Well · That's · Just · Grand

Demsond S. Peeples
2/15/09
Block 4
Nature vs. Nurture

My understanding of gender, and thus the issue of nature versus nurture, derives from my own experiences in life. The two principle factors that have swayed my perception of gender are certainly my parents and my sexuality. These aspects of my life have graced me, I believe, with a rather elastic sense of gender - not necessarily of my own, but of the meaning of the idea itself. That elasticity is such that I often find myself rejecting gender entirely beyond a person’s sex.
I find the most ambiguity of gender comprehension in the homosexual world, of which I would call myself a member if I enjoyed that sort of demography. Homosexuality is distinctly masucline, is both pursuit and practice; in fact, there is neither want nor need for women, though they quite often become out safeguards in mainstream culture. It is this mainstream society that perceives and, inevitably, induces feminine stereotypes among gay men. This paradox of the homosexual world has been the greatest influence to my sense of gender, I believe. I am able to see that these institutions of a created community have greatly affected my course of maturation, so I would believe that the concept of “nurture” is emerging to command gender.
My parents never took command over my gender, as many parents do. I played with and wore what I wanted when I was a child. My parents would be happy to see me enjoying myself, be it with a baby doll or a Batman action figure. They certainly had the opportunity to sway me towards the traditionally masculine or feminine, and I’m sure that if they did, then I would have grown up quite differently.
I do believe that parents have a profound effect on one’s perception of gender. One’s peers influence behavior, but one’s parents, the boundaries and beliefs that they establish at a young age, they determine the very people with whom a child will most likely associate.

Desmond S. Peeples
Block 3
Newsworthy Negligence

Most of the chilling tragedies in our history books took place in eras when there was limited possibility for the exposure of injustice. The Bible tells of no Hittites circulating pamphlets on the hardships of Hebrew slaves. Letters by monks condemning Spain’s treatment of Native Americans were esoteric literature in their day. Those times did not know the luxury of media, the ability to inform and communicate on a massive scale. Our conception of “human rights” may well have arisen because of our modern capacity to network and be aware of one another, but perhaps the most egregious abuses of human rights have occurred in our own time. In the sweltering corners of our world there have been murderous rages, the shrieks of men and women in Rwanda and Darfur rising above the crackling gunfire of their streets, but failing to stir much contemporary compassion. Those genocides, one which is past and one which is present, are the great atrocities of our time. They are certainly the results of hatred and malice, but they are also the consequences of a media that has shirked its responsibilities.
Newspapers, radios stations, and news networks are the grout for the bricks of our society, fusing our patchwork communities with shared information. It is the duty of such an influential institution to reveal the savagery of our world so that we as a community may stomp it out. Ideally, the media filters and reports events with objectivity, but enough subjectivity to provoke thoughtful reaction. It is, however, certain that our media institutions have failed heinously in this duty at times, the products of these failures being the unnecessary extension of such previously mentioned tragedies as the 1994 genocide in Rwanda.
The case of Rwanda is a paradigm of the media’s contrasting influence, from the objective, negligent West, and from the subjective, provocative local media. The radio played a large part in creating vicious hysteria among the Hutu population, whose rage was directed at the minority, ruling-class ethnicity of pre-Civil War Rwanda, the Tutsis. The most well known Rwandan radio station that incited the slaughtering of Tutsis is most likely RTLM, made famous in Terry George’s film, Hotel Rwanda. RTLM was styled as unfiltered conversation radio; people could come and talk about whatever they wanted, and the violence and ethnic tensions of the Civil War were clinging as static to the air. The station became an instigator of death, a rallying point for men and women with boiling blood and seething hearts.

Desmond S. Peeples
1/13/09
MEH Holocaust Unit:
Reflection

It is no surprise that World War II, and the more specifically the Holocaust, is studied year after year by students of all ages across the world. The tragedy was one of the most defining moments of our time, and yet we, in studying it, can only begin to define what happened. There are thousands of theories to address on the subject of the Holocaust, thousands of different curriculums with different philosophies. I know this, and can thus understand the minute lens through which we examined the Holocaust. To consider history from the point of view of the ultimate victim is often a humbling process, and our approach emphasized that position.
I’ve never had difficulty feeling empathy, so the intended humbling was no revelation. What truly held my interest was the study of “salami-tactics”, reading about Hitler’s consolidation of power and the corruption of the Reich. I would have loved to delve further into the Nazi methodology, the propaganda, the system instituted to manage Hitler’s daydreams. These are, to me, the most horrifying things about the Holocaust. The loss of life is certainly tragic, but I believe the ease and efficacy with which the genocide was carried out makes this event a true piece of history.
When we watched Conspiracy I was fascinated by the process of the meeting. What they were discussing didn’t capture me, but the hierarchy among their ranks, the conflicts of interest and the pervasion of doubt and suspicion are what held my gaze so intently during class. It has occurred to me that I might be accused of dispassion, but I don’t think that I’m at all guilty of that. As most students have, I’ve studied the Holocaust for years. I know who the victims were, and I have seen their faces and their corpses. Having considered that aspect of the Holocaust repeatedly, I was hoping to take a more analytical look at how such a despicable policy escalated to become a veritable machine.

