a basketball stadium. It is well-lit, and not as large as, say, Rupp Arena, but large enough in my own mind. I am not really paying attention to the game, but I do enjoy soaking up the exciting aura of the crowd. I become aware that some of the fans sprechen Deutsch. What’s more, I find that I can understand snatches of their conversations, and I spend the next few minutes translating their small talk with fascination.
The basketball stadium is in Germany, I realize, though a tourist-friendly section; many are also speaking English. I am thoroughly enjoying myself, when I see several uniformed Germans enter the stadium. A sense of clarity comes over me. I immediately gather up the five or six children in my care (I was not previously aware of their existence; now they are all I can think about). I lean in and whisper in their ears.
Children, I say in English. We must hurry away from here. They nod. Their anxious little eyes dart toward the soldiers.
We quickly exit the building. I fear that the Nazis (another flash of insight deems them to be so-- terribly stereotypical, I know) will be upon us in a moment. I have absolutely no lucidity at this point. I am not even aware that I am dreaming, which is a major departure from my usual dreaming patterns. As such, I am at the complete mercy of my dreaming self.
I tell the children that we must leave the country. My stomach sickens as I realize how far it is to the border, but I try not to let my hopelessness show. One of the children, a little boy of about five that strikingly resembles a younger Tyler [my brother], protests that he will never be able to travel that far. Another child (this one a girl of about ten) snaps back that she’s not going to be the one to carry him. It would only deplete her strength, and then they’d both be dead. Two of the other young children join the Tyler-child’s pleading. The older children complain, unsympathetically, that the younger ones will only slow the group down.
Despite initial misgivings, I realize that they are right. Bringing the younger children will only bring a death sentence upon the entire group; yet I can’t abandon the younger children to their fate, either. I tell the older children to shut up the hell up. Fear has made my temper short. I tell the younger children that they will have to keep up. I tell them that there will be no one to carry them when exhaustion overtakes their frail little bodies. I promise that no one will be left behind, and secretly wonder if this is the right thing to do.
Time is running short. We have tarried too long. I grab the hand of one of the younger children (a little girl of about four) and hurry from the place. We are not traveling nearly fast enough. There is nothing I can do about this.
We have not gone far when we hear signs of a chase. My heart sinks; we will not escape on foot. I glance about, desperately, and spot some police vehicles that vaguely resemble motorcycles (though there’s something alien about them, too). I tell the children to grab some, though I know very well that they’re probably bugged. We set off again, two to a vehicle, in a matter of seconds, disguised as policemen. The children seem relieved at this turn of events, but I am more anxious than ever.
A chase scene ensues, the details of which are fuzzy. At some point, I become split up from the other members of my party. The majority of the Nazis follow them out of the city, while a few stragglers are left patrolling the city. I silently wish my companions the best of luck, and hope that they will be able to lose the soldiers in the countryside. Intuition tells me that no such happy ending will occur.
I realize, with dread, that my own partner-child is no longer with me. Instinctively, I pull into a side street. I look up and see the little girl (who does not have a red coat, I might add) standing on the edge of what seems to be a parking garage of sorts, though it is warped beyond recognition (and continues to change form while I watch). Even now, I lack any sort of lucidity.
A sense of déjà vu knifes me in the stomach. I have had this dream before—or else dreamt of having this dream. And I know the ending.
I scream, uselessly, Get away from there! Yet it is far, far too late. She teeters dangerously on the edge before losing her balance completely. Down, down, down she tumbles.
For a moment, the difference between life and death, success and failure, happiness and misery, is all up to me. I can change her fate. The impact from a three-story fall is enough to kill her, regardless of whether she hits pavement or lands in my arms. Yet, maybe, if I reach her in time, I can try to absorb some of the impact. Maybe if I can prevent her head from slamming into the concrete at sixty miles per hour, she’ll escape with only a few broken bones. After all, maybe she doesn’t have to die.
With these thoughts racing through my mind, I dive forward. With more energy than I’ve ever felt before, I soar through the air, arms outstretched, with my precious target in sight…
…and fall short. I stare, wide-eyed in horror. I am forced to watch as she lands only seconds later, barely beyond my reach. There is a sickening crunch as her skull cracks on impact. Flecks of blood spatter my face. I am dumbstruck.
