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This is an image of a minor character in the tv show Avatar: The Last Air Bender. I find that she ralates to aunt Jennifer as in the show she is married to the oppressive son of the fire lord who she finds wasn't the man she thought he was but was bound by their status. She was kept from doing much regarding any decision making even the decision of her husband Ozai to assassinate their son so that he can become fire lord. Her preventing that ultimately led to her being banished and drove her to changing her face and losing her memory of her family on purpose to avoid the pain.

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Symbolism has always been an iffy subject for me in literature with me wondering whether the author intended for such symbolism to exist or not. Regardless I find the House itself to be the largest peice of symbolism representing the closed space that Nora lives in, having never even left the house during the play itself. Later on she talks about how she doesn't actually know that much about anything but most especially herself. The first thing that I thought might have been an example of symbolism was the first letter to Torvald from Krogstad. To me this letter represented an ultimatum for Nora where the outcome for how Torvald handled that information decided how she viewed reality itself, that letter has the largest impact on how the finally of the play goes and is the breaking point for Nora. Wether that holds any symbolism or is just a plot point i'm not sure.

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To preface this, This is something I typed a couple years ago for my hobby, and lacks a great deal of polish while making little sense without understanding the background info. However I thought I should post it anyway.

A Silver Lining

Once upon a time…

There was a man. He lived on a small hill in a small house all by himself. No wife, no kids, no parents. His house was a ramshackle thing fashioned from antiquated planks and boards salvaged from the shipyard of a forgotten river. Upon opening the door and taking that first step into the all too familiar dusk filled husk the first thought that crossed the man's mind was never the condition of his home. His mind was no longer equipped to worry about his condition as he had grown too weak to even realize his own disparity. Most of his time was spent at the church with its many visitors. He knew every face and name that passed through. But to his disappointment they had all been born hopeless. All seeking grandeur they never experienced. however Unlike them, he had experienced this life once. A life of adventure and chivalry. A knight's life.

In his day he was met with many beautiful handmaidens presented from the many noble families in an attempt attain a knight's valor within their house. However, like they expected all their attempts were kindly refused. The knight always wanted what he couldn’t have. Off to the outer stretches of the land a caravan would pass by every month with various stories that caught his ear but most importantly to him, a young stable girl who had travelled with the caravan since she was a little girl caring for the horses they used for transport. She was a fair lass with black hair that dangled in braids and somehow fine but rough skin with a darker tone, a stark contrast from the knight’s pale white appearance with a short and jagged brown cut. He had made an effort to see her every time she stopped by despite the miles long road he had to travel. He knew she was not from these lands by the way she talked about the sea, a foreign concept to the young knight who had lived on the mainland his whole life. Tales of a vast ocean intrigued him and his excitement peaked the girls interest. He had hoped that one day he could travel off to the distant land with the girl and experience this for himself. At this point he had lost count on how many times he visited the caravan and was running later than usual. Not wanting to leave a fair lady waiting he rushed as fast as he could to meet her. Upon arriving he could tell something was not right, there lacked the folk music the caravan would play and the flickering light of a fire. Everything was still. A loud bang alerted the knight which he swiftly rushed for only to find that all the members of the caravan were tied to the back side and the loud bang was the sound of bandits rummaging through their belongings. As a knight this was not a situation he wasn’t used to. He sprang into action immediately thrusting one bandit down. Quickly this seemed like a bad idea as he realized he was outnumbered five to one. The fight was no longer a skirmish but an execution. He looked to the girl as though he was waiting for an out but there was nothing of the sort just a plea in the eyes of innocence. Thinking all was for not. he did all he could hoping for an out. Soon everything was black and red. As the knight stood ravaged and bloodied he collapsed to the floor among the other lifeless bodies.

He awoke in his home unable to move as if he was trapped in his own body. Stewards would pass by to mend his wounds from time to time. Soon days passed, then weeks. Then the first day of the month approached. He was just strong enough to walk and attempted to make his way to the caravan he knew would arrive shortly. Walking the streets he noticed that he was getting an awfully large amount of look towards him, and not the looks he was used to. The knights walk turned into a hobble and his hobble into a crawl as he began to fade once again into the black beyond. He awoke once again, alone. He noticed next to him was something strange, something he had not seen before. A painting, made from fine oil paints and cut glass. The picture was that of a silver landscape that seemed to move beyond a still yes wavy ridge. He knew what this was. It was the sea.

