CALM- 20 Collage.

A. About Me

What are your dreams about the future?  My dreams about the future include getting a job in the career of choice (good paying), owning a house that I design by myself, getting married to a man who I love unconditionally and having two children- a boy and a girl.

What are your values? I value honesty, respect, commitment, accountability, positivity, thankfulness, happiness, fitness, health- just to name a few.

What are your interests and hobbies?   I enjoy dancing, rowing, lifting weights, yoga, running outdoors, hanging out with friends and family, discovering new places- travel, hiking, cooking and working outside in the summer.

What are your personal qualities?   I am outgoing, funny, kind, compassionate, committed, empathetic, interactive (involved in many activities) , loyal, trustworthy, adventurous, enthusiastic.

What are your transferable skills ?  My transferable skills include problem solving, communication skills, motivation( myself and others), and leadership skills- being self motivated and being able to get others involved without being embarrassed.  I also think of myself of being a team player.

What is your career focus (Are you naturally drawn to a specific career? Some careers that interest you and why?)  When I graduate high school I plan on getting a four bachelor degree in Physical Sciences, from there I will continue four years to become an occupational therapist, specializing in paediatric occupational therapy. I believe that I found my calling to this last year when my parents were in the hospital at U of A. I was walking down the hallway to dad’s room and there was a little girl tied into a stroller with a cast on each of her legs. She was crying saying how much it hurt, I could feel her pain. From this moment I had a feeling that I needed to work with children and assisting them to get them back on track to becoming a healthy human being.

B. Create a Collage

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Find my Creative picture collage on VSCO at the link below (be sure to use the arrows at the bottom of the VSCO profile page to view all of the photos in my photo collection.  http://vsco.co/breannacalm2016-17/images/1

C. Reflection Questions

Answer the following questions to support the collage you created.

What do you like about your collage?– It represents the way I live. It includes pictures that I have taken over the past year.
What do you not like about your collage? I do not like how it does not include any videos. My life would be represented much more accurately with a couple of videos, maybe a dance video, me playing guitar/ singing, a video of my laugh or a crazy video of me and my friends.
What sections do you want feedback on? If my collage represents how you see me, or if it only represents how I see myself.
What values are represented in your collage? My values of adventure, laughing, hanging out with friends/ family and experiencing new things.
What bias is represented in your collage? A bias that having a fun time is better than working.

D. Feedback Questions (not finished yet)

Share your collage with several classmates and have a look at several of their collages. Answer the following questions:

What are the similarities? Janyl: We both seem to enjoy sports, guitar, and adventure. Shae: We have both put a more creative twist on the original collage. We both enjoy fitness and eating healthy.
What are the differences? Janyl:Our choice of sports (hockey and volleyball VS dance and working out). Our career choices are also different. Janyl aspires to be a nurse, I aspire to be an occupational therapist. Shae: 
What do you admire about the other person? Janyl: I admire her determination and her ability to live free. She enjoys all she does and can make the best out of most situations, Janyl is compassionate and understanding. She puts time and into the things and people she feels would enable her to live a happier life. Shae:
What did you learn from the other person? Janyl: I learnt that she LOVES pineapple, and that she wants to have a family in the future. From the collage it seems as though she wants one child. Shae:
Where you comfortable sharing you work? Why or Why no? Janyl: Yes, I was comfortable sharing my work with others. I chose images that represented my life on a day to day basis. Every image was real, and was one that I had taken. If I was not comfortable sharing an image, I did not include it within the photo collection. Shae:

Get Philosophical- TED Ed.

 

The TED Ed video above relates to the first chapters of Sophie’s World. The video discusses the question we have found ourselves relating to throughout early stages of the philosophical story- Who am I? If every-part of theseus’ boat was replaced with an identical piece, would it still be theseus’ boat? Due to the fact that we are changing everyday, our personalities, composition of our bodies (skin) are we the same person as we were when we were 2 years old?  In the first chapter, Sophie receives a letter in the mail, asking the question “who are you?”. This has not only made her think, but us as an audience think as well. Are we the same person we were 5 months ago? 5 minutes ago? Or even 5 seconds ago? If we were to look in the mirror and evaluate the reflection, would it be an accurate representation of who we thought we were? Maybe. If we were to change our name or hair colour, would we be the same person? Probably, yes. But why?

