Poem #7: April Rain Song by Langston Hughes

April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

 

Langston Hughes

Video and Explanation

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9CLQGuR7N1o

        This video relates to my life because of my love for horses. They describe me, define me. I am not

perfect, but they are. I can be me around them. Horses are powerful, beautiful and strong. Some fear

them, some respect them, some admire them. They cannot be described in a word, in a sentence. When a

horse walks into view, the whole word melts away into the shadows. All we see is this stunning beast that

shakes his mane with pride and stomps the ground with beauty.

         The music fits the video perfectly. When the singer talks about how "she is all extremes", I think

about how horses are the same, and people. Horses do not always behave, or always be perfect.

But do humans? No. Sometimes, a horse feels wild and frisky. Sometimes, a horse feels sore and does

not want to work. It's the same for humans. We have good days and bad days, exciting days and irrelevent

days. One cannot figure out another by a simple glance, we are all perfect mysteries. Horses are not humans,

but they are people, and should be treated as such.

44 Literary Prompts

Katie Hines

10/22/2012

Block 4

44 Literary Prompts

Choose a novel or play that depicts a conflict between a parent (or a parental figure) and a son or daughter. Write an essay in which you analyze the sources of the conflict and explain how the conflict contributes to the meaning of the work. Avoid plot summary.

In the novel, Handle With Care by Jodi Picoult, there are many battles fought in the war for Willow’s survival that go past simply her disease. Willow suffers from Osteogenesis Imperfecta, which is a brittle bone illness causing her to snap a joint by simply sneezing, and she has two protectors: Amelia and her mother, Charlotte. Charlotte is the obvious warrior; she would die to protect Willow. Amelia, her older sister, is the one who wipes away Willow’s tears and carries her away from trouble. Upset with her mother for filing a law suit stating Willow should not have been born, Amelia often fights and lashes out at Charlotte, who does not seem to care much about her older daughter. Willow may be breaking, but Amelia is already shattered.

“’Yeah, you and every other human on this planet, mom,’ I yelled. ‘Guess what? It’s not all about you and what you want and what makes everyone feel sorry for your miserable life with your miserable-‘ She slapped me across the face. I wanted to hurt her as much as she’d hurt me, so I spat out the words that burned like acid in my throat. ‘Bet you wish I’d never been born, too,’ I said, and I took off running.” (240) Amelia feels her mother is betraying the entire family and destroying Willow to receive money. Charlotte feels as though Amelia only cares about herself and is the lucky child, the healthy one, therefore she does not believe she needs the attention Willow is basked in. But she could not be more wrong.

            Throughout the book, Amelia develops a self-hatred that continues to grow and overpower her. She forces herself to throw up every crumb of food she eats, and slits pulsing cuts through her fragile arms. Her parents do not notice, because after all, she couldn’t possibly have any problems. When Charlotte is told of this by the husband that discovered Amelia’s Bulimia, at first she is in denial. However, when Amelia admits to it, she must accept the truth. “I faced Amelia. ‘Is it true?’ She nodded, and I felt a twinge in my heart. Had I been blind? Or had I just been so busy watching you break that I had failed to notice my older daughter going to pieces?” (428) Amelia lashed out and fought against Charlotte because she wanted her to see her, truly see her. She wanted to be noticed, but instead was ignored. Charlotte and Amelia’s relationship was annihilated, because it was an only-child household rather than a happy family.

           

The most important themes in literature are sometimes developed in scenes in which a death or deaths take place. Choose a novel or play and write a well-organized essay in which you show how a specific death scene helps to illuminate the meaning of the work as a whole. Avoid mere plot summary.

Throughout the novel, Handle With Care, Charlotte O’Keefe, the mother of a young child with disease causing brittle bones, begins to question if Piper, her doctor and best friend, could have alerted her about Willow’s disease earlier so that the pregnancy could have been terminated. As she files suit against the doctor that gave her a child she claims “she never wished for”, Willow begins to feel the tension if the choice her mother made and slowly starts to deteriorate, piece by piece. After the lawsuit is won, Willow’s family is enjoying a frigid, winter day. Willow walks carefully outside to find Amelia, and gently steps on the frozen pond, enjoying the sensation of doing something brave. The ice cracks, like so many of Willow’s bones, and she falls through…Willow drowned that day. This interlaces through the overall theme of “be careful what you wish for”.

