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Many days, as I am staring blankly at my computer screen, wandering aimlessly about my house, or randomly cleaning, picking up and moving, or simply staring at objects in my house, as the snow lays outside, yet not so harshly as to give you the sense that winter is in full swing, but rather that it is lingering and merely struggling to hold on, with the warmth of the sun slowly growing, heating the plates underneath the hard, white, outer crust of what looks like a dirty coat of fur, yet we know to be a simple layer of snow covered in dirt; with the cold humidity of the air uncomfortably tickling my throat, taunting me with the pleasures of the season to come, however still harassing me with the cruelties of the last, I begin to think about the trials to come and the hardships that have passed, questioning how I have made it through yet another frigid winter, but really another frigid school year, as I struggle to achieve desirable grades my senior year, fearing that I will not be accepted into college, my life will have no meaning, or that I will be trapped in my own delusion forever, asking myself: How is it only March?Hogan Bridges
Although I have seen March living and breathing many times in my life, tendrils of life seeping into the grass and roots, spreading up to the barren branches to push young verdant leaves out of their buds, the lingering remnants of snow melting into the ground or flying back up into the sky under the warming sun, none have ever touched me so much as this vernal season, the anticipation of the coming warmth after an eternal winter building in my stomach and making my skin tingle with electric excitement - the songbirds returning to their nests and life returning to the frost-bitten land where I have made my home, making my excitement grow and spread like the petals of young flowers blooming in my garden - as I watch the sun grow stronger and the snow grow weaker, hope begins to blossom within me alongside my anticipation, the days on the calendar counting down to the months of freedom and then the years of new changes and new responsibilities, as well as the end of the month, the day before the start of April’s rains and budding life when I shall celebrate yet another successful year ‘round the sun.
The mind is a fickle thing, as it swirls, bends and twists through one’s psyche; searching and discarding the thoughts that are of no use to it, or finding the thought that it longed for but growing tired of it in a matter of seconds and then moving and digging deeper into itself for a different more sustainable form of satisfaction, the form of satisfaction that it longs for, one that is without end and does not require analysis, but the mind knows such a thought does not exist, not within its own memory or within reach of its creative ability because satisfaction is simply an idea and the idea of satisfaction is only defined by the sum of our memories, memories we know to be fleeting, as fleeting as the possessions in said memories that brought with them the satisfaction and joy that every person desires and with desire comes greed, the greed of a person who wishes this joy to last forever but when the joy does not last the mind reverts into itself and searches for images and ideas that supply it with artificial joy and when this process turns to addiction we learn to love the past and fail to live in the present.
Ariana BrunoFrom the first to the thirty first we are all confused and unwilling to trust the appearance of the outside to the actual feel of the outside, the weather warmer, sunnier and more inviting, the birds returning to their bare trees and singing their delightful songs indicating that we should break free from our icy shackles; yearning for warmth and vitamin d we emerge from our dwellings hidden by the white camouflage, despite the sound of dripping and singing we are frightened, scurrying in and out unsure of the layers we should add or subtract; one day we celebrate with the coming of the new season, but the next day cowering with the harsh icy reminder that we are still not free from the grasp of father winter, every day is a guessing game of when we can prosper in the sun and plant a few flowers: the soil yearning for new life and growth is still afraid to unthaw itself, “it’s alright we say, we’re in this together”; shielding our excitement yet apprehensively abiding by the wind and cold we slowly but surely make it to thirty first, then are certain that March is over and spring is holding us in a warm embrace.
Today, on this cold yet sunny fateful day in mid-March, in our advanced placement English literature class full of high schools seniors anxiously awaiting the day in early June where we end our current phase of life and move on to the rest of our lives- on to what we will become, on to the real world where the hustling and bustling of the public, unaware of who you are or where you came from, stops for no one but rather continues to barge ahead like a train traveling at full speed down the cold, raw, bare tracks where the rest of the world passes by unnoticed by those people narrow minded enough to disregard the beauty of the world that encapsulates and surrounds them and their every breath, every move, every thought- lives that have grown together since childhood but will separate and diverge into brand new and still undetermined lives, we sit in the plastic seats that we have planted our bodies in since the leaves first started to change color and fall, spiraling toward the earth; however at this moment we are unaware of the dooming task that lay ahead of us: composing a 200 word sentence.