Desmond S. Peeples
21/12/08
L’Etranger

Meursault, le personnage principal de L’Etranger par Albert Camus, est reconnaît par le monde comme indifférent. En plus, Meursault s’achève la vie en regardant le monde comme indifférent en vérité. Avec cette attitude d’absurdité philosophique dans sa vie, la seule vérité que Meursault peut reconnaître est la vérité physique. De cette façon Meursault personnifie le croyance que les valuers, les significations de nos sociétés sont complêtements contruit et donc absurde.
L’amour de Marie et Meursault, ou le manque de cela, est défini par cette idée d’une seule vérité physique. L’amour n’est pas un sentiment tangible, est donc Meursault ne peut pas le sentir. Pour Meursault, la valeur de leur relation est largemente sexuelle; c’est son attirance physique à une belle femme, est c’est assez pour lui. Leure relation se maintient parce que Marie est très physique aussi, mais pour elle, le contact a de la signification. On voit que, puisequ’il n’y a pas de signification romantique pour lui, Meursault ne peut pas comprendre pourqoui Marie considère leur relation comme quelque chose de particulièremente spéciale. C’est apparent que l’attitude de Meursault vers la relation n’est pas compris par le monde; pendant son procès, il est critiqué parce qu’il passait le jour après l’enterrement de sa maman en s’amusant avec Marie. Le procureur scrutait les actions de Meursault avec un sens de sentimentalité, mais c’est discutable qu’une accusation n’a pas de valeur si l’accusé interprète le monde d’une façon differente.
Cette idée est montrée encore dans la tendence de Meursault d’oublier tous ce qui n’est pas actuel. Si son existence physique n’est pas affecté, il n’en pense pas. Le commencement du roman affirme cette habitude avec les mots “Aujourd’hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas.” Meursault est si incapable d’émotion significative que même la morte de sa mère, qui était loin des yeux et loin du coeur, ne pouvait pas l’affecter. Dans le dernier chapitre, son existance est bien affecté par les choses auxquelles il était indifférent. En conséquence, il pense à sa mère, vers la morte dont Meursault était indifférent. Puisque sa mère habitait à l’asile depuis longtemps, sa morte n’avait pas d’effet sur Meursault. C’était seulement quand la cour jugeait son indifférence vers sa morte qu’elle avait un effet physique pour Meursault. Cet effet était, malheureusement, sa propre morte.
D’ailleurs, le meurtre de l’Arabe était la réaction de Meursault à ce qu’il percevait comme une menace pour son existence physique. Ce n’était ni la vengeance ni la malice; c’était la sensation de brûlure sur le front de Meursault, le sable enflammé, et le couteau tranchant de l’Arabe. Le jury ne pouvait pas comprendre ça, mais il était composé par des gens qui pouvait controller leur besoins physique. Meursault lui-même a dit àson avocat “...j’avais une nature telle que mes besoins physiques dérangeaient souvent mes sentiments.” (page 85). Ces mots illustrent la dictintion simple entre le monde de Meursault et du grand public, la distinction qui a condamné Meursault à mort.
La vie de Meursault avant de cette histoire est un mystère, mais on sait que la fin de sa vie était caractérisée par cette indifférence vers tout ce qui est impalpable. Cette indifférence était jugé d’être un défaut par le jury, et la punition de Meursault était très appropriée. Pour un homme qui est affecté seulement par les physiques, la punition était la conséquence physique ultime. Comme ça, le monde de Meursault et le monde de société ont fini l’histoire avec leurs deux vérités affirmées.

Desmond S. Peeples
1/8/09
The Final Reflection

A) Good Writing

B) Writing, Writing and More Writing

Quarter Two

Title: The Candle (Expressive)
Theme: Displaying the frustration that can build among even those who participate in peaceful protest.

Title: The First Nations (Affirmative)
Theme: Comprehension of cultural roots sparking faith in humanity’s potential.

Title: The Complacent (Persuasive)
Theme: Condemnation of complacency in the populace and encouragement of political awareness and activity.