Time had passed and the man would never be able to make the journey to the edge of town that he once could nor would he feel comfortable doing so. His face now scarred, his hair now turning a dark silver he knew he was not the glorious knight he used to be. The painting still sitting on the edge of his bed, had become the only beacon of light in his life of gray with the church being his only constant wishing he had never experienced the glory he had before but rather, wishing he was just another lost soul he saw come through the church.

One night a scream startled the man making him hobble to the outside with his rustic blade in hand. It was coming from the church. A young noble was being mugged in the dusk shadow of the church a women wearing clothes much too fine for this part of town. As the man approached the thief the noble women took notice of the ruined man. He addressed the thief directly taking a swing at the slum but ultimately missing. The thief acted out of nature stabbing the man in the gut seemingly regretting it as it happened. Out of shock the thief dropped the woman's belongings and ran off. The man now clenching his stomach stumbled back to his home not seeing the noble now speechless trying help the man but to no avail as she stood there confused and stunned. The man opened the same door into the same house on the same hill where he had always lived. This was not the first time he had been bloodied in his own home but this was not the same. He was tired and old. Not the same man he used to be, not even half the man but a broken man who would have his last breath without a family, friends or having ever seen the sea that he yearned so much for. His last act would be to lay down, and as he stared at the painting he knew so well, he tried to remember the good times.

A man woke up on a shore of fine sand that paled in comparison to the arcs of silver that flowed beyond the shore. He saw that even though the stars were bright the sky somehow remained dark leaving the constellations visible and a beauty unfamiliar. The man stood up violently stumbling in the sand toward the shore not aware of his surroundings. As he looked into the reflective pool he saw himself, a young man with butchered brown hair and fair pale skin, but this was not familiar to him. Realization washed over him that he had no idea who he was, where he was, or how he got here.

For some time the man sat on the beach contemplating his existence just staring out into the waves. He began to feel a presence almost as if something was wrong and almost as instinct he drew a silver blade from his belt turning around only to be met by something he never expected to see. A sword to his breastplate of pure gold, and even stranger a woman in armor holding it. She stood with golden wings and grace the man could never imagine, but then again he couldn’t imagine much. Almost as though her presence was enough he sheathed his sword and she followed suit. Before either could utter a word the man noticed a great stone citadel behind her that he had not noticed before. It was made of sterling white slabs that seemed to radiate a pure light cast from the stars. He looked back at the woman and back at the sea, they almost complimented each other. Although unaware of his past, he came to the conclusion that this felt right.

This man, was not me.

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Like Water For Chocolate: Unique Style And Perspective

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Like Water For Chocolate: Unique Style And Perspective

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I was skeptical about this novel when I first started reading it, as I am with most. However the first impression I got was a fascination with the structure of the novel. Throughout the book we see that it is divided by chapters and each chapter starts with a recipe for a particular dish that was being prepared the time that it took place. This was very nice hook for me in particular, as I realized how much I enjoyed unique or uncommon structuring. Nothing i've written has had as a unique style as Like Water for Chocolate but I have written similar short stories about characters. In my padlets I have mentioned one of my main hobbies, that being Dungeons and Dragons. In this hobby it is customary to write character backstories, such as the one I uploaded in this padlet. In this character backstory I tell the lead up to the birth of my character from the perspective of his father, which I personally thought was interesting. Other than that i'm actually writing a similar story to how this book was written. Where as this book is written in the a cookbook and told from the perspective of the neice of Tita, mine is written in a translation book, serving as a journal of sorts. This novel also had an interesting style and perspective with the pseudo-realism it tells the story through. This also relates to my most common writings as mine take place in a fantasy world that is grounded in some amount of realism.