Slowly, I begin to gather myself together. I drag myself toward her motionless body. Tears stream down my face. I scoop the crumpled form up, cradle her. Her head hangs oddly in my arms. I move one arm to better support it. It is smeared with blood that oozes from her skull. I am shaking with grief. I can hear police sirens, but they seem very far away now.
I look up. Through bleary eyes, I notice a woman sitting a few feet away. She is familiar, yet I do not fully recognize her. I sense she is only visible to me.
Why? I choke. Why can I never save them? I try so hard! Why do they always die?
She shakes her head sympathetically. She reminds me of the fairy that appears on the game over screen in video games.
This is the way things must be, she tells me. You were never meant to save them.
I sob harder. I want to tell her that she’s wrong, that things will be different if I try again, but I am vaguely aware that I have had this dream many times before. Sometimes, my choices are able to postpone the inevitable—sometimes I leave the stadium earlier, sometimes I hide instead of immediately running, sometimes I follow the girl into the parking garage—but I am never able to prevent her death.
I’m rocking back and forth, crushing her body against mine. I cannot stop shaking. As the dream begins to dissolve, lucidity dawns on me, but it is the bad kind. I feel that I am to blame for her death, that it was my dream presence that caused her to die. Worse, even upon waking, I cannot shake the feeling that the little girl was in some way real. I feel like a murderer. I’m unable bring myself to crawl out of bed for another two hours.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Morbidity of Physics
A deranged person (we'll call him Fred, 'kay?) steps off a 10-story building that's roughly 100 feet (about 30.48 meters) tall. The rate of acceleration due to gravity is 9.81 meters per square second. How long is the free-fall, and what is the final velocity right before impact?
Distance = 30.48 meters
Acceleration = 9.81 meters per square second
Time = ?
Final Velocity = ?
Alright. Time can be determined by finding the square root of twice the distance divided by acceleration. In other words:
Time = squareroot(2*distance/acceleration)
If we plug our known variables into the equation, we find that the length of the free fall is about 2.49 seconds.
Two and a half seconds.
To get a proper feel for how eerily short that amount of time is, count the seconds out loud.
One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one- SPLAT.
Two and a half seconds before Fred's organs rupture instantly on impact. How utterly disturbing.
But wait, we haven't determined the final velocity yet! Maybe our buddy survived the fall after all...
Final velocity is determined by multiplying the rate of acceleration by time.
Final velocity = acceleration*time
If we plug our current variables into this equation, we discover that Freddy hit concrete at about 24.4 meters per second. Hmm. That doesn't sound too bad. Maybe we'll pick him up a gift on our way over to the hospital...
Oh, wait, I forgot. We Americans are little rebels, aren't we? Those numbers don't mean a thing in real life, because we don't use the metric system. How silly of me. Let me just convert that answer real quick...
Final velocity = 87.9 mph
Ohh... Well then. Come to think of it, this is a wonderful time of year to wear black...
Distance = 30.48 meters
Acceleration = 9.81 meters per square second
Time = ?
Final Velocity = ?
Alright. Time can be determined by finding the square root of twice the distance divided by acceleration. In other words:
Time = squareroot(2*distance/acceleration)
If we plug our known variables into the equation, we find that the length of the free fall is about 2.49 seconds.
Two and a half seconds.
To get a proper feel for how eerily short that amount of time is, count the seconds out loud.
One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one- SPLAT.
Two and a half seconds before Fred's organs rupture instantly on impact. How utterly disturbing.
But wait, we haven't determined the final velocity yet! Maybe our buddy survived the fall after all...
Final velocity is determined by multiplying the rate of acceleration by time.
Final velocity = acceleration*time
If we plug our current variables into this equation, we discover that Freddy hit concrete at about 24.4 meters per second. Hmm. That doesn't sound too bad. Maybe we'll pick him up a gift on our way over to the hospital...
Oh, wait, I forgot. We Americans are little rebels, aren't we? Those numbers don't mean a thing in real life, because we don't use the metric system. How silly of me. Let me just convert that answer real quick...
Final velocity = 87.9 mph
Ohh... Well then. Come to think of it, this is a wonderful time of year to wear black...