A warm wind comes up from the coast, from Florida and its palm trees, a time of dresses and swim trunks, the only thought of a teenager finishing school in the frigid northeast with the hope of leaving home and being freed from the chains of parents and teachers who have acted as anchors to a seemingly normal life- an average job, an average car, an average ability to support one’s self in a time of confliction and search for identity, almost like trying to find a spring flower under the winter’s white snow; the minds of the youth only focusing on the next step, the wind- like a train of thought- will come, a sacrifice, a piece of warmth from a place not so far away , to melt what is preventing the spring, what is preventing new beginnings from taking place, yet, we must wait to begin anew and it’s coming soon, a new life, a new job, a new knowledge that will develop into a life chosen by us and not dictated by those who have lead us here, the anchors that were once comforting will be pulled in and our ships will sail, now at the mercy of the wind, guiding us to freedom. -Jasmine Graslie
March, the stupid, ugly month in which Jensen’s day of birth lies and in which I want to die because of its unnecessary length, like this sentence, is such a tease- while on some days one may peacefully and happily enjoy a beautiful, warm, sunny, summer-like day, other days revert back to the super frigidly chilly and dull gray days of the unpleasant, horrid, and dreadful months of December, January, and February, three months in which excessive and insane amounts of white, crystal-like snow fall in various forms, such as light, fluffy flurries or heavy, wet flakes- and so many times I am tricked into believing that the long-awaited and highly anticipated spring has finally arrived after a long, cold, dreadfully dreary winter, yet each time I am once again severely disappointed as I wake up in the morning and look out my frosted bedroom window into the driveway, which holds my lovely forest green Chevy named Timmy from the year two thousand and four and my mother’s bright white Nissan, and I see that freshly fallen snow has unfortunately coated the trees, driveway, and grass overnight, effectively destroying my dreams of warmth, sun, shorts, and bathing suits of the night before.
The commencement of the year since past, having reached a point now that is neither start, middle, nor end, this month of change has brought about many varying struggles and trials; the wind whipping through the crowding thoughts that flood my mind- thoughts that chop time into pieces unified only by their creator, me, a being controlled by what I do not know- and stirs up emotions that run off to their corners heaving and ready to spring, for spring is approaching and charging at this month with a force most unexpected; a force not unlike the approach of the future, unstoppable in its endeavor to take control-and it will take control- of my whole self before I can even realize it, and before I am ready to accept that this month has long since passed its beginning as well; hurtling farther and deeper into the dregs of its existence, reminding those present here and now that what is left is ALL that is left and cannot be retrieved, a remarkably inconceivable truth for something that is in fact so undeniably real by worldly constraints, yet only a product of human imagination- time- a ticking and terrible spiral that saturates the very realities of survival, for surviving until the end while alive in this not-quite-middle is something we all live to do.
Emily DurstAlthough a wounded, beaten, sickly infant comprised of mixed confused emotions and weakened cardiac tissue; this little warrior is triumphant and seasoned, somehow surviving a storm of self deprecation and rejection - mind you it has not felt the searing heat of the blade of a lover’s betrayal or their refusal, but it has fought valiantly against a tsunami of grief and the treason of kin, as well as battling the woes of a defective mind - a mind that flips and flops between joy and rage and hunger and pain; a mind that sinks down into the abyss of self loathing only to rise up again moments later into the bleak light of stability - but I digress, for the hero of this towering epic of life - a journey that would make Homer weep and quake with uncontrollable emotion - is a small muscle inside my chest that somehow has been burdened with carrying not only my physical weight, but also carrying on the war that wages in my my mind; a landscape that will surely become a desolate no man’s land in a sometimes losing battle; and yet the battle wages on, fought by the only soldier with the credentials to conquer such a beastly struggle.
