#I wrote this for my american lit class my sophomore year in college

[annemariewrites]

Walt Whitman

Research Paper

Walt Whitman, considered to be one of America’s greatest poets, was born in New York on May 31, 1819. He was self-taught and became a printer at twelve years old and this helped him understand the written word and be familiar with the works of Shakespeare, Dante, and the Bible. Whitman wrote many prose and poems, though he is most known for Song of Myself from Leaves of Grass.

The first copy of Leaves of Grass was published in 1855 and he continued to revise it for the rest of his life. This book had many renditions with numerous poems ranging from 12 in the first publication and over 400 in the last. His poems are often characterized as having long lines, little to no rhyme scheme, reflection on nature, and repeating first words. Whitman used a number of poetic forms in his writings. In the essay, "Poetic Form as Meaning in Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass," written by Nigel Fabb, the poetic forms used by Walt Whitman are observed. Fabb uses an excerpt from a poem in Leaves of Grass. He states, “… the following five lines which form a stanza of one of the component poems of the book, reproduced here as closely as possible to copy the layout (e.g., line-breaks) on page 67 of the first (1855) edition.

‘The sky continues beautiful…. the pleasure of men with women shall never be

sated.. nor the pleasure of women with men... nor the pleasure from poems;

The domestic joys, the daily housework or business, the building of houses - they

are not phantasms.. they have weight and form and location;

The farms and profits and crops.. the markets and wages and government…. they

also are not phantasms;

The difference between sin and goodness is no apparition;

The earth is not an echo... man and his life and all the things of his life are well-considered.’

Here we see various poetic forms. The most obvious is the line. Next, it has been argued that the poem is divided into ‘rhetorical groups.’ Third, there is parallelism between the parts. Fourth, there are small rhythmic sequences. In this section of the paper, I consider each of these in turn and argue that they are attributed rather than inherent. I conclude by commenting on the unusual line-internal punctuation, in particular two dots, four dots and a dash, which have relevance for the form of the text.” (Fabb 107-108) He goes on to use another example, “…most of Whitman’s lineation is attributed, though there are occasional examples of inherent lineation, as in the following example of lines written in iambic pentameter (Whitman 1881: 296):

‘Out from behind this bending rough-cut mask.

These lights and shades, this drama of the whole.’

Like all iambic pentameter lines, these lines are subject to subtle generalizations, which can loosely be summarized by saying that there are ten syllables in each line, and a stressed syllable within a polysyllabic word must be even-numbered.” (Fabb 109)  This shows the numerous poetic devices that Walt Whitman used in his poems. These techniques were used by many poets that inspired and were inspired by Whitman.

Whitman was a part of the transcendentalism movement which was a literary movement that occurred in the early nineteenth century. Ralph Waldo Emerson was also hugely involved with this movement and the two poets are compared by Kelly Scott Franklin in the essay, “’Without Being Walt Whitman’: Vicente Huidobro, Whitman, And the Poetics of Sight.” Franklin writes, “Ralph Waldo Emerson (1836) described feeling ‘uplifted into infinite space’, which allowed him to see everything at once, and he described becoming a ‘transparent eyeball’ (Emerson, [1836] 1996: 10). Whitman himself would write in 1855, in what would later become ‘Song of Myself’:

My ties and ballasts leave me [. . .] I travel [. . .] I sail [. . .]

I skirt sierras [. . .] my palms cover continents,

I am afoot with my vision. (Whitman, 1855c: 36) (Franklin 285)

Franklin then goes on to compare Walt Whitman to Vicente Huidobro, who was a creationist poet, stating, “…both Whitman’s and Huidobro’s speakers can also see the ongoing exploration and travel of the globe. Whitman celebrates this exploration in a lengthy passage:

I behold the sail and steamships of the world, some in clusters in port, some on their

voyages,

Some double the cape of Storms, some cape Verde, others capes Guardafui, Bon, or

Bajadore,

Others Dondra head, others pass the straits of Sunda, others cape Lopatka, others

Behring’s straits [. . .]. (Whitman, 1982b: 290)

