Richard's Animorphs Forum
RAF Section => Introductions & Departures => Topic started by: wildweathel on December 10, 2008, 11:45:53 AM
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Welcome, anyone who's browsing the archives. It's time for this story to fade into the past, so it's locked.
Long ago (so it seems) there was a little creature who wanted to be perfect in everything he did. The whole universe was a magnificent mechanism: everything worth knowing understandable, and everything understandable, his little mind could grasp. Mathematics was easy. Music too. And, he knew mountains of fact, from a small forest of books. The little creature loved to read. He was of course quite mad. Anyone could see it: he made few friends, just sat in the corner with his nose in a book; he must be terribly lonely.
Sqee. Squee. Feet pack fresh-fallen snow. Air so cold it tugs inside the nose.
Yet in truth, he was not lonely. To him, words lived, reached from the page, grabbing his mind. His eyes flew across the page; their flow swept him to other places more engaging than his own. In shadow, the Educators and Engineers worried. He was a transfer student, the son of parents who moved from Away. That itself was not unusual. This was not the taiga, vast potato fields, or resort town on rocky cost, but a suburb of the state's largest city. Immigration was common, both internationally and from other States. No, what was strange was that he was re-enrolling after two years of home school. From his file, they knew he had been an associate of a known troublemaker before and it must have worried them that the two had once again. Their power was limited. They were only effective if they could keep up the charade. Isolation was their greatest weapon. They could keep them isolated during classes and hope that was enough.
He turns to the warm south-east. Ice coating the bare trees burns white, ignited by the sunlight. It is a postcard picture, but the postcards never catch how it sounds nor smells--nor how fleeting this beauty is.
Surprisingly, it seemed enough--but how wrong they were. The two years of solitude had changed him. The Weathel and Trouble didn't play many games with the other children. They prowled around, like two hunters, and . . . talked. Two quiet unknowns, variables in the system. What was clear was that Weathel wasn't fitting in. He didn't color in the lines. He didn't color at all. Faced with drawing or writing or playing games, the normal role of the cog, he seized up. He avoided these things. He spread his wings, caught the wind of words, lost himself in other worlds.
Please forgive me. You must of course wonder why he came here. My story, my answer, is yet unfinished, but here is the first piece of the puzzle: Applegate's Animorphs was one of the worlds to which Weathel fled.
In the frozen land, on this still cloudless day, the sun's heat is almost shocking. The same sun that makes the ice coat a halo also loosens it. The fresh snow deadens the usual noises; only the falling ice, like rain, can be heard.
Long ago, the Weathel wanted to be perfect in everything he did. He thrived on hard answers, on right answers. But he was insane: in life not everything is red-or-white. Often, things are gray. Or so dark, you can't see anything. Often there are no wrong answers. At those times, he saw there are no right answers and was afraid. So he drifted along, saying nothing when he was not sure he'd be right. At times, rare times, he was so angry and frustrated that he would burst. Those times scared him most of all. They also caught the attention of the Engineers. And so, arrangements were made, experts were called. No doubt, even grants were written, the curriculum adapted. A therapist was brought in. And little by little:
Not a damned thing got better. Then the school year ended, he was promoted with meaningless fanfare from Preteen Holding-Pen to Young-Teen Holding-Pen. He became somebody-else's problem.
He comes to the edge of a lake, stopping on its pebbly shore. Few beaches in the state have sand. Even fewer are naturally sandy. The water is dangerous this time of year. Earlier, it was swimmable, and later it will be walkable, but before the ice grows thick it is a death-trap.
Utterly beyond the comprehension of the Engineers and Educators, a chain of events had been set into motion that might bring hope to the lost, frightened Weathel. There was a teacher in the system but not of the system. She had known him from his early childhood. She had two very intelligent daughters of her own and taught the accelerated mathematics program. In some way, she must have understood the loneliness, certainly more than he did himself. He did not need the math class. He was meeting the standards. He was not being left behind. But he did need somewhere to be successful and not bored. He needed a rock of sanity to survive what came next.
The long-lasting winter sunset has begun, throwing his long shadow northeast over the thin ice. He bends down, grabs a stone that fits his hand, and flicks it skittering across the ice.
The three years of young teen holding pen flashed past as a nightmare. The mercilessly sarcastic teacher: first year. The insane horse lady: third year. Storming out of art class: second year. Maybe. Pity grade from that teacher: D-. Hours-long year-end assemblies in the gym: first, second, and third year. Homeroom teacher committed suicide, maybe: second year. Voice changed, offered choice to sing alto (hah!) or leave the chorus--then pulled out of class by Sarcastic Teacher and encouraged to quit on the exact same day: first year. Staring at a blank piece of paper, trying, trying, to make a story come to life, first year. Pity grade from that teacher: D. He swore he would never right again. Yet some of the memories were strangely funny, or even good. Kicked out of center-for-grieving children meeting for being a child, then walking 45 minutes home on a beautiful spring day: second year. Hanging out with the tech/science/film club: third year. Belting out Cat Steven's "Here Comes My Baby," in a rich baritone to a full auditorium including the choral teacher and sarcastic teacher: third year, a priceless moment. World-building with friends at lunch, crafting the beginnings of the "wildweathel" screen-name: third year.
The stone alone marks the end of a dashed trail.
Weathel caught hold of three foundations of sanity: the math teacher, the music teacher--another in the system and not of it--and finally summers with Trouble. Trouble had a cottage on a lake, four hours from their home, and there Weathel could take a break from being a cog in the machine. They swam in the lake, and paddled a canoe and spent long summer afternoons walking and talking with Trouble, or reading, or firing air guns and illegal explosives in the quarry down the road. At night the pyrotechnics would come out as the bats crawled out from under the metal roof and they painted with fire and cooked flesh and, in short, they lived. His world was no longer red and white, but also blue and yellow--and even green.
He smiles and turns, scans the horizon. Perhaps he will head home.
Three years previous, he had been an eerie stoic. His rage at the stupidity, his fear of creativity lay bottled up nearly of the time. But during those later years, with Trouble and in the Pen, Weathel discovered something new stirring. He learned how to smile. He learned, to his surprise, that he didn't nearly smile enough. He realized that Old-Teen Holding-Pen would be more of the same--no, it would be worse. The freedom he had enjoyed to study mathematics and technology on his own would disappear. Music, too, would become an intense competition. Lost in an even larger sea of humanstock, the Engineers would be able to separate him further from Trouble--and they wouldn't show poor Weathel, son of a trouble-maker, friend of another troublemaker, student of a third troublemaker, clearly in need of their help to become a good little cog; they would not show him any mercy. Understanding this, comprehending little, he screamed he wanted out.
Suddenly the forest is alive with small gray birds: flitting from tree to ground to tree, searching the cones for seeds. His muse sparkles impishly: "Praise God! The sky is full of tits!"