Quarter One (All expressive)

Title: I Once Had Passion
Theme: How even the most thought-out plans and fiery passions can be extinguished, I suppose, but I actually don’t think it means anything.

Title: The Rainbow Game
Theme: Finding solidarity in friendship.

Title: Silhouettes
Theme: There were many themes for this one, but I most closely identified with the idea that people judge and condemn others in prejudice, unaware of the lives behind the silhouettes, if you will.

Title: Falling China
Theme: The effects of progressing Alzheimers on family.

C) Editors(Excluding round tables)

Sierra - 2 pieces
Colin - 3 pieces
Kirtley - 1 piece
Genna - 1 piece
Keira - 2 piece
Nicole - 2 piece
Emmy Chapman-Hale - 2 pieces
Mrs. Rouge - 4
Me -

D) The You that Was and the You that Is

E) A Base of Expressive Writing

I recall a comment on my persuasive piece, “The Complacent”, made by Mrs. Rouge. The introduction is characterized by sensory language and metaphors, and Mrs. Rouge commented that my introduction was an example of the utility of an expressive base in writing. I developed a style that leans heavily on an expressive base, and I think that it has made my writing more engaging. When writing a very cognitive piece, such as a persuasive piece, it is important to provoke thought. However, it may be equally important to provoke feeling and sensation. An expressive base will make it much easier to meld the two methods together to make an effective piece that is not so much an essay as it is an experience. In light of this, I am grateful to have devoted the first quarter to expressive writing.

F) Reactions and Reflections

I have never enjoyed reflections or reactions, and I have never tried to hide it. However, I do see the value in them. The point of reflecting in general is to inspire growth, so reflecting on ones writing should make on a better writer. While I’m sure that I experienced this in some way, I can’t say that I was conscious of it. Writing reflections was very much a chore for me, and I can’t remember a single line from any of mine. I’m sure that there are some insights that suggest growth in them, but once I finished writing a reflection I moved on. Even so, I know that thinking about ones writing and being metacognitive is an invaluable stimulant for growth, if given a chance.

G) Themes and ISP’s

While I don’t know Mrs. Rouge’s exact intentions in having us approach writing thematically, but I know what I gained from it. The value was, for me, practicing the development and maintenance of an idea, working in many different writing styles within a single subject. The thematic approach also seems to be a way to ease the stylistic transitions between papers for those who struggle with the differentiation. Being able to focus on a subject may be an anchor while writers stumble through the process of learning new techniques.

H) Books and Such

It is undeniable that being a reader has affected my writing. My mother, a veritable bookworm herself, had me reading books from a young age, and I think that it has influenced my vocabulary, my command of sentence structure, and my general grasp of writing. Avid readers are likely to be familiar with many different writing styles. Because of this, they are able to experiment with styles in their own writing more deftly, and more refined, personal styles may emerge. I enjoy reading books that have a lot of heavy, blustery language in them, but I also love books that look at the world with airy, pastel eyes. Those are the styles that I most enjoy reading, so, naturally, my writing often takes on their qualities, becoming a pastel world of bluster, passion, and clouds of drifting reflection. If my reading shifts, I wouldn’t be surprised if my style shifted as well. I do hope I stay with this for a while, though; I need to finish certain projects first.
It’s possible that if I continue to write in certain styles, then I will continue to read books of similar styles. I find that once a healthy habit of reading and writing is established, reading produces experiments in writing, and writing produces experiments in reading. If I’m writing a mystery novel, then I’m going to be reading more mystery novels that usual. If I’m reading a post-apocalyptic novel, then I’m going to want to try my hand at it as well.
On another level, writing consistently has shifted how I look at reading. I used to read books just to have a good time following the plot. That’s all well and good, but now that I’m crafting my own pieces daily, I’m much more interested in real literature. I’ve now got no objections to sitting down with a pen and writing ideas in the margins as I plod through my latest purchase at Everyone’s Books.
My ease of annotation may be due to the freedoms that we were given in class to read what poetry and books we wished. I do enjoy collective discussion of a mutually studied topic, but I find great value personal study and endeavor. Being able to choose my own subjects throughout the course has given me great confidence and enthusiasm in my own ability to pursue a topic, and I am very grateful for it. We did very little class work having to do with reading, but, in this way, I think it was much more beneficial than anything more comprehensive.

I) Outstanding Paper of the Year

J) Class Participation

"Prohibition will work great injury to the cause of temperance. It is a species of intemperance within itself, for it goes beyond the bounds of reason in that it attempts to control a man's appetite by legislation, and makes a crime out of things that are not crimes. A Prohibition law strikes a blow at the very principles upon which our government was founded."

