An Hour or Two Sacred to Sorrow

In the reflective essay “An Hour or Two Sacred to Sorrow,” Richard Steele uses a recollection of his father’s death to advise his audience on how to cope with the loss of a loved one. He grabs his audience’s attention with a quick memory of his father’s funeral. He then proceeds to continue with how he confronts death at a versed age.

At the age of five, Steele attended the funeral of his father. As Steele recollects, his mother “smothered [him] in her embraces,” then she had to do one of the hardest things: tell her son that his father was dead. As Steele recalled,his mother told his “Papa could not hear [him] and would play with [him] no more, for they were [putting his body] underground, where he would never come to [them] again.”  Steele then described how he saw the reactions of his mother and was “struck with an instinct of sorrow,” even though he didn’t perceive what it meant to grieve.

As the essay progresses, Steele makes a not so predicted transition, when he switches to writing about death and grievance as an elderly person. Steele begins this transition with a fact that is very personal when it states that “[those who] are very old are better able to remember things [from their] distant youth.” As Steele continues in this transition from budding, young child to a mature, experienced man, we see a stronger, sense of wisdom in him. He explains the mind to us and how “every object that returns to our imagination raises different  passions, according to their departure.” As people get close to death, their health can take a downward spiral. Sometimes, this downward spiral can cause suffering.  For these people, “[death] is  approached with cheerfulness.” For others;  however, as Steele states, “untimely deaths are what we are more apt to lament.” “When we [allow] our thoughts [to] wander from such noble objects, and consider havoc which is made among the tender and the innocent, pity enters with an unmixed softness, and possesses all our souls at once.”

Steele’s message was that through your life from childhood to the end of your mortal life, you are going to experience tragic circumstances surrounding death. Memories of the people you lose will always bring you to different feelings, no matter if it’s not expected or if you know it is approaching. It is a normal process to grieve,  yet people should not dwell on the old memories with a painful sense of sorrow;  they should think of the memories that comfort them at the untimely matters of death.

Love. The never-ending struggle between falling too hard or not enough.

Love.

A man,

a woman.

Falling for someone,

Giving them your heart and praying they are the one.

Forever.

It’s an eternity,

Spending your life entirely.

Giving someone every breath,

giving them your soul until death.

It’s not easy,

trusting again,

you think it would come painlessly.

You learn again,

learn to love,

Forever and Ever Amen.

Give it you all,

Don’t be afraid to fall.

Take this ride with me,

and let us flee.

Let us go away from this place,

forever more to see your face.

Relationship Between the Land in Cry, The Beloved Country

Throughout Alan Paxton’s novel, Cry The Beloved Country, he gives several images of Africa, some distorted and twisted, some peaceful and alive. One view of Africa is of the tribal lands, and one view is of the city and whites. These two views give the audience two extremely different connotations.

                In Chapter One, Paxton’s introduction was an antithesis of Africa. The first view is of an Africa where “the grass [was] rich and matted, you [couldn’t] see the soil. It [held] the rain and the mist, and they [seeped] into the ground.” This imagery of Africa gives the reader a feeling that the land is lush and there is a sense of tranquility that comes with the land. Later in Chapter One, Paxton contrasted the lush and peaceful view of Africa. This image of Africa becomes one where “the rich, green hills [were] breaking down. They [were falling] into the valley below,” and changing the land; “[the ground couldn’t] hold the rain and mist.” This view compared to the first view gives the reader the connotation that the land is dying and being morphed. Paxton uses this antithesis to foreshadow a breakdown within the culture and how the land changes as the tribal lands move towards a more industrial city type of land.

                 

                In Chapter One, Paxton gives another antithesis between the lively valleys and the industrial city. The first view of Africa is one where “not too many fires [burned] it,” and “the ground [was] holy,” it “[kept] men, [guarded] men, [cared] for men.” This imagery hits the audience with a powerful feeling of a strong, immaculate land. The way Africa is described hints to the audience that this view is one of the tribe lands and the valleys due to the very religious connect between the tribes and the land; African tribes and cultures typically cared for the land and saw religion as a relationship between land and supernatural forces. The second view of Africa is one where “too many cattle [fed] upon the grass, and too many fires have burned it,” and it “no longer [kept] men, [guarded] men, [cared] for men.” This imagery is one of the cities of Africa; the cattle in “too many cattle [fed] upon it is a metaphor for people and the destruction they cause to the land.  Compared to the first view, this Africa is being annihilated and transposed. Paxton uses this antithesis to give the reader a connotation of an extreme change occurring in society and the land; this antithesis also foreshadows the breakdown of Kumalo and his family.

