A suited man, endowed with the luxuries of first-class life, strolls down a dimly lit sidewalk, his Italian leather shoes clicking against the pavement with each stride. The suited man, being a prime kingpin in a series of more than questionable businesses, swaggered down the street; his wallet swells, bulging with filthy money; filthy money attained in filthy ways. His black hair, slicked back, is accented with long, silver streaks. His cares are few, besides what to order at his favorite Italian restaurant with the newest of his long line of women. He adored the restaurant due to its buffet style serving, allowing him to entirely indulge his plump and round stomach. “Ravioli or mozzarella sticks tonight?” he whimsically mutters to himself. A brief glance at his Rolex alerts him of his lateness, and his pace hastens; as does the clicking of his shoes. He’s becoming anxious; each step is more brisk than the last. “This woman is special. I mustn't decay a second impression!” he declares aloud.  Had the suited man been less absorbed with his unsatisfying wealth and countless women, he would've noticed a man trailing him; a dark man, with dark intentions.  The suited man, reciting the excuse for his tardiness under his breath, comes close to a running stride when the thuds of heavy footsteps finally penetrate his superficial concerns. He sluggishly cranes his head to the rear to investigate, expecting a fellow walker or a late man hurrying to a date, just like him. Instead he’s met with the black barrel of a battered revolver, inches from his nose. Behind the handgun stands an enormous, starving wolf; his burning red eyes stare straight through the suited man’s, and his golden-tipped tongue traces the perimeter of his lips, nearly tasting the wealth lingering in the crisp night air. With the quick flick of his tree trunk like arm, the hooded man jams the cold, steel barrel between the suited man’s pearly teeth, ruthlessly smashing multiple front teeth inwards. The suited man realizes in this moment, that his wealth, his women, and his vast power mean nothing with a cold, steel barrel jammed between his gnarled, bloodied teeth. He can’t believe that after the years of running a lucrative, yet vicious racketeering operation, his wealth would die with him by the hand of an equally greed stricken man. He shrivels on the ground; droplets of blood fly from his lips as he squeals inaudible pleas of mercy, his busted teeth still encircling the barrel. He jerks his wallet and keys from the front pocket of his coat, placing them at the feet of the hooded man, as if he were offering measly gifts to appeal a wrathful god; he had become the victim, the prey. “You can’t be allowed to live.” The hooded man growled menacingly. His voice sounded poisonous, like the serpent’s in the Garden of Eden. “You know my voice, and gazed upon my eyes. If I allow you to escape, I might as well shove this revolver down my own throat.” The words roll of the tips of his forked tongue; dripping with malevolence. His hand tightens on the cold steel, slowly squeezing the trigger, the hammer cocking; the suited man reluctantly realizes the consequences of his acquiescence. The last thing to exit the suited man’s mouth is a futile cry for mercy, and the last to enter is blazing steel, ripping his vertebrae between the skull and upper back. His body immediately falls limp and collapses to the ground, like a rag-doll that a child finishes toying with. The hooded man retrieves his new belongings off the “martyr” as he likes to call them, and dashes into the dark, into the cool night, never to be reprehended for this atrocity. Steadily leaking from the base of his skill, crimson liquid saturates the man’s pressed, white suit, and blood pools beneath his careless head. His glossed eyes are wide open; they gaze infinitely skyward into the dim streetlamp’s bulb. Miles away, the hooded man scrubs his hands, and his hungry, red eyes scream “just a little more.” No more how full they become, he insists his pockets lie empty. 

2300 B.C., Sargon the Great launched a campaign of military conquest that united all of Mesopotamia. In the cradle of civilization, the fertile "land between the two rivers," the first military dictator rose. Since humans first organized into the most basic of civilizations, a single steady constant has existed to this day; war. From the first primal clashing to the present, the world has been in a perpetual state of war. Whether it be civil unrest in a country you didn’t even know existed, or the grand theater of World War II, man never ceases spilling his brother’s blood. Though few argue against the atrocity of war, even fewer believe that true peace is attainable.

“Why can’t we all just get along?” Begs the blind optimist.  

“War is in your blood, flooding your veins!” replies history.

War is deeply tragic. Sadly, until the Sun ceases to rise and set, war will exist, just as it has for millennia. How do you think the countries of today will react when their fossil fuels run dry? When their people are starving? When they realize that wealth is lovely, but you can’t eat money? The same way humans have for countless years; with sticks and stones, not open arms and minds.

