Not All Super Heros Wear Capes
February 17th, 2008.
It’s Monday morning. Another school week ahead and to my dismay I start with French class. I was satisfied with my morning though as I thought about it walking to my first class. Good hardy meal, and a beautiful sunny day, so bright that you can actually feel the warmth of the rays on your skin. I sat in my usual spot in the bus and listened to my music and looked through the half frozen window. It is a beautiful day indeed. As I make my way through the morning rush in the hallways, buzzing with students conversing about what a wonderful or horrible weekend they had. My weekend started something like this; I finally upgraded from a small kids bed to a big, queen size bed. It was Valentine’s day just last Friday to. I didn’t get any secret valentine gift or anything but I did get to enjoy a peaceful meal with my family. Mom was eating for two since my little sister sat anxiously in my mothers tummy. My step-father always having a big appetite always seemed to be eating for two. My real father, was working as usual. I called him to wish him happy Valentines day but couldn’t talk long because he was on the job. He has a great job and he’s good at it to. He cleans and removes chemical or hazardous substances from the environment. Pretty neat. I wish he wouldn’t have to work so much though. Sunday seemed unusual though. Mom got a phone call and something just didn’t seem right. She came back down, eyes slightly red and I can tell she has been crying. What exactly ? It seemed something was wrong, but I couldn’t be sure. That was my weekend. The hallway’s have settled down as students made it into their classrooms. My French teacher, opens her classroom door and allows the other students and I to enter. Upon my entering the intercom sings its usual song to signal the beginning of class session. Within seconds, the receptionist makes an announcement to our teacher. I shuttered. She was asking for me and to bring all my books. Did I do anything wrong ? Have I handed in all my assignments ? Am I failing school ? Puzzled, I return my journey into the quiet hallways to the reception where my mom stood in tears. My stomach knotted. I hate seeing my mother crying. A mom so strong, powerful and caring. She told me to pack my things and come with her and nothing else. I’m scared. My heart raced and my mind is jamming with questions like when you try an over-loaded suitcase. I returned like mom asked. We began walking outside when it came. Words I wished to have never of heard but yet it satisfied most of my questions. It’s my dad. My legs are weak like a new born giraffe and I collapse in tears. All I could think of is why. Why ? Why ? Why ? To my surprise, my grand-mother who was waiting in the car, came to us and tried to comfort us. Then we sat in the car and made our way to the hospital.
Grand-ma, grand-pa and my dad’s girl-friend all stood by the intensive care unit of the hospital. They were expecting me. We all walked together to my dad’s bed. I felt a chill run down my spine again. There he laid with braces, wires, ivy’s and tubes, almost seems like a complex machinery. His eyes are closed and his body is still. He’s in a coma. The impact of the accident caused severe brain damage and the doctors couldn’t be sure if he would wake, move or then again, live… I stepped closer to his bed, hoping he would wake up, look at me with his smile and tell me everything would be ok. I’m afraid to touch him, afraid he will break. The questions stampede once again into my mind; will he live ? will he ever be the same ? what is supposed to happen ? why is this happening ? Its not fair !! WHY ? WHY ? WHY ?
*** 5 year later ***
March 22nd, 2013
As I drove down the highway, I rolled my windows down to feel the nice spring breeze enter my car. The sun hit on my cheek and I can it feel the warmth. I love my college schedule. No classes on a Friday. I can get ahead of school work which I am, and relax with family and friends. Something I’m actually going to do. I park my car in an open slot in the lot and make my way through the doors of a Nursery Home. You can smell the old people and their sickness, it is awful but it didn’t matter. Through the winding stairs I enter the second floor, my dad was in his chair watching the nurses go by taking care of the elderly. He clearly doesn’t belong in an old folks home, he is young only 37 years old ! I take his large warm hands into my own and greet him. His eyes widened with happiness as he saw me. You could tell he loved having visitors, especially in this stinky place. He looks good, bathed, shaved and hydrated.
My dad overcame the odds. He woke from his coma, he is mobile, above all, he is still alive. Doctors say his heart and the people who love him is what saved him. It doesn’t surprise me as I remember as a child laying next to him feeling his powerful heartbeat, and the love and care he showed to everyone. Despite not be able to talk quite yet or actually walk, my dad has come a long way, he is one of the toughest soldiers I know. A super hero, without a cape.
