The Universe is constantly expanding, but the world isn't. And the human population is. What will happen if there's too many of us? the other day I sat and wondered what would happen if there were so many people covering the surface of the earth that one couldn't even sit down without crushing a baby or a foot of some strange person you don't even know. Would gravity even put up with that sort of nonsense?
Everything has a limit, so either gravity would grow exhausted from the effort of holding onto several zillion people, or the crust of the earth would simply say something along the lines of, "Fuck it" and collapse under the pressure of a seemingly endlessly powerful force of gravity. If gravity continued to stand faithfully oblivious by its post even after the collapse of the earth's crust, then the end result would look something like a mass of melted crust, humans, buildings, animals, and steam. The reason it would look like such is because it would quite literally be such.
The other option for gravity at this point would be to agree with the earth's, "Fuck it" decision and let go as well, at which point space would suddenly be filled with tiny imploding, exploding, and screaming humans and animals. I can't imagine the buildings would complain much; they're already used to being walked all over.
So it appears that even if we don't rape the earth of its resources or kill each other with wars over those resources, or if our star(sometimes called, "the" sun...don't know why we act like it's so important though...it's actually one of the smallest stars in the universe) doesn't die of old age or kill us with the same energy that keeps us alive, then we are bound to kill ourselves anyway by simply living. There's some iron for your diet.
Now imagine for a moment that gravity is on steroids and has chosen to split the steroids fifty-fifty with the earth's crust-as if the surface hasn't gone through enough abuse already-and both manage to sustain the ridiculous pressure that is literally a mass of humans covering the earth's surface. The only plausible thing to happen is that many would die of mass disease and starvation due to the inability to move around much. The starvation would lead to cannibalism, and the disease would most likely lead to a zombie epidemic of some sort. Humans would eventually die out, and the earth would breathe a sigh of relief as the last most intelligent earthly organism passed into oblivion.
With a slight smile, earth would probably simply let loose all the stress of supporting self-centered, reckless organisms, and enjoy the peace and quiet, perhaps even uttering a little, "Good riddance." before taking a much needed and well overdue nap.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Paradoxical Renditionings of Nothing
A Paradox is a fascinating thing. Of course, so are a lot of other things involved with literature and the universe and everything, but I'm not going to write about any of them at the moment.
Well, maybe one.
There are many occasions where I have a great urge to write and imaginate something(imaginate is a word which means imagine then create), but find that I simply cannot bring my mind to writing mode. This is actually a situation that I have always found rather fascinating, because I bring my mind pretty much everywhere with me, and my mind never puts up any bit of a fuss--although somedays fatigue will try and speak lies to my poor brain--but for some reason my mind will choose to put its foot down on random--but fruequent--occasions when I wish to write. It is on these occasions and at these moments when I usually choose to begin writing about writer's block. This quite often solves the problem, but never fails to leave me feeling quite paradoxical.
It is in this paradoxical state which you, dear reader, have unfortunately found me. I say unfortunately because my original intention was to divert myself from the paradoxical state of mind by writing about paradoxes, but find myself stuck in a paradoxical circle as I have been explaining the paradox of writers writing about writer's block, which in itself is a paradox because I was writing about writer's writing about writer's block, and if I go into depth with this topic I will be writing about how I was writing about writers writing about writer's block, and so forth.
I believe at this point what is supposed to happen if i don't stop writing right at this second, is that the world or the sun will blow up--I forget which. Either way I'm still writing, you're still reading, and I'm quite certain we both have a considerable headache by now. I know I do.
This isn't really the note I'd like to end on, but because of the throbbing in my head I'm afraid it will have to be.
Well, maybe one.
There are many occasions where I have a great urge to write and imaginate something(imaginate is a word which means imagine then create), but find that I simply cannot bring my mind to writing mode. This is actually a situation that I have always found rather fascinating, because I bring my mind pretty much everywhere with me, and my mind never puts up any bit of a fuss--although somedays fatigue will try and speak lies to my poor brain--but for some reason my mind will choose to put its foot down on random--but fruequent--occasions when I wish to write. It is on these occasions and at these moments when I usually choose to begin writing about writer's block. This quite often solves the problem, but never fails to leave me feeling quite paradoxical.
