PalePower

Rodney, I veeeery much enjoyed listening to this. Thank you for the description of what the song represented - it adds a whole other level of fascination to it, to be able to get inside your head and share your own perspective of events. It has a somewhat subdued, even withdrawn feel to it, which, in context of the topsy-turvy "revolution" idea, is . . .well, enlightening. I kind of feel like God, looking down over all the goings-on of his people. Or it reminds of me of introspection, too. (I hope that was something along the lines of what you were aiming for!) Post more music, I'd love to hear it! ~Elizabeth

Michael, WOW. You have no idea (actually, you probably do) how wonderful it was to get that kind of feedback. It is VERY much appreciated, particularly your suggestions about counterstatements and how to properly build up tension leading to the climax. (I guess that more or less covered everything you talked about, huh? ) I would very much like to apply some of your suggestions. Hopefully when school lets out I'll have some time to rewrite and re-record; if that comes about, I'll be sure to post the new product. Concerning the melodic structure of the piece, I too have some qualms with it. I think a lot of this can be attributed to its origins - it wasn't intended as a solo piano piece, but as a vocal, band-ish work more reminiscent of pop music structure, like so: A: first verse B: chorus C: interlude (usually that comes after about two verses but I wanted to mix things up, minimal though it was) A1: second verse B1: chorus B2 (Not actually A2, it's the same melody as the B sections, only transposed up an octave and ornamented with background frill): chorus repeat/climax Coda: instruments trailing off, no vocals, maybe some humming here and there While this structure works for pop music, I don't think it's very appropriate for a classical solo piano piece. It leads to that chugging, start-stop-and-go feel, as in the lead-in to the B section. It also can lead to a lack of drama, again, as in the B section. The latter was originally meant to the be chorus, and so that weaker-melody feel (I agree with you there) wouldn't have presented as much of a problem since tension could've been achieved to greater effect by held-out vocals, and, of course, the drama of the meaning behind the lyrics. Basically, structure-wise, I don't think the piece flows very well. It sounds exactly like what it is, a pop song trying to be a classical composition. It's not! It definitely has good elements, but on whole I view "Never Be" more as an easing-into-the-water piece, as a springboard to more sophisticated compositions. (Which is what a lot of my music has been so far - recycling old pop-song ideas into classical pieces.) In the future I look forward to writing music unhampered by the verse-chorus-verse uniform. . . I think I've dabbled enough by now in my potentiality and am now ready to take the next step. =) Again, thank you so so much for your feedback. If you ever feel like taking another breather from your own projects, feel free to listen and comment some more. (Particularly on this piece: http://www.acidplanet.com/artist.asp?PID=869843&t=767. To date I think it's my best, and I'm quite satisfied with it - which is precisely why I'd love for somebody to dig into it and tell me what I could do even better.) And good luck to you in all that you're doing! *** Tex, Sadly, I don't think I have the equipment to filter out the buzz. . . just Cakewalk Home Studio, and I'm not aware of that being one of its attributes. =( One day! I will have more money! And better equipment! And then these things won't be an issue! Hm, I don't know if the guitar/vocal original of "Never Be" will ever be (ha, ha) recorded. . . I've lost some of my enthusiasm for it in light of the other music projects I could be working on... But! that's not to say it won't happen some time in the distant future. I listened to your music, and I must say, congratulations!! That's good stuff! I looove the electronic elements in the background. Do you listen to Ayreon at all? Arjen Lucassen, their songwriter, does a lot of that mixture of electro/metal feel - you might like it. How did you record this? The quality is good (at least, better than my crappy "equipment"). Is everything recorded or did you use drum loops? *** Brant, Technically the original already had lyrics, but, hey, feel free to write some of your own! I'd be interested. *** Thanks to all, keep the feedback coming!! ~Elizabeth

I've posted a new (or rather, newly recorded) piece on my website. Feedback of any kind is more than welcome!! http://www.acidplanet.com/artist.asp?PID=959801&T=5122 ~Elizabeth

"NT"s??

Actually, that sounds something like what you say you plan to be in the future. Well jeez, who wouldn't want that?