Humans are likely the most sociable animals that have ever been, and will ever be. Together, we live in general peace; eating, living, working; hell, some people even choose to sleep in the same bed. Not because they have a lack of space, a lack of beds, or arctic conditions to endure, but because they choose to. Because the idea of laying comatose alone, for just a moment, is too daunting to swallow, too appalling to even consider. Whether you want to admit it or not, we need, nay, crave each other desperately. Perhaps this peculiar behavior stemmed from a Darwinist process, a slowly acquired understanding that unity equals strength. Or perhaps there lies deep mystical connection between us kindred spirits, some God, some energy, some indescribable force that brings us together, that makes us want to unite.

Despite what you believe, in others, we see ourselves. In their words, in their expressions, in their gasping laughs, in their charming smiles, in their quivering terror, in their delightful anecdotes, we catch glimpses, shadows, silhouettes of ourselves. We try desperately to connect, to grasp life from different hands, to see through infant eyes once more. But what is it all for? Humans need each other so fiercely that isolation drives most to madness, if not a swaying noose.  Perhaps we connect selfishly in a panicked whimper, frantically trying to convince ourselves that the Earth is not a cold dead place. That life is not meaningless and we won’t depart as we entered; alone, bloodied, wailing.

Perhaps this is so. And perhaps, it’s absolutely wrong.

At our school, one hears much talking. Much of it useless, trite garbage that really shouldn't don on anyone's ears. But below the petty foolishness and sickening gossip, one can hear an echo, a tone which tastes the tip of every word spoken; fear. In this time of transition, it seems that students fear for many things: transition, the future, independence, financials. However, no matter what one's specific fear might be, there is a unifying theme, a common angst; fear of the uncertain. Despite how good one's plans might be, despite a high GPA, despite how many letters are stitched in one's jacket, everyone is terrified of uncertainty. For some, they are most terrified of not knowing what they want to do. For others, they're simply worried that they'll be able to afford college. 

It's most frightening, to me at least, that I won't ever know what I truly desire. What do I want to do with my life? Is college the right choice? Is there any other option in today's world? Is there something magnificent I should be doing instead of participating in the standard high school, college, job, then family cookie cutter life? I fear most that no matter what I do, there is some ideal opportunity, some perfect place or experience that I just missed, a wrong turn taken, happiness so fleeting. And the worst part is, no matter what choice I make, there will always be a yearning, eating voice  lying in the back of my head, reminding me that I'm making the wrong choice, that I was so close and still so far away. 

Mr. Lockwood experiences uncertainty himself. He claims to moved to the middle of nowhere in pursuit of sweet isolation, yet where do we find him? Constantly trying to socialize, to make a human connection. He even trodded through blizzard conditions for a hot cup of tea and a cold scowl. 

Even this fictional character is experiencing a personal fissure, the heart and head splitting at the seams. Even he has his own yearning voice, pushing towards some imaginary agenda, some ideal place lead to mystically. Will anyone really ever know if they're in the right place, doing the right thing? Or are we always a step behind some cosmic plan, never quite feeling in the right place?

Following Tea Cake's tragic demise, the concept of faith recycles in Janie's brain as she questions the compassion of God.
As the folks watch the hurricane roll through the 'glades, "They seemed to be staring at the dark, but their eyes were watching God. (160)
Thoughts of bewilderment, foreboding, terror flush Janie's and Tea Cake's mind alike. Immobility, stagnant is their action, due to their misplaced faith. Misplaced faith in the lake dyke, misplaced faith in each other, misplaced faith in their God, whom they blindly believed would not forsaken them, would not send their shoulders beneath the rushing white waters.
Sight and God are two prevalent symbols. Though this should be at least minutely obvious, concerning the title of the novel. However, their interaction is vicious. Whenever Zora Neale Hurston mentions sight, it is sight of one of two things; terrible, atrocious acts or behaviors occurring, or eyes fixed on God.
A central theme of the novel is the concept of God's benevolence. With each tragic event that occurs in Janie's life, she looks to God for answers, for comfort, for rectification. And He, or other circumstances, seem to rectify her grief each time. When her first husband died, another well off man was ready to take her as his wife. And after his death, another, and another after that. When one husband croaks, another seems to appear mystically. To some, this may be seen as a blessing, a compassionate God pitying and aiding a lost sheep. To others, it may seem a curse. With each husband's passing, a new wave of sorrow envelops the poor woman. Though a stream of suitors may seem to be a blessing to some, the grief that each new husband causes her is truly a series of unfortunate events, a long line of manic episodes of bliss, followed by storms of sadness, of heartache.
No one knows truly knows if God is non-fictitious or fact. That each event that occurs is merely one's next step in some pre-ordained destiny, or some random string of events pulled together haphazardly. Though this gray area of uncertainty will likely exist nearly infinitely, until definitive evidence proves God one way or another, I recommend making your own luck, having confidence in yourself, not a concept cloaked in obscurity.