                In Chapter Ten, Paxton introduces a new city, Shanty Town. This city is the best example of the breakdown of society in the book that gives the reader the connotation of a twisted and corrupted Africa. Paxton describes the city where “a sheet of iron, a few planks, hessian (a burlap type cloth) and grass, an old door from some forgotten house” made a house. As Kumalo walked past the houses, he looks at the sky and wonders “what will they do when it rains?” As the audience sees the state of Shanty Town, there’s a feeling of stark and utter hopelessness that makes the readers question how the people live in those conditions. If you compare Shanty Town to the lively and lush valley from chapter one, you realize that this part of Africa is extremely different; this part of Africa is very blighted, appalling, and contorted.

                Paxton’s views of Africa and the land contradict each other, and normally, foreshadow to an event that will occur later in the book. The connotations the views give to the reader are ones of stark hopelessness, tranquility, and one of change.

The Journey of Chevelles and Angels

I’m sitting at a stop light on South Lamar Boulevard and I can hear the engine rumbling under the hood. The entire car is vibrating because of the power of the 454 Chevy Big Block. I have my hand on my baby bump smiling. I look down at the steering wheel of the Chevelle and realize exactly where I am. I look to my left and see Baptist Memorial Hospital. The memories are starting to flood in. I look in my rearview mirror and can see my five year old daughter’s Simpson racing seat. I’m now taken to another world.

The contractions are getting more frequent. Michael is running through the house throwing everything we could possibly need into the bag now. The pain is starting to get ravenous. I am holding my stomach now nearly in tears. Michael sees this and throws the heavy, bulky duffle bag over his shoulder and picks me up. He carries me to the truck and buckles the seat belt under my baby bump, which I am still holding. He’s speeding down the highway now rushing to get to the hospital. We arrive. As soon as the doctors see me, they have me in a wheel chair rushing me to the delivery wing. When we get there, we pass fathers and families waiting anxiously in the hallway. I look to my left and see a glass room with little bundles of joy wrapped in warm pink and blue blankets. The babies’ family members are peering in the glass like people at the zoo peering at animals; lost in awe and fascinated.  Michael is worried now, afraid that I will be in even more pain if we don’t get to the room. The doctors then give me a shot of morphine, calming me. My husband, now twenty-four, is in a room with me filled with nurses who are asking me a million questions a minute. The doctors are crowding me and asking me how I want to go about doing this. A few hours later, my husband and I are sitting on the bed together holding our newborn baby girl.

“What will we call her,” my husband asks curiously.

“Hm… How about Trinity?”

“It has a nice ring to it,” my husband comments in a very adoringly tone.

“Trinity Elsie Orman, the most beautiful baby girl ever to see the light of day.”

“Hey Angel,” Michael says in a loving voice.

“Yes my lovely husband and father of our baby girl?”

“She looks just like her mother,” he responds with tear felt eyes.

I turn onto the highway now. I know exactly where I want to go. As I throw the Chevelle into third gear, I head to Como. There’s so many memories engraved in my mind that happened there and I really miss it.

“I think I very well might go see if there are any houses for sale in the area of where Michael used to live. I think it would make him ecstatic to see his baby girl grow up near the house we spent so much time in, Where we had our first fights and we  solved so many problems with just an “I love you.” Who knows, maybe Trinity would love it there. I know Michael and I did in our hay day.”

I turn off the highway now and take the Como exit. I spend maybe 10 minutes driving down the main road when I see the dirt path ahead. I turn onto it and drive to the part of the path where I am completely surrounded by trees and just sit in the car. The motor is still rumbling, but it’s peaceful. There’s almost a nostalgic feel out here.

We’re leaning on the Chevelle. His hands are wrapped around my waist. The feel of that warm, familiar touch calm me. I’m gazing into his soft, blue eyes with my dark, brown, captivating eyes. My thoughts are racing.

 “Oh my god. Is he going to kiss me? This is so scary. Our first kiss. Why am I so nervous? Why do I not just kiss him? Why don’t I just do it already? Why do I not just do it already? Should I kiss him? What do I do?”   

Truth is I’ve never really kissed him before. The thought is making my hands sweat and my heart pound. Now he is pulling me in close to him.

