Fading thoughts, upon setting off to the void.

On a journey, ill;
my dream goes wandering
over withered fields.
-Basho, November 28th, 1694

      While lurking on the internet one day I stumbled upon a website listing poems, not normal poems.Death poems.
Being the curious one that I am, I delved deeper into their history. In Japanese society, they have been written century upon century, during the Edo period, and even today, though not as often. The Japanese soldiers of old often memorized a poem, to have it roll from their lips as the last spoken words before falling before his enemy.
       Another common idea was to touch a brush to paper, and draw a simple circle, cast the brush aside, and give into the next worlds call. The circle, in zen Buddhism, represented the Void. The Void contained all knowledge, enlightenment, and all ever known within.
       I have no real idea what makes this poem hold me with such firm grip.

The Gem of the Atlantic

Look to the world for your own interpretation, to find its beauty, and art in your own eyes. Mr. Hill gave us what might be my favorite assignment of all time. We look into the world as we see, games, music, people, buildings, and give our own interpretation of feelings or impressions of what they are, or might mean. I took advantage of this to reminisce of this feeling of awe and terror me and a friend once shared back in 2007. An Old friend, Nathan, and I, were to spend a few days together, as my parents would be out of town and I was not quite old enough yet to stay alive on my own for 3 days. But for one night, we ourselves would be alone for a few hours as Nathan's Parents went out for dinner with some family friends. Having no other plans for the time, he and I went to the sun room, which by the time of day was approaching dusk. As I lounged on the couch Nathan reached onto a shelf and plucked an Xbox game down, our entertainment for the night. It was one only his older brother had played before; BioShock. We slid the game disc into the Xbox's loading tray, grabbed some soda and chips, and sat down for what we imagined would be a loud, slam-bang action game. We beheld a completely different experience.
The year is 1960           Bioshock Opened with a plane, a man named Jack, holding an unopened gift from his parents. "They told me, Son, you're special. You were born to do great things. Y'know what? They were right." We hear him monologue to himself as he flips open his wallet to examine a family photo. The screen fades to black as an explosion screams from the television. Our controller rumbles, giving us a feel of the panic that a plane crash would. We hear women scream out for their children's hands, men yelling out to their families, and the splash of the plane. We regain Jack's vision underwater as he thrashes to resurface. Grunting and choking out air as he climbs closer. The planes propeller whirs by, nearly clipping our protagonists right arm off. Jack's head rises from the water gasping for air, wiping the water from his eyes Jacks head darts around, plane pieces strewn about the waters as oil bleed from the steel carcass and lit ablaze by electrical veins torn from the torso. Jack looks to the right, there, standing silently in solitude, a lighthouse in the middle of the Atlantic. Me and Nathan guide the shaken man up its steps and through the large, bronze doors that silently close behind us. Lights flicker on and a slow violin begins to play from a old time record player. We stumble down flights of staircases and into a bathysphere. The large glass viewing pane of the sphere closes behind Jack looks out as it descends down into the blue abyss. "10 Fathoms" A sign displays as bubbles slightly obscure it. A statue of a man holding the world is prominently displayed above a sign reading "18 Fathoms". A projector screen unravels infront of our view port and the image of a man is displayed "From the desk of Andrew Ryan!" Is written beneath him as a recording plays.
 "I am Andrew Ryan, and I am here to ask you a question. Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?
'No,' says the man in Washington, 'it belongs to the poor.'
'No,' says the man in the Vatican, 'it belongs to God.'
'No,' says the man in Moscow, 'it belongs to everyone.'
I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose... 

Rapture.

A city where the artist would not fear the censor,
where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality,
where the great would not be constrained by the small.
And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city, as well."

With the conclusion of his speech the projector screen retracted and showed us the city of which Ryan spoke of. Rapture.

An underwater city cast upon our screen as Nathan and I both let out a breath of amazement, yes, it was a game. But the mere presentation and power of Ryan's speech made it seem as though we ourselves were viewing Rapture through the bathysphere's glass. A squid darted by as we floated through the city's buildings. Neon signs advertised and displayed the many prominent locations of the submerged dystopia. Gliding further through the isles of sky(?)scrappers our bathysphere nears the end of its journey. Entering a building with a bright neon letters spelling out "Rapture Metro"  and with that. Our screen goes black to load the next area.

