Last minute Christmas preparations

I'm a procrastinator in every sense of the word. I even put off buying, wrapping, giving gifts. Instead, I went out in the snow yesterday. I tried to build an igloo; the snow was too fluffy. I tried to make a snow angel; I stepped in and ruined its shape. I tried to chase my dog; I fell on my knees into the cold and stayed there for longer than I thought comfortable. The holiday season just puts me in a leisurely mood which creates my leisurely pace. I slowly begin preparing for Christmas at the beginning of December, miscalculating, always, how much time I have. Christmas never seems to be near until it actually is. Then all chaos erupts and I'm left blogging about my own personal downfall: procrastination.

For another class, but I thought I'd share here.

The Things That I Don't Remember
(in the voice of my grandmother)
by A.S

I say I am from
leftovers:
the war, fierce,
the food, scarce.
I remain unsatisfied,
wrapped in pestilence,
desperately searching for
a fragment of hope
that mingles
with the stars.

I say
"I am from Poland."
The real thing,
(not a mirage)
holding Her ground
like a mother
cradling her newborn
in an atmosphere
of hate,
of threat.

I say I am from a land where
lore and legend
lead faithful minds,
and knowledge
leads to
violent death
instead of
faithful lives.

I say I am from
mother's woolen scarves,
father's cobbled shoes,
brother's overalls,
brother's teeshirts,
brother's socks,
sweaters,
the clothes I love.

I say I am from
a race
of giants
whose footsteps
trudge a distance
of oceans
and continents
faster than
planes
ever could.

I am from
things that aren't funny,
things that aren't easy,
things that aren't portable,
redeemable,
answerable,
comprehensible.

I am from
a myriad of embellished stories
told to grandchildren
I will soon forget.

I am from
one teaspoon of sugar
in my tea
today.

I am from
the day after soon.

I am from
"Is that you?"

I am from

I am

I

We Were Made in the Stars

(Note: The title was inspired by a TV series on the History Channel called "The Universe." If there are any discrepancies as to the subject matter, please leave a comment and I'll do my best to explain. But I must say that my mind works in mysterious ways and not all things can be clearly expressed or explained.)

We Were Made in the Stars
by A.S.

The heavens didn't move
as our bodies fell
from them,
laughing
at the celestial mess
left behind.
Our laughter spread
like wildfire
and spewed
our remnants
unto this dustbin
called Earth.
Our home
is in the language
of the Cosmos
which we've extinguished
to a pristine drone.

We work in
factories, cubicles,
putting walls
around our minds
to help
synthesize knowledge,
con phenomenon
into thinking that
there is no vindication
where there is no truth,
only story
and the cosmic riddle
of our youth.

We study astrology,
astronomy,
and the properties
of falling bodies
until there aren't any
winter days
to sleep on.

"The galaxy is moving
away from us,"
but there is a revolution
in time
and space
that tells us otherwise.
We call this wise riot
mythology,
when our own existence
is merely
a mixture of mythology
and clever thinking.
Our whole life is spent
healing the mind
we tear
asunder.

I've wrapped mine
in ghostly shrouds
hoping to forget this ground
I stand on
and remember the sky
I came from.

The heavens didn't move,
we did.

So don't forget to look up.
There is so much to see.
WHERE DO WE BEGIN?

Everything is in constant flux.

One cannot escape change, because change is inevitable. As I think back on who I was 1, 5, 16 years ago, I see the constant growth and transformations I have gone through. Right now, right this second, I am not the the two year old being spoiled by her grandparents, or the six year old wearing sun dresses, or the 10 year old picking forbidden flowers to gain her mother's love, or the 14 year old outcast, or even the 16 year old I was a month ago. My identity, my body, my life is ever changing. In the words of Heraclitus, "Everything is in constant flux." And it is.

It is said that the human body rebuilds itself every 7 years. Whether 7 years is an exact time, an approximation, or even a completely made up number is irrelevant. It is still fact that certain parts of the body change over time. The outer layer of our skin is changed daily, the water in our bodies is changed approximately every 96 hours, and our tissues alter their structures according to cell production. Even if none of this is true, one still knows that the body grows. Isn't growth still change? If one can prove that the physical aspects of our lives are changing, can the same be concluded about the mental aspects? It can be argued that the mind is the only thing that truly remains the same, or constant. I have read somewhere that the nerve cells in your brain last a lifetime and do not multiply. Does this alone disprove my whole argument?