Friday, August 5, 2011
Invisible Monsters Excerpt
Firstly, I'd like to say that I'm not in any way recommending this book. (Note: That was a subtle disclaimer right there. In fact, to spell it out more clearly, I'd strongly suggest not reading it unless you enjoy being thoroughly disturbed. The story's a prime example of the genre "transgressional fiction", whose whole point is mainly to shock the reader. And believe me, it succeeds.)
Anyway, I've decided to post some excerpts from the first chapter of Chuck Palahnuik's "Invisible Monsters". Why? No idea, really. Partly, I'm just enthralled by what an epic hook the first chapter is. Normally I'm not a big fan by starting the narration at the climax of the story, but I thought really it worked in this book.
But more than that... I'm fascinated by the raw themes in this scene that also underlie the entire book. Again, I'm not reccomending the book in any way, but it did get me thinking. My initial reaction to the first chapter was, 'Why can't the narrator just say those three simple words? Brandy is dying; there aren't even any possible attached strings the phrase could cause. Please, just say, "I love you", and then Brandy will die in peace, and you can move on with your life. Don't let her die alone.'
As the narrator states towards the end of the story (and her resulting self-discovery): "I'm an invisible monster, and I am incapable of loving anybody. You don't know which is worse."
As I read the book, it was numbing to think that anybody could be so cold and utterly selfish... (Terribly naive of me, I know.) Yet, at heart, I think we're all self-centered and depraved like that. Having said that... Transgressional fiction is probably extremely unrealistic in a pessimistic sort of way-- just as much as stories of unicorns are unrealistic in a touchy-feely sort of way. But hey, there's probably a grain of truth in every caricature.
Anyway. Enjoy.
Where you're supposed to be is some big West Hills wedding reception in a big manor house with flower arrangements and stuffed mushrooms all over the house. This is called scene setting: where everybody is, who's alive, who's dead. This is Evie Cottrell's big wedding reception moment. Evie is standing halfway down the big staircase in the manor house foyer, naked inside what's left of her wedding dress, still holding her rifle.
Me, I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs, but only in a physical way. My mind is, I don't know where. Nobody's all-the-way dead yet, but let's just say the clock is ticking.
Then Evie starts to sob, standing there halfway up the staircase. Evie, that deadly virus of the moment. This is our cue to all look at poor Evie, poor, sad Evie, hairless and wearing nothing but ashes and circled by the wire cage of her burned-up hoop skirt. Then Evie drops the rifle. With her dirty face in her dirty hands, Evie sits down and starts to boo-hoo, as if crying will solve anything. The rifle, this is a loaded thirty-aught rifle, it clatters down the stairs and skids out into the middle of the foyer floor, spinning on its side, pointing at me, pointing at Brandy, pointing at Evie, crying.
[...]
It only looks like I'm crying when I put a handkerchief up under my veil to breathe through. To filter the air since you can about not breathe for all the smoke, since Evie's big manor house is burning down around us.
Me, kneeling down beside Brandy, I could put my hands anywhere in my gown and find Darvons and Demerols and Darvocet 100s. This is everybody's cue to look at me.
[...]
Another thing is no matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close.
[...]
Brandy, she opens one of her huge, ring-beaded hands and she touches the hole pouring her blood all over the marble floor.
Brandy, she says, "Shit. There's no way the Bon Marche will take this suit back."
Evie lifts her face, her face a finger-painting mess of soot and snot and tears from her hands and screams, "I hate my life being so boring!"
Evie screams down at Brandy Alexander, "Save me a window table in hell!"
Tears rinse clean lines down Evie's cheeks, and she screams, "Girlfriend! You need to be yelling some back at me!"
As if this isn't already drama, drama, drama, Brandy looks up at me kneeling beside her. Brandy's aubergine eyes dilated out to full flower, she says, "Brandy Alexander is going to die now?"
Evie, Brandy and me, all this is just a power struggle for the spotlight. Just each of us being me, me, me first. The murderer, the victim, the witness, each of us thinks our role is the lead.
Probably that goes for anybody in the world.
[...]
Anymore, when I see the picture of a twenty-something in the newspaper who was abducted and sodomized and robbed and then killed and here's a front-page picture of her young and smiling, instead of me dwelling on this being a big, sad crime, my gut reaction is, wow, she'd be really hot if she didn't have such a big honker of a nose. My second reaction is I'd better have some good head and shoulders shots handy in case I get, you know, abducted and sodomized to death. My third reaction is, well, at least that cuts down on the competition.
