Certain experiences mark the beginning of maturity. I think this statement was well protrayed in the book "Tuesdays with Morrie" by Mitch Albom. In the story "Tuesdays with Morrie," a man named Morrie is dying of a disease. Morrie was a college professor before he was taken by the disease. Mitch, a former student of his, was very close to him in his college days. After Mitch graduates he tells his old professor he will visit him, but he never does. It's years later and Mitch is the type of man who is always wrapped up in his work, he doesn't see the important things in life anymore. He bases his life around money and has no time for his wife. When the company Mitch works for goes on strike, he is out of a job. One day while flipping through the channels he sees a story on his old professor; Morrie. He finds out that he is dying, so Mitch, being out of a job, starts to visit his teacher every Tuesday. Morrie is the phylisophical type and he shares his views with Mitch. Mitchs experience with his dying professor Morrie marks a major growth in his maturity. Mitch starts to see what really matters in life. The book Tuesdays with Morrie is a good read, and a great example of how some experiences mark the beginning of maturity.
The second book I would like to bring to your attention is pendragon, by D.J. MacHale.
Pendragon is a fantasy style story where things aren't what they seem. There are worlds outside of our own, only some people can travel to them. These people are called travelers, and the traveler for earth is Bobby Pendragon. Bobby is your average high school student, he's just kissed the girl of his dreams and he's going to his big basketball game. Bobby is the best player on the team and he knows how much they need him. When his uncle comes to the door and asks him to hop on his motor cycle, Bobby wants to refuse, this game is to important, but his uncle doesn't give him a choice. It turns out Bobbys uncle is the original traveler from earth and it is now Bobbys responsibility. His uncle is taking him to something called a flume, where he is expected to take over the position of being a traveler and shoot to another world. They go down into the abandoned subway tunnels in the bronx of newyork where they are shot at by a man named Saint dane. Saint dane is the antagonist in the novel bent on making the worlds collapse, Bobbys new enemy. Bobby has now been shot at, and flys to another world where he is treated like dirt. In the land called 'Eelong" people are no better than animals. Gone are Bobbys days of basketball and girls, he has turned a new leaf in his life and is forced into maturity because of it.
Rowan of Rin by Emily Rowe is a good childrens novel that shows maturity in a whole community. Rowan is a young boy in a village where toughness is everything. People live off the sweat of their backs and young Rowan is a weak coward who prefers to tend the bukshaw than hunt or cut wood. His father was a great, strong man before he died so Rowan is looked down upon more than ever for his weakness. When the river in the valley dries up people are getting dehydrated, the live stock is dying. The people of the village consult the old witch to get a map to the rivers base but the map she gives them only shows on the paper when Rowan touches it, so they are forced to bring him along. The cause of the problem is up a forbidden mountain most would be to scared to climb under different circumstances. The mountain holds many tasks for the trio, and it seems that the people who they thought were the strongest, failed. Some couldn't swim, others feared spiders or gave into illusion. In the end, Rowan is the only one who can help. When they reach the top of the mountain (Rowan and strong John being the remaining two) strong John is defeated, he is to tired to go on and he passes out. Rowan finds that source of the problem is an injured dragon, it creates ice instead of fire and froze the river in it's agony. Rowan who was so good with the animals in the village, sees the animals pain through its rage, it has a sharp objecy it's jaws. Rowan bravely goes forward to help the ailing dragon, where as strong John woke up and tried to kill it. In the end the village sees Rowan true strength as a person, and not for his ablilitys. They mature in their views of what defines strength.
Tuesdays with Morrie, Pendragon, and Rowan of Rin, all have characters that display the beginning maturity.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Dave cooks the turkey
In "Dave cooks the turkey" by Stuart Mclean, there is alot of situational comedy used, as well as slap stick and imagery.
Dave is a bit of a clutz, and an occasional screw up, so when his wife tells him "[shes] trying to make [christmas] fun again" he wants to help. Naively, Dave asks his wife Morley "What [he] can do for her." Morley tells him she "[wants] [him] to look after the turkey." Dave, the screw up says, "I can do that," and so it begins.