The mind transcends the brain and does not limit itself the way the brain does. I believe that the mind grows the same way that the body does over time. Not in the literal sense, but through education, knowledge, and experience. As I look back on the years I mentioned earlier, I can say that in each stage of my life, both my body and mind were different. As a two year old, I was thin and small; I only spoke Polish, my mind was not aware of any other languages until more change occurred; and the most important things in my life were ice cream and cartoons. As a 6 year old, I was still thin, but taller; I spoke English, a language that still seemed foreign to my mind; and I'd help my mom take care of my newborn sister, a change in my life that I learned to love. As a 10 year old, I grew wider and taller; I resented the language I was born into as well as the mother I was born from for giving my sister more attention than she gave me. At 14, I began to resent myself. All of these physical and character traits were temporary. If these two elements have changed, what else is there to account for?

Some may disagree, but I believe I am made up of a body and a mind; the two are in constant flux whether or not I want them to be. I will continue to redefine myself until death. Tim O'Brien may believe that there is something else that makes him up, a soul perhaps, that is unchanging, that the essence of "Timmy" still remains, but I beg tot differ. I am no longer who I was in the beginning, and who knows who I'll be in the end.

Why I Write

by "Irene Gut Opdyke"

Sitting at an empty dinner table, stripped of the cloth used to cover it - with a red and white background and the Polski orzeł, Polish eagle, neatly stitched by Mamusia - my sisters and I helped make pierogi with nothing but our bare hands. We made hundreds a day, pushing patterns and folding circles into crescents of dough, cheese and potatoes. Back then, I never thought I would be a writer. I spent many years of my life being everything but. I was just a girl, a nurse, a Catholic, a patriot, a rescuer, a friend, a wife, and a mother. My roles have shaped me in many ways, but I knew it was my turn to shape the truth in my own hands. With this in mind, I wrote.

I write because of ignorance. Not my own, but that of others. I fear that one day my story will lose its voice and be taken over by those who do not know, those who deny, those who cannot tell the whole truth. This lost voice, I back up on paper. I write with detail, emotion, and fervor; I write for permanence.

I do not write for myself. My story is not about me, or for me, although I label it so. It is for the lives I was meant to protect, the lives that through the grace of God, I saved. It is for Mamusia and Tatuś, for my sisters, for the Poles, the Jews, even for the Russians and Germans. It is for anyone who is willing to listen.

I write to remember what I'm hoping to forget. Babies torn from the hands of mothers and thrown away, their pulp coloring the ground, two straight lines of Jews and Poles, handpicked by the Nazis and labeled "traitors," a mysterious trench dug deep in the forest, swollen from the number of bodies it must hide. I write because there are no more reasons to hide.

I've been recognized as brave, rebellious, and somewhat of a hero. But I am just a woman. One who's seen evil and put her foot down to force it to the ground. I am just a woman who told the truth. My story is my truth, their truth,

and I hope it will be your truth. Jak pozwolicie. If you let it.

Z Bogiem. Go With God.

"The man who knows when not to act is wise. To my mind, bravery is forethought"

In the memoir, In My Hands, Irene helps many jews that she comes across while working for the Nazis. Many times she finds herself desperately wanting to act on instinct, but knows that she would be putting her lives and the lives of others (her sister, Schulz, the jews, etc.) She must act according to thought out plans and at the right times.

Upon finding out that the jews had only about a month left before the Nazis planned to exterminate them all, she quickly thought of a way to help them escape hiding in a wagon. She realized that no matter what she does - whether it be feeding the jews or helping them escape - the sentence would still he the same: death. One who chooses to act selflessly, knowing the consequences facing them is brave. Irene does not back away from helping her new friends, not even when she gets sent away from HKP. Instead of dwelling on things that she cannot change, she is constantly trying to think of new ways to continue fighting the Nazis in her own way. Although she wants to find a way out of her new job as Rugemer's housekeeper, she knows that it would not be wise to; she must find another way to help her friends.

In the same scene, where she is called into the major's office to be told about the job, Irene holds back another kind of action. She feels helpless and wants to "scream, or cry, or slap his face." (154). By holding back, Irene is showing restraint along with some courage, too. It takes a very strong person to accept their helplessness and to try to find another, rational way out of it.

Can our heads stay proud
if our bodies are sitting down?

Question #2

What is the significance of Oskar only wearing white but all the while looking for "Black"?

White and Black are on two opposite sides of the spectrum, a spectrum which also mirrors Oskar's journey of self discovery (or any journey in general). He starts his search in a state of confusion, still clueless about many aspects of his father's death/life, and ends it with emotional closure.

One might think of black as being empty and white its opposite, but thinking in terms of a blank slate, or a sheet of computer paper, the reverse can be just as plausible. Perhaps Foer is trying to "fill in" Oskar's blank clothing with his search for "Black." Oskar's choice of clothing may signify his emptiness, and longing for answers. Just as his grandfather chooses actual writing to fill in blanks, Oskar is searching for the equivalent. Why not express that through a bizarre choice of everyday attire?