As humans we have a soul, a body that is capable of so much more than any other form of life on the planet. We can love, hate, create, destroy, evaluate, make decisions. Our physical being is not what makes us who we are, it only expresses who we are. These are two totally different things. Think about it as food- the appearance(expression) of a green smoothie is very deceiving to the overall taste(what it is) of the smoothie. What we look like can sometimes be a false representation of who we are below the skin or beyond the shape of our bodies. We can change physically, emotionally, spiritually, but because this changing is constant and persistent- we are the same person as we were when we were 2 . Represented differently, with different values and beliefs. Because of experience our innocent bodies have been poisoned.

He Cries Of Melody. . .

Every night that October he said aloud into the dark of the pillow: If you want to make beautiful music, you must play the black and the white notes together. Till his brain had gripped the words and held them fast. Then he fell asleep at once, as if a shutter had fallen; and lay with his face turned to the piano situated underneath the arched window, glassed with boards, he could see it first thing when he woke.

It was six o’clock to the minute, every morning. Routinely he pressed down the corroding copper peg embedded into the clock, which the gloaming part of his mind had outwitted. He remained attentive all night and counting the hours as he lay relaxed in sleep, he huddled down for a last warm moment under the sheets, playing with the idea of lying abed for this once only. But he played with it for the fun of knowing that it was a weakness he could defeat without effort; just as he set the alarm each night for the delight of the moment when he woke and stretched his limbs, feeling the muscles tighten, and thought: things are not quite so simple always as black and white. I can control the darkness, every part of my form.

Luxury of warm rested body, with the arms and legs and fingers waiting like soldiers for a word of command. He had once stayed awake three nights playing a jazz melody, to prove that he could, and then worked all day, refusing to admit that he was tired; a swing rhythm that enabled him to feel. The role of the piano multifaceted, like a jewel; pure melodic and harmonic capabilities.

The man stretched his frame full- length. The wall touching at his head, his hands crunched, and the chipped wooden foot board scraping at his toes. Then he jolted to his feet, like a jack in the box springing out of its confinement. A musical crank attached to his body, and after so long of playing the song of sleep, he erupts. A feeling of blistering cold pervaded the dry air.

He always dressed with speed, like time was of the essence. He did so as to try to conserve the warmth he’d built up from night, until the sun broke from beneath the clouds that roamed the sky in Harlem. By the time he had buttoned up his coat of many colours, his fingers so cold he could nearly tie is shoe lace or open up the door.

As soon as he stepped through the wood framed passage; a wall separating comfort from reality- the sun was absorbed by his melanic skin tone. It was day: the sun basked the room- the world- with light and warmth. Each tuff of grass aside the street alike, yellowing under the sun and between each there was bare soil, baked and powdery. He perambulated down the cracked road- a combination of the same concrete tiles which wound around the city as if it were all connected. A melody curated by him- it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing- rang through his mind as he made his way to the Cotton Club located on 142nd Street and Lenox Avenue. A place where the finest music artists- including he- would showcase their talent; a journey to freedom.

The club was different from the others in Harlem, it catered to the higher up in the social caste. The white patrons thought so high of themselves- they the doves; a sign of purification. The black, the carrion crows.

The suffocating experience of being black in North America.

The man six feet one inch tall made his way to the Cotton Club, where the sign arranged on the marquee read: Duke Ellington Orchestra Performs Live Tonight. He made his way to the double doors situated at the front of the large grey building. The chrome gold layer which covered the steel doors glistened in the blazing sun. Reflecting through- an image. A tall man, the colour was unclear to the door, but according to society it was evident he was black. Almost as though the building did not care about race- that for once he could belong; he could be free.

Feeling for the handle to open the heavy doors, a white man approached him. He resembled that of a businessman. Sporting a long jacket, with broad shoulders, wide lapels, and a pinched waist- he gave the silhouette of superman. The man gestured to him that he could not use the front entrance, it was for white patrons exclusively. He was directed to the back door, the service entrance. Suitable to those who are not like the others in New York, the ones who were seeking refuge and took pride in their melodies.

He took the instructions given to him, just like every other day. A composer such as he must hear his melody night, after night. The way he had done music was different than anybody before. The flesh of his soles contracted on his worn in dress shoes, and his legs began to gravitate towards the back entrance. He thought again: things aren’t quite so simple always as black and white.

