Below are the 12 most recent journal entries recorded in drewpogge's LiveJournal:

Thursday, December 9th, 2004
6:21 pm	This whole semester has been a big honkin’ fairy tale, and I’m glad I’m almost to the happy (hopefully) ending. It’s been to most challenging semester I’ve had in three years, with the first class that I’ve ever felt completely at a loss in: Spanish. Damn Spanish. Call it my dragon, my maiden in a tower, my beast. Childrens Lit actually proved to be more than I had bargained for as well. It really did not become the class that I had hoped. This is not to say it was bad, or boring, just very, very different than I had anticipated. I feel that this class should definitely be renamed. We did not study “childrens” lit. We studied historical, archetypal, myth type stories, upon which all other childrens stories are based (this I did retain). Both of my parents have been teaching all levels of children for a combined 65 years. They have both spent the bulk of their careers teaching elementary aged children to read. In fact, my Dad is a reading specialist. I have been sharing with them what we have been learning in class this semster, and in their, and my opinion, we have pulled a Red Riding Hood, we have strayed from the path. What the hell is Finnegans Wake doing in childrens lit? Few academics know what is going on in this product of adult genius, not to mention children. I understand that, according to interpreters (since I wouldn’t know one way or another), it contains all fairy tales. But what is the point, if we don’t know that? In my opinion, which has not wavered since the first class session, childrens lit is not about stuffy academic types. It is not about professors. It is not about us as students. Childrens lit, has and always will be for CHILDREN! We failed to study much real childrens lit, and frankly it was a huge dissappointment. I wanted to dive into some Dr. Suess to see what motiveated his thoughts, I wanted to investigate the Narnia tales, I wanted to see where illustrations fit into this literary scheme (there is a place for illustrations, they can enrich a story so much). We just plain didn’t do it. Why must everything be related back to long dead geniuses, or models that hardly apply any longer? Why couldn’t we look at contemporary childrens stories (there are, among the trash, some fabulous new stories being written each year). My parents share their work with me, they tell me stories, they know what turns a child on to reading and why. I believe that THESE are the things that a childrens lit class should focus on. I was turned off by the very academic approach we took. In my experiences reading to countless classes of my parents, academics has a place, but not in childrens lit. Childrens lit is about great stories, wonderfully imaginative, descriptive writing, powerful imagery, and for gods sake CHILDREN! In a class bearing the word in it’s title, how often did we talk about children? Not often. We started out strong with Haroun. I was very excited, because it was what I had hoped for. Being read to in clas was wonderful, since it gave us that perspective again. When was the last time that you were read to? I really enjoyed the first few weeks and then we were corrupted by the ever present Muggles of academia. Academia is just as rigid and unforgiving, often unoriginal and uninspiring, as the Muggles themselves. I don’t think that rules can, or should always be assigned to writing. Academics don’t leave much room for interpretation or, horrors of horror, REinterpretation. Dr. Sexson is brilliant, and he is my favorite professor on campus, this is not intended to be a rip on him or his method of instructing. I just think that the class needs to be adjusted. I did get some good ideas out of the class, but it really dissappointed me overall. Sorry this turned into a vent, but I guess it needed to be said. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
6:21 pm	Individual presentations. Wow, I feel kinda crappy about my paper and presentation. I was so rushed to get it done this week (it’s been insane, all things converging into a single period of time, like a black hole of school collapsing onto itself) that I think I missed the point. I really thought that other people had some super interesting topics, and they sounded really well thought out and, in some cases, researched. I wish in retrospect I would have picked something more interesting/stimulating to me, to think about. I had to laugh at the Ed Geine comparison to Bluebeard, I’ve actually been through his hometown (Sun Prarie, WI), it was pretty creepyJ Something like that would have been a lot more fun and probably would have yielded a better paper. (Comment on this)