Victor & Rich, KUNG-FU?! AWESOME. But, hey, what can I say? I was brought up on the good stuff. B) I think people like that might forget that there was, yes, a life before The Fountainhead. There was ALREADY a substance and a basis to your person before you picked up Rand - it's what allowed you to give your "yes" to her work in the first place. You don't just suddenly become a "real" human being after being injected with her wisdom. Speaking generally, not so much from experience, people shouldn't neglect those old, strange, forgotten pre-Rand selves - those aspects of your character that make you specifically YOU, not just "an Objectivist." I mean, come on, how boring would that be? So, in your words, Rich, Objectivism HAS to be an integration, since there was obviously something there in people before they encountered it - a something that should be treasured just as much. =) Michael, about the brain-stuff, that's REALLY FASCINATING!!!! Wonder how that impulse gets there - evolution through survival value of self-sacrifice? (Jeez how confusing is that last statement?) And, I wasn't disagreeing with the instinctive thrust of helping others, just saying that on a more conscious level, it also has pinpoint-able substance. Goodness, so many posts today! You people distract me from piano.

Somerset Maugham, who was an obsessive reader, once said that a few times, when he was completely out of new material to read, he found himself carefully studying the instructions, etc., on the can of soup he ws preparing. I'll admit to doing the same thing -- and to this day I almost always have a book open on the bathroom counter beside me when I'm brushing my teeth. This may not be not a virtue; it may be a disease. Barbara I always read the directions and ingredients of the tooth paste roll, or the shampoo bottle, or the body wash - if I'm REALLY lucky there will be a Spanish translation of it on the bottle, to spice things up. Or if the translation is just in French (which I'm not familiar with), I try to figure out which words mean what and how you conjugate verbs and any other grammar rules. So far, my efforts at learning French from shampoo bottles have proven unsuccessful...BUT! I remain hopeful. Or if I've just read the toothpaste simply TOO many times I'll try to count the threads in the towels or conduct an excruciating survey of all the details of my bathroom and try to remember it all later. Also somewhat disease-ish. I get MASSIVE guilt complexes if I ever think I'm wasting a frickin' second of my time or being non-productive. I blame Objectivism.

My English class just finished reading Their Eyes Were Watching God for an assignment. Oh. My. Goodness. I can honestly say that this book completely shocked me. When I finished reading Atlas Shrugged, I said to myself, "You will never again read a book that will move you this much." IDY GO (&^ ahrtheqp4987asg9 8a6r6)*&%*^# I WAS WRONG?! Mind, nothing will EVER approach Atlas in scope and incessant importance, but the emotional, psychological impact that Their Eyes Were Watching God had on me was. . . yes, I would say it equalled Rand. I feel that if a person wanted to get a full, complete, 100% TOTALLY ACCURATE view of my person, they would just need to read The Fountainhead, Atlas Shrugged, and Their Eyes Were Watching God. How rare is THAT? In Rand's words, this book is my own personal "sense of life." It's not the explanation, nor the detailed proof. Actually, the plot can be a little big dragging at times -- but the writing style - O! the writing style and O! the things Hurston will say! Definitely recommend it. Very O'ist friendly. Has anybody read it? What'd you think?

Mm, I can relate with you there - the few times I've had the chance to in my short history as an Objectivist. The thing to keep in mind when reading about Objectivist ethics is that these are conclusions on life based on the writer's experience. Certainly they can explain them and reason them out and provide all the logical necessities behind the "proper" behavior, and this will all make sense, but I do not think that the reader should accept them immediately, simply on the faith of their just "sounding" logical. Of course, implement them, apply them, try them on for size - but do not ACCEPT them as solid, hardcore fact until your OWN experience validates them. Objectivist ideals, however beautiful and lucid, are not an excuse to stop thinking and learning. ALL of that has to be done on one's own. I haven't been much exposed to all sorts of Objectivists, but I'm sure there are many (I was one of them, Rich, I sense you were one too at some point) that feel guilt for ever questioning the principles of Objectivism - for ever daring to act against them. It is a beautiful philosophy, yes, but it's not the end-all of everything you can learn in life.