Desmond S. Peeples
1/8/09
The Final Reflection

A) Good Writing

B) Writing, Writing and More Writing

Quarter Two

Title: The Candle (Expressive)
Theme: Displaying the frustration that can build among even those who participate in peaceful protest.

Title: The First Nations (Affirmative)
Theme: Comprehension of cultural roots sparking faith in humanity’s potential.

Title: The Complacent (Persuasive)
Theme: Condemnation of complacency in the populace and encouragement of political awareness and activity.

Quarter One (All expressive)

Title: I Once Had Passion
Theme: How even the most thought-out plans and fiery passions can be extinguished, I suppose, but I actually don’t think it means anything.

Title: The Rainbow Game
Theme: Finding solidarity in friendship.

Title: Silhouettes
Theme: There were many themes for this one, but I most closely identified with the idea that people judge and condemn others in prejudice, unaware of the lives behind the silhouettes, if you will.

Title: Falling China
Theme: The effects of progressing Alzheimers on family.

C) Editors(Excluding round tables)

Sierra - 2 pieces
Colin - 3 pieces
Kirtley - 1 piece
Genna - 1 piece
Keira - 2 piece
Nicole - 2 piece
Emmy Chapman-Hale - 2 pieces
Mrs. Rouge - 4
Me -

D) The You that Was and the You that Is

E) A Base of Expressive Writing

I recall a comment on my persuasive piece, “The Complacent”, made by Mrs. Rouge. The introduction is characterized by sensory language and metaphors, and Mrs. Rouge commented that my introduction was an example of the utility of an expressive base in writing. I developed a style that leans heavily on an expressive base, and I think that it has made my writing more engaging. When writing a very cognitive piece, such as a persuasive piece, it is important to provoke thought. However, it may be equally important to provoke feeling and sensation. An expressive base will make it much easier to meld the two methods together to make an effective piece that is not so much an essay as it is an experience. In light of this, I am grateful to have devoted the first quarter to expressive writing.

F) Reactions and Reflections

I have never enjoyed reflections or reactions, and I have never tried to hide it. However, I do see the value in them. The point of reflecting in general is to inspire growth, so reflecting on ones writing should make on a better writer. While I’m sure that I experienced this in some way, I can’t say that I was conscious of it. Writing reflections was very much a chore for me, and I can’t remember a single line from any of mine. I’m sure that there are some insights that suggest growth in them, but once I finished writing a reflection I moved on. Even so, I know that thinking about ones writing and being metacognitive is an invaluable stimulant for growth, if given a chance.

G) Themes and ISP’s

While I don’t know Mrs. Rouge’s exact intentions in having us approach writing thematically, but I know what I gained from it. The value was, for me, practicing the development and maintenance of an idea, working in many different writing styles within a single subject. The thematic approach also seems to be a way to ease the stylistic transitions between papers for those who struggle with the differentiations. Being able to focus on a subject may be an anchor while writers stumble through the process of learning new techniques.

H) Books and Such

It is undeniable that being a reader has affected my writing. My mother, a veritable bookworm herself, had me reading books from a young age, and I think that it has influenced my vocabulary, my command of sentence structure, and my general grasp of writing. Avid readers are likely to be familiar with many different writing styles. Because of this, they are able to experiment with styles in their own writing more deftly, and more refined, personal styles may emerge. I enjoy reading books that have a lot of heavy, blustery language in them, but I also love books that look at the world with airy, pastel eyes. Those are the styles that I most enjoy reading, so, naturally, my writing often takes on their qualities, becoming a pastel world of bluster, passion, and clouds of drifting reflection. If my reading shifts, I wouldn’t be surprised if my style shifted as well. I do hope I stay with this for a while, though; I need to finish certain projects first.
It’s possible that if I continue to write in certain styles, then I will continue to read books of similar styles. I find that once a healthy habit of reading and writing is established, reading produces experiments in writing, and writing produces experiments in reading. If I’m writing a mystery novel, then I’m going to be reading more mystery novels that usual. If I’m reading a post-apocalyptic novel, then I’m going to want to try my hand at it as well.
On another level, writing consistently has shifted how I look at reading. I used to read books just to have a good time following the plot. That’s all well and good, but now that I’m crafting my own pieces daily, I’m much more interested in real literature. I’ve now got no objections to sitting down with a pen and writing ideas in the margins as I plod through my latest purchase at Everyone’s Books.
My ease of annotation may be due to the freedoms that we were given in class to read what poetry and books we wished. I do enjoy collective discussion of a mutually studied topic, but I find great value personal study and endeavor. Being able to choose my own subjects throughout the course has given me great confidence and enthusiasm in my own ability to pursue a topic, and I am very grateful for it. We did very little classwork having to do with reading, but, in this way, I think it was much more beneficial than anything more comprehensive.