Prying open the back door, he used all of his built up strength. He was a strong man. His fingers though were light, like a feather swept away by a summer breeze. The tall man made his way into the theatre and around him stood many others of his kind. His orchestra, his family. They all gathered tightly together, some white and some black, some trumpet players and some double bass players. Each one having a unique sound, but when they merge they make a rhythm, a melody.

It was half- past six, that night. The doors to the theatre were sprawled wide. Gate keepers kept close eye on the doors, though. A shame it would be to have anyone who did not pay, watch the show. Crowds came in, mostly white, seating themselves accordingly. They had come to see the tiles of the piano unite- the black and the white- in some illusion that society was the same.

He peered into the blackness that blanketed the white crowd. Almost as if for one moment he was alone. He stood sturdy, facing the blank wall. Like glass separated him from his audience. The people watched his shadow project on the screen behind him, the lights so bright. It grew quieter. The audience, like prisoners held captive by the melody, reality.

The african man sat down at the grand piano, placed his foot on the damper pedal, his delicate fingers on the keys. He began to loose himself in the melody. The notes high and low. A jazz tune that united the black and white keys. The song rang through the air. He was proud. He was in control. The vibrations sent forth from the strings reached every part of the theatre. Taken by the tune, he was lifted to a place where the colours did not matter. From the audiences perspective everything was bright, so perfect and pure. From the eye of the man, the world was black. The globe around was connected by the strings vibrating in sympathy. Each string related to its own. A harmonic relationship with a fuller, richer sound. Just like paints blending together the racism and colours became blurred and muddy.

Through the piano he felt as though society was accepting. To create the perfect noise, the whole piano worked in unity- a harmony so beautiful. Souls were lost to the music. Like a mental illness infested everyone in the room. Music, a Band-Aid on a would that will not heal. The whole theatre was alike, basking in the beauty that the orchestra had just brought. Almost as though they were sitting at a round table– all equal and free.

The song spoke of freedom, world peace and connection. But, came to an end. The vibrations which were once resonating off of one another, terminated.

He stood up, took a bow. The audience on their feet. A standing ovation. Duke took a bow and lead his choir off of the large stage.

Really, he was tired. He walked heavily, not looking where he put his feet. He left the theatre, just like any other night. When he came without sight of the Cotton Club he stopped and thought: I wish it was always as simple as black and white. He was surrounded by people of his own kind, even the shadow of day, but still managed to feel alone and rejected.

The man resembled that of shiny ebony, a chocolate brown figure that blended into the darkness through which he walked. Pain held on his shoulders, pride felt in his heart.

Technology and the Environment: Twitter Essay.

Technology is our plug to the world. As humans we need to feel connected, like we belong. The short story “The Veldt”, by Ray Bradbury highlights the issue of connection. The family of four, lives in a house created to make their fantasies become a reality. A “Happy-life Home” that caters to all of their desires- their imagination. If we begin to take advantage of the devices and advancements we have, it will create a challenge to our survival.

Shae Collins tweeted about fantasies and reality, Breanna Maughan replied.

The fantasies of technology pose a threat to how we perceive the world around us. It seems as though we are always in search to find the better, the bigger. Through technology we can feel connected, comforted and acknowledged. However, it is possible that we are loosing site of the things that are real. Society gets so caught up in their desires that they under- appreciate the miracles that are going on around them. Much like the crystal walls that confined the nursery in “The Veldt” from the rest of the house, our fantasies. A crystal, an object so pure and strong. As humans we are trapping ourselves inside our own guilty desires, and try to compensate our wrong doings by pretending that they are pure. Like Ketchup on a burger, we disguise our guilty fantasies, our flaws by covering them up. It is evident we are in search to find the things that are real, but simply can not and will not.

What happens when something becomes too real? When something becomes too real, we try to give it away. As humans we spend all of our time attempting to acquire the things that are real, the things that are right. We seem to want most, the things we can not have. In “The Veldt” George and Lidia- the parents- want perfect children. However, when things they had been dreaming of became ‘too real’, like having the perfect child, the perfect house, the perfect home- they ended up pushing it away. The things that were supposed to be right, were all wrong. The children would go into the nursery to feel lost- to be taken by their imagination, their fantasies. However they just ended up being called “filthy creatures” by their own father. The whole family was loosing themselves to a reality they had created.