I'd also relate that "species drive" and the overall desire to help another person to empathy. It's easy, say, in war and such, to pull the trigger and call for the destruction of persons when you dehumanize them, when you think of them in terms of a body and a single "evil" idea. But as soon as you start thinking of a person as what they really are - a creature with desires, with hatreds, with passions and a history and things that make them laugh and make them cry and make them love this earth -- well, simply, you think, "I can relate to that." And all the sudden helping them - helping even complete strangers - becomes a form of selfishness, as instinctual as pulling yourSELF out of a spot of danger. Now you are not fighting for some formless stranger, but you are fighting for the same ideals which drive your own life, manifested in the life of that stranger. In context, if you saw a person being mugged and you rushed in to help, even though it was a risk to your own safety, the thought process (at least for me) would go something like this: That person is being mugged. Their hard-earned money is being unjustly stolen from them, and their physical safety might be in danger. I don't believe that people should be able to seize what is not theirs by right; I don't believe that a life should be snatched away at another person's whim; this is not just an attack on that person's material effects, but a personal attack on my principles. Therefore I am compelled by self-defense to intervene and help out that person. That's the only way it could qualify as a sort of "moral obligation." Obviously it's much more complicated, but there's a diluted look at the morality of helping others. (It really only translates to helping yourself.)

Are you saying that you still disagree with condemnation of altruism if it's in that context? If you're helping other people, and it's bringing you joy, it IS self-interest. For instance, one of my friends was writing a paper recently and I spent a lot of time discussing the ideas in it with him - a lot of time, that, technically, I didn't have - that I should've been spending on doing homework or practicing piano. Undoubtedly it cut into those things and a little part of me suffered as a result. But that wasn't self-sacrifice, because I wanted to talk to him MORE than I wanted to work on school or music at that time. Helping him brought me MORE happiness than ignoring him would have. It was just a prioritizing of interests. Self-interest in Objectivism doesn't mean that your interests deal exclusively with your self - they can include others' interests, too, if those interests of other people COMPOSE a part of your self. Basically, altruism = ew because it translates to: disregarding your own values for ones you disagree with = good. Which is dumb.

I love Victor Hugo!! But I wouldn't say I obsess over him, as did Rand, though I get what she was talking about - his characters are pretty friggin awesome. He's got great storylines, but they're all interspersed with this INSANE unnecessary essay-long descriptions, like in Hunchback describing the church and Paris. I've read Miserables, Hunchback, and The Toilers of the Sea - loved them all but they all had their difficult parts. Ironically, Toilers was my favorite and also the hardest to get through. There is - I'm completely serious - about 250-300 pages of USELESS prose in there, talking about the history and associations of octopi and little stone engravings and shit like that. But MY GOODNESS I cried at the end. It's worth the struggle. I skipped over a lot of the rambling at times. Judith, I'd say his prose (in English - I'm not a French expert) just takes some getting used to. He has a very distinct, interesting, and effective style when you get past the occasional flowery-ness. Specifically, he'll stick in these very succinct, staccato, right-to-the-point sentences that kick all the previous run-ons in the face and reach into your chest to twist your heart around a couple times - almost like he's mocking his own style, showing what he's REALLY capable of. I'd definitely give it another go. Kori, you didn't like Animal Farm!? Gasp! It's so fascinating!

Jeff, LAWL. Goodness me. - Penguins. Penguins suffocate ambition: how depressing is the prospect of a bird that will never be able to fly, and there's nothing they can do about it? If we killed off all the penguins in the Earth, the quality of life would improve by, like, a lot. - Honey. Manufactured by a droning, android-like society that survives by subjugating the individual to the service of a fat, domineering monarch-tyrant, supporting the production of honey would be like agreeing to do business with Communist Russia.

Could you elaborate a little bit more on why you disagree with them?

I've read LotR three times. I was OBSESSED with those books. When I was homeschooled I opted to stay home and hang out in LotR chatrooms, dissing Orli fangirls and playing miniscule-detail-trivia, instead of going to the mall with "real" people. Now I'm obsessed with Atlas Shrugged and opt to stay home on Objectivist forums instead of going to the mall to hang out with "real" people. Big improvement, in my opinion! I got through Stranger in a Strange Land, but it was kind of tough. I wasn't a big fan of the unnecessary dialect, all those "Uh-hunh Jubal"s. I've yet to read a sci-fi book I really like. The ones I've encountered, (Stranger among them, The Carpet Makers is another) all seem to be trying to make some really profound statement about life, which ends up either being really obvious or just totally retarded.