‘Others,’ Whitman’s speaker continues, ‘sternly push their way through the northern winter packs, / Others descend or ascend the Obi or the Lena, / Others the Niger or the Congo [. . .]’ (Whitman, 1982b: 290). But if the expansionist Whitman celebrates those who ‘sternly push their way’ into other lands, Huidobro’s speaker sees that same exploration in terms of the multiform violence of imperialism (Whitman, 1982b: 290):

“The bravest captains Captain Cook

On an iceberg went to the Poles Hunts the Northern Lights

To leave his pipe in the lips In the South Pole

Of Eskimos

Others stab fresh lances in the Congo

The heart of sunny Africa

Opens like pecked figs.” (Huidobro, 2003e: 494.69–75) (Franklin 287)

This quote shows the inspiration that Vincent Huidobro gained from Walt Whitman, despite the former being a creationist and the latter being a transcendentalist.

One of the most notable trends in Leaves of Grassis that of spirituality. In Ernest Smith’s essay, “’Restless Explorations’: Whitman’s Evolving Spiritual Vision in Leaves of Grass,” Smith explains the change in Walt Whitman’s spiritual image. He states, “In an uncollected manuscript fragment, Whitman terms spirituality “the unknown” (Leaves 612), and despite various pronouncements of certitude, especially in the 1855 and 1856 editions, as the poet more deeply engages his personal contradictions and his envisioned democracy’s various failures and compromises, his poetry comes to challenge its readers to conceive of spirituality more broadly, but less conclusively.” (Smith 229) This quote show that Whitman had a change in his thoughts of spirituality in Leaves of Grass. This is entirely understandable seeing as how he continued to add to and revise this great work for many decades until his death. It would only be natural to change his feelings and beliefs in some way. Smith continues by pointing out what Whitman’s earlier writings showed about the spirit by saying, “The personal pull of Whitman’s early poetry is undeniably powerful, a proclamation of the agency of the individual that at the same time invites us to “follow” the poet toward enlightenment, claiming deep insight into the nature of the soul.” (Smith 229) He then describes Whitman’s last poems, “While the major works of Whitman’s final productive decade demonstrate what Erkkila terms “a more traditional religious faith,” by the final arrangement of poems for the 1881 edition, the reader of Leaveswill move through poems supremely confident of immortality and a mystical oneness of humanity, other poems where the spiritual core of the text seems more based in phenomenology, Civil War poems that recognize the ability of death’s sheer physical carnage to at least momentarily eclipse spiritual hope, and the later meditative mode of poems such as those in the “Whispers of Heavenly Death” cluster.” (Smith 229-239) This accurately demonstrates the shift that occurred all throughout Whitman’s life to change the various aspects of how he reflected on spirituality in his poetry.

In addition to the use of religion and spirituality, Whitman also implemented numerous social issues into his poetry. This is outlined in the essay, “’Song of Myself’ and the Class Struggle in Language,” by Andrew Lawson. In this essay, Lawson notes, “Charles Hliot Norton, an early reviewer for Putnam's Monthly Magazine in September 1855, found Whitman's poetry monstrous in its ‘self-conceit,” its contempt for ‘all usual propriety of diction.’ For Norton, Whitman’s impropriety stemmed from his continual crossing of linguistic boundaries, by joining of the ‘gross’ with the ‘elevated,’ the ‘superficial’ with the ‘profound.’ An example would be the single line in which Whitman describes himself as both ‘one of the roughs,’ meaning, according to Webster, ‘rugged, disordered in appearance, coarse,’ and ‘a kosmos,’ an apparent invention of Whitman’s, meaning ‘a person who[se] scope of mind, or whose range in a particular science, includes all, the whole known universe.’” (Lawson 377) This shows one man’s view of Whitman’s poetry. Another is, “R O. Matthiessen, in American Renaissance (1941)… deplores Whitman’s ‘curious amalgamation of homely and simple usage with half-remembered terms he read once somewhere, and with casual inventions of the moment.’ Whitman's mixed diction is particularly irksome to Matthiessen because it smacks of the inauthentic; rather than using a ‘folk-speech,’ the language of the people. Whitman exhibits only the ‘happy pride of the half-educated in the learned term’ - he is using a language ‘not quite his own.’” (Lawson 377) Lawson then goes on to explain how opinions such as these about the poetry may also be influenced by social norms. He states, “For Norton, Whitman’s language is an unaccountable compound of class accents; for Matthiessen, Whitman is all too recognizably a lower-middle-class aspirant to the title litterateur, his choice of words marked by petit bourgeois pretension.” (Lawson 377-378) These quotes show the way some people felt about social classes in regards to literature and language.