                 Time and time again, Charlottes states in court, under oath, how had she known sooner, Willow would not be alive. However, she cares for her daughter with such love and gentleness, confessing to her that she is only filing suit for the money, therefore she does not mean it. When Willow passes away, so does Charlotte’s spirit. All of her time and love was invested in her daughter, the one who she never failed to tuck in at night or remind how special she was to her. But, she wished Willow away in law. She claimed “wrongful birth”. Did that mean wrongful life, for Willow? When her daughter dies, Charlotte must face what she sent upon herself.

Quote and Reflection

Katie Hines

10/14/2012

Block 4

Quote About Life and Reflection

 Silence is more musical than any song.  ~Christina Rossetti 

                All of my life, I have been a quiet person. I do not call out in class or fill conversations with meaningless chatter. I feel that words are words, no sense in wasting them. My father is the same way. When driving down to the stables or back from the beach on a cool evening, we do not need sentences or phrases to fill in the spaces, like my mother. She simply cannot be comfortable without spouting out things to be sure we are not upset with her, because after all, why else would we be silent? Sometimes, the deepest and loudest sentences are spoken without words. Some things just cannot be said.

                 What talkative people do not realize, is that simply because I do not say much, does not mean I do not listen. I listen, I really listen. I listen to the spaces between sentences, the words not spoken. I notice the slight body language and change in tone of voice. When I do speak, raise my voice release my musical song, it is a melody, and it is not meaningless. When I talk, I do not chatter. When I laugh, it is not empty. My life may be quiet, but it is real.

Revised Persuasive Essay: (I recieved 100%, therefore I did not make any changes)

Katie Hines

10/1/2012

Block 4

Persuasive Paper

Dear Julie,

            Before I say anything, just know that I very much respect your opinion and the care you provide for your mares; in no way do I intend to offend you through this letter. I know that Chris, the man you have hired to train Shady and April, is inexpensive, however is the difference between thirty five and forty five dollars too much for the sake of the horses? Chris’s methods are abusive and horrific to witness, but perhaps unknown to him, there is a completely opposite style of training that builds rather than breaking. Natural Horsemanship is not only communication with your horse in a way they understand, making them much happier and more willing, but also works much better than traditional, scarring methods. Chris does not communicate with the horses; he does not have a partnership with them, he has a turmoil of hatred and fear-which is not respect.

            Chris has time and time again proved that he should not be near a horse, let alone train one. He has no clue what he is doing, and his torturous “training aids” make the horses do things rather than them because they know what the rider wants and they want to please them. A few weeks ago, I saw something truly despicable. He was working with Chance, your friend’s three year old gelding. Frustration was pouring out of them both as if it were sweat as Chris tried to force Chance over a much-too-tall for him, solid fence. Disgusted, I witnessed Chris repeatedly whip the poor horse and punishing him for something he should not even been doing. Chance is only three years old. His joints and muscles have not fully developed yet, therefore he should not have been jumping fences of that height. But doesn’t Chris know everything? Is he not the “great I am”? No. I have forgotten more than he knows, and I am only a teenager. Chris knows nothing about training horses except the sick, twisted old ways.

           

Book Project Option: Epilogue

Katie Hines

10/22/12

Block 4

Book Project Option # 4

Epilogue:

(This novel is written in many different character’s views, therefore I will do each that was written.)

Charlotte:

                It’s been one year that you’ve been gone. When I wake up in the morning, I still expect to hear you calling out for pancakes. I still anxiously wait a phone call in case you’d had a fall at school. I still remember every trivia fact you’d ever told me, like how “a scallop has thirty five eyes, all blue” and how the plastic things on shoe laces are called aglets. But most of all, when I go to sleep, I still see your electric blue eyes, almond shaped and beautiful.

                We finally opened up a little bakery called Syllabub, like the baking sale Amelia and I had with you. We make the delicious cookies and cakes and pies, decorating them with soft green icing that outlines the goodies like branches on a weeping Willow. We even got recognition in the newspaper; “The best slice of cake I’ve ever tasted,” was written by an admiring journalist. Amelia thinks we are officially famous.