It disturbs my soul to ever leave a book unfinished - I feel guilty for weeks - unless it is a PARTICULARLY horrible book. "Sometimes a Great Notion" by Ken Kesey. ?!??! No comment. Other books are just so HORRIBLE that you HAVE to finish them, just out of a morbid fascination at the human race - you are boggled over how (1) someone could ever come up with this idea (if that's what it can be called) and think it's GOOD; (2) someone actually took ALL THAT EFFORT to write it; (3) a publisher thought it was good (?!) enough to publish; (4) readers actually bought it, liked, it and made a success; and, in this particularl astonishing case (5) it WON A PULITZER PRIZE?! Worst book I have EVER read: "Rabbit is Rich" by John Updike. *tries to explain, is overcome by a wave of nausea, runs to the bathroom to vomit for the next five hours* WHY?!?!!

(I'm just apologizing in advance for any traces of teenage whininess or existentialistic moanings & groanings in this post. I think I'm basically feeling kind of down on myself and need some cheering up, heh... no better place to find it than positive Objectivist forums. ) I've always, always had a very positive outlook on life. I think the first time I started becoming acutely aware of it was when I was 11 or 12 - just this unquestionable certainty that life was full of promises in the future, that great things lay ahead for me. Obviously reading Rand for the first time was like walking into a mirror, and only solidified everything. So I'm extremely optimistic -- but almost excessively so. I think I can do absolutely friggin everything, and so I'm really, utterly SHOCKED whenever I fail at something or fall below my own expectations - get a B or a C on a test or don't place in a competition when I'd worked so hard at it and PLANNED on winning or when a person doesn't turn out the way I thought they were or what-have-you. It stuns me every time because I never even CONSIDERED the prospect of failure, and, wham, there it is, staring me in the face and contradicting everything I'd believed in before of myself. So that makes me question the certainty I had of myself beforehand. Which makes me question the certainty I have now of life in general - that I'm going to have the opportunity to excel in my career, that I'm going to meet that perfect someone - that very specific someone - and fall in love and be happy forever and have lots of friends and live in a beautiful house with high ceilings and lots of windows and light and music and books, much of the last two my own. A part of me wonders if this is a sort of faith. Which is horrifying. So, after all of this, my question is, simply, to the adults: so how is it, really? How is life after several years in the "real world?" Is it everything you thought it would be? Does it live up to your expectations? Or should I just give up now and check out early because the disappointment will be too much to take? (Nothing morbid about that!)

I admit to being guilty of this sometimes. Fact is, I like COMPLEX music. I get bored with pop music (into which I lump all music that isn't classical) with the constant tonic-dominant-subdominant harmonic progression again and again and again. I adored the music of Yes and Emerson, Lake, and Palmer growing up, and I still remember it fondly -- in fact, right now I'm in the middle of Keith Emerson's autobiography, "Pictures of an Exhibitionist". Music like that may have been classified as "rock", but it was never BORING. Gotta dig out those old CDs.... Judith I'm totally with you there. I said in a previous post that I like rock, but that more applies to the instrumentation. I never listen to the radio, except classic rock time to time when I'm driving. The chord progressions never change!!! IT'S ALL THE SAME. Fortunately, there's SO MUCH exciting, "complex" rock out there today, recent stuff, too - mostly progressive stuff, some power metal, too. They just don't play it on the radio. Rhapsody, Nightwish, and Lacrimosa incorporate the entire symphony orchestra into their music, The Flower Kings go off onto, like, symphonic movements in their songs, only with keyboards and guitars and all that good stuff, and Ayreon continues on with the rock opera bit, but their songs could easily be written for classical instruments and you'd never know the difference. Glorious! And - YES! Oh my God. AMAZING. Have you heard their fairly recent album, "Magnification"? Rock genius!

Really? You think her judgment of for example Kant, Hume, Russell or Emerson is accurate? Operative word is "may," referring to the previous posts talking about that supposed talent of hers. I myself don't share that opinion, nor the contrary, because I don't know enough about the topic to evaluate it just yet.