6:19 pm	New entries from hand written journal Group presentations were, as a whole, pretty well thought out, orignal and exprssive. I like that there weren’t really two groups who did the same basic design, and I really liked that everyone seemed to have a good time. I know that my group had a little fun, or at least I did. Usually, I’m wholeheartedly opposed to group projects, because it seems that I always end up doing almost all of the work. This group was better than most, so thanksJ Groups are just inherently difficult to navigate, between logistics of getting people in the same place at the same time, to clash of interest, to differences in vision, to differences in personality, etc. I’m not a big fan. This turned out fine though, and it seemed that most groups issed out on the horrors normally associated with groups as well. I thought most of them were well thought out, and well acted. Some of them didn’t seem to hit the points as much as others, but all of them were entertaining. (Comment on this)
Sunday, December 5th, 2004
1:11 pm	I guess I never posted my fairy tale so here it is: The Dream Prince Once upon a long time ago a girl was born. This baby girl was the most beautiful that any mother had ever seen, but this mother was wrought with troubles, deep and dark and frightening troubles. Troubles so troubling that the mother left her baby girl on the cool moss by the side of a stream, in hopes that the baby may never have to see the troubles she had seen. She wrapped her baby in soft cotton and laid her there beneath a huge willow, for she knew of a kind man and woman who passed by the tree every three days and would surely take the baby girl and make her their own. The mother said goodbye to her daughter and it was so sad and tearful a goodbye, that the willow started weeping and has not ever ceased. The mother left, to run from her problems once more, and to keep them far away from her beautiful daughter. The child lay beneath the willow at the edge of the stream for three days, and the birds and rabbits and even the fish in the stream were amazed at her beauty, and made sure she was safe and well fed. Then on the third day, the man and his wife walked by the willow and saw the baby lying there, smiling and laughing at them. They immediately fell in love with her and picked her up, and ran home excitedly. The man and woman had always wanted a baby girl, but were not able to have one of their own. They thought this baby must be a gift from the heavens and vowed to always love and cherish the beautiful little girl. They named her Katarina. Katarina grew up quickly, as children do, and became more beautiful each year. She had golden hair and fair skin and a warm smile. She sang joyously while she did her chores, and played the lute for her loving parents as they sat in front of the fireplace on cool evenings. She wanted for nothing for many years, and was very happy. Then one day she didn’t sing while she did her chores. Her mother asked her “Katarina, are you sick?” Katarina sighed, “No, I am not sick.” Puzzled, her mother asked, “Are you tired then darling?” “No I am not tired”, Katarina replied. Her mother looked at her once more with much interest. “Katarina, do you wish to meet a boy?” Katarina brightened and blushed and stammered and then finally exclaimed, “Yes, yes, I want to meet a fine prince who will make me as happy as you have!” Her mother chuckled and went on with the chores. “With your beauty and your songs, you will have no trouble finding a fine prince my darling.” So the very next day, she sent Katarina to town to grind some flour, but let her go alone for the first time. The very first prince she met was very fine indeed, with a good character and a strong imagination, and they fell in love in a short time. They did everything together and planned to be married. Then one day her prince came to her with tears in his eyes and told her that he had to leave her. “I must go slay my dragons, in a land very far away, and I may never return.” She wept and pleaded, but she knew he had to go. He gave her a curious gift, a small golden ring bound with leather, and criss-crossing the ring was sinew woven tightly, except for a hole crafted in the center. He said, “This is a dream catcher, it will collect all of your dreams before they enter your mind, and let only the good dreams through the hole in the center. May you dream of me and the day I might return to you Katarina.” And with that he rode away. She hung the dream catcher above her bed and thought of him every night for two years. In two years time much can, and did happen. Her family fell on hard times, and they soon had no money, even for food. There was a very rich prince in town who had made it clear that he desired to marry Katarina. Upon seeing her mother begging for help in the street, Katarina went to the rich prince and said that she should be happy to marry him on one condition. She made him promise to take care of her kind parents for as long as they should live. He wanted to marry Katarina so badly that he agreed at once and soon they were married. He was not a bad man, not an evil prince or a demon prince or even an especially jealous prince. He was, however, a dull prince. He had little personality or imagination and soon Katarina became bored. She was alone in the huge castle of the rich prince for hours and hours and hours with no one to chat with. Katarina was full of personality and