[...]
My point is I know Brandy is maybe probably going to die, but I just can't get into it.
[...]
The rifle is still spinning on the floor, but slower and slower.
[...]
This is your last chance, honey," Brandy says, and her blood is getting all over the place. She says, "Do you love me?"
It's when folks ask questions like this that you lose the spotlight.
This is how folks trap you into a best-supporting role.
Even bigger than the house being on fire is this huge expectation that I have to say the three most worn-out words you'll find in any script. Just the words make me feel I'm severely fingering myself. They're just words is all. Powerless. Vocabulary. Dialogue.
"Tell me, " Brandy says. "Do you? Do you really love me?"
This is the big hammy way Brandy has played her whole life.
[...]
"Even if you can't love me, then tell me my life," Brandy says. "A girl can't die without her life flashing before her eyes."
[...]
So of course this'll be all about Brandy, hosted by me, with guest appearances by Evelyn Cottrell and the deadly AIDS virus. Brandy, Brandy, Brandy. Poor sad Brandy on her back, Brandy touches the hole pouring her life out onto the marble floor and says, "Please. Tell me my life. Tell me how we got here. "
So me, I'm here eating smoke just to document this Brandy Alexander moment.
Give me attention.
Flash.
Give me adoration.
Flash.
Give me a break.
Anyway, I've decided to post some excerpts from the first chapter of Chuck Palahnuik's "Invisible Monsters". Why? No idea, really. Partly, I'm just enthralled by what an epic hook the first chapter is. Normally I'm not a big fan by starting the narration at the climax of the story, but I thought really it worked in this book.
But more than that... I'm fascinated by the raw themes in this scene that also underlie the entire book. Again, I'm not reccomending the book in any way, but it did get me thinking. My initial reaction to the first chapter was, 'Why can't the narrator just say those three simple words? Brandy is dying; there aren't even any possible attached strings the phrase could cause. Please, just say, "I love you", and then Brandy will die in peace, and you can move on with your life. Don't let her die alone.'
As the narrator states towards the end of the story (and her resulting self-discovery): "I'm an invisible monster, and I am incapable of loving anybody. You don't know which is worse."
As I read the book, it was numbing to think that anybody could be so cold and utterly selfish... (Terribly naive of me, I know.) Yet, at heart, I think we're all self-centered and depraved like that. Having said that... Transgressional fiction is probably extremely unrealistic in a pessimistic sort of way-- just as much as stories of unicorns are unrealistic in a touchy-feely sort of way. But hey, there's probably a grain of truth in every caricature.
Anyway. Enjoy.
Where you're supposed to be is some big West Hills wedding reception in a big manor house with flower arrangements and stuffed mushrooms all over the house. This is called scene setting: where everybody is, who's alive, who's dead. This is Evie Cottrell's big wedding reception moment. Evie is standing halfway down the big staircase in the manor house foyer, naked inside what's left of her wedding dress, still holding her rifle.
Me, I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs, but only in a physical way. My mind is, I don't know where. Nobody's all-the-way dead yet, but let's just say the clock is ticking.
[...]
The only other character here is Brandy Alexander, who's laid out, shotgunned, at the bottom of the staircase, bleeding to death.
[...]
[...]
Then Evie starts to sob, standing there halfway up the staircase. Evie, that deadly virus of the moment. This is our cue to all look at poor Evie, poor, sad Evie, hairless and wearing nothing but ashes and circled by the wire cage of her burned-up hoop skirt. Then Evie drops the rifle. With her dirty face in her dirty hands, Evie sits down and starts to boo-hoo, as if crying will solve anything. The rifle, this is a loaded thirty-aught rifle, it clatters down the stairs and skids out into the middle of the foyer floor, spinning on its side, pointing at me, pointing at Brandy, pointing at Evie, crying.
[...]
It only looks like I'm crying when I put a handkerchief up under my veil to breathe through. To filter the air since you can about not breathe for all the smoke, since Evie's big manor house is burning down around us.
Me, kneeling down beside Brandy, I could put my hands anywhere in my gown and find Darvons and Demerols and Darvocet 100s. This is everybody's cue to look at me.
[...]