                I want you to know something, Willow. I completely regret it, the lawsuit. I take back every lie I uttered in that court room, every stupid word I said. I was trying to protect you, but I realized all I did was hurt you. We needed the money for your medical bills that kept adding, but you needed our love more. I am so sorry. Suing for wrongful birth? You were no mistake, no accident. You were not the diseased child that a family had to deal with; you were the best thing that ever happened to us.

Amelia:

                Do you remember when I dyed my hair dark blue? I know, instead of looking punk, I looked like the cookie monster. You used to ask questions all the time, but you never asked me why I dyed my hair. I did it for you; you’re not the only different one.

                You, and your ocean blue eyes. You, and the tiny wobble in your step. You, and your brilliant remarks that belonged in a decathlon. You, you, you. I love you. I miss you, so much.

                Now, hair brown again and scars healed, you’d barely recognize me. I smile, all the time. My hands have small calluses from mixing all sorts of cake batter at the bakery. Mom and I rarely participate in the vicious battle of words that used to occur on a daily basis. I have friends, real friends. They get me; they accept me, just as I am. Emma and I never repaired our broken friendship, but she no longer tapes “kick me” signs on my back or tries to trip me in the halls. In fact, sometimes she smiles at me.

                I’ve been painting a lot lately. I was painting the Birch trees in the forest that day, the day you left. They are thin as a rail and sway with the wind, but the trees are strong, beautiful. Like you.

                I put up some paintings in an art show. I proudly hung them on white wash walls, my heart pounding each time a curious onlooker paused to study my art work. My painting of the frozen pond outside was sold for fifteen dollars. I know, not much, but it’s a start. I wanted to rid myself of it anyway. But the painting I took most pride ( and not offering up for sale) was one of you. It held your pretty face and gleaming smile, full of joy and strength. It won. You won, Willow.

Sean:

                Not too much has changed, Wills. We still reside in that cute little white cottage in front of an icy pond and miles of evergreens. I am still a cop, I still can’t cook to save my life, and I still leave little notes for your mother before she wakes up. But everything has changed. Our angel is gone.

                Your mother spends her days cooking and baking in her little bakery, and often times Amelia joins her. Her eyes used to shine and could light a room on fire, but now, all one sees is pain, sorrow, and emptiness.

                 We finally got a dog, and I’m sorry we didn’t get one sooner. Her name is Lily, and she is a rescue from the pound. She hobbles on only three legs, injuries resulting from being hit by a car, but she is the happiest, smartest pup I’ve ever met. Lily learns tricks right off the bat, always greets us with a sloppy kiss and wagging tail, and hardly ever jumps on the counter to grab food...hardly. Whenever we say your name, she perks up her ears and listens, as if searching for this missing person. Her missing person.

                 I still can’t believe that when I come home from a tough day at work, you won’t be there to make me smile by cracking a few corny (but witty) jokes. I still expect the TV to have a zillion SpongeBob episodes recorded. I still wish you could come back to us. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss your smile, your laugh.

                Don’t worry about us down here, Wills. We’ll be fine. But every once in a while, could you send down a ray of your light to mom? Every day I have to drag her out of bed, every day I hear her cries muffled by a pillow, I miss you even more.  

                 

               

Alone by Edgar Allan Poe: Poem #6

Alone

    From childhood's hour I have not been
        As others were; I have not seen
        As others saw; I could not bring
        My passions from a common spring.
        From the same source I have not taken
        My sorrow; I could not awaken
        My heart to joy at the same tone;
        And all I loved, I loved alone.
        Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
        Of a most stormy life- was drawn
        From every depth of good and ill
        The mystery which binds me still:
        From the torrent, or the fountain,
        From the red cliff of the mountain,
        From the sun that round me rolled
        In its autumn tint of gold,
        From the lightning in the sky
        As it passed me flying by,
        From the thunder and the storm,
        And the cloud that took the form
        (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
        Of a demon in my view.

By Edgar Allan Poe

Revised Literary Essay

Katie Hines

9/25/2012

Block 4

Essay Test All Quiet on the Western Front

Question: How have the soldiers lost their civilization and become animals?