I) Outstanding Paper of the Year

Desmond S. Peeples
1/6/08
ISP Reflection

When our overarching assignment for the second quarter was announced, I have to admit, I was excited. The idea of an extended examination of some subject of personal significance was intriguing, and I was expecting a flood of potent originalityin my search for a topic. But there was no flood. For days I struggled to find a study topic, stumbling through escapism, issues of race, and other weighty subjects. I do wonder why I was so focused on those heavy topics. It’s probably because I was eager to do some heavy writing. Heavy writing is lovely, I think; it often flexes the vocabulary and stretches the mind, and I would like to have that effect on people. Oh, I’ve digressed, haven’t I? Anyway, eventually I settled on the subject of revolution. I wanted to write with fiery words to evoke the striking spirit of conquering justice, but when it came to actually writing about it all I fizzled. The problem may have been that I was trying to start with a meaning and then find a corresponding event. Once I approached it from the opposite direction, I was able to wrap my mind around a few solid ideas. Interestingly, none of them had much to do with revolution. In light of this, I rewrote my proposal to reflect the broader theme of activism. Of course at that point, I had already written all three pieces, so it made the proposal revision much easier.
In all honesty, I am not proud of my first piece. While the idea was valid, the method was not. There was literally no draft process; what I submitted on the due date was an up draft. I had written half of the paper one night and the other half the night before. The prose may have been flowery and smooth, but there was very little thought or depth in any of it. I really should have elaborated, made clear that while I stood in that crowd I was frustrated, hungry for rushing action rather than stoic vigils. Either way, it was still one point higher than my first paper of the year, and progress is golden, however small.
In constrast, my second piece was a great success. With a full 100% score, everything was there, and I’m proud of it. It is, however, a surprise. I was expecting it to be good, but no better than anything I had written before. All I knew was that the subject had stuck with me because of it’s cultural significance for my mother’s family. My Mi’kmaq blood is scarce, but it flows with as much pride as my others. I wanted to acknowledge the wisdom of the First Nations, and I think that I said exactly what I wanted to say.
The most enjoyable paper to write was the third. This was the kind of thunderous language I had been craving, this was passion and consequence and scrutiny. Unfortunately, it came about in a tumultuous time. College applications, various other projects and essays, and concert rehearsals clamored and cluttered around me, and it took me a while to get to editing the piece after my round table. While I had examined the round table comments and planned exactly what I wanted to add, time rolled on and I decided that I would only add what was absolutely necessary. That being said, I did not include counter-arguments such as voter disenchantment, and I did not elaborate on the imperative with examples of successful petitions and everyday whistleblowers. I might like to further edit the piece later on, but, for now, what I produced was satisfying.