imagination and she loved to talk. She realized, too late, that the dull prince could never make her truly happy. She took solace in the thought that she was keeping her parents safe, and that it was only fair that she do this for them after they so had kindly taken her in as a baby. She accepted her dull life, with her dull prince and quietly mourned her own selfish losses. But Katarina had a secret. In the dark, eerie hours of the night, Katarina gazed at the dream catcher given to her by the first prince, her love. She loved him still, though kept this fact quite hidden for fear of upsetting everyone, and she often thought about him. She tried to dream of him, but she could not. In fact she could not dream at all. She tried everything, from herbs to brews to spells cast by traveling gypsies, but never did a dream appear. So she sat gazing into the web of her dream catcher, wondering where her prince, her true love, might be. One especially dark and eerie night, she began speaking to the dream catcher. “If you are indeed a dream collector, why do you keep all of the dreams from me? Surely they cannot all be bad, and my mind aches to escape the boredom of this castle, if only in a dream, and only for one night.” In a moment, her chambers filled with a beautiful glow, and a rush of the freshest air she had ever breathed filled her lungs. She gasped in surprise and pleasure, for there in the glow stood her love, her prince. “I have come to you in this dream, to say how much I miss you and love you in full. I am crushed by your marriage to the dull prince, but I wish you only to be happy. What may I do, to please you?” Katarina rushed to him in the radiance and they embraced as the sun embraces the horizon. “I want only to be with you once more,” she said, “but this, this is only a dream, it isn’t real, and we can never be together.” He laughed softly, “What is a dream, Katarina?” and suddenly was gone from her arms. She woke with a start in the dull darkness of her room. All seemed to be the same as it was before, save for the thrashing of her heart. She looked to the dream catcher as she had so many times before, and noticed something that took her breath away. One of the delicate sinews was gone, leaving a scar in the intricate webbing. She didn’t know what to make of it, and sat up all night thinking, and envisioning her dream prince. The next day passed in the usual dull, passionless manner to which she had become accustomed. She couldn’t wait for night to fall once again, so that she might dream again. She paced and fretted the entire day and at dinner, her dull husband asked her why she felt so fidgety. “It must be just a spell, a touch of the flu perhaps.” And his easy, simple demeanor required no other explanation. For once, she was thankful for his dullness. In her chambers as darkness fell, Katarina stared intently at her dream catcher for three hours, searching for any sign, and hope of another escape. She tired and slowly fell asleep. Suddenly her chambers filled with light once again and there stood her prince, her love. “I knew you’d come back, I knew you’d let me see you again!” she exclaimed. He took her hand in silence and walked with her to the edge of the light. “You have a wonderful mind Katarina, and a wonderful imagination. Anything you imagine, you can make real here.” And he led her into the light. They burst out into a meadow by the edge of a stream. A stunningly beautiful maiden was placing a baby onto a bed of cool moss beneath a willow. “Is this my mother?” Katarina asked shyly. But her prince was gone. She turned and watched as the maiden wept over the baby and stood to leave. She looked into the eyes of her mother and saw herself there, and she cried out, but the maiden too was gone. She was lying in the dull darkness of her room once again. She hastily looked to the dream catcher. Another strand of webbing was gone. “Anything you can think, you can make real,” she said to herself in quiet, spellbound satisfaction. Each night was the same; she fell asleep and was soon embraced by the radiant light and her dream prince. Each day too was the same, a time of anxious yearning and anticipation for the night. Her dream prince took her many places on those nights. He took her to places they had been together, to places in her past, places in her future and places that had no time or place, but were merely adventures of the grandest type. And always she was with him. And always, in the morning as she woke, the dream catcher shed another strand from it’s complex web. Her dull husband noticed a change in her, a distancing from him, but could not find a way to bring her back. For all of his expensive gifts, for all of his well meant but clichéd and unoriginal admonitions of love, he was no match for her imagination. She played the part of his wife, she listened to his dull conversation and went with him to do the dull, routine things he always did, but she was somewhere else. She was with her love. The dream catcher began to look thin, and she worried that if the sinews were all spent, she might lose her