Another thing is no matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close.
[...]
Brandy, she opens one of her huge, ring-beaded hands and she touches the hole pouring her blood all over the marble floor.
Brandy, she says, "Shit. There's no way the Bon Marche will take this suit back."
Evie lifts her face, her face a finger-painting mess of soot and snot and tears from her hands and screams, "I hate my life being so boring!"
Evie screams down at Brandy Alexander, "Save me a window table in hell!"
Tears rinse clean lines down Evie's cheeks, and she screams, "Girlfriend! You need to be yelling some back at me!"
As if this isn't already drama, drama, drama, Brandy looks up at me kneeling beside her. Brandy's aubergine eyes dilated out to full flower, she says, "Brandy Alexander is going to die now?"
Evie, Brandy and me, all this is just a power struggle for the spotlight. Just each of us being me, me, me first. The murderer, the victim, the witness, each of us thinks our role is the lead.
Probably that goes for anybody in the world.
Anymore, when I see the picture of a twenty-something in the newspaper who was abducted and sodomized and robbed and then killed and here's a front-page picture of her young and smiling, instead of me dwelling on this being a big, sad crime, my gut reaction is, wow, she'd be really hot if she didn't have such a big honker of a nose. My second reaction is I'd better have some good head and shoulders shots handy in case I get, you know, abducted and sodomized to death. My third reaction is, well, at least that cuts down on the competition.
[...]
My point is I know Brandy is maybe probably going to die, but I just can't get into it.
[...]
The rifle is still spinning on the floor, but slower and slower.
[...]
This is your last chance, honey," Brandy says, and her blood is getting all over the place. She says, "Do you love me?"
It's when folks ask questions like this that you lose the spotlight.
This is how folks trap you into a best-supporting role.
Even bigger than the house being on fire is this huge expectation that I have to say the three most worn-out words you'll find in any script. Just the words make me feel I'm severely fingering myself. They're just words is all. Powerless. Vocabulary. Dialogue.
"Tell me, " Brandy says. "Do you? Do you really love me?"
This is the big hammy way Brandy has played her whole life.
[...]
"Even if you can't love me, then tell me my life," Brandy says. "A girl can't die without her life flashing before her eyes."
[...]
So of course this'll be all about Brandy, hosted by me, with guest appearances by Evelyn Cottrell and the deadly AIDS virus. Brandy, Brandy, Brandy. Poor sad Brandy on her back, Brandy touches the hole pouring her life out onto the marble floor and says, "Please. Tell me my life. Tell me how we got here. "
So me, I'm here eating smoke just to document this Brandy Alexander moment.
Give me attention.
Flash.
Give me adoration.
Flash.
Give me a break.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Hansel & Gretal (According to Me)
This is a random muse that popped into my head today while doing homework, so I apologize if it seems a bit scatter-brained. I just had to jot it down.
Alright. So, first of all, I want to say that I love Grimm fairy tales. Disney waters most of their stories down far too much, while I prefer many of the original tragic endings to the reworked happy endings. To me, Grimm has a way of making magic feel very real... and altogether dangerous. However, even Grimms' stories are sometimes too simple for my taste.
The story of Hansel and Gretal is a good example. Ignoring the fact that the children/parents were gullible enough to try each of their corresponding find-our-way-home/lose-the-kids operations twice, the basic plot is okay-- but it could most definitely be improved upon. Personally, I think adding a demonic contract into the mix would spice things up nicely.
For example: "Anyone who eats of this house is cursed to remain inside the preset magical boundaries of the property. If the accursed ever steps outside the boundary of protection, he (or she) shall have his entrails brutally ripped out and devoured." Fun stuff, right?
Now then. The witch, while being the one who summoned the demons in the first place, ought to also be subject to the contract. Meaning that part of the contract's terms is that in exchange for their "loyalty" and protection, she's not allowed to leave either-- which is why she has to lure children to her in the first place. As soon as they so much as lick the charmed peppermint, they are trapped by the terms of the magical contract. If they try to leave, the demons will get them, and if they stay, the witch will hunt them down and eat their still-beating hearts to keep herself young.
Also, as an extra safe-guard, I think her house ought to contain slow-working poison that will kill the trespassor all by itself in about, oh, three days' time. That adds an additional sense of urgency to the classic fairytale.