Desmond S. Peeples
30/11/08
The First Nations

There are missing pages in our history books. Hundreds of pages that would chronicle the glories of a thousand unique cultures have been left unwritten, and the people who would have picked up the quill were forgotten long ago. They were my ancestors, and I was not told their stories. What I know of their cultures I have learned from the research of the men and women who replaced them. Those descendants of Columbus have uncovered pieces of a history that is glorious enough, but their words cannot begin to fill the pages we have lost. What these historians have revealed is that many of the societies we have called “Native American” were based around an egalitarian ideology, an ideology that would be the envy of any red revolutionary. Having the blood of these ironically, if insultingly named “redskins” in my veins, I am inclined to believe that humans are capable of building a different world.
This conviction struck me with the most force several summers ago. My family and I had driven up to Nova Scotia to spread my grandfather’s ashes, and by coincidence I brought the book 1491 by Charles C. Mann, an account of Native American society before Columbus’ arrival in the year 1492. It was a coincidence because what is now known as Nova Scotia is the homeland of the Mi’kmaq people, the people whose blood I can claim as a part of my own.
In my aunt’s navy mini van we sailed along the swooping coast of that blustery peninsula. My knees were propped up against the back of the seat in front of me, and the thick Spongebob blanket that I was sharing with my cousin had become too hot, so I had piled my section onto her lap. The pages of 1491 hid my nose as my eyes swept over the text, my pupils dilated in an effort to take in more of the forgotten world described between the binding. In my mind’s eye I could see that world, sprawling out in every direction with verdant, rolling hills and farmland, lush forests and soaked crags that glow tangerine at the shore when the sun creeps over the waves. Tucked into those rolling hills were cities that thrived and bustled as all cities do, and close-knit communities that innovated and cooperated. It was the pervading spirit of many of these communities that captured me so. I was able to see that the utopian societies envisioned by Karl Marx and his adherents are more than idealistic dreams, they are history.
I looked up from my book to gaze out the window. Trees flickered along a mossy hillside, and through their trunks I could see the societies that would have clamored on. Behind thickets, in windswept meadows, children would ramble and play. Dogs would bark and scramble toward the homes that rose up on the hill as a trade caravan pulled in, and emerging from the doorways of patchwork wigwams would be familiar men and women. These were the greats of my great-grandparents. My mother’s mother was raised by their example.
I considered this as my mind’s eye followed men and women now unloading the caravan. They were not teamsters sent to fetch the lord’s firewood; they could all have been lords, for the value of the word. Living with a secure peace of mind that Europeans of their age never dreamed of, these people knew that their neighbors would not forget them, that their existence would not be dismissed. The people were provided for because they were people. In that town on the hill, the greats of my great-grandparents chattered and gossiped as the imports from some distant valley were distributed. Whether you were a man or a woman, a farmer or a council member, a seamstress or a poet, a lithe hunter or a woman too old to even tell stories, you were provided for. You had a home and a valuable life, no matter your role in society. My heart trembled and pounded as I imagined these people, their shadows turning with the arch of the sun. The blood in my veins was rushing, driven by the vivacity of my ancestors in that town on the hill. Squeals from the van’s brakes jarred me from that reverie as we came to a stop.
I remember this as the place of my conviction. We were parked on a beaten path that rounded a pond and led to a pebbly cove. My family and I tumbled from the van and gathered on the beach, my mother cradling the jar that held my grandfather. There was a billowing wind that rippled through the air, and my eyes traced the jagged peaks that loomed over the bordering trees. On that wind I could hear the whispered stories of the people who lived in the shadow of those peaks, the people who lived a dream. With my feet firmly buried in the sand, I had come to my conclusion. Despite the failed experiments of would-be Marxists, I know to silence their skeptics with the adage I came to acknowledge at the pebbly cove. It was when my spine bristled and shivered, when my mother took the lid from the jar. My grandfather’s ashes danced, caught by the whispering stories on the wind, and I was sure. Another world is possible.

Desmond S. Peeples
11/25/08
The Candle

My fingers dragged against the waxy surface of the paper cup as I pushed a short, white candle through the hole in is base. Mom’s candle was already done, and it laid in wait on the dark, polished wood of our dining room table. Crouched on the foor, Mom was wrestling with the laces of her black PF Flyers, the hood of her long, navy coat bouncing as she jerked and jostled. Shadows rippled and danced on her back, smearing with the amber light that fell on her from the dimmed chandelier over our heads. That timid light nuzzled the tall window panes beside me, hiding the pale blue glow of night behind our translucent reflections. The blue and green stripes on my wool sweater were blurred, and the relfection’s obscurity reduced the candle I now cradled in my hands to a hazy white smudge.
“Is this really going to change anything?” I asked.
Mom stood upright and faced me as she slid her hands into a pair of thick, wooly white mittens. She clapped her hands and hopped toward the table, her whimsy producing a muffled thwup, then a solid thud.
“It probably won’t,” she said, smiling at me nonetheless. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.” She wrapped her hand around her candle and started to toss it from one mitten to the other.
“I just don’t see how standing outside with a candle is going to get a bill on the House floor. It’s so passive.” I avoided her smile and wrapped my bare fingers around the cold door handle. Turning it and pulling, that pale blue glow of night emerged in place of my reflection.
“Desmond… If we don’t tell people what we think, how are they going to know?”
***
I stood by the lion’s head. From my cupped hands came a candle’s buttery glow, and whirring by me were the trailing lights of cars. Above the lion’s stony mane was a gurgling fountain, and the cold air that clamored around it chilled me. My numbing fingers begged me to find a warmer spot, but the shivering bodies that packed themselves into a throng around me made that unlikely. I lowered my head to direct my breath at my fingers, which had long since become yellow, but when the candle I sheltered began to flicker I sighed raggedly and conceded to the November air.
Mom stood next to me, her knees bouncing to whatever beat was in her head. The vapors from her breath mingled with my own, and her nose was blushing, but her cheeks were gathered in her usual smile. She glanced down at my quivering fingers and nudged one mitten off of her hand. Without a word, I jammed it over my own. Slowly, those five fingers began to feel again, the incessant needle pricks that come with the return of heat and blood.
My eyes, now less concerned with looking after my hands, darted between the countless orbs of light that flickered on the frosted knolls in front of the courthouse. They wandered and clustered, and they quivered in rank and file, but they clung to the air and glowed steady as they had for hours. Warm, syrupy light illuminated faces I had never seen before. There were steely eyes and steady, jaws, and when the blue breeze swept over our vigil those faces huddled over their flames, resolute in their protection. But there was a knot in my chest. It writhed and pulsed, punding against my rickety ribs and urging my heart to race. I was restless. My knees ached for the drumming of a march. My legs trembled with a pent up momentum, shaking themselves free from the roots they had grown while guarding the candle. There was a burning tension in my arms, and the prickling of my fingers grew sharp with the need to strike. A biting wind jarred me from this trance, scathing the back of my neck. I looked down at my hands as the wind whistled in my ears. The candle went out.

