The Black Swan.

“I had the craziest dream last night about a girl who turned into a swan.. And she kills herself.” We’ve all experienced paranoia of failure, a fear of mediocrity. This intensity is never as strongly interpreted as in the Black Swan- a movie portraying Natalie Portman as Nina, a ballerina driven to insanity by her struggle for passion.

Nina has landed the star role for a performance of Swan Lake. Her innocence and precision makes her the ideal candidate for Odette, but she is incapable of portraying the seductive nature of the Black Swan. Nina is pressured even more into her role by the arrival of her understudy Lily- who has every bit the talent, and twice the sensuality. As the movie progresses, we begin to wonder if Lily even exists. Is she just the desperate figment of Nina’s imagination?

            Nina is the ultimate victim of her obsession towards perfectionism. Her only successful attempt at passion arrives in the form of self-mutilation. Her thoughts get darker and darker, and Tchaikovsky’s twisted suite leads to a horrifying, traumatizing end.

This movie, in my opinion, is a fantastic study of the human psyche and the terrors that can lead us to revel in pain. Nina is the epitome of a struggling, pressured woman, one that we can all relate to- or recoil from. Director Darren Aronofsky creates a perfect blend of fragile tutus and shattered glass in this Oscar-worthy classic.

Despite controversial reviews and hesitant ratings, this holiday movie is a must. The intensity and drama of this fantasy turned thriller will have you on the edge of your seat- frightened, disturbed, and intrigued. Is there a more formidable craving than lunacy by pirouette?

Asphyxia.

A frightening omen is spreading furiously across the sky. It is a black storm cloud, warning all to take shelter before it unleashes its fury. Thunderclaps emphasize the magnitude of its rampage.

Below, a churning ocean is gathering momentum. It slashes furiously at the wicked boulders confining its outrage. No living being witnesses this except a solitary figure pacing calmly about the abandoned, rocky shore. This figure is Andromeda, swathed in a long, startling blue gown that not only matches her eyes, but matches the tempest.

The dark, mysterious depths of the ocean have always captivated Andromeda. The lulls and crests seem to beckon for her to join them. In her desolation, she often spans this coastline, seeking nothing but the companionship of the waves. The isolated stretch of beach is her haven; no one ever interrupts her, because no one cares to notice she is gone.

A seagull shrieks in the distance. Andromeda empathizes with its lonely, piercing cry. She understands how it feels to go unheard, to go through each day as a shadow. All shadows eventually fade away, she notices. With this in mind, Andromeda continues her peaceful stroll, hardly noticing the sharp rocks piercing the tender soles of her feet.

She resumes her suicidal contemplation. In her solitary state, no one will notice if she drifts away. Being carried away by the storm, she romanticizes, would be an intriguing way to go. And afterwards? So many people have their convictions about the elusive Afterlife. But Andromeda quickly dismisses this pondering- she has no interest in fantasizing about the extension of life, nor does she care. She only finds exhilaration at knowing that she'll escape this existence she so loathes.

She understands that death is inevitable, yet feels nothing but anticipation for her eventual end. Why? There is nothing worth living for. She is rotting away on the inside: suppressing her constant frustrations, drowning her outraged thoughts, tearing apart her magnitude of memories.

The bitter truth is that poor Andromeda is suffocating. She cannot live with herself. She cannot stand the amplitude of pressure she inflicts, her fear of failure, her fight against the inevitable tide. Disgust, repulsion, she cannot stand her willing contamination of so much purity and hope. At this, she tosses stones bitterly into the water, watching them ripple across the surface like tears splashing across her face.

In all, she is a vessel of broken dreams; a missile that has shot itself so high, only to result in a much farther fall. A dark mentality has ensnared her with hooks of ambition, leaving her to never be satisfied with the person she is.

The storm is getting nearer now. Streaks of brilliant light adorn the fuming sky. Waves are crashing even more desperately. Andromeda feels terrified, yet submits herself to nature's wrath. The ocean, she feels, is so much like her: turbulent, restless, vengeful.

The mighty crescendo of anticipation reaches a climax. Rain rages down towards the ground, thunderstorms dance in the heavens, lightning gleefully blinds awestruck eyes. The storm is here. The time has come.

And so she simply walks into the water. The waves are fighting against her, warning her to turn back. The cold current attempts to push her back to land, back to safety, but the exhilaration of this final crusade is overwhelming. Her back arches, her hands glide through the tranquil water. For a second, she is still, reveling in her last breadths of salty mist. Inhale, exhale.

Waves are lapping around her more furiously now. White foam caps the endless valleys of turquoise about her. The sky is as deep a grey as the resolute boulders framing the blue expanse. This is the only thing she will miss.

She ventures deeper into the current. Suddenly, her feet cannot reach the rocky shore. A vivid image of Anticleia flashes through her mind; Anticleia, who gave herself to the ocean in despair over the loss of her brave son. In a way, she and Anticleia are alike. They are giving up, resigning their fates in a cruel, heartless world. But this comparison is cut short as she sinks down into the water.