dreams. She tried tying more sinews to the ring, but each morning the ones she had placed would be gone, along with one of the remaining original strands. Finally, Katarina asked her dream prince what it meant to lose the sinews. “Each sinew of the ring connects you to the world of dreams, a world that you must choose. Each is a path into your true life. When the sinews are gone, so is your connection to the dream world, and to me. The only way to keep the connection is to choose your dreams.” And, as he always did, her dream prince vanished. She the thought of his cryptic words all day. “What does it mean to choose your dreams? How can I choose if each sinew is a different path? Oh, what to do!” She went to her dull husband and asked him what he dreamed of. “What’s the use in dreaming, it’s not real life! I pride myself on not dreaming, it keeps me rooted firmly in reality. Why do you ask?” Katarina stammered a nonsense reason and excused herself. She finally understood. Her husband never dreamed because he wasn’t a dreamer. It was a choice, a choice she would have to make. Each night she dreamed, and each night she loved her prince, and each night she dreaded the return to dull life. Almost as much as she dreaded the loss of another strand of webbing. One night she sat and stared at the dream catcher. Given to her as a token of love and commitment, it now was reduced to an empty ring from which a single, short strand of sinew hung limply. She knew tonight she would choose. As she fell asleep, she thought of her kind parents. Her dream prince appeared as he always did, but this time he seemed sad and lonely. “Tonight, my dear Katarina, you must choose between the safety of the dull prince, or the unpredictable land of the dreamer. I have chosen to be a dreamer, but I want only for you to be happy, so choose what you feel in your heart is right.” She looked at him and began to cry. She thought of her parents, who relied on her marriage to the dull prince. She thought of the dull prince as well, for as average and dull as he was, he was a good man, and she cared for him. She thought of herself and felt a great well of sadness, for any path she picked would cause her great anguish. She thought of the children she hoped to someday bear. What life would she wish for them? Katarina gathered herself and kissed her dream prince, for perhaps the last time. “I have chosen”. She woke in the dull darkness of her room and began to weep silently. It was all for naught, for she had chosen to dream, and here she was, back in the dull castle, the home of her dull husband and their dull life. What kind of cruel joker could play with her heart, her very being in such a way? In that moment of realization, she hardened and made a vow to herself. She would always dream, even without her dear, precious dream catcher that now hung as a shell of itself on the wall above her. The very next day she packed her things and left the dull prince. She loved him, and told him so, but he was not of the same mold as she. He said to her, “I do love you Katarina, and though I do not understand why you are leaving, I will help you. Worry not of your kind parents, I will keep my word and provide for them as long as they should live. Goodbye, Katarina”. And he turned and walked away as dully as he would any other time. She moved back to the cottage that her parents had raised her in, and made herself a comfortable home. She did whatever she wanted and lived an imaginative and rich life. Her one want, her only want, was her dream prince. She thought of him every day and though she could dream no more, also every night. She often wandered down to the willow by the edge of the stream, where she had first been abandoned, and sat on the cool moss while the willow wept on her from above. One such time she was sitting, lost in thought, when her name rose on the wind. She turned and on the hillside, silhouetted by the sun’s radiance, was her dream prince, her love. She ran to his arms and they embraced. “I chose to dream!” she cried happily. He gazed at her extraordinary beauty and whispered, “We both did, my dear Katarina”. They all lived happily ever after. Katarina and her Dream Prince dreamed and had adventures together in the cottage by the stream and raised beautiful children who dreamed much themselves. Her kind parents were provided for, and lived long lives. The dull prince found an equally dull bride and they lived in dull happiness forever. The empty leather ring, the broken dream catcher, hung from the mantle in the home of Katarina and her prince. Her children heard it’s story and grew tired of it, but they never forgot. “Anything you imagine, you can make real.” Khattam Shud (Comment on this)
Saturday, November 27th, 2004
