A Little Taste of Pride and Prejudice

I’ve just finished the classic Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen for the first time. To be honest, Pride and Prejudice was my first Jane Austen novel and I must agree I enjoyed it.  On many such occasions, I began to speak and think in the same tone as the narrative. For instance, I would say, “That is very disagreeable” or “If that should quell my fear of such an issue,” but for the most part, my friends and family were left unscathed by my reading.

From what I have heard from people who enjoyed the book, is that Mr. Darcy is such a dreamy young man whom many of them would enjoy meeting. Although I do not disagree, I do find that Mr. Darcy’s countenance is one that intrigues me. While I did not get the giddy, happy feeling of instance love, I was more inclined to learn of his actions and why he did the things he did. It was his arrogance that drew me to him, his abrasive attitude, and his quick judgement of character. By the time Mr. Darcy changes his manners and begins to act more civil, I was in love, not from his apperance or his wealth, but by his attitude. By working hard to find humility and prove to Elizabeth that he can change for her, Mr. Darcy puts forth his best side and it is well received.

Although Elizabeth is a smart girl with quick wit, and a lovely face, she, like Darcy jumps to judgement too quickly. In a way, Elizabeth finds herself to be better than her “foolish sisters” through the way she talks of them to her father, begging him to knock some sense into them. Likewise, Elizabeth judges Mr. Darcy as well even though he gives her plenty of reasons to.  But disregarding this, she is a wonderful girl, who holds her head high even though Miss Bingely abuses her at every moment.

An interesting symbol Austen paints in her story is Pemberley, Darcy’s estate. It is a very beautiful place, full of natural beauty. It has running waters, wonderful flowers and is the epitomy of a beautiful countryside landscape. In one discription, Austen calls the river in the front of the house a “natural importance”, which could possibly reference Mr. Darcy’s own views on his importance and social status. It is an unmasked beauty full of memories and paintings that could also allude to Darcy’s life.  Mr. Darcy is a man who lives behind his arrogance and his wealthy. Upon meeting people, he is quiet and withdrawn. In contrast, his home is open and free, it is full of beauty and vulnerability.

While the character’s can go deeper and there are many more symbols and themes, these are just a few of my thoughts and ideas. I enjoyed the book a lot and look forward to seeing the 2005 movie, which I haven’t seen.

The Wrong Name Choice

I do have a great fondness for names, whether they are of people I like, people I dislike, people I want to be, or people who are famous beyond belief. No matter who you are, or who they are, there are many names out there that are intriguing, mesmerizing, beautiful, and golden. Yet, on the other hand, there are many names which I would like to forget I ever heard.

At times, I wonder who thinks up these names, who gave these parents the right to name their child. As an example, who in their right mind would name your child Candi, Brandi, Mandi, or Dandi (and yes, I have met a young girl by the name of Dandi). Do these parents think that their daughter will grow up into a sucessful businesswoman, maybe the CEO of Merck with the name of Candi? Would any sucessful businesswoman want to be called Candi, because obvioiusly, she’s had to work hard to get to where she is, and with the name that sounds like some porn model….I just can’t imagine how she does it.

But even if we ignore the stripper names and we jump into the world of “Things to never name your baby” it’s a wild and crazy place out there. There are rhyming names, and alliteration names, and names with apostrophes. Now, why would you want your child to have their name D’ac’ershan or Pl’acny. Can anyone pronouce this? Can anyone understand what it means? For some reason, I think not

then there are those poor souls with names that rhyme. For instance, there is a set of triplets named Kara Rene, Sara Kaye, and Tara Faye. Now please, tell me why these poor girls must rhyme? Does it sound pleasing to here “Kara, Sara, and Tara, get in here right now?” Pesonally, I would just get confused. But if that isn’t enough confusion for you, perhaps you would like to name your twin girls Mallory Kaye and Micha Kaye, or perhaps Jordan Patrick and Jordyn Elizabeth?

But i do love the names celebrities give their children, they’re the best out of all of them. Apple? Pilot Inspektor?  Why don’t we just name our children spot and our dogs Thomas a’ Becket?

It is not to say that I don’t like names, in fact I have a strong passion for them and do spend time trying to find the perfect name for my children to be (since I have none yet.) But there must be some common sense when naming your children, because how would you feel if your parents named you Eazi Candi OatmealPi?