It is in this paradoxical state which you, dear reader, have unfortunately found me. I say unfortunately because my original intention was to divert myself from the paradoxical state of mind by writing about paradoxes, but find myself stuck in a paradoxical circle as I have been explaining the paradox of writers writing about writer's block, which in itself is a paradox because I was writing about writer's writing about writer's block, and if I go into depth with this topic I will be writing about how I was writing about writers writing about writer's block, and so forth.
I believe at this point what is supposed to happen if i don't stop writing right at this second, is that the world or the sun will blow up--I forget which. Either way I'm still writing, you're still reading, and I'm quite certain we both have a considerable headache by now. I know I do.
This isn't really the note I'd like to end on, but because of the throbbing in my head I'm afraid it will have to be.
Monday, July 19, 2010
A Thought
I was sitting eating a bag of chocolate chips today when a thought struck me. Then I almost lost the thought due to it hitting me rather hard and almost rendering me unconscious. This was, of course, combined with the fact that I had only just recently returned home from a rather long and tiring shift at work. Under normal circumstances a strike from any thought--large or small--is barely enough to leave a mark.
Nonetheless, I managed to keep my consciousness somewhat intact, and I grasped the thought before it slipped away into the abyss of thin air and graced some other poor fellow with its presence.
I say some other poor fellow not because the thought is anything of dastardly or disgusting proportions, but because the thought is so extraordinarily subtle that if it weren't for the blow it delivers one would hardly notice or begin to interpret the thought. I do not mean to talk myself up by saying the following, but the thought is so subtly clever that it seems to think of itself as being something worth a substantial sort of note--more so than any other important thought, that is--and tends to strike harder than any other thought I have ever encountered before in the entirety of my life. It is on this that I base my logic which states that any other bloke to be struck by the thought would be a poor bloke indeed due to a probable inexperience of being struck by any thought at all, never mind an important one.
I apologize if my digression bores you, but I found(and find) all these things to be important when I was struck by the original thought, and so I can only assume they must be as equally important to any other person who intends to hear the thought as well--I also truly wish that the digression will lessen the pain and possible force of the blow that the thought will no doubt deliver once it has made its appearance in the mind of any unfortunate reader.
I believe we are at the point of which I stopped to read the nutritional information concerning the chocolate chips which I was currently stuffing down my esophagus at an alarming rate. This alarming rate was, of course, simply to distract myself from the throbbing headache which the blow of the thought had given me. At any rate, alarming or not, I was reading the nutritional information on the back of the chocolate chip package. I'm not quite sure why I was reading it, because I have no intention of ever going on a diet or setting a curfew on the population of calories and fats in my body, but I read it nonetheless. It was during the reading of the nutritional information that I had the latter thought, and this time around the blow was substantial enough to erase the previous thought about which I am supposed to be writing but seem to be failing horribly.
As it turns out, I have no miraculous thought to share with you, dear reader, and I must apologize that the reason for this is something as mundane as petty nutritional information on the back of a plastic package containing chocolate chips. It appears that you, faithful reader, are left with the disappointment of an unsatisfied curiosity. If it is any condolence, I not only experience the same dilemma, but I also have a rather bad headache and an upset stomach.
Nonetheless, I managed to keep my consciousness somewhat intact, and I grasped the thought before it slipped away into the abyss of thin air and graced some other poor fellow with its presence.
I say some other poor fellow not because the thought is anything of dastardly or disgusting proportions, but because the thought is so extraordinarily subtle that if it weren't for the blow it delivers one would hardly notice or begin to interpret the thought. I do not mean to talk myself up by saying the following, but the thought is so subtly clever that it seems to think of itself as being something worth a substantial sort of note--more so than any other important thought, that is--and tends to strike harder than any other thought I have ever encountered before in the entirety of my life. It is on this that I base my logic which states that any other bloke to be struck by the thought would be a poor bloke indeed due to a probable inexperience of being struck by any thought at all, never mind an important one.
I apologize if my digression bores you, but I found(and find) all these things to be important when I was struck by the original thought, and so I can only assume they must be as equally important to any other person who intends to hear the thought as well--I also truly wish that the digression will lessen the pain and possible force of the blow that the thought will no doubt deliver once it has made its appearance in the mind of any unfortunate reader.
