I’ve been listening to Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack. I really am in love with Andrew Lloyd Webber. He’s a wonderful composer.
I’m reading Frankenstein. Its very…ah well psychotic. At least the main character is over working himself, and then not eating, and the lack of nutrients is making him psychotic and I think he hallucinates a lot… but this is probably not the conclusion literally professor’s give. This is my realization and summery of the sad and demented mind of Dr. Victor Frankenstein.
Here is a story I wrote for my British Literature class; one of the most difficult class offered too 10th graders, its college prep or extreme honors to a private school.
THE SCULPTED ANGEL a memoir
He was an illusion of an angel, a stone white angel, but no less a divine and perfect being. With the aura and features an angel might provide. He was laying on the sand with scattered shells all around him. He wasn’t wearing much, only a small knitted cloth tied around his hips. His body was bent awkwardly atop a mound of sand and rock, making his legs and head lower than his elevated middle. His hair spread out in long tendrils like water flowing from a spring. It stretched across his left hand and arm, thrown back near his head. The other arm was also thrown back, its pearly underbelly laid crooked next to his face. His ribs stuck out tightly through his skin. I looked even closer and saw shimmering pearls stuck to his body, and others trapped in his small cloth.
I bent over him, keeping my hands clenched at my sides. No touching, I thought. He wasn’t breathing, nor were his eyes flickering under his eye lids. His lips were slightly blue and very still. His chest appeared stony and granite like. He was more beautiful than any man I had ever seen.
There was nothing I could do; he was dead, frozen in lifelessness. I wanted to stroke his long hair, fix his body so it wasn’t broken on the land he was washed up on. The ocean had killed him. The striking beauty of his appearance had remained with his body, unlike his soul and mind, which abandoned the beating of his heart.
Maybe he was too beautiful. Did God take his life for a better use, or was he subjected to death so I could see him? Was this a dream?
I stepped back, out of my dream, leaving the roaring ocean, the sand, the pearls, and the image of my love behind. The lighting was good in the museum, making it so there were no shadows. I looked down at the milky white sculpture of the Dead Pearl Diver, and immediately felt myself wanting to return to the world where I was sitting on the sand next to his broken form. I was here though, next to his sculpture, not on a beach. I was in a small museum in Portland, Maine, gazing down at a rock, the dead and soulless form of my love.
I reached out to stroke his face as my mind was going back to the beach. I turned my fingers to my palms when I awakened to the reality that he was not animated. I took a meaningless picture that would never capture his true beauty. The spectacular carving of every smooth and sheen centimeter of him was perfect. At that moment, I decided that he was my dream. A dream I could always return to, where he was magnificently poised and arched over the rock hard sand of my imagined beach. He would lie forever next to the ocean that took his life and inspired mine.
I could hardly pull myself away from his side. My brother and mother moved me to continue on to other things in the museum. All I wanted was to look at him, The Dead Pearl Diver, the man of my dreams.
I just need to write about Zombies for a moment. I’m wearing my “I heart Zombies” rubber bracelet that my cats like to chew. I also have another rubber bracelet that says “Zombies” and is neon green and glows vibrantly in the dark.
OH~ also my friend posted some strange thing on her wall on Facebook that I just saw, and it said: “Tim flew, Alien abduction?”
I just needed to talk about both Aliens and Zombies in the same post again. I’m thinking about putting them into every post and maybe drawing conclusions with them. They could be crucial to this blog!