            Throughout the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, Paul and the other soldiers are losing touch with civilization and their ethics, becoming barbaric hunters, sometimes being the kill. The pain and struggle of war begins to tear down the fragile grip on humanity the soldiers once had, leaving them stripped of all emotion. Compassion and sympathy must not exist in the men’s heart; they cannot afford to think of such things. Many soldiers are able to cut off their heart all too easily, but for others, it is a constant battle harder than any war.

            It is easy to see how quickly the emotions and humanity begin to deteriorate through the book, and the soldiers begin to be seen as animals, things-not human beings with feelings. They “…have become wild beasts…it is not men that we fling our bombs.” (113) Paul cannot allow himself to consider the fact that the enemy may not be his enemy. “The figure opposite me moves. I shrink together and involuntarily look at it.” (218) The dying human is dehumanized and has become nothing more than an it. Rather than people, individuals, the enemy is a whole, a thing. The soldiers do not see people, they see their prey-and it is time for the hunt.

             Civilization begins to become as foreign to Paul and his comrades as a palace would be to a civilian. When Paul receives a clean bed at the hospital because he is wounded, he feels “…like a pig. Must I get in there?” (246) He feels as though he is nothing more than filth, like he is unworthy. He has become an animal, his actions of those who are a predator.  Although Paul claims that “in many ways we are treated quite like men” (91), the soldiers are man no longer. They are beasts. They are used to killing on the gruesome front, sleeping outside, and eating sawdust like livestock, however they are no longer able to function in society and sleep in a clean bed.

             Through this entire struggle, the one soldier who does not completely transform into a monster is Paul. He desperately attempts to see killing as the others do, as if it means nothing. He struggles internally to try and treat the Russian prisoners as things, but Paul is unable. He seems to switch back and forth, trying his hardest to be a hunter but realizing he is truly a vegetarian. “I go give them out to the Russians,” (198); Paul gives the cakes his own mother made him to the prisoners. It is a small act of kindness, a small difference, but it is the difference that makes the difference. He pities them and compares them to “sick storks” (192), innocent creatures, dead before they die. After Paul kills the French man, however, he claims “…war is war.” (229) He suddenly changes drastically to the robotic man he desires to become, rather than the passionate, sympathetic boy Paul truly is. Paul is a man, with feelings, with a heart-and he knows that simply because men are branded as an enemy and on the other side does not mean they do not feel the same and hurt the same.

             Human nature and civilization are discouraged as the book progresses, and the compassion the soldiers previously possessed is forgotten. If they make it out alive, there is hardly a chance they will truly live. The soldiers are already dead; their hearts are gone. All that is left is a deep hatred for enemies who they have never even met. They will be unable to function in a normal society, or even in a normal home. They have forgotten how to feel, how to love, how to be sympathetic-all emotions a human should have. Paul has all of these traits, although he desperately tries to rid himself of them in combat. The soldiers, including Paul, are left with a gaping hole in their hearts that cannot be filled. They must go through the remainder of their lives putting up a façade, pretending that everything is just fine-but it is not, and never will be. These animalistic traits and horrors will haunt these beasts, once boys, eternally. 

This I Beleive Video Link

Here is a link to a great This I Beleive essay: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rFkFncqovL0&feature=related

It is beautifully and creatively done, and has a great message. You can hear the writer's voice not through the audio, but through her words.

This I Beleive Poem

Katie Hines

10/17/2012         

Block 4

This I Believe Poem

 

I believe in the soft touch of grass on your bare feet during the summertime

I believe in the sound of the ocean crashing together in a symphony of waves

I believe that a canter is the cure for any struggle

This I believe.

I believe in the gentle nicker coming from a young foal

I believe in beat up jeans that envelope my body perfectly

I believe in handwritten cards and crumpled notes

This I believe.

I believe in glowing lights that aluminate houses at Christmas time

I believe in the proud bark of my dog, protecting us from the “intruders”

I believe in sitting down with my family at Thanksgiving with delicacies surrounding us  

This I believe.

This I Beleive

Katie Hines

10/17/2012

Block 4

This I Believe Essay Research

This I Believe

I am considered a disease, part of an epidemic that must be eradicated before more people like me are born. What I have cannot kill me; who I am cannot be cured. What I represent to others is often nothing more than a body without a soul, a changeling to be molded into the image of what others expect that I should be. I am autistic, and I do not want to alter this aspect of myself in any way.