This week we read the lovely "The Yellow Wallpaper" which provides a fascinating insight into mental illness and its pre-modern treatment.

Until the civil war, doctors believed that sickness, disease, infection, was all caused by a imbalance of four fluids within the human body, and that balance could be reattained by purging the patient, often removing huge quantities of blood that would kill the patient. This "treatment" had been standard since the second century Anno Domini. With this in mind, it's not hard to understand that doctors, even today, have a weak understanding of mental illness and its proper treatment. Mental illness remains difficult for the patient to cope with and for the doctors to treat for various reasons.

Firstly, mental illness is not something you can see.
As humans, we prefer to deal with concrete, visible problems that we can simply evaluate, and treat accordingly with conventional medications, drugs, rehabilitation, etc. However, mental illness is the antithesis of a simple injury easily righted. Walking down the street, it's usually impossible to tell from a glance if someone is suffering, unless you see a cast, bandages, some overt physical marker that tells the world they're hurt. But mental illness, although not nearly as overt, can be just as debilitating if not more than a broken leg or concussion, as mental illness festers, multiplies in intensity. Once someone succumbs to mental illness, it's painful to pull oneself out of. It's not like one can wrap their skull in bandages and take some drug and everything is fine and dandy. It's rather the opposite.

Mental illness is a chronic condition that no doctor can "fix". The only cure from mental illness comes from within, from a mental shift. Albeit, drugs may aid some people (while causing viscous side effects, often worse than the original condition) to get over their humps, but mental illness is never really "cured". One might feel better mentally, or learn to cope with their conditions better, but the shell, the husk of the mental battle is always in the back of one's head, waiting to be indulged once again. The battle against mental illness is never over; it's a journey, to drag heavy, torn, demented feet through mud and sand, with nothing more than the hope for improvement, content. Not all make the journey. Some lay dead by their hand, the pain too severe to tolerate any longer. And some, some never start the journey. They permit the illness to fester, to grip every cell in their minds. And they die as they lived.

"So he struck Janie with all his might and drove her from the store."

It's always fascinating to read an older novel, such as Their Eyes Watching God, and notice how although the time and geography are vastly different, people experience the same events, same horrors, same triumphs. 

In this novel, Janie is a woman devoid of love. Emotionally, physically, her aging husband Joe cannot satisfy her on any level. Shower her with his wealth and possessions he did, but they matter not. She feels empty, void of any positive feelings.

And to put a cherry on the cake, Joe is becoming abusive.The moment that Janie removed his "immeasurable manliness" by cutting him with her tongue, his only defense are his fists. She hurt him, so he must hurt her. 

Although this novel was written over seventy-five years ago, the common scenario happens every day, across all oceans, down every alley and through each door. Men who beat their significant other, some perverse display. Many strike their wives out of self-loathing, out of misplaced desire to feel powerful, meaningful. Though, spousal abuse is not exclusive to women, it is what we hear of most frequently, lining the bottoms of newscasts and peering through the internet. Former NFL player Rick Rice (or something, I don't watch football) knocks his fiancee out cold in a public elevator, drags her dormant body out, and what is he slapped with? A fine and a suspension. Though if any other citizen committed such an act, ON FILM no less, they would be sentenced to years in penitentiary. What kind of message does this portray? Our athletes are treated as Golden Gods, standing upon marble pedestals, impervious to the punishment of us trite mortals. 

What's even more curious is why women return to their abusers. Some are simply scared of the retaliation that would be summoned if the topic of splitting up rose through their lips, a valid fear. Some have misplaced desires to fix their abuser, make them whole again. And for some, violence is all they know. The sins of the father passed to the children. Some believe that violence and abuse is a normal, typical, healthy part of any relationship. 

It's an important message to convey: abuse is not healthy, it is not normal. Abuse of any kind is unacceptable. If you are in an abusive relationship, get out. It doesn't get better. The cycle of abuse, reconciliation, and relapse is just as constant as the sun rise. 

As we progress deeper into "Their Eyes Watching God" portions of human behavior that lie within all of us are brought to light. 