Oh, and part of the demons' job should be to prevent adults from entering the witch's property, because 1) Their hearts aren't at all useful to the witch and 2) They're more likely to figure out how to break the contract, which would result in the demons' taking revenge on their master before returning to the etherworld.
Hmm. Yes. I like this version of the story much better. In the meantime, though, I suppose I'll have to make do with re-reading Jonathan Stroud's "Heroes of the Valley" (which I still consider to be a tale of 'boy who cried wolf' gone bad.)
For that matter, I could just watch Blair Witch Project again... Dear little stick people. I bet each one represents a different human she killed...
Alright. So, first of all, I want to say that I love Grimm fairy tales. Disney waters most of their stories down far too much, while I prefer many of the original tragic endings to the reworked happy endings. To me, Grimm has a way of making magic feel very real... and altogether dangerous. However, even Grimms' stories are sometimes too simple for my taste.
The story of Hansel and Gretal is a good example. Ignoring the fact that the children/parents were gullible enough to try each of their corresponding find-our-way-home/lose-the-kids operations twice, the basic plot is okay-- but it could most definitely be improved upon. Personally, I think adding a demonic contract into the mix would spice things up nicely.
For example: "Anyone who eats of this house is cursed to remain inside the preset magical boundaries of the property. If the accursed ever steps outside the boundary of protection, he (or she) shall have his entrails brutally ripped out and devoured." Fun stuff, right?
Now then. The witch, while being the one who summoned the demons in the first place, ought to also be subject to the contract. Meaning that part of the contract's terms is that in exchange for their "loyalty" and protection, she's not allowed to leave either-- which is why she has to lure children to her in the first place. As soon as they so much as lick the charmed peppermint, they are trapped by the terms of the magical contract. If they try to leave, the demons will get them, and if they stay, the witch will hunt them down and eat their still-beating hearts to keep herself young.
Also, as an extra safe-guard, I think her house ought to contain slow-working poison that will kill the trespassor all by itself in about, oh, three days' time. That adds an additional sense of urgency to the classic fairytale.
Oh, and part of the demons' job should be to prevent adults from entering the witch's property, because 1) Their hearts aren't at all useful to the witch and 2) They're more likely to figure out how to break the contract, which would result in the demons' taking revenge on their master before returning to the etherworld.
Hmm. Yes. I like this version of the story much better. In the meantime, though, I suppose I'll have to make do with re-reading Jonathan Stroud's "Heroes of the Valley" (which I still consider to be a tale of 'boy who cried wolf' gone bad.)
For that matter, I could just watch Blair Witch Project again... Dear little stick people. I bet each one represents a different human she killed...
Friday, July 15, 2011
Acknowledging Flaws
"The first step to solving any problem is to accurately define the problem."
My dad told me those words of wisdom several years ago when explaining the correct way to troubleshoot a computer bug. I think I was eight at the time.
"You wouldn't believe how many people call our office, only to say 'well, my computer isn't working'. That's not helpful. There are countless ways a computer can 'stop working', and often it's actually an error on the user's behalf. Half of the time, the client simply forgot to click the OK button. Unless the client tells us exactly what the problem is: "clicked/typed such and such, expected certain response, but computer responded in such and such a manner that was undesirable", it is nearly impossible for us to tell them how to fix their 'bug'."
Those words have stuck with me through the years, and since then, technical difficulties have been considerably less frustrating. However, I don't think this wisdom applies only to the realm of computers.
In order to solve any problem in life, it's important that you first define exactly what the problem is, and (if possible) how the problem arose.
This is why in therapy groups, each of the members introduce themselves along with their problem. "Hi, my name is [insert here], and I've been an alcoholic/drug abuser/mentally ill/etc. for the past [insert time frame here]."
The simple act of acknowledging a problem is an essential part of the recovery process. However, as with many things in life, that's easier said than done. For some people (ahem: me), self-imposed ignorance is a critical coping mechanism. Whether this is out of an unhealthy desire for perfection, or fear that there is no solution, or simply sheer pride, I'm not sure.