Hooray! It's refreshing to encounter this outlook - I share the same view. There is SO much to learn about a person not only by their response to a particular piece of art, but the reasons behind their response. Even if that new knowledge about their psychology is - in whatever way - displeasing, it's still FASCINATING. Personally, I would (usually) never want to shield myself from learning something new - it's just another facet of life, and I love life. I want to know everything there is to know about it. It's definitely possible to keep both an open mind and closed principles. In regards to Ozzy and Bizet, hey, there's me! (Though I'm not as much an expert on Bizet as I am with other classical composers.) I LOVE classical music - I write classical music. And I also LOVE heavy metal - I incorporate elements of it into some of my music. I go home and write with Rachmaninoff humming next to me, and then I go out for a drive and blast Blind Guardian. Both touch me - psychologically, mentally, and emotionally - on levels that the other genre can't fulfill. Classical music is the equivalent of sitting down and reading a thoughtful book, learning a new idea, participating in a stimulating discussion: it's rife with meaning, usefulness and thrill; but it's also controlled and consciously guided - there's a certain calm to it, no matter how exuberant the piece. Rock is the equivalent of stepping out into an onslaught of sunshine and not being ABLE to ponder said complex ideas because their intended result - love of this earth - is an irrefutable given, swooping down upon you on all sides; it's the equivalent of setting your book down behind you and throwing yourself down a grassy hill, rolling around in all of life’s energy and getting it tangled in your hair and dusted over your nose and smeared all over your arms and legs. Rock is having FUN. There are plenty of Ozzy's songs that I don't really care for, but some of my absolute favorite rock songs are his, particularly "No More Tears," "Gets Me Through," and "I Just Want You" - MOSTLY the last one. I LOVE that song! They shoot me up with adrenaline and rev my imagination.

Oh my. Is it just me, or does anybody not CARE what a composer's philosophy was when listening to his music - and believe that it is an insult and downright ignorant to even consider their lifestyle when judging their music? I am horrified to see that anyone would ever even think of doing that. Rand may have been able to glean a philosopher's entire scope just from an excerpt (and all power to her - what Barbara described sounds simply astounding), but you would NEVER do that for music!! Like Barbara said, it deals with emotions, which are much more complex and insubstantial to use as a basis for evaluating one's philosophy - simply because it is, yes, subjective. Two people can be sad for two completely different and even constrasting reasons; it doesn't change the fact that their present EMOTIONAL state is the same, and that BOTH of them could gain something from listening to a "sad" piece of music. I'm surprised to read this about Ayn Rand, too, since I'm pretty sure I remember reading in The Romantic Manifesto that Rand said that music could mean different things to different people - am I correct? I don't know how you could argue AGAINST that, since there is nothing concrete to pin onto the "morality" of a piece of music, since none of the REASONS for that emotion are given. I could go forever, so I'll stop. =D I'm still just boggled that anybody could ever think that. I'm also boggled that Ayn Rand could hate Beethoven in the first place. In addition to his Seventh, what about the Tempest Sonata? More importantly, what about the Adagio of his "Emperor" Piano Sonata? It breaks my heart! What exactly was AR's critique of Beethoven - what were the pieces that set her off? I'm very interested, if anybody has that information.

Rich, Thanks so much for the feedback - I really appreciate it. I understand where your coming from with the "WHAT feeling" bit; however, the whole point of the monologue (and consequently the excessive description) is to communicate that last bit: "...not only was the origin of the feeling unknown, but the feeling itself. . .I do not know what it is. . . because I have never felt it.” The main character's incapable of giving that satisfying one-descriptive-word lead-in. The only means they have of communicating the essence of the feeling is by comparison to "events that have never occurred." The point of the passage is both to invoke an overall impression and to frustrate - because that impression is still fleeting. However, that said, I still understand where you're coming from. Some of that can probably be solved by cleaner structure - shorter sentences, making it more concise, etc. The other things you mentioned ring very true, though. I'll definitely keep them in mind. Victor, Good advice. I don't know if I mentioned that these are the roughest of rough draft excerpts. I'll definitely revise sentence/paragraph structure later on to get rid of some of those run-ons. Thanks for the link to the plot article!! I believe I'll love reading it, along with your "Portrait" - probably not until this weekend (SO BUSY!), but I'll definitely get to it. Thanks!