“Angel,” Michael asks in a whisper.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you so nervous? You know I love you.”

He puts his hand on the side of my face. I can hear the sounds from the drunken people at the bonfire in the distance. Now he’s leaning in to kiss me. He presses his lips to mine lightly. His lips are soft against mine. I can taste the barley, wheat, and hops from his Bud Light on his breath. Though he’s only had one, the taste is virgin to me and is overwhelming. I slip my hand behind his neck pulling him closer to me. Focused on this moment, everything else is fading. Everything from the way he kisses me to the ZZ Top in the background and the cold metal from leaning against the passenger’s side door is making this moment perfect.

           

It was this path where he proposed to me. Where we had our first kiss. Where the beginning of forever started.

He and I are walking side by side. Holding each other’s gloved hands. There’s a light dusting of snow crunching under my feet. I look down and see his DC’s in the snow and smile. My gaze turns to mine. I’m thinking.

“We’re soul mates. Everything from music to cars, to motorcycles, to personality, to our clothing styles. We’re exactly alike,” says my boyfriend lovingly.

Suddenly, he stops. He then he pulls out a beautiful, breathtaking ring. It’s a huge black pearl! There’s three silver bands connected to the pearl with diamond inlays. I’m so excited now. Everything around us seems to slow down now. Next thing I know, he is kneeling on now knee, with his somewhat holey jeans hovering over the ground.

“Angel”

I’m still don’t understand the point of him calling me this. I am not an angel. If I am, my halo is crooked because is it being held up by my point, long horns.

            I reply questionably, “Yes dear?”

            “Do you love me?”

“Yes.. More than anything.”

“Forever?”

“And ever.”

His grin has turned into a huge, mischievous smile.

“Angel.. I love you. I never want to lose you. Will you marry me? Let me be the one to make you happy. Let me be the one to care for you when you’re sick. Let me be the one to get my coat on when it’s thirty degrees outside to go get your medicine and soup. Let me be that rockin’ chair beside you someday when you’re old and gray, I look ahead to my future and all I see is you. I see me driving OUR Chevelle and driving us away from this place.”

My thoughts are racing just like my pulse. And now, I’m trying to find the strength to answer, but all I can choke out is a measly “Yes.”

He’s grinning from ear to ear reminding me of that cheesy smile the Cheshire Cat has. He’s picking me up now hugging me like Poseidon stirring up the waves such as he would the clouds if he was going to create a tornado. He puts me down now, seeing my face was turning red, and just wraps his arms around my waist. Like a scene from “The Notebook,” we seal this proclamation of love with a kiss.

I turn the Chevelle around now and start driving back into town. There, I see the house. As I’m passing the house, my phone rings with that all too familiar ringtone:” This World Can’t Tear Us Apart” by Trivium his picture pops up as I unlock my phone. There’s the name. The name that rolls off my tongue like honey… Michael. I  pull into the driveway of his old house, burned from some arsonists a few years back. I answer it..

“Hello?”
“Hey Angel.”

“Hey Hun,” I respond looking at my ring.

“Where are you? Your phone is really spotty..”

“I’m sitting in the driveway of your old house..”

“What are you doing there?”

“I’m not sure,” I say telling him a white lie.

“Well I just wanted to tell you not to wait up for me tonight. The professor wants me to analyze someone for Schizophrenia and Hyper- Manic Depression.”

“Ok love… I love you baby. Until my last breath,” I am kind of sad he won’t be home at his usual time, but at least his professor is noticing his ability to examine the human mind.

“I…”

The phone call is then dropped thanks to the spotty cellphone service here in Como. I turn the car door off and swing the door open. Even though the house has a considerably shabby and charred outside, the walls are still standing. Considering the fire department has a master lock on the front door, I walk around to the back, to my husband’s old bedroom window. I punch it in and it instantly shatters, weakened from the heat of the fire and erosion of the protective coating from the elements. I climb in cautiously careful not to cut myself on the shards of glass still in the window frame.

Upon climbing in, I started having these flashbacks that take me to a past world. My mind is taking me to when we used to sleep in this room.