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I'm a new student to college in the sense that this is my first year in higher education. So I think that my viewpoint can be valuable since I lack the understanding of many conceptss that we explore in class. My first and foremost concern in college was the amount of homework I would be given. I never responded in any positive manner to homework regardless of what it was. This class has challenged me more in take home work than any other i've taken and I know this will only increase as years go by. What complicates this further in when I dedicate several hours of my time into said work, only to be dissapointed with the outcome I receive. I've had to cancel many of my weekend plans in order to complete my assignments and even my weekly plans so that I could both work and do school. After doing math my weekly work and course load comes out to anywhere between 30-50 hours. If not for the generous homework model of my history teacher i'd likely cease to care about actually learning the material entirely just so that I could complete the assignments faster. I understand and accept the coure load as that is simply all I can do to get by. the other thing that troubled me is the overloading of literary concepts that I have never seen before. The argumentative essay in particular was something that I never had to do before and I felt like I was rushed to complete it with the little understanding I had. This combined with my lack of interest in the topic was troubling to say the least. Overall I don't despise the class and enjoy the attitude the teachers bring to the lessons. But as someone who never particularly liked school in the first place this class didn't improve my opinion yet didn't diminish it further. I remain where I have.

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Reading Notes From Undeground reminded me very much of my everyday writing style. I constantly write notes that relate to one of my main hobbies, Dungeons and Dragons. this picture only containing a dozen or so folded notes out of the hundred I have around. I find that this form of writing makes it so I don't forget ideas I have throughout the day. So while I have many different notes they all come together over a single idea.

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The Importance Of Being Earnest and Doilies

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The Importance Of Being Earnest and Doilies

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The way the upper class is satirized in this play is very reminiscient of a doily in both style and function. In the play we see the upper class portrayed as mostly useless in how they interact with society as a whole. A doily, while having some function is useless in much the same way. They exist to look good and not much more.

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The Importance Of Being Earnest: Book vs Play-
During and after my first reading I failed to capture the true tone of the play. The audio book I was listening to failed to live up to the comedic value that the book was suppossed to present and my lack of understanding with late 1800's comedy didn't help with the overall feeling missing the mark. After watching the play of the play I was able to greater understand the pure comedic value that the play could portray. Overall it was enjoyable in play form far more than it was in text form. This also holds true for A Doll's House. The comedy when provided with the intended inflection and character. The play was an enjoyable experience that I wouldn't mind watching again but the book simply isn't my prefered genre to read.

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Volume 2 Personal Response Journal: Chapter 2: Character And Spectacle

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Volume 2 Personal Response Journal: Chapter 2: Character And Spectacle

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This is my Personal Response to a select few paragraphs at the end of Volume 2 Chapter 2 in Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein".
I have always enjoyed a well done description whether that be in text or vocal context. It is my opinion that the way the setting is descripted in a book is the most important aspect of storytelling. Envorinment has always been a key point to conveying emotion and context to a given scene, which Mary Shelley seems to have a good grasp on throughout "Frankenstein". She is also very aware of the impact that ones environment has, on the characters she writes, mostly Victor and his astonishment in the beuty of the wilds, that surround Geneva.
Crumbling castles, towering mountains, and winding rivers all something reminiscent to me of a fantasy book. I used to read alot when I was younger, you see I had a particular interest in Non-Fiction books of animals and interesting places on earth. This interest dropped off in my younger teen years (A confusing and blurred out time of my life) and when I began to regain some interest in literature my experiences had moved to fantasy. likely due to my formative years of deppression and dislike for reality, making me seek out a more picturesque imagination. One thing that didn't shift was my appreciation for interesting environments. Whether its the real world or a fantasy, setting was everything to me. This book does a wonderful job at creating a location and conveying how it effects people within them.

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I was always perplexed by the things around me growing up. I was a very silent child as well, hardly ever speaking or making noise, even when I was born I made little sound. I spent alot of time listening and taking in my surroundings, only involving myself with other children on the playground when one of my few friends got involved or I simply followed the crowd. Now, my silence wasn't the result of anyone telling me to be quiet, I'd like to think that it was more like I had nothing to say, yet everything to hear. There were so many ideas and concepts that I knew nothing about at a young age that I simply listened. This trend would continue on almost all throughout school up until my junior year of highschool. I had developed my fathers stubbornness and cold rough demeanor but also and my mothers heart. While this would prove beneficial it also has shown to be very conflicting in almost every aspect of my life. I was both fortunate and unfortunate enough to grow up in a relatively unrestricted household when it came to my interests or beliefs and what I wanted to do with my life. Beneficial because I was given the freedom of expression and permission to become who I wanted to be and yet, detrimental as I still don't know who I want to be. So I find myself doing the same thing I've always done, the one thing I know I can do. Sit back, and listen.