So, Weathel got out. He left the system behind: the gears and grants, the disciples of Dewey and Marx, the Fabians, the Engineers, those who hope to build a world of living human bricks. He found another system: one of gears and papers and even the odd Engineers, true enough, but the machine was not entirely mechanical. Accidentally at first, he began to plant roots: he joined the math team, because it seemed the right thing to do. There he met people who were indeed smarter than he was, and faced challenges he had to work to overcome. He tempered his precociousness with humility. He struggled through homework--not because it was hard, but because it was endless. His second year, he began to debate. And, his second year, he achieved a great victory, when--having forgotten Applegate, he met Elliot.
Then he realizes that they are, unfortunately, not tits. They're too large and the heads are all gray. The bills are orange. When they perch, they look like small fat robins, feathers puffed against the cold. Not tits, then. Juncos. Snow-sparrows. He remembers the substitute from when the teacher killed himself. He was no engineer, no utopian. But he loved birds, and though the carefully-machined students mocked him for it, though the wanderer had no use for the information at the time, he sat at the feet of the master and learned. Red-wings. Orioles. Goldfinches. Bluebirds. Two species of tits--neither of which can be these birds. The other blue birds: swallows of tree and brick.
A circle. A line through the center. Another line parallel, tangent below. The code for a 'D,' 'nearly' a failure. Weathel had seen that symbol four years prior, had sworn to never do anything wishy-washy creative again. He was almost steadfast in that promise. He had only lapsed once and wrote a few songs, songs without words, songs he would never publish. They didn't count, right? But then, in his second year at School-on-Ocean, the assignment came. No wrong answers. No right answers. "Intertextuality." Shades of blue and yellow, nor red nor white. The blank yellow page, and college-ruled blue lines rose in his memory. A symbol: a circle and two lines. He didn't even like Elliot's The Wasteland to begin with. The spirit of Weathel moved over dark possibilities, rippling and waiting below, mocking his indecision. In short, he was afraid.
He watches the sparrows dig through the litter. He wonders why he is so reminiscent today, why their mad dash for food seems so amusing. A drop of melting ice falls on the back of his neck. He almost laughs.
Then for the first time, speechless Weathel remembered to breathe. He inhaled--"inspired" is a better word--images: a dry, red, sandstone arch. Lightning striking a tree. A city at night, a few lightning-strikes there as well. An abandoned, ruined abbey. A rooster. Then, he spoke three images: a dry red land where voices whisper. A faith abandoned prophesying of a gathering storm. Blessed rain falling, amid terrible destruction. It was a retelling of the last book of The Wasteland: hoping for rain yet fearing the thunder. Weathel finished explaining the symbolism, then fell silent at the head of the class. They were probably just tired, and a bit bored, but even if some were surprised, none were possibly as surprised as Weathel--no, now Wildweathel. School-on-Ocean, second year, Wildweathel receives a grade on a creative assignment: 'A'.
The mad little snow-sparrows dash through the forest, picking through the fallen cones. In a few minutes they are gone. The sky burns gold and red and purple. He continues, breath freezing in the air, now thinking of home--at least the idea of home.
From that time, Wildweathel knew he was alive, wonderfully, fearfully alive. From that time, Wildweathel knew he was sane, or at least sane enough to know that he had been insane before. But Wildweathel had all but forgotten his friend, Trouble, the friend who helped him begin to live, the friend who was still trapped in the world of gears and grants. The Engineers tried to fix Trouble. Trouble, in his boredom, tried to fix the Engineers right back. In the end, they failed miserably, and declared Trouble a failure. Trouble didn't waste time arguing. Just like Weathel, Trouble got out of the system. From that time, Wildweathel realized he had let his friend down.
He reaches a stream, and turns upstream. Ring-billed gulls stare at him from the opposite bank as he passes.
The next spring, Wildweathel was at School-on-Ocean, walking from one building to the next, when he saw a sudden movement through the door glass. A large bird swept across his vision. He stepped outside in time to see several gulls mob the bird: a white and brown bird with hooked beak and a rust-red tail. "Cool," thought Wildweathel. "I've never really seen one before." Then, Wildweathel began to remember.
It is almost dark now, but he takes a moment to sit on the simple dam the holds back the small, ice-covered lake feeding the river. He admits that he's still lost. Perhaps another night bivouacked. Perhaps he might go a bit further today.
Later that spring, Wildweathel discovered recreational insanity. His sister encouraged him to audition for School-on-Ocean's musical play. He found himself singing a small, but technically challenging part, and simply hanging out and laughing with the fun loving, extroverted cast and crew. He abandoned his self-consciousness, went a little crazy, and in that way became sane. Then, Wildweathel finished his last year and a half at School-on-Ocean, and began to wander. But still he wonders what, in the end, happens to Tobias and the rest.
He rises, then notices a light in the forest. Yes, he will continue a bit further tonight. He lights his lantern and sets out through the undergrowth, following a deer trail at first, then turning off into the bramble. It slows him--eventually he gives in and cuts his way through. On the other side he skirts a frozen pond and so arrives at a small, but cozy-looking, cabin. The lights are on inside and outside, illuminating a sign which reads "Richard's," but he hesitates for a moment. Stepping forward, under a large awning he notices a library. K. A. Applegate. Unable to resist as the memories flood back, he begins with "The Discovery," more or less where he stopped and does something he hasn't done in a long time. He reads through the long night and well into the next day, with hardly a break until, in "The Beginning," he reads: "Chapter 18: Tobias," and his heart nearly breaks. Gathering his courage, he finishes the last book then takes a look around. His eyes catch on a note: Animorphs Audio Book Project.
Intrigued, he steps to the door.
"...and welcome to the loonie bin, funny farm, happy..."
"...welcome! Here's you strait-jacket. Let me know..."
"...random leprechauns. Try and steal their gold, and see..."
"Yay! New members! Because we need more insane people..."
Wildweathel stared across the damp snow. Sane? Insane? Who could tell. Perhaps it didn't matter all that much. He turned and opened the door:
I blink as my eyes adjust from the harsh blue light outdoors to the soft yellow glow of old-fashioned propane lamps. As usual, I feel a bit shy, but I force myself to relax. I look up and left at nothing, letting my muse come to me. I speak a verse:
Though, in mind, I know, 'tis new to me
In heart, I feel I have come home
I feel a strange urge to tell my story--strange because I never have before, not even to myself, not a full narrative. The place seems welcoming enough. What do I have left to lose now? I have the snow, the lake, the sunset, the thunder, but I can only lose them if I am afraid, if I choose not to care. I give in.
I tell the story.
Then, I look around and ask, "So. Am I crazy enough to stay?"
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Tealdeer! :o
Sane? Insane? Who could tell. Perhaps it didn't matter all that much.
Haha, the perfect representation of RAF. Welcome! You definitely meet our high standards of craziness. ;)
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Whoa, thats a mouthful! :o
Welcome to RAF!