     To this day no scene from a movie, chapter of a book, nor television show captured the magic that was the opening of BioShock, nor has anything else ever sparked my imagination with so much intent to learn more of the oceans, building infrastructure, and ocean life. Heck, this game probably inspired me to take Marine Bio last year. 

Rainbow Number

Some months ago my good friend Isaac lent me on of his father's books, a Tom Clancy novel by the name of Rainbow six. It's been an extraordinarally long read for me, considering I rarely read for pleasure outside of school, but all while I read it the back story of each character's military background enthralls me. Each rose to shine in his own right, start a family, but  still serve his nation, be it Germany, Isreal, United States, or Great Britain proudly. I turn each page with a new thought in my head, a new idea to dwell on a I often do. for hours on end. Been a long time since I've read a book and actually meditated on some of it's messages, you never know wht can happen with you and your ideas, wether you just disregard them as a common thought, or let them blossom into your entire plans for the future.

Robin Williams, looking the same

The opening of Peter Wier's 1989 film Dead Poets Society is almost solemn, filled to the brim with he apearance of strict rules, tradition of old, and young tears. The aged Welton Academy for boy reeks of the rich's perfumes and colognes, sending their children to only the best and brightest school money can afford while still holding on to them with an iron grasp. Undoubtedly founded by scottish immagrants of some wort the Academy proudly wears its heritage, scottish flags adorn the walls, a mural of women holding United States and Scottish flags above the common folk, as if leading them to a greater life. Younglings that are next of kin are fully expected to equal or surpass their elder siblings in studies, no matter how high the latter finished in grades. The only one who truelly seems light hearted among all the faculty, of course, is Robin William's character, who wields a great knowledge and understanding of peotry, and attempts to spread that apprecation for the art among his students. While one is immedialty enthralled in it, all the rest seem almost resiliant. Also, Robin Williams, get a new smile, I'm tired of seeing the same dumb grin in every one of your movies.

Korabaan

Yep, first MMO Raid with Jacob. Down the rabbit hole we go then.
Brief post because it's a slight shame.

Dat Mundane Post, yo.

Reading and all that jazz, mhm. That's the first post for the etymology class, good thing I have a prompt for this too, 'cause I would have no freaking idea what to type about if not for it. <3 Mr. Hill for that'n. Okay, so, way back in the day when things were cool, there was a little guy in third grade who started reading them things called books/tomes whatever you want to throw down for their label (although tomes tend to hold more knowledge than books, so let's roll with books since it was for leisure back then.) I'd go home with a few books I'd snagged off of a book case in the classroom or go to our own little home book case filled with kiddie books at home. Reading was a before bed time activity for me, considering they seemed to always make me drowsy, and still to this day they do. It'd help little ol' me crash and burn after a mildely hard day at school. Mainley read those magic tree house books, something along those lines for the series name. Anywho, they were quick reads no doubt, normally I'd be able to finish one then just sail off to little magic faerie dream land. If I wasn't in such a good mood that night though, I'd usually take home an eye-witness book. Get my knowledge on before bed, the books weren't the wordiest of things, packed with plenty of picture with snippets of info in by the picture it pertained to. The eye-witness stuff influenced me more than the other books though in a way, nowadays I prefer a book of facts or containing lots of information over a topic of some sort (Vietnam books seem to catch my eye the most, something about hippies, rock and roll, and ill fated war gets the brain going). Fantasy can take a back seat to taboo as well, the whole asain mother breaking her childrens souls in Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, just seems more interesting, mostly because it involves the inner depths of the asain stereotype and how it reminds me of my friend Sean in some way (He's asian. Can't imagine why he isn't a neurosurgeon yet.)

Because I can, that's why

The lack of a tab bothers me, not gonna lie. ANYWHO, Etymology class, righto. The blog is up and running, definetely didn't think I'd ever be saying that, due to my intense hatred of every one else's Blog/opinion/thoughts/comments/anything I don't agree with. M'kay, expect random beffudlements of posts, ranging from the mundane class assignment stuff to the general black/nerd/odd/ humor of myself in extra curricular posts. Why? Because I can, so shut up and like it.