So, Victor asked me to post some of my creative writing - I can only comply! I'm currently working (in spare scraps of time) on a short story entitled "The Room of a Thousand Echoes." My writing process of this is pretty different from any other method I've used (which involves more preplanning and conscious structuring). It sort of started out as a collection of impressions and descriptions that spewed out of me when I felt I had to write something or DIE; my idea for it has now evolved into an interesting plot that is still growing and shaping itself. It will be an intensely psychological story - I'm loathe to say "stream of consciousness" because each event will contribute to the climax and theme. However, in a short summary (of what I have so far), the main character (their gender is never revealed - told first person) is hospitalized after collapsing one day, unable to walk anymore. He/she/it remains in the hospital as doctors try to figure out what's causing their partial paralysis, and with each day as the main character associates with people around ..it, and finds nothing but meaninglessness and indifference, their condition grows worse and worse. The following are two excerpts, both monologues by the main character. The first one is probably going to serve as the opening to the story. I'd love some feedback on writing technique, structure. . . any and everything. *** “I had always associated that feeling with spring – with soft, kelly-green leaves, petulantly fragile; and with air that lacked both noticeable temperature and movement but seemed electrically charged, wriggling impatiently under the surface of immediate perception; and with the deluges of rain that sobbed joyously down upon late afternoon like an eccentric benefactor, driven ecstatic by his own capacity for generosity – but still meticulous enough to share the sky with a precious few rays of sunlight, just enough to provide that final touch, that edge of glimmering gold amongst clouds of silver: the two would dance together, the sun and the rain, in spring, waiting for the earth to grow. But when spring arrived, I had already forgotten the thoughts of a few months past; when spring arrived, I had always associated that feeling with summer – with flapping, white, billowy shirts as innocent and as clean as the sails of the ocean’s boats plunging daringly into the horizon not too far away; and with the irritated pleasure of the ubiquitous heat, close and intent and inescapable like a guardian angel’s invisible, steady hand – whose only trait that came closest to fault was his untiring enthusiasm; and with deep forests, rich and full like a treasure chest, crashing its whispered life from bow to bush to blade, and green – not tentatively – but brazenly – blaring its matured power into the cool depths below. But when summer arrived, I could not think of a time when I had been different; when summer arrived, I had always associated that feeling with autumn – with the crystal, cloudless clarity of the October sky, burnt free over the months of any impurities; and with the pregnant anticipation hanging, pendulous and intangible, in the air, done with idle afternoons and never-ending vacations, savoring the approach of the perfect moment to leap back into action; and with the unabashed, naked glory of the fall rainbow jumping from tree to towering tree – those figures so in love with beauty that they would like nothing better than to be consumed by it, to be eaten up in a raging fire if only for the majesty of the blaze – if only for the trembling, single moment of their demise, so intense, so replete that no thought of aftermath could dream to adulterate it: so perfectly passionate. But when autumn arrived, those thoughts had never been; when autumn arrived, I had always associated that feeling with winter – with the pumping, pulsing thirst finally quenched when the laden sky burst and shivered down its armies of tiny sculptures; and with nights that only seemed black because of the sharp contrast with its brilliant, speckled sky – nights that never bid farewell to the sun but only dashed it into billions of refracted particles, then gathered them back up again into one, central orb by dawn; and with roaring fires and steaming cocoa and rooms full of shining, laughing faces – of friends, who loved the cold and adored the screaming wind, because it could not touch them inside their proud, placid homes, because it could never be as strong as they. “I went on like this for many years, living like a skydiver with one foot out of the plane, neither airborne nor still secure. I went on like this for too many years – with that feeling so complete in its potential, so filling in its tremulous, possible birth – that I did not have room left in my mind to realize that if it was a particular day in the future I was anticipating, I’d been looking forward to it for so long that it must have come along by now, so fresh and welcome had my expectancy always been. But one day, suddenly, one day which was neither warm nor cold, neither bright nor dark, neither clear nor humid – I remembered. I remembered that feeling – no, not as if it had left – it never leaves . . . it was more like I realized that it could be remembered, as a thing that, while still existing currently, had also existed in the past: it was the first time I realized its existence in a plane other than the immediate present. . . I remembered it, and my associations with it, all of them: of spring, summer, autumn, winter – simultaneously, as I never had before. And it did not strike me as odd that the fulfillment of this feeling had always preceded me by a season, and that I had never noticed this, time and time again – what struck me as odd was that with all of my feverish excitement that – you would think – could only arise from certainty that has never even known the possibility of doubt, I had never once experienced that which had given rise to the feeling. I had dreamt about joint rain-and-sun showers, but I have never once witnessed one; I had dwelled on the sea breeze twisting my white shirt around my arms; but I own no such shirt and I have never even seen the ocean; I had sighed at autumn’s suppressed excitement, but there has never been anything in fall that has made me feel excited; and I had grinned at the thought of winter’s laughter-filled living rooms, but that cannot be possible, you see, because I have never had any friends. I thought of this, and I thought it strange. Strange that the feeling – the feeling, that unquestionable thing which has dominated my entire being – could be founded on things which did not exist. Then I realized it was stranger still, for not only was the origin of the feeling unknown, but the feeling itself. I cannot give a name to it, I cannot describe it, beyond enumerating events that have never occurred. I do not know what it is, this feeling, because I have never felt it.” The room is still. It is silent, save for the steady, melancholy ticking of a clock that I can’t see: my back is turned towards the wall that supports it. After a while, when he realizes that I am finished speaking, a second noise joins the silence. He taps his pen on his clipboard in rapid, irregular intervals. It makes a brash, nasal sound; and I experience a sort of physical pain, only I cannot detect in what part of my body. I wish he would stop. I find that I am frightened of it – either the noise, or the pen, or both. I have never been frightened of anything before. *** (Second excerpt)*** She clasped her hands together over her head like a shield against anything that might impede this catharsis. “It’s so difficult to explain. You see, I’ve always considered myself a rather courageous person, but that was when my obstacles were things with names, things with shapes and essence and a power that was real. Now, though – now I don’t know what I’m up against – I only know that I’m up against something and that it fills me with fear – fear! Do you hear me? I’ve never been so afraid in my life. It’s not the healthy sort of fright, the kind that invigorates and strengthens, the kind that serves as a tool. But it’s a blind, wide-eyed sort of terror, like a victim hiding shivering under a table, not knowing when their predator will strike, where it is, what it’s thinking, planning – so that their real enemy becomes their own panic and their own ignorance and their own ineptitude, and they would welcome attack not as a challenge to meet, but as a means to escape their own tattered existence! “I feel as if I am stranded in a misty zero, spinning around, my feet scraping against a ground I can’t see, searching for my predator – but all I can see is the same, gray, swirling nothing – so that I begin to think less about the danger surrounding me and more about the discomfort of the sweat on my brow, that cold sweat that feels like death’s misty breath beating down around me, and I become so obsessed with the sensation that I wonder if there was ever really anything behind the mist to induce it, or was it just the mist, the sweat itself that drove me there! “And it’s strange things that have begun to scare me – and I don’t mean ‘scare’ in the sense of an uneasy discomfort creeping through your bloodstream, in full view of your awareness – I mean ‘scare’ in the immediate sense of the word: one second you are fine and normal, the next there you are like a gunshot, heart pumping, fingers shaking, eyes rolling, hair standing up on the back of your neck to avoid being drowned in icy sweat, knees too weak to support your own weight but too unsteady to allow you the smooth motion of collapse! Strange things, strange things cause this. Words, faces, noises. I jump when my radio crackles, cutting off the carefree talk show voices; I shudder when someone trails off in conversation, when their eyes glaze over, and I know they have ceased to see me – it fills me with dread, it makes me cold and weak and nauseous! I have the urge to cry out, but I am always stopped short with the breath of the scream caught between my lungs and my voice, knowing I will be terrified at the sound if I release it – and terrified all the more for having it remain in me. I have taken to walking the streets quite often, driven by the fierce need for human comfort, but this act frightens me most of all! I stare into people’s faces with the vague impression that if they would just exchange a glance with me, then all of this – this terror, this uncertainty, this mad, untraceable senselessness – would disappear; but it is as if my figure has no corners for their sight to grab onto, and we roll on past each other, like indifferent marbles. Senseless, senseless! Oh, that is what I am afraid of! This cold, suffocating senselessness! Tell me, do you think I am mad? Please, I don’t care if you do, only tell me emphatically, tell me with more than the drop of life it takes to tie your shoe! Maybe then I could stand.”