Being human does not mean that you have feelings and opinions. It means that you are challenged by these feelings and opinions. How you feel about the environment does not affect the environment. It is our actions which make a difference. Humans are being broken by their own thoughts, minds, secrets and desires. If all human life was to leave the face of the earth, the globe would heal itself. We are a product of our environment, the environment is not ours. Everyday we are run by the technologies we have, we are limited by the obstacles we have created. We fear being alone, but seem to always create structures and technologies to make us more alone. Media prompts us so buy into the materials which make us anxious. Out of pride, money and foolishness we conform. Society is guilty and will not accept that are flawed. Like flickering shadows, our emotions flash from black to white. One moment we are satisfied, the next moment we are in deep despair.

Like Shae Collins tweets here, our surroundings can change based on what we want to see. Often times, humans live in an optical allusion that their minds and imaginations create by themselves. What happens in the world is real, what one thinks should have happened is projection. Humans suffer from their fictitious illusions and expectations of reality.

Response to Afrika Road by Don Mattera.

There are many locks and doors and cages in Lechaina but none as strong as I, the lock of the unlovable.

Each sector of the world, no matter where it may appear, has an unwanted lock of its own. I am most commonly known as the lock for those who are rejected and unwanted and unloved. These human beings have done nothing wrong but society sees them as a burden of unwarranted guilt placed on their shoulders. A stain of imperfection on their delicate and flawless sleeve. Usually, there would be a key to free the strength of my lock, a trick to open me. But I do not open with ease. I keep them in, no matter what they have done.

I am strong and dark and relentless like the concentration received from the pupil of an eye. I am the shadow cast on the side of wall, when the sun is about to set. Some say that I am necessary, that I keep the people in line. Others resist saying that I am the reason for pain. Loneliness; a taste of death. Some that are trapped inside, loose themselves in mental illness, in addition to their disoriented physiological state or violence to forget the inner pain.

I, the remorseless lock, have witnessed the pain and suffering of the people confined by the chipped steel bars that I keep bonded together. I am the glue, they are the shattered segments. Created to fix them, I feel as though it is impossible. Their mental states are unrecoverable, too far lost. They are marginalized, not the same as the others. They seem to feel but do not realize that what is happening is wrong.

Cries of help and screams of pain can be heard echoing through the containment centre at all hours of the day. I, the lock of the unloved, remain tightly latched no matter the circumstance. Gatekeepers dressed in happiness boasting scrubs pass in front me. Perhaps to disguise the immoral actions they purse, as something that will benefit the unlovable and unwanted prisoners.

They are trapped inside, contained by the barred wall that forces them to feel alone. They stand and rock backwards and forwards, staring through the steel pillars, praying that I release. When I am unlocked, the children jump down on to the stone floor which lays beneath me. Desperately they wrap their stick like arms around the caretakers. Now, not so alone. Shortly after this moment of great joy, of having someone to touch, a moment that seems to bring warmth to their ice cold bodies, they are locked back in without a fuss. The cage is their home.

I am a mighty lock.

Many days were quiet. The rising and setting of the sun did not matter. Fed and controlled by the guards, these children had no freedom.

The doors were locked just like every other day. Care takers came in to feed the children. Their mouths open wide to the spoon that is directed towards them three times a day. A sign that they are run by automaticity rather than authority. They have no real control of their bodies. Today, different from the others, I am unlatched. The children are able to rome free. Their spirits seem to float through the air like a white dove- carrying a message of independence. Smiles spread across their faces, the widest I have ever seen. They play, their free. Not for long.

I am soon picked back up from the dusty oak table, which I lay. The innocent but viewed as guilty because of difference, are thrown back behind the steel barrier- which separates their uniqueness from the rest of society.

The door slams shut and I, the lock of the unlovable latch to a close. The freedom they have experienced immediately dispersed- like a gun shot piercing the mind. . .

Wild Horses 2.0

My sister Elizabeth and I are the most experienced jockeys around. For as long as I can remember we have been interested in all types of equine beauties. Perhaps our attraction to these extravagant and valuable species began at a very young age, when mother would read us Black Beauty. I remember visualizing the dark, mysterious way these animals moved, as mom read the story to us. One moment they were hot blooded- full of speed and endurance, while the next moment they would be cold bloods- suitable for slow, heavy work. Oh, how well I do remember always dreaming, wishing that one day I would have some stallions of my own. Now, I have just that, and more.