After months of continuous snow, we see the sun as it peeks through the fading clouds, my friends and I emerging from our homes and marveling at the melting spectacle of snow that had consumed our lives for almost 2 months; awaiting us were the tennis courts as we begin practicing for our season on the Norton High team, the snow covering the courts so the shovels we retrieved and began to clear away the snow that dominated the clay where we make our home for the final months of the school year-piles upon piles of snow are created as we work together like a band of brothers in the a war, stepping behind enemy lines to free our comrades from being prisoners of war-the only breaks we are taking are to gang together to contemplate the time frame of which this process should last- looking at the snow covered landscape that resembled the landscape of the Alaskan terrain or the snow covered Star Wars planet of Hoth-freezing and sweating we trudge on- shoveling and picking and chopping for over 5 hours- contemplating the amount of time spent to ensure that we will be able to play our favorite sport to conclude our senior year.
As I sit in this classroom, writing an absurdly long sentence in order to hopefully receive an acceptable mark and maintain the consistency of my good grades, with the school year slowly arriving at its conclusion, the days dragging by, each no different than the last; an endless chain of banality, maddeningly frustrating in its seeming endlessness; I begin to realize how incredibly ready I feel to experience the independence and freedom I hope to find as I transition from this repetitive, monotonous, and boring final trudge through the high school experience, hoping for a future that holds more meaning; meeting new people, among whom I will make new friendships and bonds, experiencing different, exciting, and interesting interactions; but also learn much more through my studies, which, while probably often intensive and challenging, will also hopefully be enlightening, informative, and enriching as I embark on a journey through a new and promising stage of life.(155 words)-Eric Sanford
When the 1860s started it was a grand old time to be alive, especially if you are a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant man, who we can assume you enjoy rampant racism, ridiculous classism, people being the same as property, and Women being second class citizens; if this was you well then the election of Abraham Lincoln must made it seem like the devil himself had gained control of the United States Government, while the attack on Fort Sumter must have been seen as the greatest event since the end of the American Revolutionary War, but I am sure your brand new country known as the Confederate States America will do just fine, after all what do them northern city boys have over you gentlemen of the south, besides of course several million more military aged men, more than a few thousand more miles of railroad, some billions more dollars’ worth of exports, some thousand more factories, several tons more of gun powder/ other war materials, so what if you lack a trained group of diplomats ( good old southern hospitality is going to be a fine replacement, the Europeans will understand), and you certainly do not need any government with defined central authority over the states under its leadership all you need is for the spirit of the south to triumph.
March, that weird transitional month that confuses everyone, gives people false hope for spring or another month of wintery disappointment; this temperamental month can be thought of as a missing link, the animal that comes in between the first copy and the final product in evolution; and like in any evolution, the transitional period is the most important-- it makes everything smoother, comfortable, easier; if it were to suddenly become spring, the world would most likely be in chaos— a chaos filled with an overwhelming mass of pollen, and annoying bugs; this transition braces people for the impact of the allergies, and attack of birds coming back from migration—though spring is not just known for this, the green grass the blooming of flowers, and leaves on the trees are an extra bonus to this weird warm and cold month of March; which can be unpredictable and charming all at the same time, which is very difficult to accomplish—June, July and August are known as the summer months, September, October November as the fall months, December, January, and February for the winter months—which leaves April, and May for the spring months; leaving March almost like a season on its own, definitely a very special month.