12:46 pm	Today was recital day for Finnegans Wake. I opted not to participate because in my opinion it was meaningless exercise in literary elitism, in which I will take no part. Regurgitating words does not bring meaning to them. I did make a short attempt to complete the assignment, just in order to complete it, as I am opposed wholeheartedly to the teaching of this piece of literature in a class titled Childrens Lit. What I learned is that I do not understand 99 percent of what is contained in Finnegans Wake. Perhaps I am a dullard then, I'll gladly admit my limitations. The point is that my understanding did not change as I repeated a passage over and over. I was a parrot mimicking sounds. Without meaning, literature is lost, replaced by mimed actions, feigned understanding, which to me is an arrogance. As I watched my classmates recite today, most of them struggling, concentrating deeply, I wondered whether they had found meaning where I had found none. I hope they have, otherwise they too were mere parrots cawwing into the emptiness. Some of them were extraordinary, having memorozed line after line! But Why? We are supposed to know it in the flesh and thus understand it, but what happens if understanding and knowing are not the same? It seems this is where I have arrived. If recital brought meaning to the piece, then my applause was not in vain, but if mimicry is all that is required, then I believe the exercise a waste. (Comment on this)
12:45 pm	The Catcher in the Rye. I have a lot to say about this one. I read this novel for the first time in about eighth grade, and while it made a lot of sense to me then, I think I really grasp what it is about now. Many people in class said it impacted them less now, as they were “over” that “phase” of life. In my opinion all of life is a struggle, and Holden exeplifies that struggle. In class he was ripped apart as a loser, a negative a character, an “anti-hero”, but I don’t necessarily see it that way. He gives up, which is his weakness, but I don’t think he is a complete failure. At the risk of being called a weak, “anti-hero” loser myself, I can relate to many of the feelings expressed by Holden. There is always the chance of failure hanging over your head, it is all about how you handle that looming disaster. Holden handles it poorly, but it doesn’t mean that it’s not valid. He’s sort of lost, he doesn’t know what will happen to him, he doesn’t know what he should do, he doesn’t feel connected to anyone but Phoebe. I’ll venture out on the loser limb again and admit that at times I feel just the same way. The difference is that I think that knowing exactly what is going to happen, or exactly what you are going to do, or exactly who you are going to be with is a simple, easy way out of living. It is the uncertainty in life that makes it so great to wake up each day. If I knew what I was going to do for the rest of my life, I would kill myself tomorrow. Holden is sort of crude and rough around the edges, but inteligent and sensitive to others and I’d like to think that I am very similar (hopefully not just crude and rough). I relate a lot to his character, even now and I don’t think that means I am destined to be a loser. That is the beauty if the novel, everyone can relate to Holden, everyone has felt the way he does, and if they don’t admit it, they are lying. He’s a literary icon for a reason. (Comment on this)
12:44 pm	Wind in the Willows has been a favorite of mine for years, and holds a lot of meaning for me. My mother used to call me Mr. Toad since I was always getting into trouble and undertaking adventures. I took it as a complement because I admire Toads zeal for life. My favorite chapter is of course the piper at the gates of dawn. I too have felt the presence of Pan at numerous occasions during my outdoor adventures. It is a spiritual awakening, and just as the characters in TWITW are given the gift of forgetfullness, the powerful, spiritual heightening fades away as I have left the wild places and returned to daily life. There is a need to hear the piping again, and that is why I climb mountains. The passage is brilliant, and the text I remember most clearly, and relate to deeply is this: “Lest the awe should dwell-And turn your frolic to fret-you shall look on my power at the helping hour-But then you shall forget!-forget-forget.”(141) To me this means that the awe that I find in wild places could become a burden if I become preoccupied with it. It would become a source of anguish rather than joy, but in appreciating it, and then returning to the realm of humanity the joy will be preserved to experience again. To fully see the beauty, or spirituality of a place, it must be as though you have never seen or felt it before. This something I strive for, it’s why I live in MT. it’s a powerful passage that speaks to anyone who has ever felt regret in leaving a wild beautiful place, as you feel the connection to Pan fade and then disappear. Until the next time. (Comment on this)