The fact of the matter is that this kind of thinking is terribly skewed. For one thing, the idea of perfection in humans (at least, while on earth) is laughable. We all fall miserably short. However, there is hope for some improvement... if we know what we're dealing with. Acknowledging our flaws enables us to adress them, counterbalance them-- or at the very least, strips them of some of their power by naming a nameless beast. Even if there isn't anything that can be done about it (and there almost always is), having an identified problem is often much less overwhelming than dealing with generalized failure. Too often we equate 'sometimes failing' to 'being failures'.
As for pride... Well, that's a whole topic in itself.
In short: It's not necessarily wrong to have problems, but it's what we do with them that counts.
My dad told me those words of wisdom several years ago when explaining the correct way to troubleshoot a computer bug. I think I was eight at the time.
"You wouldn't believe how many people call our office, only to say 'well, my computer isn't working'. That's not helpful. There are countless ways a computer can 'stop working', and often it's actually an error on the user's behalf. Half of the time, the client simply forgot to click the OK button. Unless the client tells us exactly what the problem is: "clicked/typed such and such, expected certain response, but computer responded in such and such a manner that was undesirable", it is nearly impossible for us to tell them how to fix their 'bug'."
Those words have stuck with me through the years, and since then, technical difficulties have been considerably less frustrating. However, I don't think this wisdom applies only to the realm of computers.
In order to solve any problem in life, it's important that you first define exactly what the problem is, and (if possible) how the problem arose.
This is why in therapy groups, each of the members introduce themselves along with their problem. "Hi, my name is [insert here], and I've been an alcoholic/drug abuser/mentally ill/etc. for the past [insert time frame here]."
The simple act of acknowledging a problem is an essential part of the recovery process. However, as with many things in life, that's easier said than done. For some people (ahem: me), self-imposed ignorance is a critical coping mechanism. Whether this is out of an unhealthy desire for perfection, or fear that there is no solution, or simply sheer pride, I'm not sure.
The fact of the matter is that this kind of thinking is terribly skewed. For one thing, the idea of perfection in humans (at least, while on earth) is laughable. We all fall miserably short. However, there is hope for some improvement... if we know what we're dealing with. Acknowledging our flaws enables us to adress them, counterbalance them-- or at the very least, strips them of some of their power by naming a nameless beast. Even if there isn't anything that can be done about it (and there almost always is), having an identified problem is often much less overwhelming than dealing with generalized failure. Too often we equate 'sometimes failing' to 'being failures'.
As for pride... Well, that's a whole topic in itself.
In short: It's not necessarily wrong to have problems, but it's what we do with them that counts.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Death Note Philosophy
So. I've always been a huge fan of anime (i.e Japanese animation), but I've never gotten around to watching a show from beginning to end-- until recently, that is. Over the course of the past few months, my lousy Internet has allowed me to sneak Death Note episodes in here and there. I must say (though this might partly be due to the sheer amount of time I devoted to watching, not to mention forever loading and re-loading, the episodes):
I'm rather impressed with it.
Don't let the animation fool you into thinking this is a kids' show. In Japan, cartoons are for adults as well. Many anime shows contain dark themes, and Death Note is certainly not an exception.
Although the show is 37 episodes long and does an excellent job of keeping the viewer's attention with multiple plot twists (not to mention the intensity of the underlying battle of Good vs. Evil), the premise is fairly simple. One day, in the midst of disgust at the sheer brokenness of the world, a student named Light Yagami stumbles upon a blank notebook. On the inside cover, a few odd but straightforward rules are found. There is a single underlying rule that all the others serve to detail:
The person whose name is written in this book shall die.
At first Light dismisses the book as an immature prank, yet he is unable to completely forget about it. Insatiable knowledge of the book skirts the edges of his consciousness, until his curiosity eventually wins the better of him. He writes in the death note, using the name of a local criminal. Sure enough, the man dies of a heart attack as predicted.
Light immediately decides that it was a mere coincidence. Yet his curiosity is stronger now, and a few days later he finds himself experimenting with it again on another local criminal. The second man also dies. This time, the death is caused by a freak automobile accident-- exactly as specified in the note.
Horrified, Light is now convinced that the note is real. Which means he has just killed two men, murdered them in cold blood just as surely as if he had held a gun to their faces. And yet, as soon as these thoughts enter his mind, more come to replace them. After all, he reasons, isn't this what he's always wanted? The ability to cleanse the world of all that is evil and ugly, to make wrongdoers suffer for their crimes, and to protect the innocence of the helpless? The death note is a blessing in his hands, not a curse. Thus begins his spiralling descent into the grip of absolute power.