Call me Issac

Title: Call me Issac

Author: G.I.B.S

Rating: Child

Call me Issac, everyone does when they see me wandering the streets with my back straight and a shining top hat positioned on the top of my head. Perhaps the name Tom would suit you better, for that is what I am called when I put on my shabby brown jacket and rubber soled shoes.  Or, you can call me Jonas, because that is my name when I walk into church on Sunday mornings ready to open my heart to the Lord and let the chimes lift my spirits. Call me Franklin, for that is what I am called in the dreams I have early in the morning

My dreams are sullen and melancholy, like soup thickened with tar and muck. It is a chunky mixture of converging ideas and sightly hauntings. It is the rifle in my hand as I look off the snow covered mountain, down into the minuscule and blurry civilization below. On the rare occasion, my dreams are blatant fantasies of kings and paupers, dragons and wild knights.  My throne will sit in all its valor and I will be mighty and powerful and divine.  But when morning comes, I will only be David, for that is what my wife calls me in her half sleep and heavy eyelids.

Call me Samuel as I sit with my crisp newspaper reading it diligently from cover to cover. I soak in the news and the politics and the sports I dare not play. Call me Paul because that is what I’m called when I open my bible and stand to preach the word of God with admiration and awe, I do this in hopes that the people will repent and better their lives.

It is my God who has given me so many names, so many meanings to my life. He has provided me with everything, and yet I have nothing to call my own. My father has given me life, but what life do I lead when I am known to everyone as something different. Who am I and how did I become this? Where am I and how did I get here?

Call me  Bryant, call me Hamlet, call me Percival,  or call me Issac; everyone else does when I wander through the streets, my back straight and my top hat shining in the sun.

Good Boy

Title:  Good Boy

Author: G.I.B.S

Rating: Teen

Anthony Vascali was a man of many talents. In his mind he was a murderer, an intellectual, and a drug addict. In his actions, he was a child abuser, a miser, a slave owner  and a womanizer. He was a proud man and wrote poetry and prose nightly on all sorts of topics, but his favorite was death. He would spend hours under the lamp of his fashionable desk dreaming of ghosts and the nightly visitors he saw.

When he walked through the dusty streets of town with one of his many youthful servants, he often spoke aloud to no one in particular about the intimate details of his life and the politics he engrossed himself in. Mr. Vascali cared not who knew of his dinner plans, or his views on the public lifestyles of his neighbors. In fact, he counted on them, for it gave him an air of importance and sophistication.

On one  walk through town, he said, “How dare that boy talk back to me like I know nothing of anything. Am I not older than he? Am I not wiser? I am shocked that he should treat such a father figure like myself so disrespectfully. Do you have any opinion, my dear Martin?”

Martin did not answer, for it would have seemed quite inappropriate. instead, he listened intently and nodded his head when it was expected of him. And while the hat he wore flapped awkwardly at the side of his head, he said nothing against it , for an outing such as this one was seen as a privilege amongst the other boys.

“Such an insolent child with that demeaning outlook on life. If I were such a boy, I would wish myself dead rather than anything else.  Do you not agree Martin?”

Once again, the boy did not answer, for the insolent boy happened to be his elder brother, of whom he was very fond. So he continued his walk in silence past the candied pole of the barber shop and east toward Old Fordham Cemetery.

Anthony Vascali, being the man he was, strode through the iron gates with bold confidence and a swelled head. His shoulders were squared and his back was straight as if he were military even though he were the farthest thing from it. He smiled a toothy grin, his eyes lighting up in a disfigured gleam. “Go on boy, find your woman.” he said sharply.

The young boy nodded slowly before scampering off into the midsts of the stone markers. He was fearful now, uncertain of what was to come and felt that perhaps, he was better off dead. He giggled and laughed and sang as he moved to keep his spirits high, but upon finding the grave of his mother, he fell in sorrow. “Master,” he called dutifully.

Vascali stopped his pacing and moved toward Martin, his expression harsh and cruel. He took one look at the worn stone and sneered. Placing his hand on the back of the boy’s neck, he shoved him face first into the ground. “On your mother’s bosom, proclaim me your father.” he ordered

The boy, angry and terrified remained quiet for a moment, his nose breathing in the soft dirt. “Never,” he whispered indignantly. “I won’t do it. I won’t disgrace my mother. No suh.”

“Proclaim me your father, boy” Vascali muttered angrily as he kicked the Martin forcefully in the side. “Such a wench of a woman never knew a good man in her time. Now, proclaim me slave.”

The boy whimpered in response as he eyes closed with fear and disgust. “You are my father, master.” he said quietly as his eyes began to burn from the grime. Sniffling, he swallowed some dirt and began to cough.