Closely related to poetry, the use of music can be found in many of Walt Whitman’s poems, especially with Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking, a free verse, 32 stanza poem.An article that shows this is, “The Idea of Music in 'Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking,'” by William F. Mayhan. The article states, “By linking his poem so closely and specifically to music, Whitman offers a vital clue not only to the poem's unorthodox structure, but also to its meaning.” (Mayhan 113) The themes of this poem include the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. The poem itself is about a young boy who stands by the ocean and watches a couple of birds sing to each other. One day the female of the couple goes missing and the male tries to find her. He searches for his mate but can never find her and accepts that she has died. The symbolism of the musical structure of the poem highlights the song of the birds when they are together and the male singing alone. Mayhan explains this by saying, “…music plays not only a structural role, but also a symbolic one. …Whitman blends his experience of music (as heard) with his philosophical conceptions of the nature and meaning of music in a marriage of matter and form that is itself the essence of music.” (Mayhan 113) Understanding the musical form of the poem can help understand the meaning of it as well. It is important to note just how important music was to Whitman and is noted further in Mayhan’s article. He quotes, “He admits as much in his conversations with Horace Traubel, recorded later in his life:

‘My younger life was so saturated with the emotions, raptures, up-lifts, of such musical experiences that it would be surprising if all my future work had not been colored by them. A real musician running through Leaves of Grass-a philosopher musician-could put his finger on this and that anywhere in the text no doubt as indicating the activity and influences I have spoken of.’” (Mayhan 115)

This quote shows the importance that music held in his life and how it shaped his poetry. Again, the idea of music helps one to know and understand the meaning of the poem. This is further stated, “Layer upon layer of meaning begins to accumulate until, at the end, as we shall see, the effects of infinite interrelatedness (harmony) will affect not only the poem's structure, but will be, in itself, an embodiment of its meaning.” (Mayhan 122)

One of the many things that influenced Walt Whitman’s writing was the Civil War. This is discussed in the article, "Union and Disunion in 'Song of Myself'," by Herbert J.Levine. The article states, “One recent study has argued that the escalating crisis of the Union allowed Whitman to discover the healing role so central to "Song of Myself." Another has argued that the economic downturn of 1854, which put Whitman out of the housebuilding business, allowed him to discover his role as celebrator of the artisan…” (Levine 570). This shows the different thoughts others had about how the buildup of the Civil War may have influenced Whitman. Levine goes on to determine why Whitman wanted to unify the country, perhaps with his poetry. He states, “Where political rhetoric was failing to preserve the Union, poetry, Whitman saw, could attempt an alternative discourse of union based on the unity of a representative American self. With respect to such a unified self, the experience of his own body and soul, his land, its animals, people, occupations and history, the earth, its evolutionary past and cosmic future—all was to be portrayed as a vast seamless web, within which differences could be accommodated without dismembering the whole.” (Levine 576) This shows that Whitman wanted to keep the country whole and attempted to do so by writing poetry.

In conclusion, Walt Whitman is considered to be one of America’s great poets for a number of reasons, ranging from his use of poetic devices to how he wanted his poetry to shape the people and the world in which they lived.

Works Cited

Fabb, Nigel. "Poetic Form as Meaning in Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass." Journal of Literary Semantics 41.2 (2012): 105-119.

Franklin, Kelly Scott. "'Without Being Walt Whitman': Vicente Huidobro, Whitman, And The Poetics Of Sight." Comparative American Studies: An International Journal 12.4 (2014): 282-300.

Lawson, Andrew. "'Song of Myself'and the Class Struggle in Language." Textual Practice 18.3 (2004): 377-394.

Levine, Herbert J. "Union and Disunion in 'Song of Myself'." American Literature: A Journal of Literary History, Criticism, and Bibliography 59.4 (1987): 570-589.

Mayhan, William F. "The Idea of Music in 'Out Of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking'." Walt Whitman Quarterly Review13.3 (1996): 113-128.