Her first instinct is one of trepidation. Tendrils of black hair are wrapping around her face, sliding around her throat, enveloping her existence in a veil of darkness. Her arms flail about, desperately clawing at the snares. Salt stings her eyes until nothing is seen except a mirage of dark blue. And the water! It is everywhere, driving her in every direction. Her body begs her to kick up, to obtain an infinitesimal fraction precious air. But her mind fights. Why does she want oxygen? She is dining on the nectar of failure, the ambrosia of isolation. The currents are pushing her deeper into the water; surely no one will ever find her corpse.

Her last thought is of a perfect day; sitting on the edge of a cliff, watching a sunset. A day when she was truly happy. In a way, she is watching another sunset. She is watching herself fall.

She chokes. Water is rushing into her mouth. Filling her lungs. Overcoming her senses. Yet she revels in this panic, and breathes the salty poison in. Unconsciousness begins its rapid infiltration of her senses. And then, blackness. Oblivion.

The storm dies down. Waves lazily swell back towards the shore, and patches of blue sky begin to emerge from the grey. A seagull cries, but this time, nothing hears it. Where is the seagull going? He is swooping down towards the beach, for a single, ruined blue slipper has washed in with the tide.

Compare/Contrast

    Folklore has been an essential tool in understanding diverse cultures for many generations. The Canadian La Corriveau, Hold ‘Em Tabb from the Wild West, and the Hawaiian Pele’s Revenge are three excellent examples of completely different folklore in society.

           Despite changes in culture, all three stories have been used to entertain, to frighten, to excite. La Corriveau is the story of a heartless woman who haunts innocent men, even in death. Marie Corriveau had become tired of her husband, and consequently murdered him, leading to her own execution. After her death, villagers started avoiding the road in which her corpse resided. However, one innocent traveler, Dube, decided to venture along this path one evening- much to his disadvantage. The ghost of La Corriveau attempts to murder poor Dube, but he manages to hold her off. The story is resolved when the holy Cure performs exorcises the spirit. Pele’s Revenge is much more mellow and melancholy. The tale starts with two lovers- Ohi’a and Lehua, who fall in love and get married. However, their bliss does not last long, as Ohi’a catches the eye of the goddess Pele. In her intense spite and jealousy, Pele turns Ohi’a into a tree. Lehua cries for her beloved back, and the Gods grant her wish by turning her into a flower on the tree. In the western folklore Hold ‘Em, Tabb, a dazzling mixture of silliness and mystery blend nicely to resolve in a wacky ending. Tabb decides to spend the night in a haunted house, while his friend chickens out and sleeps outside. Halfway through the night, a ghost suddenly appears and attacks Tabb! After an intense battle, Tabb and the ghost disappear, never to be seen again.

           As you can tell, these amusing pieces of fiction all have many things in common. For one, all of these stories are told in the North American region. Also, all three pieces feature male victims. Dube is attacked, Ohi’a is turned into a tree, and Tabb disappears. All unfortunate ends to practically defenseless characters. These three tales also feature supernatural beings; the ghost of Marie Corriveau, the goddess Pele, the random spirit. Hold ‘Em, Tabb! and La Corriveau both feature violent scenes of attack. Also, it appears the motive for said attacks are nonexistent- the victim just seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. La Corriveau and Pele’s Revenge are both are related to love- or lack thereof. The antagonist in both stories is a woman. On a literary note, La Corriveau and Pele’s Revenge are both written in third person. However, Hold ‘Em, Tabb! is written from the standpoint of Tabb’s friend.

           Despite the stunning amount of similarities, unique features set these stories apart. The conflict is not resolved in Hold ‘Em, Tabb!, and the purpose of the story is mainly to entertain, whereas La Corriveau was created to frighten, and Pele’s Revenge was told to explain the creation of the Ohi’a tree. Various themes, such as jealousy, death, play out in Pele’s Revenge and La Corriveau, respectively.

           It is fascinating to read different folk legends. Not only will they provide endless hours of entertainment, but a wide expanse of knowledge on different cultures is retained. After reading a few legends, you'll learn to relate and acknowledge similarities and differences; it's quite interesting to notice how despite a variety of geological locations, many stories in essence sound the same. La Corriveau, Pele’s Revenge, and Hold ‘Em, Tabb! are only a few of the diverse folk legends that are out there, but I would heartily recommend any three of these short stories to anyone who is literate, including you!

Make Me a Sandwich, Not A Museum.

            I am not a feminist. I celebrate my right to be feminine, but in no means do I plan to be treated like a man. When I heard about the bill for a National Women’s History Museum, I thought it was just plain unfair. There is no need to cause further separation about the genders.

            In the article, I caught the gist that “the government has to take care of [the museum]”, fiscally. However, the museum is a complete waste of resources. Women are already in museums around the country. There is no need to construct additional tributes when women and men can be honored equally in the same building. While history is an important part of advancement, we should be more focused on making history rather than restating it.

            As far as I know, there is no National Men’s History Museum. And if there is to be equality between genders, how come only one sex gets a museum? Senator Collins stated that “this [National Women’s History Museum] would help ensure that future generations understand what we owe to the many generations of American women”. Does he mean that future generations need not busy themselves over understanding the contributions we owe to Man?