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"Tealdeer" indeed. I'm surprised if anyone reads the whole thing. In fact, I'm surprised I wrote the whole thing.
I agreed to do Policy debate (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Policy_debate) two years ago partly to get over my shyness. I guess it worked a bit too well.
Anyway. That was cathartic. ::)
Next, I'm off to do some Christmas shopping: gym shoes for Dad, one of these (http://www.guitarcenter.com/TASCAM-TrackPack-LE-Recording-Package-247007-i1415317.gc) for me and try recording some lines, maybe make a demo reel this week.
Do or die, sink or swim, forget fear, jump on in!
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TL;DR haha lol Welcome to Raf
EDIT: I just read it and AMAZING I LOVE YOU!!! You are awesome at writing!!!!!
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best intro post evar.
welcome to the forum :)
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wHELLcome ^^
... but I'll read your... novel... introduction - sorry - later ^^' I'm too lazy right now...
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You WIN.
'Nuff said.
By the way, welcome to RAF, and glad to see that the audiobook project has another prospective member. Now let's break the Tobias curse! *Cough*Ken*Cough*
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Now let's break the Tobias curse! *Cough*Ken*Cough*
Ken=Combat Squirrel, right?
Casting-envy is the path to the dark side.
Envy leads to bickering.
Bickering leads to no-fun.
No-fun leads to bad acting.
Bad acting and no-fun lead to suffering.
So, I would try for Tobias now only if Tobias's current VA (Combat Squirrel? ANItiger13?) chose not to continue.
With that said, if I were to see a cattle-call for a full-cast audio-book, I'd audition for either Tobias or Ellimist.
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lol but I'm Ellimist!!
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omg!
win of total epicness!(yes, that is a word. i decided that just now)
your novel/introduction/story dealie described raf in one of the best ways...
yay! have fun on the boards!
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lol but I'm Ellimist!!
*checks cast list*
Yep. You are.
Seriously, though. I look forward to working with everyone who's on the project.
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*appears with a swirl of his cloak. But vanishes and reappears on the other side of the room when a tablet with wildweathel's intro written upon falls in his direction*
Er . . . welcome, wildweathel.
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*appears with a swirl of his cloak. But vanishes and reappears on the other side of the room when a tablet with wildweathel's intro written upon falls in his direction*
Er . . . welcome, wildweathel.
He's not the most...graceful RAFian...
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I tried to make an effort to read you loong introduction.
It was not that easy as I am:
1) Lazy
2) not an english speaker
So I guess that i would need to read it 2 or 3 other times to "fully" understand it^^
Just a question (sorry if it's stupid), why do you talk about life in "red and white". Generally it's not red but black^^ So... i didn't understand ???
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I didn't read it too... SO if you read it, Tocade, please tell me what it is about ^^'
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I tried to make an effort to read you loong introduction.
It was not that easy as I am:
1) Lazy
2) not an english speaker
So I guess that i would need to read it 2 or 3 other times to "fully" understand it^^
Just a question (sorry if it's stupid), why do you talk about life in "red and white". Generally it's not red but black^^ So... i didn't understand ???
First, thank you for your effort! I find reading in Esperanto (my second-best language) painfully slow compared to English, so I understand and am very much honored.
The usual metaphor would be black vs white in English. Why "red" then?
Simplest answer: "because Stephen King does it." I have a lot of respect for King. Many of his works have a sort of dreamlike, or even nightmarish quality, that I was drawn to in writing my introduction, so I borrowed his symbolism. King, in turn, may have borrowed the same symbol from E. A. Poe's "The Masque of the Red Death."
Longer answer: I briefly considered using "black and white" and "shades of gray." To me, however, black represents something very different from evil. The Christian creation myths begin with darkness. Darkness humbly waits to be filled with light. Silence clears the way for sound. Death waits for resurrection. In Catholic symbolism, darkness may represent sin, but doesn't always:
- a black mark made from burnt palm leaves represents a willingness to return to the beginning, asking God to shine out his light again.
- the alter and priest used to wear black on Good Friday (red--representing passion, not evil in this case!--is now used)
- black is still an option for funerals and All-Souls' Day (in place of the seasonal color)
So, black was not satisfactory to me. Why red? I'm not entirely sure. Imagine only being able to see uniformly bright white and red, with pink shades between. I suspect at least half the answer is in that image.
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Welcome to RAF.
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Masque of Red Death=amazing
Candy Cane wrapper=stupid. Silly wrapper. Getting in the way of minty goodness...
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Esperanto?
Where were you taught that language?
I've heard of it, i know a few reasons why it was made up but... I don't know any person who really knows it.
Actually you are the second person who tells me they can speak Esperanto. (is this sentence correct?)
The other one was also American! I think it's weird ^^ .
I mean, English language is widely spread and it is used as a way to commnicate with people from all around the world.
For exemple, I'm French and I want to talk to a Russian. We will both communicate in English.
Some people who can speak Esperanto try to use this language as a language of international communication which would "replace" or reduce the predominance of English language.
Well, sorry if i am not clear. My point is : why would an english speaker support Esperanto?
So, back to the red and white !
I still don't understand, what does red symbolize for you?
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Actually you are the second person who tells me they can speak Esperanto. (is this sentence correct?)
Really close:
Actually you are the second person who has told me they can speak Esperanto
or
Actually you are the second person who told me they can speak Esperanto.
But in any case, your English is much better than my foreign language(spanish).
I probably insult people accidentally when I try to say hello ::)
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Esperanto?
Where were you taught that language?
I've heard of it, i know a few reasons why it was made up but... I don't know any person who really knows it.
Actually you are the second person who tells me they can speak Esperanto. (is this sentence correct?)
There should be a comma after "Actually," in formal prose. Otherwise, it's perfect.
I'm entirely self-taught. I did benefit from my three years of HS Latin, but I haven't taken an Esperanto course.
I found some great resources online:
Lernu! (http://en.lernu.net) (in many languages, including French (http://fr.lernu.net))
Esperanto dictionary (with translations into other languages) Reta Vortaro (http://reta-vortaro.de)
Flashcard software (Japanese-focused (it's named ??, for one thing), but memorization is memorization) Anki (http://ichi2.net/anki/)
I mean, English language is widely spread and it is used as a way to commnicate with people from all around the world.
For exemple, I'm French and I want to talk to a Russian. We will both communicate in English.
Some people who can speak Esperanto try to use this language as a language of international communication which would "replace" or reduce the predominance of English language.
Well, sorry if i am not clear. My point is : why would an english speaker support Esperanto?
Interesting that you should mention Russians. My first week into Esperanto, this summer, I was lurking on the Lernu forums, when I came across some threads about the Russian/Georgian conflict, the new NATO missile defense system on the Russian border, and the change from the socialist regime to the current republic. For the first time in any language, I found myself reading comments by more-or-less ordinary Russians. (...though they were weird enough to learn Esperanto...)
