Greener Grass

Greener Grass

The grass is greener on the other side
no really
Mrs. Pottifer next door has the most beautiful luschious grass you have ever seen
She has the Heavenly Lawn treatment people out EVERY DAY to fix the lawn
They:
mow
weedwhip
spray for weeds
do landscaping
heck i even think i see them PAINT THE GRASS that perfect forest green
There isn’t a dandelion in sight
nothing but beautiful, plump, fluffy grass

It costs a fortune. I got a quote from those guys once and it was outrageous
500 a week on the all inclusive package
I didn’t ask but if Mrs. Pottifer doesn’t have the all inclusive package i can’t imagine what it is

Why would someone with a sick husband care so much about the lawn?

So she can have order?
control?
See beautiful things?
Insure that their situation will improve because you are the greener grass?

Why would someone with a sick husband care so much about the lawn?

Advertisements

Saggy pants: political protest

Saggy pants: political protest

A manifestation of discontentment is sweeping the nation. With the recent economic crisis – unprecedented foreclosure and massive job loss – politically proactive teens are experimenting with visual aids to express their distaste toward the situation. One such idea is to use a flag at half mast, which symbolizes a fallen soldier and apply it to the falling nation; many high school age teens felt that this was an appropriate symbol to showcase their grievances towards the bad political and economic decisions made in the recent years. However, traveling with a flag would be quite tedious; forced to improvise these talented teens found a simple solution: wear their pants at half-mast.
Upon closer inspections this is a glorious idea. It is a protest of the most discreet nature, barely noticeable but of a high visual appeal. The teens are speaking out from behind the scenes. With president Obama’s economic stimulus plan at the front of the solution, these teens are able to bring an arousal for change from the rear. These shame-free adolescents are forfeiting all caboose privacy for the sake of exposing problems with our nation as well as their underwear.
This protest has gained recognition all over the nation, top to bottom. People have even begun to notice trends in who participates in the great pant drop. Generally speaking, young men are very active in the protest; they feel it is their way to stand behind the change that needs to happen in the U.S. It has also been noted that the pant-drop length is directly proportional to the disgust the individual feels toward the slipping economy.
We as citizens must commend these selfless group of teens. Their exposure has led us to realize the lack of spare money we have in this country, as well as a lack of belts. Their persistence also deserves applause; they bare it all types of weather, showing their Fruit of the Loom to increase the fruitfulness of our nation. They are heroes in their own right, and they are sure to go down in history as the highly successful “almost pant- less” protest. Every time America looks at a young man’s boxers, America is reminded to spend and stimulate the economy. These teens are waddling billboards and reminders that it is the people who can overcome these saggy, low points in life.
The teens realize that their protest has evolved from revealing boxers and bad politics to becoming pillars of hope and prosperity for the country. They will continue to show their collections of flames, flags, hearts, and assorted cartoon characters until the federal deficit reaches a surplus. The Pant Warriors will not cease. As hourly wages get cut, the pants will drop lower. Nothing will deter them from their steadfast nature; they will bare it, crack and all, until the problem is resolved. So be assured America, your constant reminders are going to stick around until things get better. While we are low in income their pants will be low as well; the only thing high around here will be unemployment.

Many Definitions of a Writer- with writing devices included

Narration: A Writer

A substitute English teacher- whom I wish I could remember her name-(apostrophe) said to me as I walked out the door,
“So you see the trees despite the forest, I admire that about you.”
Then she smiled, a smile that forged a temporary bound between us, a smile that brought instant mutual understanding, a smile that was meant for me (anaphora).
A million things buzzed through my head (hyperbole). All day I pondered and thought and contemplated and deliberated and reflected upon the meaning of that simple phrase (polysyndeton). I believe that the reason it struck me as peculiar was that I was ordinary; I was just a kid in the seventh grade, got ok grades, and was not anything in particular to take notice of. However, here, the stand in (epithet), told me it was i who took notice of things, i who was different, and i whom she admired. Something compelled me to write about this experience, for the first time I was called to a piece of paper, it was an obsession, a compulsion, a need, a mind consumer (brachylogia). When I finally wrote about what happened, for the second time that day something occurred that never did, it was good.
From then on I thrived on exploring, thinking, and writing (parallelism). I slowly transformed into Alex: English teacher’s treasure, crafter of consonants, the wonder with words (alliteration and scesis onomaton). I slowly became someone I liked, someone more confident, dare I say a writer?