            The entire bill is ridiculous. According to WashingtonWatch, around 80% of voters are against the museum’s construction. Congress needs to listen to the people, and understand that women are equal, not superior. There is no reason to build a National Women’s History Museum.

Holocaust.

          Adrenaline courses through my veins like the bloodthirsty River Styx burning through the hellish gates of the Underworld, yet I am placid- oblivious to the fiery scene around me. How beautiful is this deadly, spiraling torch of crimson as it melds into the sunset! I revel in this delightful arson, this perfect crime. Pulsing heat from the embers immerse my fingertips; the intoxicating scent of smoke and moribund leaves tantalize my senses. Alas, the sharp crackling of the blaze bitterly awakens me to reality. An acrid, suffocating smell of burning rubber sears my nostrils as the combustion laps forcefully at my sneakers. In my trance, I failed to notice the rough wood bark, so tenderly guarded in my hands, turn to speckled ash. Only the velvety smooth caress of deathly gray dust remains. The cinders are so fragile, so beautiful; my coffee-tainted breath catches in the midst of the inferno. Dry gusts of heat then immediately scorch the inside of my mouth.  A cry pierces the air. It is the sound of pure, undiluted fear- the desperate fleeing cries of frantic creatures. Even pale gray wisps of serpents slither towards the sky, away from the sparks, and dissolve into nothingness. What a bête noire this conflagration must be to them! In the last, haunting notes of this spontaneous, destructive symphony, I witness the wilting death of auburn leaves as they are consumed by the inevitable- the ravenous, devouring flames.

           

Off Key?

Lang Lang is the world's greatest pianist. On stage, he performs so elegantly, so beautifully, so passionately, that your heart catches in your throat. In reality, he's full of childlike humor and youth. He’ll perform in Carnegie Hall, and tap out “Flight of the Bumblebee” ..on an iPad. He’ll play Chopin’s “Black Keys” -no, not with his fingers- but by rolling an orange on the piano. His quirks and charm keep his playing interesting.. but at what cost?

When I first saw this video of Lang Lang, I was truly shown his immense passion for music. My jaw dropped as I watched him excitedly point out melodies I couldn’t hear, phrases I couldn’t see, harmonies I couldn’t even begin to understand. At one point, he flew out of the piano bench in a frenzy, acting out a scene he envisioned in the music.

However, the horrible comments on the video were terribly cruel. People mocked him ruthlessly. Comments such as “crazy” and “mad” kept popping up. "Looks like someone had too many dumplings." "Lang Lang, enough with the drugs." Jealously turned these people to mock everything: his hair, his ethnicity, his features. I was astounded that these people thought his performance was anything less than perfection.

Lang Lang’s craziness is absolutely thrilling. His genius for music is inspiring and beautiful. Does he see the packed audience or the glaring spotlights when he goes onstage? No, he sees only the piano, and the new melodies waiting to be shared. It’s unthinkable that these “haters” don’t admire his raw talent. I hope they get smashed in the face with that orange

Tempest in a Teapot

     From the second I caught wind of the 'Tea Party' rebellion, I knew a bad idea. For one, who names a political party the 'Tea Party"? These days, nothing short of "Coffee Party" is going to cut it. But last week, O'Donnell won the Republican senate primary for Delaware. More shockingly, O'Donnell is a woman. What's she doing out of the kitchen? The Tea Party is veering politics in all sorts of new directions.

    Ladies, we're all worried about the economy (or lack of it) right now. Is O'Donnell the best idea for a Senate seat? Yes, she has plenty of experience with finances. A few years ago, she didn’t pay her federal taxes, leading to the foreclosure of her house. Too bad Palin, her most enthusiastic supporter, says, "We should not reward poor financial decisions."

     Based on the article, the Republicans were forced to choose between succumbing to the Democrats and supporting the Tea Party during the bailout. Voting alongside Democrats would be unthinkable, so Tea Party it was. Little did they know, this decision would come back to bite them in the form of Christine O'Donnell.

    I think the Democrats will keep the Delaware seat come November. However, O’Donnell admits that she has dabbled in witchcraft... Maybe she’ll get into her Gringotts vault and bribe her way in.

     All in all, O'Donnell is a fantastic candidate for the Senate. You'd be hard pressed to find another nominee who has the same excellent taste in nail polish. And she’s dumb and pretty; no wonder she and Palin are so close.

'I, Too, Sing America'

Guess what I just realized? I can't blog on my party blog, salttheleech, for English. Unfortunately.

So, here's my paragraph.

     In the poem "I, Too, Sing America" by Langston Hughes, the tones of bitterness and determination symbolize the man's outrage at racial discrimination and his strength to overcome that barrier. The stanza "I am the darker brother" shows his portrayal of America as a family. In darker tones, he expresses the shameful attempt that America makes at trying to black out (no pun intended) the author's race. The mere title of this poem, "I, Too, Sing America", shows his fierce belief that all men, despite their coloring, are free, equal Americans.

There ya go. Comment.