Stopping to smell the flowers


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Posted by on April 1, 2012 in Uncategorized


Food for Thought


For English class, I have to analysis a poem. I know what your probably thinking, oohhh poetry, I HATED POETRY. I am so glad I am not you. Well, I did too until I realized how often I listened to poetry. Poetry is in music. Some of the best songs are made by their lyrics which is poetry. Poetry is like a short story. It has a theme and a thesis. However, the plot and thesis aren’t always obvious. But that just leaves more room for you to interrept it and find if you can recognize it today. The poem I was assigned was called The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot. Read it and try it on, mush and mash it. Shift through for meaning. If you still need help checkout this website.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats         5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….         10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go         35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare         45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?         60
  And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress         65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,         90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
  That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,         100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  “That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.”

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,         115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …         120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.         125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
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Posted by on March 5, 2012 in Poetry


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My birthday is coming up. I am excited but not really excited. My dad will be out of town on my birthday; Mom and I will probably go out to a little restaurant and get a dessert or something. What I am really excited for is the present I asked for. I asked if I could plant a special Cherry Blossom tree to plant in the spring.

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Posted by on March 2, 2012 in Uncategorized


Diary Sneak Peak Trial

I thought I would try out giving an entry from my journal to show you. I have been writing in my journal since December 6th, 2011 every night. It’s just a trial so tell me if you want to hear more or you’re just not interested.

From January 2nd, 2012                                                                                              11:02 PM

How much goes unnoticed to the human mind? Do we go through life with one eye open? I have been having a trial with myself. I am trying to go through the day being observant and noticing small changes in people. I just saw the new Sherlock Holmes movie. Sitting in the buttery aroma of the dark theatre, I felt inspired. I have always wondered what can be learned about life from simply observing.

Another fictional character that has fascinated me is Alaska Young, from John Green’s hit book, Looking for Alaska. She is impulsive, moody, and a bad ass kind of girl. The true feature that she holds is her spirit. She’s extremely passionate, wild, playful, and unpredictable. She contrasts with my predictable, studious, shy, serious personality. I can’t explain but sometimes I wish I held some of these qualities. Nevertheless, if I have learned only one thing from Alaska Young it is this, I am not going to wish for something I am not. I am either going to do it or just stop wishing. Wishing is for chumps.

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Posted by on January 26, 2012 in Diary Entry, Uncategorized


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This was my art midterm drawing assignment. 1/3 of it needed to be stippled in sharpie, 1/3 in lign design and 1/3 by shading. I think I feel in love with the clock and the stippled portion. I am not to find of the lign design ( left side.) Especially, my grandfathers model airplane which as signifigent importance to me. However, I was running low on time and had to rush. The clock is hands is just after twevle because I wanted to symbolize time after an event. Or maybe that we are only consious after an important moment, never during. What do you think?

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Posted by on January 24, 2012 in Art


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The Path of Life

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Posted by on January 4, 2012 in 365 photos


Stippling away!

For the last 10 days, which is most of my entire winter break I have been stippling away to create this picture. In my art class, my art teacher assigned us to draw mittens or gloves with markers by stippling. The entire class gave a low moan. Stippling is an art technique of making tiny dots and making art out of these dots.

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Posted by on January 2, 2012 in Art


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