Desmond S. Peeples
10/27/08
The Réonese Process

It is six minutes to four and electric blue is sparking across the horizon, the moon preparing to wake the sun. My fingers are producing a steady clack as they swarm the worn keyboard. Blinking on the computer screen is an ivory page of Appleworks and a stream of text spraying out in size twelve, Times New Roman font. On my lap is a glossy copy of Chris Harman’s A People’s History of the World, the pages of which are littered with purple sticky notes. As I furrow my brow and hunch over the keyboard, my mind is restlessly scrutinizing what smears onto the page. No one would actually talk like that, would they? That’s a terrible way to describe a dress. Is it obvious enough that he’s being sarcastic? I wonder how “demagoguery” is spelled... I’ll have to talk to Mom.
***
“But I’m still not sure how to make Carlos II’s choice of Léonard feasible. I actually emailed a professor at Brown with this question, and she said that a polytheist would never succeed as King of Spain in the 18th century. The only problem is that it has to happen!”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to find a way around that. Don’t forget that you’re writing a fantasy; you can tweak things if historical accuracy is getting in the way.”
Mom and I are plunking along a dirt road in black rainboots. Pine trees loom over our heads, peaking just below the swelling, gray sky. As we walk, a trembling crackle sounds from the scarlet leaves beneath our boots.
“Do you think we could go to Everyone’s Books soon?” I ask. “I want to get a book on historical imperialism... I’ve been having trouble organizing the Réonese Empire, so I’m looking for some frame of reference, you know?”
“Definitely.”
***
The static churning of the air outside the car is muffling the radio as we hurtle towards Exit 3. Mom’s hands are wrapped around the steering wheel while mine are grasping a smooth, crisp copy of Lessons of Empire, edited by Craig Calhoun and other scholars.
“The language is very esoteric, but it’s the perfect book. Hopefully it’ll spur me out of my rut.”
“I have some articles that you might want to read. They’re about all the methods used to assimilate conquered peoples, so it could be helpful. I’ll email them to you.”
***
It is four minutes to six and the sky is blushing vermilion as the sun readies his bed. The keyboard is quaking as my fingers rush across its creviced surface. Lessons of Empire is perched on my knee, and purple sticky notes are peeking out from the first few pages. Again, my mind is whirring at a constant rate. But why would Parliament go along with any of it? Would the Dutch really fall for that? I wonder if Mom sent me those articles yet. I should get some sleep... No way, I’m on a roll.

 26/10/08

Reaction to The House of the Scorpion

 

Place yourself on your deathbed.  Your eyes are closed and your head is nestled snugly in a down pillow, but you can hear the voices of many doctors huddled around you.  They are speaking hurriedly, but their voices are sure and steady, as though they are planning something as simple as a growth removal.

“Is the clone ready?” asks one of the doctors.

“Yes, though its lungs are somewhat damaged.  It’s a smoker.”

“We’ll have to settle for damaged lungs, there’s no time to make another.”

“Should we ready the room for transplant?”

 

That is a frequent scene in the world of Nancy Famer’s The House of the Scorpion.   In this world, wealthy, important individuals could grow clones of themselves, thereby insuring that when the reaper comes for them they can stave him off with transplants.  The House of the Scorpion takes us into the life of Matteo Alacrán, a clone who, unlike other clones, is raised in the lap of luxury, oblivious of the fact that he must be sacrified when his original’s organs fail.  Farmer builds the book around the acknowledgement of an idea: the value of life.