It may seem like nothing or have no meaning to some, but to me it means quite a bit and is bery creative. This is a photo of a flag my team and I had to create for our training camp. You may ask yourself why France ? Well, I am a very passionate ringette player, a sport which is not very popular yet across the world. Pursuing my biggest dream to play for my amazing country; Canada at World Championships, I was unfortunetly cut. However, I was give the oppurtunity to play for another country who is adopting this new sport discipline, in this case; France. No matter how painful and disapointing it was from being cut, I still wanted to pursue my dreams to compete at the World Ringette Championships (WRC) despite playing for a different country. Am I ever glad I did.
In our very first camp meeting and training with my new teammates, we created this flag, not just any flag. Our TEAM flag. We incorperated the colours of the French flag by signing in our own pendenship our names jersey numbers and hometowns in the respective order blue and red and writing “France” by including one of the most prestigious attractions of this country; the Eiffel Tower, as the letter “A”. Personnally the team and I believed it was quite creative, cohesive, unifying and meaningful no matter what others choose to believe.
They say a team is composed of gifted and talented athletes coming together as one. I believe that a team is composed of sisters uniting as a family with a common desire, a goal, a DREAM.
Sylvia Plath & Confessional Poetry (1932-1963)
Born in 1932, Sylvia Plath seemed like the ideal daughter and student, who tended to be quite a perfectionist. She was a very succesful student, honoured with multiple awards and scholardships. Despite her perfections and success, Sylvia Plath experienced many impurities within her which most believe were due to her father’s passing. After the loss of her father at the age of eight, Plath began to write her first poems, very dark and cold. Her “confessional poetry” seemed to have expressed anger, frustration, fear, pain, sadness and sorrow. Followed her junior year in college, Plath attempted to commit suicide. She went through series of treatment including; electoshock and psychotherapy, before she returned to her studies. Plath’s literary success awarded her scholarship to study in Cambridge, England where she would marry an English poet by the name of Ted Hughes. Her life seemed to be coming back together to her seeming perfection with the start of a family, publication of her first book. Unfortunetly, Sylvia and Ted’s marriage broke off which became quite apperent, aggressive. As hard times return in Plath’s life, she would numerously try to commit suicide and write poems themed death where a cruel, physical allure and psychic pain bacome almost tactile. In 1963 on the eleventh day of Ferbruary, Sylvia Plath succeeded in taking her own life away.
To conclude, it was quite clear in most of Plath’s writings that was experiencing some form of depression and or pain. Often reference to dark and harsh ideas such as death, Plath was possibly trying to express her mental illness or pain through her various poems which she could not have done it otherwise. It might have relieved her from the difficult times she experienced and endured in her life in the same way as any artist or even athlete would do. It was her getaway from life, a pain reliever.
Inventing a new form of creativity can be quite difficult, especially now a days where everything is owned by some major buisness. We are in an age where there is so much information in our hand we simply do not know what to do with it or how to approach it. Creativity today seems to be more and more based on pass works or inventions which we have built and innovated from. Aside from that, if I were to create a new form of creativity, it would definetly involve some athletic aspects to it. Art or creativity comes from expressions, what we feel, what we know and don’t know, innovations and so on. Personnally, I express myself best through sports or any form of physical activity. My manifesto for creativity would perhaps be designing new jerseys including logos, colours, material, technology. Or maybe innovating or adopt a safer equipement for the athletes, or even physio therapy process. To be honnest, I don’t know what new form of creativity I can invent, but if I did, I know for a fact it would be sports related.
Cut-Up Machine (Burroughs); Tweflth Night by William Shakespear
ACT II; Scene I
“The Sea Coast”
Viola: This pregnant art we loves made forbid our means left master’s my love; As did lady, much, that my so, good to this? Have hearts charm’d ‘tis, poor lord’s love forbid as easy woman,—now easy her a of be desperate as it sighs poor on hearts art see, outside we breathe! O lady? Fortune passion Invites dearly; And of are me passion invites as in dote of this, loves this is mistaken, state is easy she did she of better cause, on we as this of the love see, is such we her forbid master a I love she of her day!— What Olivia much. How frailty sighs is a loves she hard woman,—now better me outside frailty thou methought to this pregnant I, we! For such my a on must art for their him; And as outside the what what such frailty man: easy better no loves waxen desperate why, must loves her! She am to distractedly. She on left too as the distractedly. She shall good women’s did shall good I it me; as her: me lord’s she, frailty fond a she As dote my day!— What my such poor did much their the it not much…
William Blake (1757-1827)
- Native from London, England.