My main motivation to learn Esperanto is that I want some practice learning a language, before I go back to Japanese (which has kicked my butt once already), or attempt something crazy like Mandarin, Arabic, or Swahili. Being able to use it internationally, through Pasporta Servo and the like, in addition to English, is a nice bonus, but not my main goal, and I'm not trying to replace English--it's simply not my business what language people use to communicate. If the tool works, by all means use it!
Still, there's something rather ironic about a common language whose preferred phrase meaning "common language" is in a second language, talking about a third: "lingua franca."
So, back to the red and white !
I still don't understand, what does red symbolize for you?
Simply put, in this context, red symbolizes destructive chaos, or to use the simple word: evil.
Young, crazy Weathel only sees things as good and bad, so he actually misses out on a lot of beauty and healthy variety: the blues and greens and yellows of art--and the greatest Art, Creation, which Wildweathel is able to appreciate in the present-tense narration. I added the color to the text as an afterthought, so don't read too much into that. (I may even take the text colors out--do you think the style contrasts enough?)
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But in any case, your English is much better than my foreign language(spanish).
I probably insult people accidentally when I try to say hello ::)
Ahahah ;D
You gave me in idea for a thread about language barrier and awkward situations ^^
Wildweathel:
I think i'll answer to that later cause my brain is a bit like my computer right now: slowing down
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Welcome to RAF, Wildweathel. I'm sorry it took me so long to answer here. It is good to know you. :)
I know a very little Esperanto, if you ever want to sprechensz, parley, or habla. ;)
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It seems like my Rafenmity is gone ^^
Where are you?
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Note: All of my comments are being made at nigh 3a.m. and I am merely going on a first-impression based analysis.
Long ago (so it seems) there was a little creature who wanted to be perfect in everything he did. The whole universe was a magnificent mechanism: everything worth knowing understandable, and everything understandable, his little mind could grasp. Mathematics was easy. Music too. And, he knew mountains of fact, from a small forest of books. The little creature loved to read. He was of course quite mad. Anyone could see it: he made few friends, just sat in the corner with his nose in a book; he must be terribly lonely.
Showing your development from that pitiful creature, I assume. Very subtly, and yet obviously written in there. I commend you. *claps*
Sqee. Squee. Feet pack fresh-fallen snow. Air so cold it tugs inside the nose.
Yet in truth, he was not lonely. To him, words lived, reached from the page, grabbing his mind. His eyes flew across the page; their flow swept him to other places more engaging than his own. In shadow, the Educators and Engineers worried. He was a transfer student, the son of parents who moved from Away. That itself was not unusual. This was not the taiga, vast potato fields, or resort town on rocky cost, but a suburb of the state's largest city. Immigration was common, both internationally and from other States. No, what was strange was that he was re-enrolling after two years of home school. From his file, they knew he had been an associate of a known troublemaker before and it must have worried them that the two had once again. Their power was limited. They were only effective if they could keep up the charade. Isolation was their greatest weapon. They could keep them isolated during classes and hope that was enough.
Are you revealing a dramatization of your history, or is this purely fictional? ???
Also, I enjoy your portrayal of such people. Again, worthy of applause.
He turns to the warm south-east. Ice coating the bare trees burns white, ignited by the sunlight. It is a postcard picture, but the postcards never catch how it sounds nor smells--nor how fleeting this beauty is.
Surprisingly, it seemed enough--but how wrong they were. The two years of solitude had changed him. The Weathel and Trouble didn't play many games with the other children. They prowled around, like two hunters, and . . . talked. Two quiet unknowns, variables in the system. What was clear was that Weathel wasn't fitting in. He didn't color in the lines. He didn't color at all. Faced with drawing or writing or playing games, the normal role of the cog, he seized up. He avoided these things. He spread his wings, caught the wind of words, lost himself in other worlds.
Reminiscent of the two intellectuals ahead of their class, a clever...fictionali zation?
Please forgive me. You must of course wonder why he came here. My story, my answer, is yet unfinished, but here is the first piece of the puzzle: Applegate's Animorphs was one of the worlds to which Weathel fled.
So, assuming that the previous had been a dramatization of your life, you began devouring fiction, and stumbled upon Animorphs?
In the frozen land, on this still cloudless day, the sun's heat is almost shocking. The same sun that makes the ice coat a halo also loosens it. The fresh snow deadens the usual noises; only the falling ice, like rain, can be heard.
Long ago, the Weathel wanted to be perfect in everything he did. He thrived on hard answers, on right answers. But he was insane: in life not everything is red-or-white. Often, things are gray. Or so dark, you can't see anything. Often there are no wrong answers. At those times, he saw there are no right answers and was afraid. So he drifted along, saying nothing when he was not sure he'd be right. At times, rare times, he was so angry and frustrated that he would burst. Those times scared him most of all. They also caught the attention of the Engineers. And so, arrangements were made, experts were called. No doubt, even grants were written, the curriculum adapted. A therapist was brought in. And little by little:
Not a damned thing got better. Then the school year ended, he was promoted with meaningless fanfare from Preteen Holding-Pen to Young-Teen Holding-Pen. He became somebody-else's problem.
Ah, the emotional uncertainty of that age. As of now (I'm commenting on first impressions, as I read through), I am simply enjoy your symbolism of such things.
He comes to the edge of a lake, stopping on its pebbly shore. Few beaches in the state have sand. Even fewer are naturally sandy. The water is dangerous this time of year. Earlier, it was swimmable, and later it will be walkable, but before the ice grows thick it is a death-trap.
Utterly beyond the comprehension of the Engineers and Educators, a chain of events had been set into motion that might bring hope to the lost, frightened Weathel. There was a teacher in the system but not of the system. She had known him from his early childhood. She had two very intelligent daughters of her own and taught the accelerated mathematics program. In some way, she must have understood the loneliness, certainly more than he did himself. He did not need the math class. He was meeting the standards. He was not being left behind. But he did need somewhere to be successful and not bored. He needed a rock of sanity to survive what came next.
A role model introduced, bringing stability to your life? Someone who understood you better than all before, and who cared (most certainly) more than the others that ran your life?
*continues reading*
The long-lasting winter sunset has begun, throwing his long shadow northeast over the thin ice. He bends down, grabs a stone that fits his hand, and flicks it skittering across the ice.