Elizabeth and I have them trained so well. They are domesticated beasts. We are their leader. They wait in the back alley at night, behind the house, running through the hedges to brush their huge and hairy snouts against the windows where we both lie sleepless. We would wait for them to come to us, they were trained intelligent creatures. We fantasize of stroking their ears, their manes, their heaving flanks. When the blazing sun sets and the icy moon comes our visions of riding these flawless creatures becomes a reality.

My favourite wild horse has a black, silky coat. He is always the first to come when I call. This majestic stallion comes running even when he is at pasture and is content with being alone. I know he could never leave me, I am his owner. His coat so dark and his eyes so large and mysterious, it would be impossible for me to resist the chance at training such a marvelous creature. When he whinnies, his perfectly groomed coat shines in the most beautiful way possible, his sound so pleasant to my experienced ears. The way he canters, so flawless compared to the others. He is strong, reliable, intelligent and trained.

The other horses I, Mary, am not so fond of.

Although the stubborn Palomino with his gorgeous, tan coat is pleasing on the eyes, he is a head shaker. He causes great frustration to me, not so much to my sister, as she has a great deal of patience with stupid beasts such as this one. Something that distinguishes between the duplicate bodies we have. This behavior, a sign of impatience and anticipation. He can not listen long enough to learn from me, always taking advice from others. I am not his leader and he is not my stallion. He comes if the others come, but would never stay around long enough to receive individual training. When the moon went down he trots off into the sunset with great speeds, in hopes that he will receive better education some where else, by someone else. This dull, ignorant beast was unreliable and untrained.

Elizabeth and I are very committed, we are never the ones to do things half-heartedly. We sometimes gallop into the hills where the fairest stallions will be waiting for us. Their long dark manes intertwined with the wild violets and the warm summer wind. At times like these, I feel as though I am one with the secret darkness, the beauty of the majestic creatures. Almost like I can escape from the expectations of society to be perfect, and travel to a dimension were I am the commander.

 

 

 

Found Poem- From Tragedy Comes Strength

 Alberta is burning today, strength emitted from the flame

chaotic exodus, indescribably painful to experience.

A war zone, bullets made of heat,

bombs of ash which explode sending remnants of our memories abroad.

We have lost everything,

except fear and grief.

Things we have worked so hard for,

sent away with everything else in the flame-

our livelihoods, future, success.

We grab ahold of the hand of our neighbour,

there is more good than bad in the world.

From tragedy comes strength,

our city is now destroyed.

There is a terrifying beauty to this fire,

it emits a glow so powerful and distinct,

an ever changing disaster.

Nothing of the past remains.

The road which sparked economic might

is now a life line to safety.

All that is left are memories,

pictures, stories of a place that has brought prosperity to so many.

Now smoke remains of an entire neighbourhood.

The past vanished ,

light of day concealed by the dark of night.

Hopefully tomorrow will come.

 

Barney 2.0 Responce

 

September 2nd. Im alon with my mastur now. The plan shall continu to forage, my masturs acwantice was tryin to murdur me some might say. A poor ratt I am. Fed by the clock, a drug, almost like I am a ratt of a test. Discoverd some books in the shelvs of my place, I am unlocking the messages locked within. I reed of  patterns, numbers, thinkin, feelin- such intrestin stuff for me. I canot stay here like this, trapped by him, the sientist. Freedum is what I aim for, freedum is what I wil receve.

September 9th. Thee deranged sientist kept me locked in for lots of days. I hated thee kage n had two breakfree.  Today I used the masturs own mind agnst him. The plan is on trak- I caste my wish into the old well. Thee only kee to the valt is now gone lots of feet into the earth. I no thee sientist will jump into the old well to retreive his belonging. I hope thiss will work n I will finally b thee one in control- alongside some new found females.

September 10th. There has been lots of commotion inside my home this afternoon. Early yesterday morning I heard the retched squeal of that oblivious, uneducated rodent- the man of the island calls Barney- echoing through the air. The scientist says that he is part of a study and that he must be kept solitary. This Barney must be rather clueless. There are many females like I around here, for we have lived here with the others of our type since youth. I am beginning to see why it is valuable for us women to live together, men are obnoxious and oblivious.

September 11th. I am beginning to think that this Barney is more cleaver than the scientist may think. His new found intellectual curiosity, as the the master says, might have actually lead to him to something valuable, me may have gotten the best of all of us. The inconsiderate rodent has lead the island man to his doom, an act of revenge or betrayal.