I believe we are at the point of which I stopped to read the nutritional information concerning the chocolate chips which I was currently stuffing down my esophagus at an alarming rate. This alarming rate was, of course, simply to distract myself from the throbbing headache which the blow of the thought had given me. At any rate, alarming or not, I was reading the nutritional information on the back of the chocolate chip package. I'm not quite sure why I was reading it, because I have no intention of ever going on a diet or setting a curfew on the population of calories and fats in my body, but I read it nonetheless. It was during the reading of the nutritional information that I had the latter thought, and this time around the blow was substantial enough to erase the previous thought about which I am supposed to be writing but seem to be failing horribly.
As it turns out, I have no miraculous thought to share with you, dear reader, and I must apologize that the reason for this is something as mundane as petty nutritional information on the back of a plastic package containing chocolate chips. It appears that you, faithful reader, are left with the disappointment of an unsatisfied curiosity. If it is any condolence, I not only experience the same dilemma, but I also have a rather bad headache and an upset stomach.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Creativity Paradime
There comes a moment in every person's life when an epiphany is in order. Some have small epiphany's concerning things such as how to solve a meal plan dilemma, and some have epiphany's which could almost definitely classify as a serious problem to keep an eye on on the richter scale.
Some are even lucky enough to have multiple epiphany's, and these folk are often classified under the, 'artsy' category of earth's inhabitants. Perhaps the most frequent, 'epiphanizers'--if you will--are author's and writers and the like. A good author will tend to have an epiphany every day, or possibly even more depending on the amount of time spent observing life versus the amount of time actually spent composing works of fiction.
These particular writers will often interpret their own epiphany's and beliefs into the numerous characters of their stories, and the genius behind the epiphany will be discredited by the readers to a fictional character which wouldn't possess the ability to breathe had it not been for the author.
This sort of situation occurs all too frequently, and many famous authors spend so much time trying to be recognized as the source of their many character's epiphany's and mindsets, that they eventually give up and decide to become alcoholics for the rest of their epiphany-filled lives. Though, it should be noted that the epiphany's become less and less frequent as the authors spend more and more time being inebriated than being anything at all.
Young, unpublished and unnoticed authors as myself, however, have not yet run into any such problems, and have the chance to be recognized for their epiphinatic--again, if you will--deeds before being betrayed by their loveable characters. It is in the composing of this piece that I wish to convey a recent epiphany of mine without having the glory snatched from me by the very characters I nurtured to life.
I was going over and revising one of my as-of-yet-unpublished novels for the trillionth time(this is something authors enjoy doing to pass away the moments of not yet being published. It's very silly but it works, and sometimes can even improve the original story), when I was struck with a sudden idea--no, this is not the epiphany--for a sub-plot in the sub-plot of my story's sub-plot. I furiously began to tap away at my keyboard, letting the idea pour out onto the screen before me.
After several moments I stopped, stared blankly at the screen before me, blinked twice, selected the paragraph I had just completed and hit the wonderful, 'delete' button on my keyboard with no remorse whatsoever, sending the sub-sub-sub-plot idea screaming away to the depths of idea's hell(sometimes referred to as writer's block, depending on the situation).
I slowly placed my hands behind my head and leant back in my chair. I had not blinked since the last two times, and my eyes were beginning to sting, so I decided to blink because it seemed like a good idea. It was, and I've continued blinking regularly since.
But I digress. The epiphany was that my own creativity had contradicted my own creativity, and that this was indeed possible. I'm sure if you go back and read you'll be able to make sense of this. I'm feeling far too lazy to explain in detail, and I could quite definitely go for a glass of whiskey at the moment.
Some are even lucky enough to have multiple epiphany's, and these folk are often classified under the, 'artsy' category of earth's inhabitants. Perhaps the most frequent, 'epiphanizers'--if you will--are author's and writers and the like. A good author will tend to have an epiphany every day, or possibly even more depending on the amount of time spent observing life versus the amount of time actually spent composing works of fiction.
These particular writers will often interpret their own epiphany's and beliefs into the numerous characters of their stories, and the genius behind the epiphany will be discredited by the readers to a fictional character which wouldn't possess the ability to breathe had it not been for the author.
This sort of situation occurs all too frequently, and many famous authors spend so much time trying to be recognized as the source of their many character's epiphany's and mindsets, that they eventually give up and decide to become alcoholics for the rest of their epiphany-filled lives. Though, it should be noted that the epiphany's become less and less frequent as the authors spend more and more time being inebriated than being anything at all.