Description: What a Writer Does
A pen is a rather marvelous little contraption if one takes the time to look at it. On the surface it appears simple, to the untrained eye it is merely plastic, ink, and a cap. However, upon closure inspection on the piece that wrote a thousand tales (circumlocution), it is actually a stroke of genius (pun). A pen is small, easy to carry-for the great American novel can be conjured anywhere-(parenthesis) it is stamped, it knows where it comes from; it knows its purpose from its makers. It has a cap, sealing itself away till it is needed, blending into the rest of the world, not spreading its ink unnecessarily. The ink itself flows easily from the pen like the writer’s brain easily conjures up flowing ideas (simile). A pen’s tip is sharp and pointed, rather dangerous actually, if stabbed into someone it could cause some serious bodily harm, the pen really is as mighty as the sword (metonymy).
I myself want to be a pen as an English major. I am not commanded to write, I write to command (chiasmus). The world needs to take notice of the small things, the delicate little details that make something great, such as, for examples sake, a pen. Writing inspires me because I can make others see the significance in the normal, the boldness of the plain, the sheer beauty of the pen (conceit and parallelism).
Example: How can we not all be writers?
With the vast amount of literature in print, I can’t fathom why everyone is not a writer. Take George Orwell for instance, he writes with such assurance, such certainty, such purpose (anaphora). He writes to expose lies, unveil truths, and bring about epiphanies. Every little boy out there has tried to inform their grand discovery that women really are from mars. Why on earth would they not want to expose the same truths through writing (rhetorical question)? Why aren’t persons that are obsessive, neat freaks, and detail oriented like doctors writers? They could be similar to Annie Dillard, taking something seemingly insignificant and turning it into a lengthy description detailing every nook and cranny. For those persons headstrong and rebellious they could aspire to be Jessica Mitford, who ripped apart the North American funeral procession (allusion). Truly, for every mind (epithet) there is a style.
While I can’t understand why everyone else isn’t a writer, I know with great certainty that is the field I am called to. I want to take thoughts into words; words into sentences; sentences into pages; and pages again to thoughts (anadiplosis). Writing is the written form of the world and I want to be the one to help craft it. I want to be the expose, provoke, detail, notify, incite, inflame (brachylogia and parallelism), or anything else I am called to do by the pen (metonymy).

Definition: A Writer is…
A writer is someone who records reality. A mind full of words (circumlocution) scans the world around them and picks and chooses a specific way to craft the written. A writer has to be quite – not in nature or volume-(parenthesis) but he or she must be able to be still in the world, to observe. A writer must be meticulous, great attention to detail must be called to even the simplest of things. A writer must realize that everything is important, nothing insignificant. Writers are silent and deafening (oxymoron). No sound is required to make them heard. Writers realize the power of their words, they speak articulately, they write purposely (parallelism). Writers tell the issues, writers tell the important; writers often tell of what is unimportant in order to arouse a change (anaphora). Writers record their own lives and the existence of others, they record precious emotions. They tell equally of the write and the wrong (pun and alliteration). Writers also never stop learning, they continue on, get degrees, write novels, essay, journals, articles, reports, manuscripts, stories, and textbooks(brachylogia). All being said, I am a writer.