12:43 pm	According to the Haas essay, children will occupy and rewrite fairy tales if given the opportunity. I think this is true of not only children, but adults as well. I think that is probably the strongest attraction of reading. Children play and pretend and reenact stories they have been exposed to, whether through literature or movies or TV or whatever. They recognize the experiences of the characters in these media as archetypal, on some level, and they want to experience the various transformations as well (beast to prince, ugly duckling to beautiful swan, underdog to victor). In playing, they live these stories. I think the same could be said for adult lit. It is more of a mental exercise for adults, as if you saw a 40 year old guy wielding a stick sword fighting off imaginary dragons, it would not be socially acceptable. An advantage that adults have, is that they can read into stories with a treasury of background knowledge, bringing even more meaning to the journey of the characters. An example of adult fairy tales is the poularity of romance novels. These all follow an archetypal cinderella, or snow-white, or rapunzel, or some such other fairy tale. Primarily targeting adult women readers, these stories allow for the same kind of role playing journey that true fairy tales bring to children. Readers of all ages immerse themselves in whatever story they may be reading, relating to the characters on a personal level, and effectively living vicariously through text. Isn’t that the point? I’m still occupying and rewriting fairy tales, whether it is the hero intiation journey of ice climbing, the apparent beauty and beast relationship I have with the opposite sex, or any number of other facets of my life. I think it is the nature of imagination to occupy and rewrite stories for meaning in our personal lives, for all ages and all time. (Comment on this)
12:42 pm	I've been writing my journals in a notebook as time allows, and I am just now typing them into this page. Enjoy Haroun and the Sea of Stories. I was chosen to give a little presentation to the class about some aspect of Haroun… Once I started thinking about it, the thing that really garnered my interest was how he had written this book with a fatwa hanging over his head, in hiding from his own people who had found his writing so powerful, that he should die. Wow. If only I could write so well. I began investigating some of the political, social and religious underpinnings of the time and found quite a lot. I focused on the issue of censorship, since it iis such a gross, misguided concept which effectively ceases independent thought. Rushdie wrote Haroun as a rebuttal to his fatwa, kind of an in-your-face to those who support censorship. The entire novel is about the power of censorship, but a couple passages in particular spoke to me. The second paragraph on page 120 is an argument for democracy. The discussion of vital matters is the heart of free democracy (we’ve obviously strayed from the path in the US), so the plans were “itemized, strutinaized, rationalized, analyzed, mulled-over,chewed-over, made much of, made little of and even, after interminable wranglings, agreed.” This open sharing of information is also contrary to the practice of censorship. The battle on page184 is the battle detween democracy and autocracy, which is also a reference back to the Indian Emergency in the mid to late 70’s, which Rushdie was involved in. The Indian Emergency was a period of governemental conrol. The trains ran on time, everything ran efficiently, but human rights were compromised horribly (sterilization campaigns for muslims, opposition was forbidden, punished by arresst or death, and of course, censorship was imposed. What happened was that a seemingly disunited country, speaking several different languages, with no apparent formal organization overthrew the corrupt government. This is the story told on page 184. The Pages of Gup (democracy) were confident in their plan after so much consideration, while the Chupwalas(autocracy) were suscpicious and distrustful of one another and their generals. They ran away or betrayed one another and the Pages were victorious. It is a metaphorical victory for Rushdie over censorship. (Comment on this)
12:39 pm	New Entries I've been writing my journals in a notebook as time allows, and I am just now typing them into this page. Enjoy. One of my favorite stories when I was much younger was “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day”, byJudith Viorst. I still think of this story every time I have a “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day”. The opening line brings a smile to may face, even as I write it here. "I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there's gum in my hair and when I got out of bed this morning I tripped on the skateboard and by mistake I dropped my sweater in the sink while the water was running and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day." Not only does Alexander wake up with gum in his hair, but his mother forgets to pack him dessert, and his best friend decides he’s not his best friend anymore. And if that’s not bad enough, Alexander’s brothers don’t have any cavities but -- he does. And just when it can’t get any worse, there are lima beans for supper and -- yuck! -- kissing on TV. It’s just a great, funny, relatable story. Perhaps the best part is that Mom doesn’t come swooping and save the day, as in many childrens stories (which is part of the reason it could be argued that Americans in particular don’t have any initiation ritual, we are all waiting to be rescued). Instead, Mom just tells Alexander that "some days are like that, even in Australia." My mother was the same way, she always let my sister and I deal with our own troubles. Not that she wasn’t loving, or didn’t take care of us, but she often let us fall on our metaphorical (sometimes literal) face, just so we’d learn how to pick ourselves back up. It’s a great childrens story, I rememeber being very young and repeating the common phrase as my Dad read to me. My kids will definitely be hearing about Alexanders terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 14th, 2004