Young, unpublished and unnoticed authors as myself, however, have not yet run into any such problems, and have the chance to be recognized for their epiphinatic--again, if you will--deeds before being betrayed by their loveable characters. It is in the composing of this piece that I wish to convey a recent epiphany of mine without having the glory snatched from me by the very characters I nurtured to life.
I was going over and revising one of my as-of-yet-unpublished novels for the trillionth time(this is something authors enjoy doing to pass away the moments of not yet being published. It's very silly but it works, and sometimes can even improve the original story), when I was struck with a sudden idea--no, this is not the epiphany--for a sub-plot in the sub-plot of my story's sub-plot. I furiously began to tap away at my keyboard, letting the idea pour out onto the screen before me.
After several moments I stopped, stared blankly at the screen before me, blinked twice, selected the paragraph I had just completed and hit the wonderful, 'delete' button on my keyboard with no remorse whatsoever, sending the sub-sub-sub-plot idea screaming away to the depths of idea's hell(sometimes referred to as writer's block, depending on the situation).
I slowly placed my hands behind my head and leant back in my chair. I had not blinked since the last two times, and my eyes were beginning to sting, so I decided to blink because it seemed like a good idea. It was, and I've continued blinking regularly since.
But I digress. The epiphany was that my own creativity had contradicted my own creativity, and that this was indeed possible. I'm sure if you go back and read you'll be able to make sense of this. I'm feeling far too lazy to explain in detail, and I could quite definitely go for a glass of whiskey at the moment.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Literary Award Letter
As some of you may know, I won the literary award at graduation this year, and it came totally unexpected to me. I had applied for the award and a couple others, but didn't really expect to get anything because of the letter I had included. Apparently, the literary award requires a letter explaining why I am eligible for the award, and the letter that I included with my awards applications(not intended to go with the literary award) earned me the literary award...which I thought was pretty awesome. Anyway, this is the letter, enjoy!
******
To Whom it May Concern,
As I sit here and fill out this award application sheet, I cannot help but have thoughts and subsequently have the urge to write down said thoughts and share them with yourself; the application reviewer.
These thoughts entail many things, some to do with unicorns prancing on clouds, some with infamous heros robbing large banks, and others with soaring around in the sky wearing blue tights and red underwear cleverly placed outside of my pants to appear as some sort of, “costume”. These are, of course, trivial thoughts, but the main thought on my mind is more related to the subject of this green, leafy package of paper lying—blank--on the table before me.
My mind is in a turmoil as I stare at this package, and for a while I couldn't understand exactly why I was so unsettled by this seemingly harmless bundle of colourful papers. Then the thought struck me—which is when I started writing this letter which you—the one whom it concerns—are now reading intently—I hope.
The thought that struck me left me feeling quite out of sorts for a moment, and I fear it might have left a bruise on the spot it struck. Then I let it sink in and register—with the Isaac Golle's Brain Board of Directors of course—and I came to understand that I was upset with the awards listed within this little green package of paper. Don't get me wrong, they're all wonderful awards, and congratulations to any and every person who is fortunate enough to receive one. However the better part of my somewhat crazy and artistic conscience cannot seem to settle with the fact that the only award even closely related to video production skill/ability is a generalized visual art award. There seems to be no specific award for each of the visual arts, but rather a generalized award. One would think this to be quite an acceptable issue, but how does that one go about deciding if this amazing video creator is better than this painter? The two are quite different subjects and differently judged, and so it brings to question in even the craziest mind that something is amuck.
I was going to end on that note, but my mind had yet another sort of, “fart” if you will(keep in mind it is not the sort of commonly-known fart which may have been the first thing to come to your mind, but be assured my noggin did not pass wind in any way shape or form. Rather, it is more of a figure of speech). My mind reminded me—at a very low price—that almost all of the awards listed on this listless green paper are only available if the chosen recipient plans to take part in some form of post-secondary education related to their award.
Most would find this to be a perfectly reasonable requirement, and I did as well, when my mind again went on a joyride and proceeded to persuade me—in a most persuasive manner—to rethink my acceptance of this requirement. To think: a thinking tool telling me to think. What a thought.