Compare/ Contrast: Writers vs. Everyone Else
This world is home to two sets of people: people who talk and people who write. The talkers find themselves stumbling into a rant, their purpose: to express their own opinions and hear themselves speak. For them there is no depth in situations, it is what it is (allusion). Talkers often question their own purpose in their thoughts and actions, and life (polysyndeton); they constantly feel something is missing. Talkers often read as little as possible because they have no desire to understand complex situations. Talkers toil as little as possible; push themselves they do not (anastrophe).
Writer’s, by contrast, are intricate individuals. Nothing, nothing is to be taken at face value. There is always another layer to be chipped away. Writers have a purpose in what they say, they know exactly why they say things; also, in anticipation of what people hear them, they write accordingly. Writers read like maniacs, thriving on the situation complex. Writer’s push themselves daily, to think better, to write better, to understand better (epistrophe and parallelism).
Writers, the greatest of all beings (apostrophe): the grammar gremlins, sentence slicers, and steadfast storytellers (scesis onomaton and alliteration). I myself possess the ladder qualities; A writer’s life fits me; I write to be complex, I am complex because I write (chiasmus). I also wish to lead the life of a writer through higher learning of the English language, learning to decipher this thing called life and to question it all the more.

Process Analysis: The Life of a Writer
The lives of writers- my life- unfold in a similar fashion: writers are frequently born. Signs of the brain programmed to question (circumlocution) are first visible when rules are introduced. The writer will question why; why can’t I do this, why must I, why is this rule in place (anaphora)? The answer just because will infuriate the writer, even at this young age they know they is always a reason. The writer will obviously take an early interest in books. They want to read, it becomes exciting for them (litotes). At the tender age of grade fifth (anastrophe) or so they start experimenting with poetry and short stories, in a world just beginning to unravel, they find consistency in print. The writer begins – of their own will of course – (parenthesis) to jot things down in a notebook; Ideas, thoughts, notions, observations, peculiarities, normalcy, all written down. In high school, a certain aptitude for analytical writing starts to show its metaphoric head (allusion). The writer begins to enjoy studying fellow writers, attempting to better their own skills. Higher learning takes place, AP, which confirms the future they have been practicing all their life, writing. Completion of college, mastery in a PHD, and publication of a few books (amplification), the writer has changed perspective for those around them. Their readers as well as their friends have seen the deeper, abstract side of the world. Death comes easy; they know there is always more, and they live through their work forever more (epistrophe).

Division: What makes a good Writer
Writers possess a striking similarity to the very hand they use to craft their words (conceit). The human hand is able to adjust its strength to the situation; it can be tender, dangerous, crushing, supportive, firm, persuasive, and suggestive (brachylogia), anything the brain tells it to be, the hand can mold and accomplish. Hands possess an innumerable amount of small and delicate details, the oblong shape of the knuckles and the pearl-like smoothness of finger nails and the random tiny brown dots-no doubt the mark of creation (allusion/ parenthesis)- and the deep valley creases of the skin (polysyndeton). Hands push and pull, they are convincing; they can lead a lover or strike a foe. Human hands are blessed with one extension most creatures are a not: a thumb. The thumb, the abnormality, the accommodator, the godsend (scesis onomaton). A thumb is able to move and function in ways unknown to the rest of the fingers. Hands also get manicures, cleaning, polishing, bettering, and tweaking their tool of the trade (alliteration) Good writers are like human hands; they mold like hands, they are detailed like hands, they are convincing like hands, they function differently like hands, they strive to be better like hands (anaphora).

Cause/ Effect: It’s her Fault I am a Writer
Quite simply put, it is my grandmother’s fault that I am a writer. Wrinkled hands and outdated glasses (synecdoche) felt it absolutely necessary that I was read to, daily. As I child I enjoyed such grand works of literature like Clifford, Bambi, Peter Cottontail, Aladdin, The Little Engine that Could, and Goldie Locks(brachylogia). Subsequently, I would beg that she read these tales over and over and over. And, without complaint, master matriarch (epithet) read them again as many times as I wished -even if that meant repeating it nearly twenty times-(parenthesis). Around the second grade my grandma forced me to read on my own, and I stumbled over my words with her carefully guiding me in pronunciation. But did she stop there? Absolutely not. For Christmas in grade fifth (anastrophe) she bought me a blessed notebook and an easily gliding ballpoint pen. She encouraged me to write my own stories and became excited when I would read to her. Seeing that I had some talent for the written rhetoric, grandma also made me promise that I would write at least one book in my life time (periodic sentence). She also repeatedly emphasized with passion like a preacher (simile, alliteration) that I must get an English degree in college.