10:44 pm	Dark Stories Today we talked about how many parents and teachers (parent should be synonymous with teacher), try to shield the young from dark stories. Violence, Sex, Age, Illness. These are all taboo apparently. Call me disturbed, but my parents read me stories about these subjects, in fact, I really enjoyed many of the stories. The pleasure did not come from a sick fascination with pain and misfortune, but rather the recognition that these are the rites of passage. I rememebr being about 6-7 years old (first or second grade) and my parents would read me stories from books long ago forgotten, about demons and cyclops and labryinths and growing old and dying and most especially I rememebr being read some minutely erotic, adult fiction and being embarrassed to death. My embarrassment at the time was caused by my own awareness of what sex was. Children are not the innocent, cherubs thaeir parents wish them to be. Kids know of violence. I was a geek in elementary school, nose buried deep in Jules Verne when others were reading the very same watered down, filtered crap now in question. This means I got harassed and beat up a lot:) Kids know of sex, who didn't have a girl or boy they "liked" in every grade from kindergarten on? I know i did my fare share of playing doctor (which is also an extension of reading, knowing archetypal roles and using ones imagination!) and kissing girls before i even really realized why for sure. I wish I could gt back to those days, when girls wanted to play doctor:) I also rememebr being aware of age. I had an aunt who I was rather close to die when I was very young, 4-5, and my parents didn't sugar coat the subject. They told me that the aunt had died, and was gone forever, never to return. They told me that this would happen to grandparents, them, even me. I don't remember being traumatized by this news, I think I just accepted it. Kids deserve more respect and should be treated as developing adults instead of intitutionalized idiots on the verge of mental breakdown. Of course, there must be love, attention and support as they go through these realizations, but they must go through them nontheless. The sooner children are exposed to the harsher realities of life, the sooner they can relate to the world, and other people in this world, not in the least through literature. I thank my parents for shocking, scaring and of course comforting me through these vital lessons. I matured more quickly and grew as an individual because i was free of the curtains of ignorance draped by some adults. Some people envy the "innocence" of youth, I say to hell with it, let's get on with real life. (Comment on this)
Sunday, September 5th, 2004
1:57 pm	First Entry Well, here it begins. I am looking forward to basically seeing what interpretation of "childrens lit" is taught. Both of my parents have been elementary reading specialists for over thirty years; childrens books are their life. They have shared their love if lit with me from birth and i'm curious to see what differences, if any are found between the perception of childrens literature and learning my parents share, and the perception taught in academia. I finished "Haroun" a few nights ago, it was a great story with some notable passages that I think were placed there for adults more than kids. "You know how people are, new things, always new. The old tales, nobody cares."pp86 "But, but, but what is the point of giving persons Freedom of Speech,'declaimed Butt the Hoopoe, 'if you then say they must not utilize the same? And is not the Power of Speech the greatest Power of all? The surely it must be exercised to the full?"pp119 "Happy endings are much rarer in stories, and also in life, then most people think. You could almost say they are the exceptions, not the rule."pp201 There are several other passages that I found to be similar. They are a social, cultural commentary, a reflection of the beliefs of the author woven into the story with the purpose of stimulating a bit of thought on how very important such stories can be. Basically the entire novel is a huge metaphor for the current condition of literature in our time. It was published in 1990, and I'm sure that the same idea, that stories are becoming obsolete, still holds true, probably to a greater extent than ever in our destraction filled social condition. Just my 2 cents. Ok, until next entry, vamoose. (Comment on this)