 

I do not mean that autistics are identical to everyone else, or that we never struggle in our daily lives. These two premises are absurd, and I know of no one who believes them. Indeed, it is our difference that is the cause of our problems and of our gifts. Do not think that by gifts I mean high intelligence or the ability to count a box of fallen toothpicks. Most of us have neither. This is not a reason to reject our claim that being autistic is a valuable part of who we are, however, as most non-autistic (also called neurotypical) people cannot do these things either.

 

I do not mean that we never struggle. We struggle very much, in fact, but it is not due to any inherent weakness, nor to the tragedy of the family said to be “inflicted” with autism, as though the child were a malicious intruder. The tragedy of autism is people assuming that our actions mean one thing when they mean entirely another. The tragedy of autism is being beaten by our peers throughout school and, when reporting it, being told that we the victims brought it upon ourselves by standing out. The tragedy of autism is knowing that organizations regarded as autism charities raise thousands of dollars devoted to developing a prenatal test so that autistics will be selectively aborted. My opinions on abortion have not been constant, but whether I supported it or not, I could not justify such selective abortion as anything but eugenics on the verge of genocide.

 

Autism is not to be feared, or to be eliminated, but to be understood, accepted, and accommodated. Each day of our lives, we reach out to a world that little acknowledges our need for such understanding. Surely, the socially skilled neurotypicals can do the same and empathize with our perspective on who we are and what we think. Then maybe one day, Congress won’t spend a billion dollars to screen and eliminate us. Perhaps CAN, instead of standing for Cure Autism Now, will stand for Caring And Neurotypical.

By Melody from Brea, California

Link to essay: http://thisibelieve.org/essay/32221/ 

She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron: Poem #5

She Walks In Beauty by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Ellie and Jacqueline: Compare and Contrast Essay

Katie Hines

10/11/2012

Block 4

Compare and Contrast Essay

Ellie and Jacqueline

            My two cousins, Ellie and Jacqueline, are sisters; they look exactly alike. Blonde hair, tiny frames, and dark blue eyes shared by both. These girls could not look more similar, and could not be more different. Ellie is happy, naïve, innocent. Jacqueline is misunderstood, angry, she has seen too much. She has been corrupted by the world too soon, while Ellie has not yet left the light. Jacqueline is young no longer; her innocence has been torn away by heartless bullies leaving her empty. Ellie does not see the horrors of the world that haunt Jacqueline; she sees the blessings in the world that are given to them both.

            When I ask Ellie what she wants to be as a grown up, she looks at me with sureness and states that, obviously, she would like to be a flower. I smile and laugh, looking over to Jacqueline, only a short year older, asking her the same. “I don’t know. Probably nothing,” she replies, and my heart breaks. This girl in front of me, the mere age of seven, seems so much older, so much sadder. Ellie furrows her little brows, her sparkling eyes filling with confusion, “You have to be something. You could be a princess, or a flower, like me.” I nod in agreement and look back to Jacqueline as she rolls her eyes in frustration, “I can’t be a flower or a princess, and neither can you.”

            Ellie adores everything pink, bright, and sparkly, just like her personality. Spunky and cute, she wears flower dresses and blue bows, almost as beautiful as her eyes. She begs me to let her raid my closet and find “grown up” clothes to wear, even though they swallow her whole. She tromps around the house in her mother’s nicest heels to show off her “model walk”. Jacqueline, she does not anymore. She wears anything black or gray like thunderous storm clouds, never doing a thing with her silken blonde hair. She throws a fit when asked to wear something presentable to Church, is shocked when told to comb her golden locks. Jacqueline is not Ellie, but she is not herself.

            Ellie is the classic child: she loves Pop Tarts and candy and chocolate milk; she hates broccoli and spinach and asparagus. Jacqueline does not eat Pop Tarts or candy or any other fun foods. She does not eat vegetables or fruits, or chicken or toast. Eating is a foreign concept to her. Jacqueline must eat at least five bites of her food before being excused, which usually results in a massive battle of stare downs to see who will crack first. Ellie is always waiting impatiently for dinner to be cooked and Jacqueline is always praying it will burn.