Though in the southern culture, it is apparently a common occurrence to laze on one's rocking chair on wooden porches, gaping, gossiping, gasping, at anybody who thrives differently, it is a far less common and socially acceptable action in the culture which I have lived. People, at least those  I choose to consort with, do not tolerate meaningless gossip and garble. It is simply not acceptable, and one is looked down upon and shunned if they partake consistently in such a petty, selfish act. 

However little people will vocalize it, we all partake in similar thoughts, whether it be auditory our merely swimming in our head. The moment our eyes catch sight of the someone who is different, someone we don't understand, or most commonly someone who we find intimidating, our immediate defense is to draw faulty conclusion, rash speculations, childish insults. Does this occur because we are too foolish to be able to see people as they are, for what they are? Individuals, each dealing with unique battles, struggles, triumphs, virtues. Every moment in their lives, every breathe of air, every step, every word, every action amalgamated into one exclusive being, each prodigious in its own sense. How can one begin to skim the surface of the intense complexity of a human's spirit from a glance, from what they happen to be wearing that day, from the way they talk, from the isolated murmurs and crumpled notes circulating a concrete hallway? No matter how one skews it, what falsely omniscient perspective is achieved, no man is so transparent, so incredibly simple as to be summarized with a couple sentences or adjectives. Thus is the ignorance of man.

While one is reading Araby, a severe nausea may engulfs the stomach, and the oh so played out coming of age archetype is thrown in one's face blatantly, with little regard for covertness. 

Oh, a young boy has his first crush on a stunning, seemingly unattainable girl, and begins an unhealthy infatuation with her? That's a first. Realizing that your one's only chance with said female is to shower her with your affection, in the form of gifts, of course. It's impossible to even begin to court a female without a significant financial investment, right? The poor boy equates his love interest with a 401-K. 

Is this the type of message the author is trying to portray? Or is it simply a poor attempt at depicting the hot, red, awkward pain of a first, unsolicited infatuation?

As I sat in my over-sized bean bag, flipping page after page of Cold Mountain, I found Inman's trials and tribulations increasingly interesting. Despite the various physical challenges which Inman encounters, such as murderous rednecks and druggings, his true trials lie beneath the surface, in the confines of his mind.

Inman, for apparently the first time in his life, began to question the belief system which he was indoctrinated into unknowingly. As the world seemingly crumbled around him, as did his preconceived notions of God, heaven, and spirituality in general. He adopts a common atheistic argument: 'If God exists, how could He allow such horrors to engulf his people, his supposed children?'

Inman has done what a startling majority of people fail to even ponder in the entirety of their blind lives; question the believes one was brought up with, the beliefs one is intrinsically surrounded by. So many people believe the things they believe just because their parents believe it, or their church, or their comunity. Not for a second do they stop and try and formulate their own thoughts. Their belief system is validated, and pounded into their minds from a young age, from those that surround them. And whimsically, although people's behaviors, thoughts, and actions evolve with their age as they rightfully should, their belief system remain at the infantile stage of accepting whatever their legal guardians regurgitate, just as their guardians did before them. It creates a cycle of ignorance, whereas people believe what their community believes just because it's what everyone else believes.

I don't think that religion is all bad by any means. But when people base their belief systems on no more than what their parents, family, and community belief, it creates bigotry.

Hopelessness. Distress. Fear. Tears. We all react differently when faced with a daunting, seemingly impossible task. A black cloud is rolling towards you, billowing and ominous. The sun surrenders its light to the cloud. Its moisture strikes your face like a wet towel, and you forgot your umbrella. Oh, and your naked.

Confronting a daunting task, all of us react differently. Some choose to furrow their brows, drop the points of their mouths and weep, as its all too much, or too overwhelming. However, the strong see this not as an overwhelming, impossible task. It is instead a challenge, a call to action. Not only are difficult tasks exciting and new, they create a stronger person. They smash the preconceived notions of what we are capable of, and cause us to grow as people. Completing a task that you once assumed was impossible is literally the most rewarding experience I've experienced in my youth.

Typically, it is not the endgame of the challenge that is most rewarding; it is the journey towards the goal. Improvisation, innovation, creativity, hard work, and most importantly, perseverance erupt from the chest to the skull during the process of undertaking a difficult task. These tasks are what give life meaning, importance. Without a task in mind, in action, we are purposeless creatures, leeching off the success and triumphs of those willing to be iconoclastic, whilst our minds yearn for the bliss of accomplishment, self-fulfillment.

It doesn't matter if the task has an end date, or even a certain goal in mind. It is the journey which breathes life into our lungs, gives meaning to the mundane. Satisfaction is not received from the obtainment of our goals, but from their pursuit.