Getting back to the third segment of the original thought, I couldn't help but think—because my brain was telling me to do so in a most persuasive manner as you might remember—that perhaps a student is the best candidate for the award for visual arts—or any other award for that matter—and yet they cannot receive it simply because they are not planning on being affiliated with any post-secondary organizations in any way.
On the final note of the latter thought, I finally managed to get a word of my own in, and my thoughts and I decided that we would like to have an award entitled, “The Freelancing Artist's Award”. The only requirements of the award would be that the recipient is in fact not planning on attending any form of post-secondary education for the journey of their career, but either plans on travelling and using their talent along the way(videographer making a documentary) or acting as an independent artist for the rest of their life. My thoughts and I also think we would like to have an award for the writers. We realize there is an english award listed on the bundle of green papers, but we think it would be just wonderful if there would be an award for aspiring author's, poets, and novelists.
At this point my brain became exhausted and refused to offer anymore of it's time and intelligence to the wonderful conversation we had been engaged in, and left me to finish this letter on my own.
It took me quite a while to come up with anything on my own—my brain being the main source of my creativity and writing abilities—but I figured it would probably be good to ask if there is any way to go about donating and possibly sponsoring an award for the two mentioned in this letter. If you can help me go about this feel free to contact me(information included at the end of the letter) I also figured it would be good to inform you of my personal plans after high school—it would probably make more sense as to why this topic is such an issue for me.
I plan on taking at least two years off: one to work and save up money for a roadtrip. The second year will be spent going on that roadtrip and filming a documentary(still going through several ideas and trying to pick a final one...or even combine them all!). After this roadtrip is finished I will edit and produce the documentary, entering it in as many film festivals as possible. If nothing happens and my video receives no awards or recognition and doesn't help me start my career in the film industry, then I will apply for the film production course at Vancouver Film School and hope that that helps me get my career started. If nothing works, then I would be perfectly content living in a one-bedroom studio apartment and having a day job while filming as a hobby/small business for the rest of my life.
These are the full and final thoughts of Isaac James Golle on the topic of Academic Awards and the like.
Sincerely,
Isaac James Golle
Phone: (705)-732-1512
Email: isaacgolle@gmail.com
******
To Whom it May Concern,
As I sit here and fill out this award application sheet, I cannot help but have thoughts and subsequently have the urge to write down said thoughts and share them with yourself; the application reviewer.
These thoughts entail many things, some to do with unicorns prancing on clouds, some with infamous heros robbing large banks, and others with soaring around in the sky wearing blue tights and red underwear cleverly placed outside of my pants to appear as some sort of, “costume”. These are, of course, trivial thoughts, but the main thought on my mind is more related to the subject of this green, leafy package of paper lying—blank--on the table before me.
My mind is in a turmoil as I stare at this package, and for a while I couldn't understand exactly why I was so unsettled by this seemingly harmless bundle of colourful papers. Then the thought struck me—which is when I started writing this letter which you—the one whom it concerns—are now reading intently—I hope.
The thought that struck me left me feeling quite out of sorts for a moment, and I fear it might have left a bruise on the spot it struck. Then I let it sink in and register—with the Isaac Golle's Brain Board of Directors of course—and I came to understand that I was upset with the awards listed within this little green package of paper. Don't get me wrong, they're all wonderful awards, and congratulations to any and every person who is fortunate enough to receive one. However the better part of my somewhat crazy and artistic conscience cannot seem to settle with the fact that the only award even closely related to video production skill/ability is a generalized visual art award. There seems to be no specific award for each of the visual arts, but rather a generalized award. One would think this to be quite an acceptable issue, but how does that one go about deciding if this amazing video creator is better than this painter? The two are quite different subjects and differently judged, and so it brings to question in even the craziest mind that something is amuck.
I was going to end on that note, but my mind had yet another sort of, “fart” if you will(keep in mind it is not the sort of commonly-known fart which may have been the first thing to come to your mind, but be assured my noggin did not pass wind in any way shape or form. Rather, it is more of a figure of speech). My mind reminded me—at a very low price—that almost all of the awards listed on this listless green paper are only available if the chosen recipient plans to take part in some form of post-secondary education related to their award.
Most would find this to be a perfectly reasonable requirement, and I did as well, when my mind again went on a joyride and proceeded to persuade me—in a most persuasive manner—to rethink my acceptance of this requirement. To think: a thinking tool telling me to think. What a thought.