Am I a little obsessed with the show's concept? Most definitely.
Regardless, the questions the protagonist wrestles with throughout the entire series are deep ones: Do some people deserve to die; and if so, who gets to make that judgement call?
Yes, I'm sure you're remembering certain lessons from Sunday School when you were a kid. Good. Now I want you to really think about it. If you were given the ability to punish criminals for their wrongdoings, would you? More importantly, if you alone decided what was worthy of death-- if moral wickedness and innocence was defined solely by you-- would your judgements be righteous? Or would you be no better than those very criminals deemed 'unfit for life'?
In the case of Light Yagami, the god-like power of the death note slowly corrodes each of his ideals one by one, until it ultimately destroys him.
"Anything obtained by killing people can never bring true happiness." -Mr. Yagami (Light's dad)
"This isn't divine judgement. It's the work of some childish killer who's playing at divine retribution. That's all." -Ryuuzaki (L)
"No matter how gifted you are, you alone can't change the world." -Ryuuzaki (L)
"Humans are so... interesting!" -Ryuk
((If anyone wants to see a condensed version of Light's transformation from idealistic schoolboy to complete psychopath, this is an excellent amv. Flobot's "Handlebars" is most definitely a fitting song choice...))
I'm rather impressed with it.
Don't let the animation fool you into thinking this is a kids' show. In Japan, cartoons are for adults as well. Many anime shows contain dark themes, and Death Note is certainly not an exception.
Although the show is 37 episodes long and does an excellent job of keeping the viewer's attention with multiple plot twists (not to mention the intensity of the underlying battle of Good vs. Evil), the premise is fairly simple. One day, in the midst of disgust at the sheer brokenness of the world, a student named Light Yagami stumbles upon a blank notebook. On the inside cover, a few odd but straightforward rules are found. There is a single underlying rule that all the others serve to detail:
The person whose name is written in this book shall die.
At first Light dismisses the book as an immature prank, yet he is unable to completely forget about it. Insatiable knowledge of the book skirts the edges of his consciousness, until his curiosity eventually wins the better of him. He writes in the death note, using the name of a local criminal. Sure enough, the man dies of a heart attack as predicted.
Light immediately decides that it was a mere coincidence. Yet his curiosity is stronger now, and a few days later he finds himself experimenting with it again on another local criminal. The second man also dies. This time, the death is caused by a freak automobile accident-- exactly as specified in the note.
Horrified, Light is now convinced that the note is real. Which means he has just killed two men, murdered them in cold blood just as surely as if he had held a gun to their faces. And yet, as soon as these thoughts enter his mind, more come to replace them. After all, he reasons, isn't this what he's always wanted? The ability to cleanse the world of all that is evil and ugly, to make wrongdoers suffer for their crimes, and to protect the innocence of the helpless? The death note is a blessing in his hands, not a curse. Thus begins his spiralling descent into the grip of absolute power.
Am I a little obsessed with the show's concept? Most definitely.
Regardless, the questions the protagonist wrestles with throughout the entire series are deep ones: Do some people deserve to die; and if so, who gets to make that judgement call?
Yes, I'm sure you're remembering certain lessons from Sunday School when you were a kid. Good. Now I want you to really think about it. If you were given the ability to punish criminals for their wrongdoings, would you? More importantly, if you alone decided what was worthy of death-- if moral wickedness and innocence was defined solely by you-- would your judgements be righteous? Or would you be no better than those very criminals deemed 'unfit for life'?
In the case of Light Yagami, the god-like power of the death note slowly corrodes each of his ideals one by one, until it ultimately destroys him.
"Anything obtained by killing people can never bring true happiness." -Mr. Yagami (Light's dad)
"This isn't divine judgement. It's the work of some childish killer who's playing at divine retribution. That's all." -Ryuuzaki (L)
"No matter how gifted you are, you alone can't change the world." -Ryuuzaki (L)
"Humans are so... interesting!" -Ryuk
((If anyone wants to see a condensed version of Light's transformation from idealistic schoolboy to complete psychopath, this is an excellent amv. Flobot's "Handlebars" is most definitely a fitting song choice...))
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