Vascali grabbed the boy by the collar gently and pulled him off the ground. Wrapping his arm around Martin’s shoulders tenderly, he brushed the dirt from his shoulder. “Good boy,” he whispered cheerfully in a paternal manner. “Good boy.”

Freedom Pt 2/2

Freedom part 2/2

Author G.I.B.S

Rating: PG

Revenge is delectable, but chocolate cake is decadent and therefore better. Just like my cake, I took the revenge seriously.  I don’t believe Mrs. Hendershaw ever saw what was on its way, it got to her dress, gooey and slippery all the same. I had thrown a piece of chocolate cake at her face and it ran all down her body. It was such a simple task and all it required was fast hands and a good flick of the wrist, which I’d been practicing ever since I’d picked up Mama’s kitchen knives.

If I said I didn’t know what would happen (which I said in my defense once I was questioned like an ape at the zoo) I would have been lying through my teeth and even God would have known it. I just shrugged off all of the questions like nothing had happened. Like I didn’t know why Mrs. Hendershaw was covered in black pasty sugar. When she fnally realized what had happened, her face turned ruby almost instantly and the moment I took my seat, I was up again, her hand on my ear dragging me out into the hallway.

But it was worth it, every lovely minute of it was worth it. Her blue eyes burned holes into my skin as she glared in that dainty womanly anger. She make a tsk sound, like she was disappointed and I guess she had a right to be. Chocolate cake was smeared across her face, her nose, her eyes and it was hard to take her seriously.

“But Mrs. Hendershaw, I aint done nothing wrong” I complained and she just growled at me, sending me a dirty look as she dragged me across the hallway. I could feel the stares of the other students on me, and I chuckled to myself. This was what revenge was for, what freedom was for, what I was for.

“I’m going to be free, Mrs. Hendershaw,” I said proudly as I danced across the tile. “I’m going to be free like no other. Just wait and see.”

She didn’t answer me, probably thought she was better than me, but I knew Mama was right about one thing. Teachers weren’t so amazing; they were just like me, but full of crazy things that made no sense. She pushed me into Mr. Dennis’ office again, and I just laughed as he glared down at me.

“What did you do this time?” he asked all serious, but I couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m going to get free, like the birds outside. I’m going to be free.”

Mr. Dennis shook his head and let his thick black locks flap around his face like a mushroom. “You are to be suspended for three days. Do you have anything to say for yourself, son?”

I looked at him, my eyes sparkling in the sunlight that came through his window. “The good man said he was lying, the bad man said he was dying, but you can’t here what I’m saying, cause I’m long gone.”

Freedom part 1/2

Title:Freedom

Author: G.I.B.S

Rating: 10+/PG

I’ve never been good at saying what I want, when I want it or how I want it. To be honest, this is probably because I’ve always thought I could do better if only i had the chance, the motivation, or the intelligence. But, I wish to demonstrate the new freedom I’ve found (that will not last long) and put into words something I have always longed to write.

When I was still young, my mother  told me that I had to say what I meant, and mean what I said, or else no one could understand me. So after said lesson, I told her that she should go bite a bullet, and I meant it, but not in the way she thought I did. Once i explained to her that I did not wish for her to die, but that I wanted her to try latest piece of chewing gum heaven she relaxed. From then on, I realized that not only did I have to say what I meant and mean what I said, but I had to make it understandable for even my classmates.

So,  words of wisdom  exited my mouth outside the classroom, inside the gym, and across the lunch table. It was wonderful fun, though I don’t believe Mrs. Hendershaw thought it so. I was the Poor Richard of LLSCP Elementary School and boy, was I king.

Always sprinkle pepper in your hair, I would advise the blond haired girl next to me as she brushed the curls during Maths. Never kiss an alligator on the nose, it will bite you in the rear… Or my favorite one my mother had taught me, but told me never to repeat. I guess I forgot that part, for I told it to Mrs. Hendershaw one day. I said “You can go shove it up your ass, cause when Jesus comes he ain’t gonna give a damn…”

Oh yeah, I definitely forgot the “don’t repeat that one” part. I got forty lashes that night from Mama and Thirty two from Mr. Dennis the principal. Why everyone always says Mr. Dennis is our pal, I don’t know, nor do I believe itfor a minute. I think if Ben Franklin was ever smacked about for his almanac, he’d have been mighty mad, and so am I. Tomorrow, I think I’ll be getting some revenge