The three years of young teen holding pen flashed past as a nightmare. The mercilessly sarcastic teacher: first year. The insane horse lady: third year. Storming out of art class: second year. Maybe. Pity grade from that teacher: D-. Hours-long year-end assemblies in the gym: first, second, and third year. Homeroom teacher committed suicide, maybe: second year. Voice changed, offered choice to sing alto (hah!) or leave the chorus--then pulled out of class by Sarcastic Teacher and encouraged to quit on the exact same day: first year. Staring at a blank piece of paper, trying, trying, to make a story come to life, first year. Pity grade from that teacher: D. He swore he would never write again. Yet some of the memories were strangely funny, or even good. Kicked out of center-for-grieving children meeting for being a child, then walking 45 minutes home on a beautiful spring day: second year. Hanging out with the tech/science/film club: third year. Belting out Cat Steven's "Here Comes My Baby," in a rich baritone to a full auditorium including the choral teacher and sarcastic teacher: third year, a priceless moment. World-building with friends at lunch, crafting the beginnings of the "wildweathel" screen-name: third year.
(once more assuming this is a dramatization of your life) The years of change that the earlier hell of emotional change was but a prelude to. At least you were beginning to make friends.
The stone alone marks the end of a dashed trail.
Weathel caught hold of three foundations of sanity: the math teacher, the music teacher--another in the system and not of it--and finally summers with Trouble. Trouble had a cottage on a lake, four hours from their home, and there Weathel could take a break from being a cog in the machine. They swam in the lake, and paddled a canoe and spent long summer afternoons walking and talking with Trouble, or reading, or firing air guns and illegal explosives in the quarry down the road. At night the pyrotechnics would come out as the bats crawled out from under the metal roof and they painted with fire and cooked flesh and, in short, they lived. His world was no longer red and white, but also blue and yellow--and even green.
Things beginning to improve, at least outside of school. The "troublesome" friend being your main means to escape the monotony of everyday life.
He smiles and turns, scans the horizon. Perhaps he will head home.
Three years previous, he had been an eerie stoic. His rage at the stupidity, his fear of creativity lay bottled up nearly of the time. But during those later years, with Trouble and in the Pen, Weathel discovered something new stirring. He learned how to smile. He learned, to his surprise, that he didn't nearly smile enough. He realized that Old-Teen Holding-Pen would be more of the same--no, it would be worse. The freedom he had enjoyed to study mathematics and technology on his own would disappear. Music, too, would become an intense competition. Lost in an even larger sea of humanstock, the Engineers would be able to separate him further from Trouble--and they wouldn't show poor Weathel, son of a trouble-maker, friend of another troublemaker, student of a third troublemaker, clearly in need of their help to become a good little cog; they would not show him any mercy. Understanding this, comprehending little, he screamed he wanted out.
The anonymity getting to you, the feeling that you are being repressed beginning to pervade. However, the improvement is still there. You are no longer bottling up your emotions, despite your pessimistic outlook.
Suddenly the forest is alive with small gray birds: flitting from tree to ground to tree, searching the cones for seeds. His muse sparkles impishly: "Praise God! The sky is full of tits!"
So, Weathel got out. He left the system behind: the gears and grants, the disciples of Dewey and Marx, the Fabians, the Engineers, those who hope to build a world of living human bricks. He found another system: one of gears and papers and even the odd Engineers, true enough, but the machine was not entirely mechanical. Accidentally at first, he began to plant roots: he joined the math team, because it seemed the right thing to do. There he met people who were indeed smarter than he was, and faced challenges he had to work to overcome. He tempered his precociousness with humility. He struggled through homework--not because it was hard, but because it was endless. His second year, he began to debate. And, his second year, he achieved a great victory, when--having forgotten Applegate, he met Elliot.
The "roots" you planted turning into friendships, perhaps? And I like your comment; "not because it was hard, but because it was endless". ;)
Then he realizes that they are, unfortunately, not tits. They're too large and the heads are all gray. The bills are orange. When they perch, they look like small fat robins, feathers puffed against the cold. Not tits, then. Juncos. Snow-sparrows. He remembers the substitute from when the teacher killed himself. He was no engineer, no utopian. But he loved birds, and though the carefully-machined students mocked him for it, though the wanderer had no use for the information at the time, he sat at the feet of the master and learned. Red-wings. Orioles. Goldfinches. Bluebirds. Two species of tits--neither of which can be these birds. The other blue birds: swallows of tree and brick.
A circle. A line through the center. Another line parallel, tangent below. The code for a 'D,' 'nearly' a failure. Weathel had seen that symbol four years prior, had sworn to never do anything wishy-washy creative again. He was almost steadfast in that promise. He had only lapsed once and wrote a few songs, songs without words, songs he would never publish. They didn't count, right? But then, in his second year at School-on-Ocean, the assignment came. No wrong answers. No right answers. "Intertextuality." Shades of blue and yellow, nor red nor white. The blank yellow page, and college-ruled blue lines rose in his memory. A symbol: a circle and two lines. He didn't even like Elliot's The Wasteland to begin with. The spirit of Weathel moved over dark possibilities, rippling and waiting below, mocking his indecision. In short, he was afraid.
He watches the sparrows dig through the litter. He wonders why he is so reminiscent today, why their mad dash for food seems so amusing. A drop of melting ice falls on the back of his neck. He almost laughs.
Then for the first time, speechless Weathel remembered to breathe. He inhaled--"inspired" is a better word--images: a dry, red, sandstone arch. Lightning striking a tree. A city at night, a few lightning-strikes there as well. An abandoned, ruined abbey. A rooster. Then, he spoke three images: a dry red land where voices whisper. A faith abandoned prophesying of a gathering storm. Blessed rain falling, amid terrible destruction. It was a retelling of the last book of The Wasteland: hoping for rain yet fearing the thunder. Weathel finished explaining the symbolism, then fell silent at the head of the class. They were probably just tired, and a bit bored, but even if some were surprised, none were possibly as surprised as Weathel--no, now Wildweathel. School-on-Ocean, second year, Wildweathel receives a grade on a creative assignment: 'A'.
The creative part of your mind, awakening? The fear of expressing yourself removed, and replaced with the surprise of success? The realization of "I can do this."
The mad little snow-sparrows dash through the forest, picking through the fallen cones. In a few minutes they are gone. The sky burns gold and red and purple. He continues, breath freezing in the air, now thinking of home--at least the idea of home.
From that time, Wildweathel knew he was alive, wonderfully, fearfully alive. From that time, Wildweathel knew he was sane, or at least sane enough to know that he had been insane before. But Wildweathel had all but forgotten his friend, Trouble, the friend who helped him begin to live, the friend who was still trapped in the world of gears and grants. The Engineers tried to fix Trouble. Trouble, in his boredom, tried to fix the Engineers right back. In the end, they failed miserably, and declared Trouble a failure. Trouble didn't waste time arguing. Just like Weathel, Trouble got out of the system. From that time, Wildweathel realized he had let his friend down.
:-\ <<<Sums it up quite nicely.
He reaches a stream, and turns upstream. Ring-billed gulls stare at him from the opposite bank as he passes.
The next spring, Wildweathel was at School-on-Ocean, walking from one building to the next, when he saw a sudden movement through the door glass. A large bird swept across his vision. He stepped outside in time to see several gulls mob the bird: a white and brown bird with hooked beak and a rust-red tail. "Cool," thought Wildweathel. "I've never really seen one before." Then, Wildweathel began to remember.