Dave doesn't think ahead, he thinks his wife must have bought the turkey for him, but "taking care of the turkey," means buying it too. Dave doesn't want to tell his wife. This is part of Stuart Mcleans situational comedy. David is in a rough spot, he goes out and buys a 'grade B' turkey, the last one on the shelf. He get's it home and 'grade B' is obviously a lower end turkey. "The skin on the right drumstick [is] ripped," and there is "another slash in the carcass." Dave describes the turkey as "[looking] like it had made a break from the slaughter house and dragged itself a block or two before it was captured and beaten to death." This is a mixture of humour through imagery, and a bit of physical slap stick comedy. The situational comedy continues when Dave realizes the stove isn't going to work for him. "Nothing anybody did was going to turn it on." So he calls a hotel and asks them, "if someone brought their own food in-because of a special diet- would [they] cook it for them?" Anyone can see where this is going. Dave takes a taxi to the hotel with his mangled turkey he named 'butch.' More situational comedy comes into play when his neighbor and his mother are standing in line behind him. He's drunk at this point, and carrying a beaten turkey. It works out though, it's awekward, but he gets his turkey cooked. Dave get his turkey home and sets it on the table, "he [gets] a ladle of the turkey gravy" and "[smears] it on the light bulbs" to make the house smell more like christmas dinner. When his wife gets home, surprise surprise, she brings in the neighbor and his mother. The same people that saw his crazy act in the hotel. Yet more situational humour. Poor Dave.
Dave is a bit of a clutz, and an occasional screw up, so when his wife tells him "[shes] trying to make [christmas] fun again" he wants to help. Naively, Dave asks his wife Morley "What [he] can do for her." Morley tells him she "[wants] [him] to look after the turkey." Dave, the screw up says, "I can do that," and so it begins.
Dave doesn't think ahead, he thinks his wife must have bought the turkey for him, but "taking care of the turkey," means buying it too. Dave doesn't want to tell his wife. This is part of Stuart Mcleans situational comedy. David is in a rough spot, he goes out and buys a 'grade B' turkey, the last one on the shelf. He get's it home and 'grade B' is obviously a lower end turkey. "The skin on the right drumstick [is] ripped," and there is "another slash in the carcass." Dave describes the turkey as "[looking] like it had made a break from the slaughter house and dragged itself a block or two before it was captured and beaten to death." This is a mixture of humour through imagery, and a bit of physical slap stick comedy. The situational comedy continues when Dave realizes the stove isn't going to work for him. "Nothing anybody did was going to turn it on." So he calls a hotel and asks them, "if someone brought their own food in-because of a special diet- would [they] cook it for them?" Anyone can see where this is going. Dave takes a taxi to the hotel with his mangled turkey he named 'butch.' More situational comedy comes into play when his neighbor and his mother are standing in line behind him. He's drunk at this point, and carrying a beaten turkey. It works out though, it's awekward, but he gets his turkey cooked. Dave get his turkey home and sets it on the table, "he [gets] a ladle of the turkey gravy" and "[smears] it on the light bulbs" to make the house smell more like christmas dinner. When his wife gets home, surprise surprise, she brings in the neighbor and his mother. The same people that saw his crazy act in the hotel. Yet more situational humour. Poor Dave.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Does it make me more mature?
Certain events mark the begginning of maturity
My life has a been an emotional rollercoaster. Everytime I was up, I could only hope the peace of the moment would last, but the terrifying leap down was inevitable. Birthdays consisted of a list, nobody knew you well enough to just go out and surprise you. Christmas was a list, and after you move away from the lacking family, you'd think, even though you didn't put it on you're list, you would atleast get a call.
Years were a bitter existence, wailing out like a new born baby, just asking for love. A silent wailing which confines itself behind a persons rib cage.
People are vengful creatures. When someone doesn't call you on you're birthday, you don't call them on theirs. When you don't recieve a gift for the biggest holiday of the season, gifts are not sent. Even a card, you'd think, atleast a card? I know it wasn't on my list this year, but you'd think a person would just know. A thought creeps silently in like the acrid scent of a cigarette wisp.
"Oh they know, they just don't think you're worth it."
We are vengful creatures for sure.
Some people age, but age isn't maturity. Sacs around your eyes form from sleepless nights, time makes them perminent. For some, the only thing that doesn't age, is that screeching baby within. The one that bawls for tenderness, the one you can never seem to put at ease.