For this week's free blog, I decided to just write a poem about someone very close to me who is going through many tribulations. So, here it goes.

Heavy sobs, swollen eyes,

Pushing through day's light

Crooked back, wretched spine

Shatter glass, against the wall

Grasp for the shard, to end it all

Hands off, here we go

In the cab, of the car

slamming your head against the window

Blood trickles down her cheek

Hospital restraints, ripped out hair

lays on the floor and she stares

At the wall, clenched jaw

White rooms, soft chairs,

He asks why you can't bare

The idea, of existing

Silent stares, dead eyes

Scream to just let her die

Heavy heart, broken mind

Empty stomach, dormant eyes

Sleeping away her upset head

Heavy thoughts, dark mind

Therapy, force-fed

IV dripping morphine

Drifting off, ample meds

X-Rays, arrive

Condition's worse, but we must strive

to realign, your brain and spine.

Yes, I hope this pain leaves in no time

Then we can talk again

In a brighter light

"and in the eyes of the hungry, there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, heavy for the vintage." (page 271)

This photo illustrates various themes from John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath; the migrant, children, the road, but most prominently, the need for humanity to adapt to its conditions. 

First and foremost, the family, minus the father, is under a tarp in their back of their vehicle, beneath the shadow it casts. This alone sets the dire mood of the photo, as the tarp is symbolic of the famine and tragedy that is constantly lingering over the heads, omnipresent. The lack of a father figure in the photo also represents a common theme; abandonment. In Steinbeck's book, Rose of Sharon's husband Connie abandoned her when times became rough and unpleasant, seeking only to help himself. Connie's abandonment of the family, Rose of Sharon in particular, began the fissure in the family, which continued only to grow as more and more members of the family either died, were arrested, or simply scattered. 

The second most prevalent portion of the photo is the infants. The infant on the far left appears to be being lifted up, although it is sitting on the lap of a sibling, whose entire upper body is mysteriously absent from the photo. This scene is reminiscent of the end of the Steinbeck's book, when the flood rolled over the plains, yet the Joads couldn't move because of the baby being born. This alone could be symbolic of the flecks of hope Steinbeck implements into his book, such as a dandelion pushing through the cracked and barren earth. It almost appears that the child is being lifted above the troubles of his family by some external force. However, the infant doesn't appear to be saved from the scenario, as his troubled, clenched face may suggest. The four children in the middle of the photo share similar facial expressions; hopelessness, hunger. Notice how only the mother is wearing shoes, symbolic of the severe poverty that migrant families during the Dust Bowl experienced. What might have been considered necessities now were considered luxuries then, further symbolic of the perpetual conflicts that migrant families experienced. One child in the back has nearly faded face, and is barely visible. Perhaps this is symbolic of their withering away, their emaciation clenching their throats until they gasp their last, starved breath.

One peculiar portion of this photo doesn't seem to fit in; the mother's mild grin. Whilst her children display faces of dismay and disgust, the mother displays a comforting sense of hopefulness. Like in Steinbeck's book, the mother is the single figure in the family which is able to stay stable and hold the rest of the members in place. The mother is the only one who is staying positive, both in the book and in this photo.

This heart-wrenching photo relates to the above quote. The children appear hungry, unhappy, desiring the past where food was plentiful and when they owned their own land. Before the migrant families were corralled and herded to the West like swine. The quote is symbolic of the entire tone of the Dust Bowl, as almost all of those effected by the tragedy had a desire for the past, when times were simpler.

    In Chapter 19 of The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck uses various rhetorical strategies to emphasize his belief in the cycles of human interaction. He first begins his argument by commenting on how California had once belonged to Mexico until greedy Americans, driven ravenously by Manifest Destiny to control North America from sea to shining to sea, began squatting on the land of the Mexicans; after generations, the land was assimilated to the white men, and the Mexicans were paid meager wages for meager work. Steinbeck uses the history of California to run a parallel between the Americans, originally immigrants to the land of California, and the Mexicans who originally owned the land of California. After the whites had assimilated California and established themselves as wealthy landowners, a new kind of immigrant began to migrate to California; although the immigrants bare the same colored skin as the white landowners, they are treated like a disposable resource, much like how the Mexicans likely felt when the whites conquered their land. The entire chapter is essentially an extended comparison of the cyclical nature of man; whoever is in control at the time, they tend to take thorough control and abuse the minority, less wealthy class. Steinbeck truly uses the parallelism to display an unfortunately bleak perspective on the repetitiveness of human interaction.