Oh come on, funerals are great and everything, but the PRIME method of death would make one impossible (in the sense that there would be no corpse). Okay, here's the scenario - i.e., my planned Big Exit: I am 90-something. Hell, make it 100-something - I want to live a whole century. By this time, I am a living legend. I've written more quality music than Schubert would have had he lived a thousand years. My prowess as a writer has basically discouraged any other fledgling authors and I possess, for the first time in human history, a monopoly over the literature business. I am so rich that I bought out Uganda and turned it into a big shopping mall - the people there are finally prosperous and happy, and they have statues of me next to every Starbucks (double mental energy - caffeine and motivation to achieve that kind of success that I have). I have personally stopped global warming because I one day looked up at the sky, fixed it with my smoldering glare, and said, "NO." People worldover genuflect when they say my name. Six times a day (not five like that newb Allah mandated) they must point themselves in my direction, wherever I am on the globe, prostrate themselves and recite my name over and over again until they feel sweet peace settle over their souls. Moreover, men - young men - WANT me. Not because I'm sexy or anything - I am 100 years old and ugly as sin with bald patches all over my head, a pleated face, and I smell like pee. But I am SO. COOL. that they'll fight hell to go through the pains of sleeping with me - just to say they slept with Elizabeth Nonemaker. We all enjoy this situation - because throughout my entire old-age-hood my sex drive has only increased. I am a roaring tornado of want, and I get to hand-pick my nighttime cohorts. One night, I am with a particularly youthful youngin.' He just turned 18, and it's his first time. He's pretty scared. He doesn't know what to do. Plus, he's revolted. But I'm having fun and I think it's pretty amusing that he's so sad. So I decide to top it off. Right after we get done having sex, and he's about to cry, I spontaneously combust. As he leaps horrified away from the bed, the flames consuming my crumpled, aged body and engulfing the sweaty bedsheets, I manage in my last seconds to lock eyes with him and cackle, "What, was it too HOT for ya, sonny?!" Then my face burns up. See, THAT'S the way to go. ~Elizabeth