            Ellie and Jacqueline are sisters on the outside. One might mistake them for twins. But I know better. From the way they dress to the things they say, these girls are polar opposites, on different sides of the world. Jacqueline and Ellie are a burning inferno and an icy blizzard, a light drizzle and a hurricane. My cousins are so connected, yet so far apart. So transparent, but so oblique. So bright, but never more faded.

A Bird Came Down by Emily Dickenson: Poem #4

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.

Elizabeth by Edgar Allen Poe: Poem #3

Elizabeth

Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
[Logic and common usage so commanding]
In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
[Called anything, its meaning is the same]
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

Edgar Allan Poe

Who Am I?

Katie Hines

10/4/2012

Block 4

“Who Am I?” Essay

 

             Soft rain drizzling down on a horse’s back, slipping off like tiny beads of glass. A bright, golden sunset on a summer night that takes one’s breath away. The sweet smell of fresh hay and horse feed. These are things that make me who I am. I am not a person that could simply be summed up by saying that I am fifteen and attend Hoggard High School. Those are things outsiders see. They see a normal girl, with normal clothes and a normal life; the onlookers see what they wish to see. I cannot say I am any different. Often times, I look at people and simply keep going, assuming their lives are perfect. The person I want to become is the person who sees people, truly sees them. Somebody who slows down and catches each tear that falls from another’s eye. I know that I will never be a pageant queen, or the girl who “has it all”. But I can be the girl who gives it all, and every day I try to do just that…yet every day I fail.

             All of my life, I have wished that I could speak up, find my voice. I believed that my quietness was a character flaw, and sometimes, I still do. But the loud, obnoxious girl that calls out in class could never be successful around horses. Horses need calm, they need the quiet. I simply close my eyes and listen. That is my voice. That is me, standing up and crying out to the world about how special God made these animals and how they bring the best out of me. Through these beautiful creations, I have found myself. I have found my safe place. More than anything, I have found my hope.

             My sister, Emily, is everything I always wanted to be. Beautiful, blonde, and smart as a whip, she is always “miss popular”. Don’t forget her amazing musical abilities, piano and singing. It is a genetic abnormality in my family to lack an interest in music, so it came as a big surprise when I never could quite pick it up. My singing was not horrible (as in, I did not cause permanent damage to ears), but my piano playing sounded like a cat dying. I have always felt a little out of place in my family, just a bit different. My mother, the concert pianist, has fully supported my other sister who is currently majoring in violin and not missed a single concert, yet she cannot seem to care enough to come see me compete with my horses. Don’t get me wrong, this is not some sob story about how my parents do not love me, because they do. They pay for my riding lessons and I know they are proud of me. But sometimes, it just leaves a small sting that I cannot shake.

             On long, arduous days that seem to drag on and on, there is a saying that helps me keep looking up. “Believe that life is worth living and your belief will help create the fact.” ~William James. If I constantly look down and all I see is the dirt, I will never see the bright blue sky. I am not saying that some days, I am not a wreck and simply want to go back to bed. I am saying that in order for things to get better, one must want them to get better. Nothing comes for free. If I need something, all I need do is ask. It might not come today, or tomorrow, but at the perfect moment, it will happen. I prayed for a Mustang in the year of 2004, but I could not have handled Blue and Clay at the age of eight. Four years later to the day, I got so much more than I could have ever asked for. I will be forever grateful for these angels that saved me. That is who I am. I am not the girl who saves a bunch of rescue horses, I am the girl who’s rescue horses saved her.   

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost: Poem #2

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Opportunity 6

Katie Hines

10/1/2012

Block 4

Opportunity 6

The Last Judgment by Michelangelo  

The Last Judgment took almost twenty four years for Michelangelo to complete. He wanted the colors to be noticeably different from the Sistine Ceiling, because he wanted different effects than in the ceiling frescoes-and the fact that the money for the paints was coming from the Pope, rather than Michelangelo himself. It is a common misconception that he painted all of the angels going to Heaven, when in reality many souls were being cast off to Hell.  A few African people are painted with Rosary Beads because they were often used in missionary work being done in Africa. Michelangelo did not actually desire to paint The Last Judgment, however Pope Paul III insisted that the retired painter create it.