Sunday, November 27, 2011

grecian woman

Wrapped in folds of cloth draping over the shoulder, she stands. Both feet flat on the ground and strapped into sandals. Belted, the robe gathers and crinkles to the stone. Her hair is braided around like a crown, intermingled with a vine or two. Time has deepened the creases in her skin and stolen appendages—once she had hands whitened smooth to hold.  Now a board of sundry tools is perched in the crook of an elbow. But for a moment she is caught contemplating. Eyes cast down, a smile plays at the corners of the lips, but the sincerity of life tugs at the joy and damps the sparkle of life.  

Thursday, November 17, 2011

history as myth

“History can become myth; myth can become history...Myths are not created by an individual but by the retelling of stories in different contexts—bedtime stories, public performances, visual representations—until they become part of the ‘cultural heritage’ of society...[myths are] about the telling of stories for pleasure, even if those stories also have a deeper meaning; history ostentatiously claims to be concerned wit the truth of what happened, regardless of whether is makes a good story or has any deeper meaning.”
Morley, The Writing of Ancient History

In history class, we have trekked through the Persian and Peloponnesian Wars and begun to see the parallels between Herodotus and Thucydides, comparing the ancient “myths.” These two examples of ancient histories deal with events and people of the past, relating details regarding the world wars that were raging, but in two very distinctive styles; one is description-rich and the other explains the motivations for war.

Some people might say that Herodotus dwells on outlandish details, while Thucydides simply states the “facts.” This estimation, however, is not correct. Both of these men represent what they see as the important details. After all, history ultimately isn’t about what really happened in the past but what people choose to remember—it’s a matter of people passing on tales of bravery and adventure, losses and victories, accomplishments and trials. Thucydides is concerned with getting to the bottom of the issues and analyzing military tactics, political nuances, and motivations behind actions. Herodotus, on the other hand, wants his reader to be able to identify specific places and understand the customs of the people he deals with. His tone is that of a grandpa telling epic adventures to his grandkids. He lays out a very broad scope of the hostilities and skirmishes between nations, but never delves into policy or devotes precious page-space to public affairs causing the war.

These two have become legend. How much of what is recorded really happened (how could Herodotus know so much about the fantastic? And there are so many verbatim speeches in Thucydides…those can’t be word for word, can they?). Neither of them is truer than the other; they are told from different perspectives. They have been passed down through the ages, mythic in nature. Enjoy the sagas and continue their legacies.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011


(it's about time, right?!)

"We are a spectacular, splendid manifestation of life. We have language and can build metaphors as skillfully and precisely as ribosomes make proteins. We have affection. We have genes for usefulness...and, perhaps best of all, we have music." Lewis Thomas, Medusa and the Snail

moniker- a name

what I do outside of school:

Sunday, November 6, 2011

...or something like that

Fortune suddenly smiled upon Cait, and dropped a brillant idea in her path. Not her homework, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would have given more real happiness then did the inspiration that came to her in these wee hours.

Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and "fall into a vortex," as she expressed it, writing away at her paper with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she could find no peace. Her "scribbling suit" consisted of fur and leather slippers, athletic pants, and a gray sweatshirt, adorned with a hood of great depths, into which she could bundle her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This hood was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her roommates, who during these periods kept their distance, merely texting smily-faces semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, Does genius burn, Cait? They did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an observation of the ponytail and WMP, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author strands were twisted and pulled, and pinned up and un-done and once again tied back. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, and not until the unruly curls were seen gaily atop the freckled brow, did anyone dare address Cait.

She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The devine afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her `vortex', hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.

***i figured y'all would notice, but this is mostly Allcot's work, I just substituted my own description. I don't want to take credit for what's not mine, just sayin