- Visisonary poet & visual artist.
- Considered a madman by many.
- Blake lived through the American & French Revolution.
- He was put on trial for treason; swearing at a soldier. (For nothing really..)
- He experienced the effects of the English Industrial Revolution.
- William married an illiterate woman by the name of Catherine Boucher & taught her to read and write.
- Trainned as a printer in the 1800’s & wanted to create colour printing.
- He and his wife opened a print shop with a good friend and former apprentice James Parker, however eventually failed several years later.
- For the remainder of his life, Blake made a meager living as an engraver and illustrator for books and magazines.
-Blake was a nonconformist who associated with some of the leading radical thinkers of his day.
Elizabeth Gilbert; Your elusive creative genius.
Creativity. It seems to hit us at the most unwanted or unexpected time. For example the shower or even right before I go to sleep I have these crazy ideas, speeches, motivation and list full of things I wish to do then wake up to madness and no longer have a clue as to what were the goals set the previous night. My creativity though seems to lack at times I need it most, like writing a 10 pages essay maybe ? Boy I’m not too excited when it will come time to write just a 20 pages thesis in University. Hopefully creativity will be a great sidekick just as Robin was to Batman. When I do get creative though, as Ruth Stone a famous American poet, described to Elizabeth Gilbert ”as a young girl, working in the fields, she would feel and hear a poem, there would be a rumble, thunder shaking the very ground, and would be barreling down at her, she had to run like hell to her house and grab a piece of paper and pencil, so when the poem thundered in her she would be ready. Sometimes though she wouldn’t be fast enough and the poeme would barrel through her and she would miss it. The poeme would continue on across the landscape and find another poet. There were also moments where she would almost miss it. The poeme passes through her and she grabs a pencil just as it was going through her and she catches it by its tail and pull it back into her body as she was writing. At these instances the poem would come up on the paper perfect and in tact but backwards from the last word to the first.” Just like Ruth Stone, I feel my idea blooming into my mind and I would find my self writing or whatever I may be doing, and the next instant its gone to find another poor desperate college student dying for ideas for his paper do the very next day. Sometimes I can grab that idea by its tail and work it back into my mind with alot of think. Just like Winnie the Pooh as he sat there “think think think” as to how to retrieve the honey from the beehive up high in the tree of the hundred acre woods. What is this creativity though ? Creativity in of itself is a creative word. You can find the words; CREATE and -TIVITY which is found in activity.. Is there a link ? Most likely latin base but how did latin begin ? Why did it become a language in the past ? How did it become the base of the art of language and speech ? A creative mind ? Is creativity living within us or do we learn from it ? So many questions to be asked. It could a philosiphical work and question that maybe even Socretes himself could not explain. I believe creativity comes from a bit of both. It comes with knowledge, background, context, openess and combining to form something new, that little voice in your head thats fighting to be let it out into the world. To inovate. The Wright brothers surely seemed insane as they try to make man fly, but where did that though and idea into building a plane come from ? A desire ? A dream ? They wanted to fly, so they seeked knowledge, experiments and combined it together to create something to fullfill that desire to fly. What about UFO’s ? Who came up with the idea that they were green slimy with big eyes and antennas flying in large saucers ? Why are they known to be described as such ? If we did not have the perception and have very little info that Area 51 has to offer (because its so top secret but eberyone knows about it) how would we describe them now ? Creativity varies to. Each individual has there own creative process or thinking, through art such as visual arts, drama, music, dance, writing, speech or plays in sports, or new technological innovation. It distinguishes us from any other animal specie in the great animal kingdom. It comes from beliefs and values, what is known and what is ought to be known. Its what one wants to perceive or does perceive. Its emotion. Its a thought. Unique and different. Its everything around us that influence what are creativity and how we go about it is unique in its own way. Here I am blogging about creativity, and each and every single one of these words are pretty creative to me. I mean who came up with these words and why did we use these words ? I guess we’ll never know, that’s for you to decide. Be creative !