Smith, Ernest. "'Restless Explorations': Whitman's Evolving Spiritual Vision in Leaves of Grass." Papers on Language and Literature: A Journal for Scholars and Critics of Language and Literature 43.3 (2007): 227-263

[sunshinemarauder]

all in due time

PROMPT: We’re both college professors high school teachers and some students have both of our classes and are now trying to set us up because we both get really dorky and passionate about certain subjects.

enjoy this random bit of fluff i wrote in thirty minutes because i haven't published anything in a while <3 also on AO3 here!

"Ms. Evans!"

I looked up from my laptop, quickly closing the tab full of grades I didn't want the kids to see, and smiled at the student who caught my attention.

"Hi, Abby. Can I help you with the homework?"

Abby, a sophomore with bushy brown curls and ever-present cheer, clasped her hands together and beamed at me.

"It's not exactly about the homework, really..."

I suppressed a fond smile; I was more than used to Abby's rants about one topic or the other. She happened to be very fond of sharing stories, especially when they were related to chemistry.

"Is it about your step-brother's chemistry for kids set?"

Abby's eyes lit up. "Oh! He adores it, thank you so much for the recommendation, Ms. Evans! Just the other day, Mom was gushing over what he— ah, shoot, I'm off-topic again." She smiled sheepishly. "It's actually not about Henry's chemistry set."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"It's actually... well, you know Mr. Potter?" Abby said hurriedly, with a puppy-dog expression on her face.

I eyed her warily. "Yes, I do..."

Mr. Potter was the History teacher for the sophomores. We weren't in the same department, nor did we teach the same subjects, but we had interacted on-campus several times.

We had started off on the wrong foot a couple years ago when we both joined the campus staff at the same time. But by now the wounds had faded, though none of the students knew about our old feud.

"Are you two friends?" Abby asked eagerly.

"Friends?" I asked, surprised. "Well, we're coworkers, but he teaches a different subject across campus from me."

Abby's expression fell. "Oh..."

"Why do you ask?" I said suspiciously.

"Nothing, nothing," she replied quickly, "it's just... some of us who have both of you as our teachers thought you'd get along well."

"Really?" I said, amused.

I may have been known for being, well, a bit strict, but that didn't mean I was completely tuned out of campus gossip.

Everyone knew James Potter and I were two of the youngest (and, incidentally, most attractive) teachers. This made us prime targets for students crushing on us... which was always uncomfortable, given that they were all at least eight years younger than us.

But this year's classes had flipped our expectations upside down. Because instead of crushing on us, they started shipping us.

Although, perhaps Abby just meant it as a friendly 'you would be good friends' suggestion...

"Well," Abby continued, seemingly emboldened by my accidental encouragement, "You're both single."

I stifled my snicker. Ah, so she was trying to get us together.

"And you're both everyone's favorite teachers!" she exclaimed, getting passionate. "You're the best chemistry teacher, everyone knows that, and Mr. Potter is brilliant at teaching us history."

I nodded along seriously, admittedly curious to see why exactly the students thought we'd make such a good couple.

"And both of you care about real-life issues a lot," Abby added. "Remember last month, when you started explaining about how chemistry ties into climate change and then started talking about environmental justice?"

"I do, yes. I take it you enjoyed the discussion?"

"I definitely did!" she assured me, before continuing. "Well, just last week Mr. Potter did a deep-dive into the history of racism in the United States, how it was impacted by English and American colonialism, and how it translates to modern-day racism."

I raised an eyebrow, impressed. That did sound rather enlightening.

"See?" Abby cried, pressing her hands against the wood of my desk and leaning forward. "You two would be brilliant together! A teaching power couple!"

"That's good to know, Abby," I said, and meant it. "But the bell rang a few minutes ago, which means it's your lunch period now."

Abby's face fell, and for a moment I felt bad about dismissing her so abruptly. But then her sheepish smile was back, and she left with a cheerful wave and a hollered goodbye.

I sat at my desk, opened my grading tab back up, and pondered, fingering the pendant on a thin chain around my neck.

Several minutes later, there was a knock at my door. I looked up and smiled softly when I saw who it was.