Animorph-memory back?
[/color]
It is almost dark now, but he takes a moment to sit on the simple dam the holds back the small, ice-covered lake feeding the river. He admits that he's still lost. Perhaps another night bivouacked. Perhaps he might go a bit further today.
Later that spring, Wildweathel discovered recreational insanity. His sister encouraged him to audition for School-on-Ocean's musical play. He found himself singing a small, but technically challenging part, and simply hanging out and laughing with the fun loving, extroverted cast and crew. He abandoned his self-consciousness, went a little crazy, and in that way became sane. Then, Wildweathel finished his last year and a half at School-on-Ocean, and began to wander. But still he wonders what, in the end, happens to Tobias and the rest.
:D
He rises, then notices a light in the forest. Yes, he will continue a bit further tonight. He lights his lantern and sets out through the undergrowth, following a deer trail at first, then turning off into the bramble. It slows him--eventually he gives in and cuts his way through. On the other side he skirts a frozen pond and so arrives at a small, but cozy-looking, cabin. The lights are on inside and outside, illuminating a sign which reads "Richard's," but he hesitates for a moment. Stepping forward, under a large awning he notices a library. K. A. Applegate. Unable to resist as the memories flood back, he begins with "The Discovery," more or less where he stopped and does something he hasn't done in a long time. He reads through the long night and well into the next day, with hardly a break until, in "The Beginning," he reads: "Chapter 18: Tobias," and his heart nearly breaks. Gathering his courage, he finishes the last book then takes a look around. His eyes catch on a note: Animorphs Audio Book Project.
Nice symbolism of the internet, there, as well as the rediscovery of Animorphs.
Intrigued, he steps to the door.
"...and welcome to the loonie bin, funny farm, happy..."
"...welcome! Here's you strait-jacket. Let me know..."
"...random leprechauns. Try and steal their gold, and see..."
"Yay! New members! Because we need more insane people..."
Wildweathel stared across the damp snow. Sane? Insane? Who could tell. Perhaps it didn't matter all that much. He turned and opened the door:
I blink as my eyes adjust from the harsh blue light outdoors to the soft yellow glow of old-fashioned propane lamps. As usual, I feel a bit shy, but I force myself to relax. I look up and left at nothing, letting my muse come to me. I speak a verse:
Though, in mind, I know, 'tis new to me
In heart, I feel I have come home
I feel a strange urge to tell my story--strange because I never have before, not even to myself, not a full narrative. The place seems welcoming enough. What do I have left to lose now? I have the snow, the lake, the sunset, the thunder, but I can only lose them if I am afraid, if I choose not to care. I give in.
I tell the story.
Then, I look around and ask, "So. Am I crazy enough to stay?"
In conclusion?
I sincerely hope you are.
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Ok, since Taiyoh actually was crazy enough to try to analyse you novel^^, I'm gonna ask a question ^^
Who are the engineers? I considered several answers but i'm not sure^^
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Ok, since Taiyoh actually was crazy enough to try to analyse you novel^^, I'm gonna ask a question ^^
Who are the engineers? I considered several answers but i'm not sure^^
I had assumed they symbolized the ones who were in control of his life (the ones "engineering" society).
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Ok, since Taiyoh actually was crazy enough to try to analyse you novel^^, I'm gonna ask a question ^^
Who are the engineers? I considered several answers but i'm not sure^^
I had assumed they symbolized the ones who were in control of his life (the ones "engineering" society).
I did too and then I thought that they might be more concrete people like... his parents ?
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Ok, since Taiyoh actually was crazy enough to try to analyse you novel^^, I'm gonna ask a question ^^
Who are the engineers? I considered several answers but i'm not sure^^
I had assumed they symbolized the ones who were in control of his life (the ones "engineering" society).
I did too and then I thought that they might be more concrete people like... his parents ?
...son of parents who moved from Away...
*shrug*
I'm sure he will enlighten us.
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Ahahah, I need a double translation :P
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Fictional?
Well...
Just because something is a metaphor doesn't mean it can't be real.
-- Death in Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett
We poets never tell the truth, except when we tell it in fables. ... These clockwork dolls will tell you the truth about me.
-- The Author in The Surprise by Gilbert K. Chesterton
But yes, there is a real Trouble, who really saved Weathel, whom Weathel really neglected, and who left for Army boot camp yesterday afternoon. I'll miss him.
Oh, the Engineers, how I hate to even think about them! But, yet I should, because someone must stand against them.
*takes out soap-box, begins declaming*
Behold, their own words damn them!
I believe that the child should be stimulated and controlled in his work through the life of the community. ...
The Engineer is first and foremost a creature of control.
I believe that education cannot be unified in the study of science, ... because apart from human activity, nature itself is not a unity; ... and to attempt to make it the centre of work by itself, is to introduce a principle of radiation rather than one of concentration. ...
He believes humanity is alone in a sea of chaos. To him there is no joy in nature--it may not be appreciated as a work of art, nor the subject of sincere study, and he must beat the child from his wonder, lest he be distracted chasing butterflies.
I believe that literature is the reflex expression and interpretation of social experience; that hence it must follow upon and not precede such experience.
This "social experience" is the deity of the Engineer. Everything outside of humanity is mere chaos, and man himself only has meaning by being part of the organic whole. Thus, literature is only valuable as an expression of social events.
I believe that the only way to make the child conscious of his social heritage is to enable him to perform those fundamental types of activity which makes civilization what it is.
I believe, therefore, in the so-called expressive or constructive activities as the centre of correlation.
I believe that this gives the standard for the place of cooking, sewing, manual training, etc., in the school.
I believe that the study of science is educational in so far as it brings out the materials and processes which make social life what it is.
The Engineer makes the school first and foremost a place of social training. Man only has value in his performance of socially-assigned roles. Outside of them there is no human dignity, no valuable knowledge, no beautiful art. School is like a factory: it enables the workers to take on their social roles. The schoolmaster has one important difference from the sweatshop foreman, though: in the end the foreman can point to his goods and say "behold, I at least made my customers happy." The schoolmaster has nothing to answer for him but broken souls.
I believe that the art of thus giving shape to human powers and adapting them to social service, is the supreme art; one calling into its service the best of artists; that no insight, sympathy, tact, executive power is too great for such service.
I believe, finally, that the teacher is engaged, not simply in the training of individuals, but in the formation of the proper social life.
Human beings, to the Engineers, are like ants. Except that, unlike ants they have this unfortunate tendency called individualism. Some waste their time staring off into the sunset, or climbing mountains, or displaying photographs of clouds without a suitably educational message underneath, or worshiping imaginary friends.
I believe that every teacher should realize the dignity of his calling; that he is a social servant set apart for the maintenance of proper social order and the securing of the right social growth.