In my Spanish Lit class we were given the assignment of writing our own rodeo, like Martí's "Versos Sencillos," telling where we were from, if we had faith, if we've suffered, and basically what we get out of life. I was rather partial to mine - the translation is as follows: I am a distinct young woman from neighborhoods without distinction, with names that I can't remember although I have always remembered mine. I have no faith in incense or statues, or what might come to pass in incomprehensible places - I only believe in my mind, my eyes and hands, in the sun and its horizon, in the rich earth. Have I suffered? Yes, certainly, and with violence and sincerity, but the only thing I've learned from suffering is that I am not to suffer. Some live like clocks, firm and predictable and terrified of the moment when their mechanisms choke; and perhaps I would be the same if I had the time, but I am too busy with love and wonder - I can't dwell on anything more than life. The sun is in my eye, blinding me to darkness. ** This is the original Spanish version (in case anyone would like to check over my grammar!!): Soy una muchacha distinta de vecindarios sin distinctión, con nombres que no puedo recordar, aunque siempre he recordado lo mía. No tengo fe en incienso u estatuas, o lo que pasen en lugares incomprensibles; solamente creo en mi mente, mis ojos y manos, en el sol y su horizonte, en la tierra rica. ¿He sufrido? Sí, con certeza, y con violencia y sinceridad, pero la única cosa que he aprendido de sufrimiento es que yo no he de sufrir. Algunos viven como relojes, firmes y predecibles y aterrorizados del momento cuando ahogan sus mecanismos; Y quizá sería el mismo si tuviera el tiempo, pero estoy demasiado preocupada con amor y asombro – No puedo pensar en algo más que la vida. El sol está en el ojo, cegándome a la oscuridad.