Persistance

Persistance

w          GOAL

s                                   YOUR                                            s    w                                         o   t

e        w                                                                     e             i                                              h      h

v            i                                                            v                      l                                       s            e

a                 l                                                      a                             l                                  y                p

w                    l                                                w                                   r                           e                     a

e    OF                 r                              e                                          o                                h                          t

h                                o                           h                                                      l             t                                 t

T                                       c                 t                                                               l                                               t

k                                                                                                                     e                                                                                                                                                                               r

n

Dishes

Dishes

It is funny how sometimes we find ourselves doing the same things in life but for different reasons. For example, this morning Tom is sick. He has been sick for the last couple of days, he even had a decent fever. It is now 8:23 in the morning on Sunday in January 2015. Normally we would be walking up the cement sidewalk to church right now, sitting next to his family and talking to Jim, the sharply dressed widower who sits in front of us whom I admire greatly. But instead of having pleasant yet twanged with sadness conversations with Jim I am here doing an array of chores. I let the dog out, fed the dog, put a log in the fire, put away clean dishes, put dirty dishes in the sink, took the trash out, let the dog out again, and did a load of laundry. Not that any of these are awful or hard tasks, and I wasn’t made to do them, I wanted to. I volunteered. I wasn’t even asked. But no mind the matter of household chores, because everyone does that. The real point of my ramblings is that I was quite when I did it, I was silent with my voice and careful and slow with all of my movements.
Setting the dishes daintily on top of each other so they only made a soft “clink………
Clink”
Closing the door in stages so all you heard was the air being pushed out of the frame. I cracked our bedroom door just so the heat could still get in but enough that he would be blocked from all unnecessary sound; especially that from dear young pup who doesn’t always heed the silent advice. I was meticulous, every move I made was calculated with the sole intention of not waking Tom and letting him sleep. I did it out of love. I was happy even, with a smile on my face, glad that he could hopefully sleep his sickness away.

But I had done all these things before; for a different reason. At 7:16 nearly every Saturday and Sunday I lived with him and mom.
I had set the dishes on top of each other so daintily that all you heard was a soft “clink………..
Clink”
I had closed the door slowly that all you heard was the air coming out of the frame.
I had tip-toed across the floorboards, toes to heel, pretending I was a stealthy Indian so I didn’t make noise even when walking.
I had closed the bedroom door fully, holding my breath as I pushed it into the lock centimeter by centimeter.
I was meticulous, every move I made was calculated, with the sole intention of not waking dad up so he would stay asleep.
And not yell, and scream, and call me stupid, and throw things, and yell some more, and have this mad, ravenous eyes.
I was motivated by fear; for he was a snarling wolf seeking to devour you if you disturbed his den, his sleeping habits, any of his habits.
Right he was to want to stay asleep, not right to snarl, snap, bite, claw, maim you if you did. The Indian learned to stay away from the wolf, my sneakiness lead to my survival.
Eventually, I got away from that wolf den, that ominous house that should have been loving but instead sent me running. Loudly.

The more things seem to change, the more they stay the same. I am still that stealthy Indian; I do it well, I’ve had the practice. The silence is loving now, calculated by how best to serve and not how best to survive. Yet all the more still: silent.
Strange
strange.

Sudden Death

Have you ever succeeded in seeing a dream die suddenly?
The weezing sound that it leaves is just unbearable
It’s eyes, calling out for you to help it
Desperation consumes its aura
It trembles as the life leaves it
Shuddering as it takes it’s last breath
It’s last Just like that
Its
GON…..