Apart from the denseness of Barney, I hope that he discovers me. I am in need of some male attention- after all these years. I have seen him through the clear walls of the building he was once confined in. Unfortunately, he has never noticed me. What a shame, I am such a beautiful and intelligent female.

September 11th. Thee islnd is now quiet. My former mastur is trapped- as I once was. I, the most serperier ratt is in- charge. Hopefully the females I have recuested will arriv soon. As I await their arrivel I am busy preparing myself and headquarters for them. As soon as they arriv they will find themselfs with me.

September 14th. I have had a rather shaking experience, and once in contact with Barney for the first time I have found us woman inferior. I will admit he seemed to play the hero’s role in saving us lonely woman from our guilt, however now I view him as nothing but a cheat. We are all trapped, locked in a cage. He begins to torture us, harass us, use us for his own pleasure. The majority of us are ashamed to have exposed ourselves to him in his time of desperation, with an exception of those who have no dignity. Perhaps we are part of his study now, he is the new man of the island.

September 15th. I for once have been proved wrong. I am usd to feeling right, as I was always outsmarting the sientist. Those females have taken control of me, their leader. I am now traped doun here in this well. I have been conned by the ones I thought  I    had control of. I was    superior.

September 16. Poor Barbra is dead and soon I shall be the same. She was a wonderful rat, so much beauty and elegance. Without her my life would not me the same. If you are to read this, I request that you do not disturb anything on this island but leave it as a shrine to Barbra. Do not look for my body as it will be sent into the sea. I will request one last thing, that you bring a couple of young rodents as a memorial to the dearest Barbra. Bucks- no does. I had forgotten how it feels to live with freedom. Please help me in my request to keep this island alive. Do not disturb anything when you bring the rats, only males.

 

 

 

 

Respond Critically: The Friday Everything Changed, Anne Hart.

 

Presented in the story is the issue or way of society to place a stereotype that boys are superior to girls. In this writing by Anne Hart she clearly elaborates this issue and ties it in to a setting that we, as Canadians, are able to understand and recognize. Through out the short story the idea that change is hard to accept and that it is inevitable that traditions or people change is highlighted.

We live each day with the thought of tomorrow. It does not seem logical to live everyday as your last, or to be able to accept and appreciate change at the end of everyday. The more we interact as people, the more similar we become. Perhaps this is the problem. As we begin to connect with one another and take part in globalization we begin to shift towards the same goal; the popular goal. To be the best, the greatest. What is the best or the greatest? How do we become the best or the greatest? As presented in the story, we take comfort in the things that are “real” to us, the traditions or customs that seem certain. Society is uncertain and is unwilling to accept change until it is forced on us. This flaw leads us to resort to the comfort of the things that seem real, to trick ourselves into thinking that change might not be so bad. If these things we find comfort in begin to be threatened, the whole community uproars.

Rules control the world like a chain tied around your hands. Some can accept that they will never be set free- they live their lives in accommodation to their restrictions. There are others who will attempt to escape these chains, but in the end fail, while many others pretend to be free but in reality know they are not. Finally, there are the people who will cut off their hands to perhaps prove to themselves and the others around them that they are powerful. These are the people we all seem to aspire to be. Everyone has the idea that they need to be their own person, the one who holds the most power and strength- the one who carries the water. More often than not society is oblivious to the fact that their actions and immoral values based on the past have a real effect on the newly altered past- the present. Stereotypes, roles, sexism and unfairness. Who made the rules we are governed by? It was us, setting standards and placing barriers is one of the human minds greatest capacities. “Do unto others as they would do unto you” is the golden rule. If we as a whole community were able to accept and appreciate this expectation established by our creator, it would eliminate the conflict between the good and the bad. If we are able to cast the golden hue of the lord unto all of the people of the earth, all would be equal. Like butterflies folding out their yellow wings after being trapped in chrysalis, we would be able to appreciate, accept and adopt difference- uncertainty. Nothing gold can stay by Robert Frost – “natures first green is gold, the hardest hue to hold”. In this poem Frost explains that nothing, especially that which is perfect and beautiful, can last forever. Like the first green of spring,  the things that we are born to value, start out so perfect and pure that as we gain experience our pure, delicate being becomes worn, tarnished and stained by imperfection. Much like the traditions we have, they start out so formal and concise. As they being to be challenged, they change.