Therefore, there is the role of special ants, the engineers, who maintain "proper social order," guide "social growth," who "stimulate and control." Their control is not most effective when it is punitive, rather they rule through isolation, carefully crafted assumptions and world-views. They're smarter than the rest of us. And, God help us. They have our children.
I believe that in this way the teacher always is the prophet of the true God and the usherer in of the true kingdom of God.
-- John Dewey, "My Pedagogic Creed"
But who is this "true God" of Dewey? Is he the God who asked Adam to name the creatures, and gave him dominion over creation. Is he the same God who, when He needed to make a point to humanity turned to the rainbow, the mountaintop, the stormy sea, the wildflowers? Before him am I "wonderfully, fearfully made?" Is he the One who carved us in the palm of his hand?
No. The engineers may believe they serve God. Let us search our history, though. In it, in ancient Carthage, we find a people who considered their children their most precious resource. So precious in fact, that in worshiping Ba'al Hammon, sacrificing their most precious resource, they burnt their own children to death. Delenda est Carthago!
What they do is evil, and, by the grace of God I HATE IT.
Part 2 to follow soon.
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Perfect, and I still don't know who the engineers are ^^ Maybe they are just nobody in particular ^^
I feel like reading some kind of philophical poetry and i'm so confused.
I mean, it's the way it's all put together... It really confuses me.
Can't you express your ideas more clearly despite you desire for not being a conformist or a cog of the system^^
You know, being understood by others can be nice sometimes... Otherwise, if nobody understands you... well you're just talking with yourself :P
(well, maybe i'm the only one who doesn't understand, in that case i beg your pardon for this post ^^)
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The way I understand this (oh, and I apologize for describing it as fictional...symboli c would have been better spoken), is that the "engineers" are those who try to mold society to their views; to make more "productive" citizens, or "normal" citizens.
E.g. teachers, therapists, and anyone else who controls the development of children.
Correct me if I'm wrong, please :)
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The way I understand this (oh, and I apologize for describing it as fictional...symboli c would have been better spoken),
No offense taken. It is fictional. Sort of.
is that the "engineers" are those who try to mold society to their views; to make more "productive" citizens, or "normal" citizens.
We have a winner!!
That's a lot more clear (or at least direct) than I've been able to say so far. Thanks!
John Dewey is an excellent historical example. What's frightening is the number of people who agree with him.
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[insert post]
:okay:
Edit: I just noticed that my tag says "Sr. Member"...
I've barely been posting (truly posting, that is) for two weeks :-\
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I've barely been posting (truly posting, that is) for two weeks :-\
I just found out that I'm on the fourth page of sixteen on the top posters leader-board. Wow! I'm more talkative than 70% of all RAFians. I'm not quite sure what that means, but, wow!
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I've barely been posting (truly posting, that is) for two weeks :-\
I just found out that I'm on the fourth page of sixteen on the top posters leader-board. Wow! I'm more talkative than 70% of all RAFians. I'm not quite sure what that means, but, wow!
Congratulations, once again :)
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Thanks ;D
It makes me think of a book my mother has on a shelf, it is entitled "Free children of summerhill" by Neill something...
Oh and... ;) My mother is a teacher :-X
;D
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That's a lot more clear (or at least direct) than I've been able to say so far. Thanks!
Ah, and does this mean that there will be no "Part Two" to your explanation? I'd like to hear it, regardless the preexisting comprehension of what you're saying. :)
_______
You appear out of nowhere and cause such a stir,
I am laden with interest... who are you, kind sir?
On second thought, no, this would spoil the suspense,
and with gossip abound, cause fallouts immense.
Well, I am now off to sleep.
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You appear out of nowhere and cause such a stir,
I am laden with interest... who are you, kind sir?
On second thought, no, this would spoil the suspense,
and with gossip abound, cause fallouts immense.
Well, I am now off to sleep.
Oh my goodness ;D
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Ah, and does this mean that there will be no "Part Two" to your explanation? I'd like to hear it, regardless the preexisting comprehension of what you're saying. :)
I'll go ahead and write it, then. I kinda ended on a down note, and also gave the impression that all teachers are bad (which isn't what I mean to say at all!).
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Yes ^^ don't worry, I didn't think it was that simple.
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You appear out of nowhere and cause such a stir,
I am laden with interest... who are you, kind sir?
On second thought, no, this would spoil the suspense,
and with gossip abound, cause fallouts immense.
Well, I am now off to sleep.
Oh my goodness ;D
Eh? ???
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Nothing Taiyoh, nothing. ^^
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You appear out of nowhere and cause such a stir,
I am laden with interest... who are you, kind sir?
On second thought, no, this would spoil the suspense,
and with gossip abound, cause fallouts immense.
Well, I am now off to sleep.
Oh my goodness ;D
Eh? ???
Nothing Taiyoh, nothing. ^^
Er...o.k.... :-\
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It's your admiration for Wildy that made me smile ^^
Really, don't worry ^^
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It's your admiration for Wildy that made me smile ^^
Really, don't worry ^^
'Tis not so much admiration so as my own curiosity.
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Ok, let's say that you expressed your own curiosity with a laudatory poem :)
Happy now?
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Ok, let's say that you expressed your own curiosity with a laudatory poem :)
Happy now?
*shrug* I was not unhappy.
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Aaaaargh!
If you contradict me one more time ... Grrr
-
Aaaaargh!
If you contradict me one more time ... Grrr
My apologies :(
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Aaaaargh!
If you contradict me one more time ... Grrr
My apologies :(
:)
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Aaaaargh!
If you contradict me one more time ... Grrr
My apologies :(
:)
So I take it you accept the apology? :)
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I did ^^
Hmmm
I guess our super writer won't give us the second part of his text before a little time :(
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I did ^^
Hmmm
I guess our super writer won't give us the second part of his text before a little time :(
Sorry. I've been busy with the Audiobook project. Monday, my time (GMT-5). I promise.
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Yay !
The prophet's return... MONDAY !
Be numerous !
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I did ^^
Hmmm
I guess our super writer won't give us the second part of his text before a little time :(
Sorry. I've been busy with the Audiobook project. Monday, my time (GMT-5). I promise.
It's no trouble, we can understand that you are busy [at least, I can; I do not speak for any others].
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I can too ! ;D
Oh Jeez, it seems like we are the 3 INTPs of RAF.
We should make a gang or something ^_^''
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I can too ! ;D
Oh Jeez, it seems like we are the 3 INTPs of RAF.
We should make a gang or something ^_^''
Only three? Are you sure? :-\
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For Now !
And as I said... only 1% of (the?) girls are INTPs^^
So I might be the only one ;D
Mwahahah
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For Now !
And as I said... only 1% of (the?) girls are INTPs^^
So I might be the only one ;D
Mwahahah
Possibly. Do you hope you are?
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I do!