"What brings you to my humble classroom today?" I joked.

"Just admiring," James said, grinning in response, as he let his hand fall off the door frame and took a few steps into the room, looking around.

I hummed slightly.

"Some of my third-period students asked me about you," he said suddenly. "They thought we should start dating."

I laughed. "That's funny, because I had a student who just left ten minutes ago who pitched a case about why we would make, and I quote, 'a teaching power couple.'"

James threw his head back and laughed brightly. "A power couple, you say?" He wandered into the room, before perching at the edge of my desk. "Do you have any thoughts on that?"

I smirked slightly. "Yes, actually. I think dating you sounds like a horrible idea."

He cocked a brow. "Really?"

"Yeah," I continued without pause, "Because I prefer being engaged to you."

James smiled softly, leaning in to press a kiss to my lips. "Good. Although I would much rather be married to you."

I reached up to clasp the engagement ring I wore as a pendant on a thin silver necklace. "All in due time, James."

* * * * *

"Ms. Evans! Is that — are you wearing a wedding ring?"

I put the whiteboard marker down and smiled wryly at Abby, who was staring at me in shock.

"Good morning to you too, Abby," I said teasingly.

"Yes, good morning and everything," another student said impatiently. "but we didn't know you were getting married!"

"Oh, really?" I said airily, as if I wasn't perfectly aware that my students had thought I was still single up until, well, five minutes ago.

"When did it happen?" a boy asked politely.

"Who did you marry?" Abby asked eagerly.

"BUT YOU AND MR. POTTER WOULD HAVE BEEN PERFECT!" a girl wailed, burying her head in her arms.

"Do we still call you Ms. Evans?" someone else asked, shooting the crying girl a nasty look. "Or Mrs...?"

I smirked to myself. "You can still call me Ms. Evans, if that's easier for you. But I did change my name."

"What is it?"

I picked up the whiteboard marker and slowly wrote the words on the board in a large font, carefully shielding it from the class until I was done.

"Here," I said simply. "Lily Potter. You might know my husband as the dashing history teacher in E-building?"

Half the class fainted. It made a very entertaining story to tell my husband during our lunch break.

[canonlucidia]

Oh I like the idea of assigning them as random High School stereotypes! If you still want to that is.

This prompt took me by the high school nostalgia and beat me over the head until I wrote these out. I think I went past stereotypes and just went into them in the average american high school setting BUT YOU KNOW.... Also disclaimer I’m from rural bumfuck nowhere so like... I went to school with a class of like 100 kids... and my experience is not typical so I had to ask around to see what makes sense for a larger school ghhdg

anyway! Enjoy:

The Boys as High School Stereotypes:

Lucifer - The unholy combination of a prep and a goth. is that dark academia ? he’s the valedictorian but he also doesn’t sleep and after junior year gets real into dark dress shirts and eyeliner. Basically depressed but getting all As in his all AP course load. Please someone help him before the burnout gets him. Looks like he’s gotten into espresso early. You know. Will probably get into a great college and then his life will fall apart. Exudes an aura of superiority and the vaguest sense of hostility and maybe has like at maximum 2 friends.

Mammon - Class clown, easy. He’s “friends” with everyone but also friends with nobody, really. Struggling academically in basically everything but Math & his extra-curriculars which are fun. He’s so goddamn fidgety and just tends to say the first thing that comes out of his mouth. The Bane of every study hall teacher’s existence and also the kid on the bus who starts the penis game. Eventually is pushed into getting tutored in almost all his classes in order to graduate on time.

Levi - The weird anime kid. You know which one I mean. Maybe you, dear reader, were this kid in high school. Hangs out exclusively with the furries and other social outcasts. Probably wears a Naruto headband to school unironically. He has a sketch book but won’t let anyone ever look in it. Wears the same baggy hoodie and sneakers every day from the start of freshman year through sophomore year. Probably douses himself in axe.

Satan - Debate team, AP Class taking Honors Society flavored nerd. Reads constantly in class but still answers things correctly when called. Probably wears suspenders and a bowtie and thinks he looks dapper as fuck. Proud card carrying NHA member…. but absolutely hates math & science. Please just let him take his AP Lit  & AP History classes in peace. The first to sign up for a Romantic (the literature type) Poetry Class. He looks like a pretentious asshole and probably is but he’ll grow out of it once he gets to college and has more experiences.