Change can be threatening. What happens when we feel threat? When something that seems real to us is challenged, it is hard to accept that change will occur. Most of the time as humans our first step to growing acceptance is to first, resent the situation or try to change what is inevitable.The carrying of the water in the short story was something that was deemed as being real. A task that brought comfort and certainty. Once the role of carrying the water bucket was challenged by Alma, they boys grew quiet and looked to Miss. Ralston. As a society when something of great concern comes about, we tend to look to those of authority for answers, rather than just thinking of them ourselves. The people who are deemed to have the control over our governments and community decisions also have control over our decisions. This is one of society’s greatest weaknesses. Often times however, the decisions that the people of authority make, do not satisfy our wants. This is when conflict occurs. Miss. Ralston was unable to come up with an answer to Alma’s question of “why cant girls go for the water, too?”. This drew confusion to the boys and started conflict and commotion. The thing that was most real and routine in a school boys uncertain life was being threatened. Society once again created a war to fight the inevitable change.

Change is inevitable. Change is constant. It is a fault of humans to resent the idea of change.

 

 

 

 

Critical Responce to Barney: Will Stanton

Barney, written by Will Stanton is a short story that takes the form of the journal. It highlights the idea that freedom and the creation of intelligence only lead to evil and hate. “The line between good and evil is permeable and almost anyone can be induced to cross it when pressured by situational forces.” Forces which are reflected by Will Stanton in this story are power, freedom and hate which all are causes of Barney’s immoral nature.

Cogitative intelligence has a major roll in the formation of this journal and the concluding entry may describe the flaw in trying to “create” this intelligence. It seems as though we abuse, misuse or misinterpret the ethics of how we choose to use things. It becomes blurry to us sometimes, that our unethical actions to create something good, trick us into formulating something evil. Each time we get the opportunity to experience freedom, it seems as though we waste it on evil. If we once awaken freedom, we will too awaken hate. Barney had not experienced freedom until he was given the opportunity to run around the lab- after Tayloe had been fired. During this time Barney had discovered his newly awakened intellectual curiosity. On September 8th, Barney was once again sent into confinement and it was described by the narrator that “he hates it”. If Barney had not had the chance to experience freedom, he would not have discovered his capacity to hate.

The ending presented to me a feeling of bewilderment, however I have now recognized that it was bound to conclude in this way based on the foreshadowing of the plot twist. I was shocked at the fact that something so weak and small had the ability to overthrow someone who was perceived to have so much authority and knowledge. The final entry was written by Barney, in a way that would have required a great deal of intellect for a rodent. Clearly the “ratt” has acquired much intelligence and uses this freedom in an evil way. September 11th, the narrator- which is now Barney-  describes to any possible readers of the journal that “Poor Barney is now dead an soon I shell be the same”. He goes on to say “I will caste myself into the see” and that his “laste” will is that the ones who read this letter will bring young “ratts” and shall leave them as a memorial to Barney. It is evident that Will Stanton’s writing of the unethical ways of using Barney as a test to “create” intelligence has backfired on the scientist. Barney has tricked the scientist into allowing his own death, while he gets what he had been planning for- to live undisturbed, with an abundance of females to serve his “desires”. This shows how we as a society try so hard to create something unnatural that in the midst of its creation, it begins to exceed our intelligence and can unknowingly take control of us or begin to trick us (turing test).

A detail in the September 11th entry which entices me and supports my conclusion that attempting to create intelligence can only lead to evil is Barney’s use of the word “caste”. Caste is a form of social stratification, it is a word applied to human and non-human populations. It perhaps is a indirect hint to us as readers that Barney has had a plan to establish authority and has now reached his goal. There is an abundance of foreshadowing in the story that lead to the end result of the plot. For example, in the August 30th entry we are presented the first clue through Tayloe’s obscure firing. Perhaps the carelessness or clumsiness of the ‘murder attempt’ shows that Barney attempted to frame Tayloe because he would have ruined his plans to gain authority. Another obvious hint to the end plot is in the September 2nd entry when the scientist describes that Barney had been “dragging books from the shelves and reading them over page by page”. It is evident in this that the rat had been quickly acquiring intelligence, with the purpose to gain freedom and authority. Within the entry on September 9th , Barney drops the key into the well. Perhaps in the certainty that the scientist would jump in to retrieve them- so that his wish to be free and powerful could be granted. “Knowledge is power. Power to do evil. . . or power to do good.” With Barneys power it is evident that he has an intention to do evil because he has experienced freedom, and therefore has the capacity to hate.

 

 

 

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