Getting back to the third segment of the original thought, I couldn't help but think—because my brain was telling me to do so in a most persuasive manner as you might remember—that perhaps a student is the best candidate for the award for visual arts—or any other award for that matter—and yet they cannot receive it simply because they are not planning on being affiliated with any post-secondary organizations in any way.
On the final note of the latter thought, I finally managed to get a word of my own in, and my thoughts and I decided that we would like to have an award entitled, “The Freelancing Artist's Award”. The only requirements of the award would be that the recipient is in fact not planning on attending any form of post-secondary education for the journey of their career, but either plans on travelling and using their talent along the way(videographer making a documentary) or acting as an independent artist for the rest of their life. My thoughts and I also think we would like to have an award for the writers. We realize there is an english award listed on the bundle of green papers, but we think it would be just wonderful if there would be an award for aspiring author's, poets, and novelists.
At this point my brain became exhausted and refused to offer anymore of it's time and intelligence to the wonderful conversation we had been engaged in, and left me to finish this letter on my own.
It took me quite a while to come up with anything on my own—my brain being the main source of my creativity and writing abilities—but I figured it would probably be good to ask if there is any way to go about donating and possibly sponsoring an award for the two mentioned in this letter. If you can help me go about this feel free to contact me(information included at the end of the letter) I also figured it would be good to inform you of my personal plans after high school—it would probably make more sense as to why this topic is such an issue for me.
I plan on taking at least two years off: one to work and save up money for a roadtrip. The second year will be spent going on that roadtrip and filming a documentary(still going through several ideas and trying to pick a final one...or even combine them all!). After this roadtrip is finished I will edit and produce the documentary, entering it in as many film festivals as possible. If nothing happens and my video receives no awards or recognition and doesn't help me start my career in the film industry, then I will apply for the film production course at Vancouver Film School and hope that that helps me get my career started. If nothing works, then I would be perfectly content living in a one-bedroom studio apartment and having a day job while filming as a hobby/small business for the rest of my life.
These are the full and final thoughts of Isaac James Golle on the topic of Academic Awards and the like.
Sincerely,
Isaac James Golle
Phone: (705)-732-1512
Email: isaacgolle@gmail.com
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Charlie
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” The thought ran through my mind over and over: “You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” It was like a marching band traversing through my mind over and over as I slowly made my way down the quickly moving street.
“You're not a criminal yet.” The sound became louder and more obnoxious to match my ever-slowing footsteps. I felt as if I was crawling along a worn and beaten path, and the world around me had switched into super-speed; the people and cars going by in fractions of a second, not a one giving me a single glance.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” I reached into my pocket and slowly traced the freshly-inscribed gang symbol along the sharp blade of my knife with a single finger. This was my ticket to happiness. This little piece of metal was to be my escape from the tormenting world of alcoholic fathers and relentless bullies: A sliver of steel turned into a sliver of hope, acceptance, and respect. A twitch of the lips sent my dull face into a slight hint of a smile as I focused upon this single thought.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” I grimaced—only slightly—and frowned once again as the torrential thought ripped its way into my confused mind once again. I glanced around nervously to see if anyone was watching me, but saw again only the blur of people and cars passing by while my own body seemed to move at the slowest pace possible. I turned my head back to stare straight ahead as I walked with all the determination I could muster so as not to looks suspicious. I even went so far as to remove the hood from my head.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.”
“DAMMIT!” I yelled, and clapped my hand over my mouth the moment the words left, terrified that some passer-by would suspect me.
“Everything alright?” the blur of motion slowed for a moment to reveal a concerned face several feet in front of me. I couldn't deduce a uniform, and so responded.
“Yes, yes, I'm fine.” The blur returned.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” it was all I could do to keep from turning and running home. I slid my finger along the freshly sharpened blade once more, reminding myself of the coming respect and acceptance.
“Just a few more steps.” I reminded myself, and looked around to confirm the whisper of a thought. I was struck with a sudden sense of panic as I came to the realization that the buildings surrounding me had joined the blur of people and cars. Nothing was deduce-able. Colors and lights blended together to form a massive, watery-like vision which flew in front of my eyes. I turned my head every which way, my eyes screaming for an escape route. Nothing. I ran, bumping into several things as I went, waiting for the reassuring thought to return to my head.