I woke up one morning and looked at the calender, I never filled the damn thing out, it just seemed normal to have one. The only markings ever scribed on the perfect squares, where the ones in ink. Permented on everyone by the company. My calender has a list on the right hand side, I leave it empty. I hate lists. The square I have my eyes set on is today, it's blank. I am all to aware that it is my mothers birthday. I find it disheartening that I still remember. Every year I remember.
It's been years since I've exchanged pleasant words with the woman. I know deep down that it's childish to hold a grudge. I keep it to simple conversations the few times I see her. I haven't seen her for 2 years. I am 21 years old, a grown man and an infant at the same time. I've glanced at the phone so many times in the past hour, my eyes start to ache. A steady pulse begins in the back of my head.
I used to be a person who loved occasions. I liked gifts and cards, but they meant little to me. The key word here is liked, I used to concern myself with the lack of thought that went into the trivial things I asked for. I just wanted someone to get me something from the heart, but I see that to be trivial now as well. What I find myself wanting, sitting all alone in my laundry strewn apartment, is a phone call. I wouldn't even mind a package sent in the mail off my wishlist, because tearing apart the wrapping of a gift means one thing. I remembered.
That is the second thing I like about occasions. My first favourite is GIVING gifts, I like to make people smile. I like to be the one to call and say "hi," sending out that silent message that says,"yes, I remembered." That's why I'm sitting here between my phone and my calendar like I do every year on this day. I've wasted 1 day of the year for the past years since I was 18. The year I moved out and didn't recieve a birthday call. It's my stubborness that's held me back. I felt the chain links that held me down. It wasn't physical, it was emotional. It was time to stop being a baby, time to man up. So I picked up the phone, and I dialed in a number.
The end
My life has a been an emotional rollercoaster. Everytime I was up, I could only hope the peace of the moment would last, but the terrifying leap down was inevitable. Birthdays consisted of a list, nobody knew you well enough to just go out and surprise you. Christmas was a list, and after you move away from the lacking family, you'd think, even though you didn't put it on you're list, you would atleast get a call.
Years were a bitter existence, wailing out like a new born baby, just asking for love. A silent wailing which confines itself behind a persons rib cage.
People are vengful creatures. When someone doesn't call you on you're birthday, you don't call them on theirs. When you don't recieve a gift for the biggest holiday of the season, gifts are not sent. Even a card, you'd think, atleast a card? I know it wasn't on my list this year, but you'd think a person would just know. A thought creeps silently in like the acrid scent of a cigarette wisp.
"Oh they know, they just don't think you're worth it."
We are vengful creatures for sure.
Some people age, but age isn't maturity. Sacs around your eyes form from sleepless nights, time makes them perminent. For some, the only thing that doesn't age, is that screeching baby within. The one that bawls for tenderness, the one you can never seem to put at ease.
I woke up one morning and looked at the calender, I never filled the damn thing out, it just seemed normal to have one. The only markings ever scribed on the perfect squares, where the ones in ink. Permented on everyone by the company. My calender has a list on the right hand side, I leave it empty. I hate lists. The square I have my eyes set on is today, it's blank. I am all to aware that it is my mothers birthday. I find it disheartening that I still remember. Every year I remember.
It's been years since I've exchanged pleasant words with the woman. I know deep down that it's childish to hold a grudge. I keep it to simple conversations the few times I see her. I haven't seen her for 2 years. I am 21 years old, a grown man and an infant at the same time. I've glanced at the phone so many times in the past hour, my eyes start to ache. A steady pulse begins in the back of my head.
I used to be a person who loved occasions. I liked gifts and cards, but they meant little to me. The key word here is liked, I used to concern myself with the lack of thought that went into the trivial things I asked for. I just wanted someone to get me something from the heart, but I see that to be trivial now as well. What I find myself wanting, sitting all alone in my laundry strewn apartment, is a phone call. I wouldn't even mind a package sent in the mail off my wishlist, because tearing apart the wrapping of a gift means one thing. I remembered.
That is the second thing I like about occasions. My first favourite is GIVING gifts, I like to make people smile. I like to be the one to call and say "hi," sending out that silent message that says,"yes, I remembered." That's why I'm sitting here between my phone and my calendar like I do every year on this day. I've wasted 1 day of the year for the past years since I was 18. The year I moved out and didn't recieve a birthday call. It's my stubborness that's held me back. I felt the chain links that held me down. It wasn't physical, it was emotional. It was time to stop being a baby, time to man up. So I picked up the phone, and I dialed in a number.
The end
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