           

The bed is nice and warm. There he is, he has Alice, his Les Paul Custom, in his hands. He lifts Alice up so I can lay down. Me being the weird person I am, I crawl in bed to where I am laying in between his legs with my back against his chest. He then puts the guitar over me and rests it in my lap. Then he starts to strum his pic over the strings and moves his fingers along the neck creating different notes. Suddenly, he breaks out into my “lullaby” Hearts Burst Into Fire by Bullet For My Valentine. I close my eyes drifting into a peaceful slumber. I don’t know how much time passed, but I was woken up by Bear, his pure black cat, he jumped up on my chest. I’m just laying there with my two favorite boys with a huge smile on my face.

I get back onto the Chevelle. I’m pulling out of the driveway now and I look down at the steering wheel. You can see the old Chevy emblem and I throw the car into reverse with tear felt eyes.

I’m sitting in my room with the light off and my headphones in. I’m listening to mine and Michael’s song. Out of nowhere, I hear the rumble of a car outside my window. I look and see the light dancing off the blood red paint and chrome. He texts me and tells me to get my stuff together. I grab the duffle bag out of my closet and start throwing clothes in it. I brag numerous t-shirt with the sleeves cutoff, long sleeve shirts, and regular t-shirts. I move to the dresser now grabbing shorts and jeans. Since I’m not sure where we are going, I throw my flip-flops in the bag and zip it up. I open the bedroom window now and pop the screen off throwing it in the yard. I walk through the house quietly and stealthy searching for my cowboy boots. I find them in the living room and then walk back to my bedroom being extra quiet. My boots are the first thing to get thrown out the window. Next to go is my duffle bag. It hits the ground with a thud. This is my queue to jump out my bedroom window. As soon as my feet hit the ground, the passenger’s side door swings open and I see Michael’s beautiful smile. I throw my heavy duffle bag in the backseat and set my boots in the floor board.

“Hey Angel.”

“Hey Babycakes,” I say with a grin closing the door.

“Are you ready to get the heck out of here…?”

“I am if you are.”

He throws the Chevelle into reverse grinning.

“Just lay back and enjoy the ride love. I’m ready to be on the open road with you,” he says backing out of the driveway.

“I can do that.”
I put my bare feet on the dash and lean back at an angel so that I was leaning against his side. I put my Pantera CD in and crank up the radio. As we ride down the highway, I start to think.

“Where are we going? I want to just lay back and sleep, but I don’t want to miss anything. I’m so nervous… What if I didn’t pack the right things..? What if he looks at me and says that I look funny..?”

I lay down with my feet hanging out the window. My head in his lap and I’m looking up at the roof of the car. I can see where there’s still a wrinkle in the fabric from when we hung the headliner and I smile. Michael’s free hand is in my hair, as his fingers run through my hair, I am calmed. I am happy here in this moment. Here in his arms.

I’m sitting at the intersection of South Lamar Boulevard and Alderson Road now. I’m thinking of my husband and my unborn child. It seems like we are connected by more than flesh and blood. It’s like we’re connected by his father’s arms. A place of comfort and joy... A place where we are happy... A place where we can go to forget the world… A place where everything makes sense and there is no pain... There is only love.

One Child's Journey Thru the Cyphering of Literature

Many Children learn to read at school where there are teachers armed with sentences and short stories. On the other hand, I learned to read a very different way.

                For as long as I can remember, I idolized my dad like he was a God. My father, who once wrote poetry, had a dream that I would have his passion for literature. He adored the classic tales: Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, and Hamlet by William Shakespeare. From the time I was born, as mother has told me, my father would read me these stories while she rocked me to sleep.

                From PreK on up into first or second grade, the mean teachers, armed with books full of tedious sentences, tried to teach me how to read. Quite frankly, their efforts were ample, however, they failed tremendously. I mostly learned to read from my father. Although he never really tried to teach me, I somehow picked it up from him. One night during one of our various bedtime story readings, I just picked up the book and started reading it. It couldn’t have been that I memorized it because we were reading one of my Dr. Seuss books I had gotten the night before. That was the event that started it all.

                I still have that yearning to read that my dad gave me, however, my reading tasted have changed. I no longer enjoy the long, high level reading books from my childhood. Now, it seems like I cannot get enough of Stephen King, poetry from various authors such as Robert Frost, and horror love stories such as Twilight and The Vampire Diaries.

                After learning to read, I then wandered into my father’s world full of poetic prowess and imaginative ability to touch on both light and dark subjects pertaining to life in and of itself. I began with writing your typical A-B-A-B rhyme pattern poems. Shortly after that I began tying real life events and feelings into my works. Although I haven’t one a poetry contest, my works have been heard and adorned by people all around me. My father is one of my biggest fans, followed by my supportive mother. My poems now consist of the dark, sinister aspects of life. I fancy myself as a writer of horrific poetry. No one can really put their finger on one certain subject in my poems since they all have multiple subjects and tones.