Often I hike, loving every minute of every moment, enticed by what every view has to offer, though it seems that every time I hike up this side of the mountain; the mountain I have come to know very well through the childhood memories I have created on each of its varying paths, I leave a little piece of me behind, not because it is such a strenuous climb, though it is and I often find myself clinging to the edge of the earth, in certain fear that at any moment I will lose sight of my strength and stability while looking about God’s endless creations, the little details that are made clearer with each graceful, yet surprising hour, but because with each successive climb, my hardened manners and views society calls forth softens just enough so that my soul can make amends and comply with the once shielded attraction that has been calling me home, to the land we were formed from, so that I may find myself remolding into the land, interlocking among roots and tops of trees, where birds signing amidst morning’s glory have found themselves nestled together comfortably- on standby to call home all those lost wandering souls, who like me wait patiently for the day my entirety will be left on that mountain where the first of me was reunited.
The arrival of Persephone, daughter of Zeus and Demeter, back to the sterile and white Earth after months of postponed time under the snow, grass, soil, and layers of the earth; across the fields of Tartarus, Asphodel, and Elysium- through the foggy River Styx and around the three headed beast called Cerberus, she returns from her love affair with death and apologizes to the frozen ground as if she just cheated on her true love for the first time- however it is not the first time and Persephone knows this as well as the cold bare Earth does and so she begs for forgiveness and in her defense she states "I always come back, don't I?", and so the Earth forgives her as she comes and goes every winter, knowing that when she returns to her senses and leaves him her arrival home will come with gifts of resurrection- full of warmth and life; the trees will green and grass will grow, the creatures will come out of hiding and the air will be full of bees buzzing, birds singing, and the sweet scent of flowers and wet soil; and so the Earth patiently waits for her every year without falter. 201 words
The time of slow melting and occasional freezing, with overwhelming sense of newness yet stagnancy, among imminent coming and going, of aging and growing, celebrating potential and hope for my future as time passes by; the birds begin to chirp, the flowers begin to emerge from their seemingly eternal slumber along with their hope of sunlight and warmth in the upcoming days, --however, becoming depressed by the chill that still lies in the air, especially as the sun goes down and the night takes over for the next twelve hours, without a doubt providing a large cloak of darkness and frost over all the homes in the small town we live in—the destruction of hope is soon rebuilt in the upcoming days of inconsistent and always changing weather: snow, rain, sun, wind; soon to be replaced with the heat that will cause many people to complain of the intensity that we will all soon face for three to four months, depending of Mother Nature’s mood at the time; the very drastic changes that occur: weather, temperature, and visual differences like snow and grass, all encompass the month of March; the magnificent month full of diversity, change, and most importantly growth.
In those halcyon days, those seemingly endless days when the air was thick and heavy and filled to the brim with the warm damp that rose from the river under the scalding of the sun, so that so much as to raise an arm was an act of swimming- swimming among the dragonflies lazily scraping their faces against the sky, among the laughing crows and shrieking sparrows, among the swifts darting about, flitting from respite to brief respite between the shade of the kind trees and the eaves of straw thatched roofs- we would retreat into the barn during the heat of midday, into the pages of our shared wonderings, the cool ponds of our thoughts, until we were called to sprint back, noses freshly muddled with ink, to that old oaken table worn with the marks of joy and anger and sadness and love; however, the most beautiful hours came after the birds ended their song and made way for the merry croaking of frogs on their stones and logs as we made our way down to the beach and dug our feet into the still warm sand, because even as we daily feasted upon the bounties of the seasons, there was nothing more satisfying than to lean against each other on the dock, wetting our toes, look away from our earthly bounds, and drink our fill of starlight.
The transition between winter and spring is messy and frustrating to deal with, but it is a necessary step to reaching the magnificent beauty that is produced from the warm,gentle colors and blissful aromas of blooming flowers made anew after a long dormant state that was awakened and rejuvenated by the bountiful water from the melted snow that once covered the trees in a white sheet that would grow in size over the weeks, due to frequent stormy weather, eventually bending and crippling the delicate branches which would otherwise stand straight out proudly, and carry the nests of birds and cater to the lives of the organisms that all contribute to the freshness and newness that is spring time.
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