I am totally narcissistic^^
I wanna be unique ;)
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I do!
I am totally narcissistic^^
I wanna be unique ;)
Haha.
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I ended the last post on a rather depressing note, buried in the depths of the Morlockian machine, where human beings are hammered into compliant, enslaved cogs. But what then is the alternative? What is humanity missing?
I begin again, now with the end in mind:
There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, "Thy will be done," and those to whom God says, in the end, "Thy will be done." All that are in Hell, choose it.
--C S Lewis, The Great Divorce
In the end there is one thing and one thing alone that matters. It is an enormous thing, but fortunately something that can be summed up in few words:
Will I be content to really be myself, not merely for myself? Will I set aside my own self-importance to sing a part in the Creator's song? Or would I rather sit outside, in charge of nothing but myself, yet, in that one thing supreme?
Yamaarashi no jirenma ka? Mi wo yoseru hodo aite wo kizutsukeru. Kou iu koto ka?
(The porcupine's dilemma, huh? The more he lets others get close to him, the more he hurts them. Is that it?)
--Neon Genesis Evangelion
Will I bear the pain of growing close, for the joy of being close? Will eternity be a blessing or curse?
I call Heaven and Earth to witness that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life, so you and your descendants may live.
--Deuteronomy 30:15
Will I live or will I die? The final and most terrible freedom of a free will.
The teacher, the parent, everyone who mentors in any way--no matter how small--to the child, is the Educator. Mr. Dewey is right to call this a special calling. The Educator has a divine mission: to argue the case of life.
And so the school ought to be a place first and foremost of wonder, where humanity has gathered its achievements, saying "Come, our children, see the wonders the Creator has made possible through us!" Where humanity has enshrined the mystery of nature. "Come, our children, see the wonders of our home!" But these two things alone cannot make the full case.
We must show children what they are capable of--push them beyond the limits they see in themselves, instill discipline before we can hand it over and call it "self-discipline." Let self-confidence arise from honest success, not empty flattery. Let human society be and expression of humanity, rather than the other way around. So, teach typing, penmanship, reading, a foreign language, arithmetic, a musical instrument, and a wide variety of physical skills. At the same time do not overlook play, and unstructured time. Armed with real skills, and free to use them themselves, children discover the third part of the argument: "Come, our children, see the wonders our Creator has made possible in you."
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What to say?
May I write about my experience with school? I would like to but you might be bored ^^
Anyway, with my little experience I came to the conclusion that with the system of marks and the way we were evaluated we could not learn correctly cause it spoilts the learning process. I'm the daughter of a teacher so I used to know how to exploit the system to my advantage.
You go to school, you sit down, you are force-fed like a goose and then you are asked to regurgitate your knowledge on a piece of paper.
The more your regurgitate, the higher your marks are.
Good pupil :)
Once the exam is past, you are allowed to make room (to empty your brain) in order to absord the next subject.
I got very good at that process. Now that I am depicting it, it makes me think of bulimics who eat as much as they can and then go to purge themselves in the toilets.
In the end there is barely anything left, only vague memories... But it is all shallow and emptied from its substance.
I like those humanistic values on which our educational programme is based.
Thus, we should know everything : Mathematics, History, Geography, Literature, Sports, Music...
That's the goal. I like this idea. It's probably naive, idealistic but it would annoy me if it disappeared.
The thing is, with our educational system we are not even allowed to get curious (or if we are, it's a good coincidence) the answers are already given, nothing to whet the appetite, the food is already cooked, ready for us to swallow.
I got sick, I guess.
I understand your point about experience and how important it is (it is probably part of "whetting the appetite ;) ).
Otherwise, if this knowledge is out of touch with the real word, it is one more alienation to the kid.
I know I tend to use this word a lot. It's because I feel alienated in my everyday life. I really do.
I chose to study economics cause it is really not a noble subject.
It's a subject one doesn't study with their heart, with passion. And as I have no passion for anything... i felt like it was the best subject for me ^^ (yeah, I love my logic ^^)
Why do you always mix religion with this Wildy?
All those extracts from religious texts made me feel very uncomfortable when I read your post. :-[
You sound like a religious fanatic ^_^'
::) I don't really feel like the child of a pseudo-Creator created by Man himself.
Well, maybe it brings some answers to "the case of life", but they are all lame to me.
When I was 5, I remember I was on this swing in my grandparent's garden and I started to wonder what happened when people got old.
I first thought that they never stopped growing and that they got taller and taller.
I was first content with that and then I watched the poplars near my garden and I imagined giant people (very old people so) walking. Their legs were longer than the trees themselves.
And then I started to wonder why I had never seen giants before, walking through the trees.
I got the idea that it would be dangerous for young people, cause they would be so high that they would not see us and could accidentally kill us.
So, I started to think that they might be sent to another part of Earth, or to another world, once they reached a specific height.
Again, in their other world, they would have to move again once they reached another specific height.
See, the question of death was solved ^^
But then, as I was all happy with my explanation, I went to talk about it to my grandmother.
She totally cut me while i was talking and she told me that people died when they were old.
:'(
Then she TRIED to relieve me talking to me about God and Heaven, etc...
As a child I wanted to believe that cause I absolutely denied the fact that I could be definitely separated from the people I loved and that, myself, I could die someday and just become nothing but dust.
I found it so unfair and absurd that I didn't even want to think of it.
Life could just not be like that...
Then I grew up, I stopped believing in lots of stuff, God was just another casualty of mine.
Honestly, Heaven vs Hell, who could be satisfied with such a simplistic thing?
And a world after Death?
A world after Death where I am going to find back my whole family? YUCK, I hope I'll get my privacy there. LOL
Of course I am anxious when I think about the End but I prefer my atheistic/realistic way to see the world than singing lullabies to myself...
Well I think people who believe in this kind of thing are in total denial...
But perhaps we are all like that, to some extent :-\
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Well I think people who believe in this kind of thing are in total denial...
"this kind of thing"
The atheistic approach, or the holy approach? You were not very clear in that manner (though I assume you mean the 'holy' approach). :)
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This kind of thing = Something after Death.
The religious approach?
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This kind of thing = Something after Death.
The religious approach?
Yes. That is what I had meant by "holy" :)
Only time can tell for anyone, and once you die it is rather hard to report. ;)
So I take it you're atheistic?
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Only time can tell for anyone, and once you die it is rather hard to report. ;)
So I take it you're agnostic (in a generalization, you believe what can be proven)?
You mean, you take it I am NOT agnostic ?
Otherwise, your sentence doesn't make sense ;D
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Only time can tell for anyone, and once you die it is rather hard to report. ;)
So I take it you're agnostic (in a generalization, you believe what can be proven)?
You mean, you take it I am NOT agnostic ?
Otherwise, your sentence doesn't make sense ;D
Yes...I do not know what I was thinking when I wrote that.
*bows head in shame*
Replace it with "atheistic" :)