As a clone Matteo, or Matt, is regarded as inferior by the original humans around him.  Although nothing about Matt suggests that he is a clone, the people around him are privy to that fact.  As such, they abuse him until Matt’s original intervenes, at which point they settle for simply ignoring him.  Matt does have a few loyal retainers.  Celia, a cook, and Tam Lin, a bodyguard play the maternal and paternal roles.

Desmond S. Peeples
527 Black Mountain Road
Brattleboro, VT, 05301
(802)254-2094
indigodandy@yahoo.com

27/10/08

Ms. Dorothy Testa
Associate Director of Admission
Brown University
45 Prospect Street
Providence, RI, 02912

Dear Ms. Testa:

"The various courses should be so arranged that, insofar as practicable, every student might study what he chose, all that he chose, and nothing but what he chose."
Francis Wayland, 1850

The words of Francis Wayland, which seem to guide your esteemed institution, have held particular weight for me since I first read them. The academic freedom granted at Brown University, the foundation for which was established as early as under Wayland, has been a great source of interest to me. I firmly believe that for education to do what it must, the student must be given the freedom and the responsibility to craft their education as they see fit. With that in mind, I am eager to apply to the institution that will trust in me to make the most of my own education; the institution of which I speak can only be Brown University.

There are certain qualities that a student must have in order to take advantage of the environment provided my Brown, and I assure you that I have those qualities.
• I am academically curious, and I am certain to satiate my curiosity even outside of school. When a subject interests me I will spend spare time researching it. One can often find me looking up historical events on the internet or reading books and articles on current social issues.
• If a subject truly has my interest, I will pursue it to the ends of the earth. For some time I was focused on fashion design, so I did absolutely everything necessary to secure a future in that industry. Surprisingly, I found out that fashion was not the right fit for me, so I returned to writing, which has been a passion of mine since I could form sentences. Rest assured, I am doing whatever is necessary, or even mildly helpful, to secure a future in writing.
• Perhaps what draws me most to Brown is that I love to learn. To accumulate facts, ideas, and opinions is exciting. To know the world that we live in, to understand what is understandable and to speculate over that which is not is the great struggle of humanity, and it is a joy to partake in that struggle.

Sincerely Yours,

Desmond S. Peeples

26/10/08
Reaction to The House of the Scorpion

Place yourself on your deathbed. Your eyes are closed and your head is nestled snugly in a down pillow, but you can hear the voices of many doctors huddled around you. They are speaking hurriedly, but their voices are sure and steady, as though they are planning something as simple as a growth removal.
“Is the clone ready?” asks one of the doctors.
“Yes, though its lungs are somewhat damaged. It’s a smoker.”
“We’ll have to settle for damaged lungs, there’s no time to make another.”
“Should we ready the room for transplant?”

That is a frequent scene in the world of Nancy Famer’s The House of the Scorpion. In this world, wealthy, important individuals could grow clones of themselves, thereby insuring that when the reaper comes for them they could stave him off with transplants.

I'm wearing a headband! I wear headbands a lot now because it keeps my hair off of my forehead, thus keeping me coooool. But I'm not talking about no fucker headband like HIllary Duff wore in the Lizzie McGuire show every episode. I'm talking about a ninja-like headband. I look like a fuckin ninja. Take that!

Took the SAT today! Kicked its ass.

I took a nice, long bike ride today. Was it amazing? Don't even ask, because I'd have to go on exuberantly about how beautiful the world is when you're soaring through it on a bicycle.

I feel great, I feel fit.

I feel like it's nice outside.

Tonight I realized that my mother is a city bird.

Listen to City Bird. It's by Of Montreal. Don't relate to my mother, that's awkward. Relate it to anything in your life, because I promise you'll be able to.

Has anyone seen Dennis Kucinich's wife? She's a crazy babe.

Isn't that weird?

I come home in a haze, realizing that hardened stoicism isn't all it's cracked up to be as I pass the fields below higher learning. I had to say goodbye. I've never really had to say goodbye like that. I feel as though I failed.

To Oona,

I miss you already. And I'm not going to stop missing you. You became an immense part of my life this year. How I'll continue my years without you I'll never know. I could fade back into socializing and occupying myself, but I know that I'll always feels deeply connected to you, and thus deeply without something. Thinking now of what I'll be lacking for so many months ahead of me is difficult. But, in my way of self-preservation, I'll smile, like I did tonight. I'll smile that empty smile that knows full well that it isn't a satisfactory placeholder for words. That stupid, idiotic smile. I'll smile, and I'll leave it all behind. Point is, I love you. And I don't know what to do now.

Sounds like a romance, yeah? Well it's worse. It's friendship.

I feel like a chick, realizing too late that when I and the others take flight we go in different directions.