I reached for my knife, my finger sliding against the blade and screaming in pain as I did so. I felt a warm trickle run down my arm as I pulled out the weapon and swung it before me like a madman, trying to find some escape from the horrifying blur that was engulfing me.
“He's got a knife!” I heard a faint shout, and a thud as my blade connected with something solid—but not too solid—and sunk in enough to throw me off balance and knock me to the hard, blurry ground. I scrambled to get back on my feet, but was knocked over again by a heavy object. I cried out in pain, begging the reassuring thought to return and wipe my conscience clean.
I made no effort to stand up, and had lost the gang-emblazoned knife when I struck that unfortunate passer-by. A knee was pressed into my back, and cold steel tightened onto my clammy wrists.
“I'm not...a criminal...yet.” I panted slowly, but was silenced by a commanding voice.
“You have the right to remain silent....”
“You're not a criminal yet.” The sound became louder and more obnoxious to match my ever-slowing footsteps. I felt as if I was crawling along a worn and beaten path, and the world around me had switched into super-speed; the people and cars going by in fractions of a second, not a one giving me a single glance.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” I reached into my pocket and slowly traced the freshly-inscribed gang symbol along the sharp blade of my knife with a single finger. This was my ticket to happiness. This little piece of metal was to be my escape from the tormenting world of alcoholic fathers and relentless bullies: A sliver of steel turned into a sliver of hope, acceptance, and respect. A twitch of the lips sent my dull face into a slight hint of a smile as I focused upon this single thought.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” I grimaced—only slightly—and frowned once again as the torrential thought ripped its way into my confused mind once again. I glanced around nervously to see if anyone was watching me, but saw again only the blur of people and cars passing by while my own body seemed to move at the slowest pace possible. I turned my head back to stare straight ahead as I walked with all the determination I could muster so as not to looks suspicious. I even went so far as to remove the hood from my head.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.”
“DAMMIT!” I yelled, and clapped my hand over my mouth the moment the words left, terrified that some passer-by would suspect me.
“Everything alright?” the blur of motion slowed for a moment to reveal a concerned face several feet in front of me. I couldn't deduce a uniform, and so responded.
“Yes, yes, I'm fine.” The blur returned.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” it was all I could do to keep from turning and running home. I slid my finger along the freshly sharpened blade once more, reminding myself of the coming respect and acceptance.
“Just a few more steps.” I reminded myself, and looked around to confirm the whisper of a thought. I was struck with a sudden sense of panic as I came to the realization that the buildings surrounding me had joined the blur of people and cars. Nothing was deduce-able. Colors and lights blended together to form a massive, watery-like vision which flew in front of my eyes. I turned my head every which way, my eyes screaming for an escape route. Nothing. I ran, bumping into several things as I went, waiting for the reassuring thought to return to my head.
I reached for my knife, my finger sliding against the blade and screaming in pain as I did so. I felt a warm trickle run down my arm as I pulled out the weapon and swung it before me like a madman, trying to find some escape from the horrifying blur that was engulfing me.
“He's got a knife!” I heard a faint shout, and a thud as my blade connected with something solid—but not too solid—and sunk in enough to throw me off balance and knock me to the hard, blurry ground. I scrambled to get back on my feet, but was knocked over again by a heavy object. I cried out in pain, begging the reassuring thought to return and wipe my conscience clean.
I made no effort to stand up, and had lost the gang-emblazoned knife when I struck that unfortunate passer-by. A knee was pressed into my back, and cold steel tightened onto my clammy wrists.
“I'm not...a criminal...yet.” I panted slowly, but was silenced by a commanding voice.
“You have the right to remain silent....”
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Journey of Sir Lancelot
One might say that a personal journey and a personal essay are quite similar. Both have a beginning and an end, both contain opinions and experiences, and-frankly-both have the word personal in them. Of course, I would disagree entirely with anyone who made such a ridiculous claim, for I have discovered several amazing things about my personal style of writing over the course of the past semester. One could almost say I have met someone who changed my life. Then again, one could say a lot of things and less than half of them could be true...anyway, let's begin.
I started the semester thinking myself a fairly good writer. I have been writing since I was about ten years old, and have spent nearly five years creating a fantasy world and composing great lore stores around this world. In between the time of creating this world I wrote short stories, poems, and books. I also discovered an amazing love affair with the art of film and radio. So, naturally, I considered myself a fairly good writer.