                Writing isn’t just poetry and short stories. I was at one time in the process of writing a novel. Of course, the idea came from my father. At the time, he was in the process of writing his autobiography. The novel was a story about teenage love. Unfortunately, my mother was reading a chapter in my book that dealt with the common problems oi highschool life such as: drugs, alcohol, and suicide. Needless to say, she threw a fit and made me rewrite half of my book. After rewriting a huge chunk of it, the book got lost in one of my various movings.

                Looking back, I can see why my mother says many of my attributes pertaining to literature come from my father. Everything from his undying hunger for reading to his taste in the arts. This is just the beginning of my reading history.. Who knows? Maybe someday my face will be in a magazine or the New York Times Book list for a Best-Selling book.

I am...

I am a sinner and a saint who sees the bad in everything,
I wonder what is approaching us in our numbered days,
I hear shrieks and wails of agony from the dismay around us,
I see flames and torture,
I want a place of tranquility,
I am a sinner and a saint who sees the bad in everything.

I pretend that life will get easier,
I feel afflicted by pain and darkness,
I touch the tapestry between life and death,
I worry that I will be stuck here in this dark abyss forever,
I cry when angels deserve to die,
I am a sinner and a saint who sees the bad in everything.

I understand the dark in life,
I say this is only the beginning of our suffering,
I dream of a time when I dont feel so much evil and madness in my soul,
I try to embrace the darkside to calm the animal in me,
I hope the war between the animal and the good side inside me ends,
I am a sinner and a saint who sees the bad in everything

Reading Between the Lines...

        Have you ever stopped to actually see if there is a deeper meaning to a story? Have you ever questioned what you're supposed to get out of a text? Recently, you might have read a story by Gabriel Garcia Marques named "A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings." Upon re-reading the text, some events and ideas may stick out... In the course of literary history, there care several works that have religious connections. "A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings" is one of those stories. Have you ever thought why are there so many stories with religious connections?! Maybe it could be that  writers are trying to get society to question what direction they are going in.
         People in today's society have a tendency to over-look miracles. The angel in the story was in fact a miracle. His presence in the chicken coop near Pelayo's house helped the child's health. Before the angel, the child had a fever and no desire to eat, however, when the angel was staying in the chicken coop, the child woke up with an appetite and had no fever. Instead of being generous and thanking him, Pelayo and Elisenda decided to put him on a raft with food for three days and leave him to face his fate, however when they went into the courtyard the next morning, they saw the neighborhood throwing food between the wires of the chicken coop like he was part of a sideshow at the circus.
       How could someone treat the angel with so much disrespect..? Wouldn't you marvel at his wings and the miracle he is..? If his presence nursed your child back to health, wouldn't you try to repay him? The people in this story are very similar to most people in today's world; judgemental, cruel, and ungrateful. The angel should have been greeted with respect, however, he was met with ridicule and cruelness.
         Another bad problem in today's society is disregard for rules and law. In the circus that came to the town where Pelayo lived, there was a girl who had been turned into a spider with a human's head because she had disobeyed her parents. Aren't there stories in the bible about obeying your parents such as "Ephesians 6:1-4" and "Colossians 3:20"? Bible verse "Proverbs 19:18" states "Discipline your son, for that there is hope; do not be a willing party to his death."    If that girl had not been punished, she would continue to disobey her parents which is a sin. Doesn't 10 commandment #5 state "Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long upon the land which the Lord your God is giving you."? Today, all around us, there are people who commit crimes and hurt people because they do not know how to obey. How much better would society be if everyone could just obey simple laws? How many lives and souls could be saved if we just listened to people and followed ethical and morality laws as well as laws against criminal activity?
           Today's society has many problems with disobeying rules and laws set before them as well as not seeing miracles. Writers today are trying to put religious and ethical   implications into text so that the readers might question where society is going. People need to start acting like they have morals.. If Jesus walked this world today, what would he think about our society? Would we ridicule him like the characters in the story ridiculed the angel? Would we thank him for the miracle he is and would we greet him with kindness and open arms or would we cast him out because he looked strange or was different? People, think about the words you speak and the actions you commit.. They can make or break you.