But that was just the problem.
I considered myself-me, Isaac Golle-to be a fairly good writer. Now, don't get me wrong, I still consider myself to be a good writer-but about half way through the semester I discovered something which completely changed the way I wrote just about everything-including essays.
I began when I started writing, "The Elf". I have always been fascinated with the wit of Oscar Wilde, and wanted to capture that sort of personality in a character. In such a way, "Gump" was born. I became fascinated and intrigued with him right away, and very quickly found myself writing down lines for the character as though they came to me naturally. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote; completely blown away by the intelligence, wile, and wit of a character I had created. When I finished, "The Elf" it wasn't enough: I wanted more Mr. Gump.
And so I wrote, coming up with all kinds of mysterious, witty, and intriguing characters, composing their dialogue as though it was my own-as if I was the character through and through.
About a week after, "The Elf" I began work on, "Fun and Games" which was my summative assignment for this class. In this I created Justin and Terence: two more wiley and witty folk to add to the quickly growing pack. One day after I had been writing for a while, I stopped to take a break and turned to an assignment in another class. It also involved writing, and so with a sigh I gathered some paper and began writing answers to the many questions. After a moment I stopped, stared hard at my answers, then glanced over at, "Fun and Games". I looked at my answers again, then at the script once more. My eyes widened and my heart raced: I had discovered a new me.
My writing style has literally evolved into its own personality. Justin, Terence, Gump, and other others, all come out to get a word in every time I place my pen on paper. The me that writes and the me that walks and talks no longer share the same thoughts. I suppose one could say I have a sort of controlled multiple personality disorder. Of course, one could say a lot of things, and less than half of them could be true.
Now, as I look to the future and try to deduce the right path, I look to my new found friend(whom I call Sir Lancelot) and hope that this journey will be nothing short of exhilerating.
******
This was an essay I wrote for a final exam in my writer's craft class. The essay inspired this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkIdIvqDcws
I started the semester thinking myself a fairly good writer. I have been writing since I was about ten years old, and have spent nearly five years creating a fantasy world and composing great lore stores around this world. In between the time of creating this world I wrote short stories, poems, and books. I also discovered an amazing love affair with the art of film and radio. So, naturally, I considered myself a fairly good writer.
But that was just the problem.
I considered myself-me, Isaac Golle-to be a fairly good writer. Now, don't get me wrong, I still consider myself to be a good writer-but about half way through the semester I discovered something which completely changed the way I wrote just about everything-including essays.
I began when I started writing, "The Elf". I have always been fascinated with the wit of Oscar Wilde, and wanted to capture that sort of personality in a character. In such a way, "Gump" was born. I became fascinated and intrigued with him right away, and very quickly found myself writing down lines for the character as though they came to me naturally. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote; completely blown away by the intelligence, wile, and wit of a character I had created. When I finished, "The Elf" it wasn't enough: I wanted more Mr. Gump.
And so I wrote, coming up with all kinds of mysterious, witty, and intriguing characters, composing their dialogue as though it was my own-as if I was the character through and through.
About a week after, "The Elf" I began work on, "Fun and Games" which was my summative assignment for this class. In this I created Justin and Terence: two more wiley and witty folk to add to the quickly growing pack. One day after I had been writing for a while, I stopped to take a break and turned to an assignment in another class. It also involved writing, and so with a sigh I gathered some paper and began writing answers to the many questions. After a moment I stopped, stared hard at my answers, then glanced over at, "Fun and Games". I looked at my answers again, then at the script once more. My eyes widened and my heart raced: I had discovered a new me.
My writing style has literally evolved into its own personality. Justin, Terence, Gump, and other others, all come out to get a word in every time I place my pen on paper. The me that writes and the me that walks and talks no longer share the same thoughts. I suppose one could say I have a sort of controlled multiple personality disorder. Of course, one could say a lot of things, and less than half of them could be true.
Now, as I look to the future and try to deduce the right path, I look to my new found friend(whom I call Sir Lancelot) and hope that this journey will be nothing short of exhilerating.
******
This was an essay I wrote for a final exam in my writer's craft class. The essay inspired this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkIdIvqDcws
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