Asmo - The rich, flirty, preppy popular kid who knows everyone. Not as bitchy as you initially assume but still kind of Like That. Spends the second he gets to school up until the last moment before the bell rings for class in the girl’s bathroom because fuck gender, he’s doing his makeup with them and it’s not hurting anything. Probably publicly goes vegan as a diet trend. His graduation party looks like a cross between a wedding and prom. Definitely skated by with straight Cs and Bs but you know what? He made it work.

Beel - A sweet and gentle jock, a miracle of a boy. Constantly sneaking snacks in class and refuses to share them-- not because he’s mean, but because he’s got a certain daily calorie count to meet to stay in his weight class for wrestling, okay? Just a good dude all around though, if not a little intimidating due to his quiet nature & stature. The first kid to offer to help with any heavy lifting because he’s an absolute sweetheart. Everyone kind of knows him and lowkey loves him because it’s impossible to dislike him. Has definitely threatened to knock somoene’s lights out for talking shit about his family though.

Belphie - Emo. He’s an Emo. C’mon now. What else?? Okay… Maybe also a little punk. He’s definitely threatened to kill a kid in the bathroom with the knife he keeps in his boot. Please put this kid in therapy. He’s so goddamn edgy, call this boy a polygon. He lives with his headphones on / earbuds in and paints his nails with sharpie. Also doesn’t seem to every be awake in class, just kinda puts his head down and either goes to sleep or just spaces out... But manages to do just enough to scrape by. Could he get better grades? Maybe. Will he work harder for them? No. Boy’s depressed as shit. I repeat: please get this kid in therapy.

[halfasleepoetry]

I'd LOVE to read more Archer x Rogerina!!❤ Don't have any specific requests so maybe just something from one of the prompts you have? And I agree, I don't care what Joe's in as long as I get to see more from him!!!

Omg thank you for asking for Archer x Rogerina because I do have something to share that I couldn’t quite fit into the ongoing narrative! So this is not based on a prompt, but since Trip The Light Fantastic is told in Ben’s POV, as I was working on Joe’s character, I wrote his version of that night. And here it is:

I catch you looking back at me, looking through a cloud of steam

Archer x Rogerina AU, Joe’s POV

Right before senior year began, Joe had just broken up with his then-girlfriend who was cheating on him with a mutual friend for almost as long as they were together. That was enough to put him off any kind of relationships for a while. Besides, he thought he’d give being completely and truly single, a try. He kind of miss the sex and occasional cuddling, not that he’s particularly the cuddling type, but it’s nice to have a warm someone in bed and not wake up cold and alone sometimes. But to compare that with the kind of serenity and peace he has now and the headaches he saved, he’d rather keep being single, thank you. He has more time than ever now to read and write and drive by himself, and he has even started dancing regularly again.

And then there’s the Halloween party at the Maleks’. It’s the kind of party that all seniors go to, many juniors get invited to, and selected few sophomores could get in by miracle, and freshman could only dream of going. Maybe next year, or the year after. The host of such a party is always that one kid in the senior year who is filthy rich and you’re lucky if he isn’t an asshole who also buys his way through college. Well Joe sure is lucky. That kid, or those kids, because there are two of them, are his childhood best friends, Rami and Sami, whose father is a rich Egyptian-American business tycoon who moved to New York and built himself a business empire working closely with the Arabs and their oil in the 80s. 

It was last year that Rami told him he has his eyes on a certain London girl who is majoring in arts together with Joe, who is in her sophomore year. Her name is Lucy. Of course Joe knows her. Joe knows everyone. It comes with being occasionally recognized as that kid from Jurassic Park, and every time one of his professors brought up the fact we have someone in the class who is here on the personal recommendation of Steven Spielberg, he would slowly slide down his seat a little, hoping the remark would remain just a remark, and it would be forgotten by the end of the class. Sometimes it works exactly like how he wants it to be, sometimes it doesn’t. Either way, it earns him a reputation that he plays down and many friends, no, a large group of people he socializes with regularly. So he is some kind of a popular kid too, although a somewhat reluctant one. 

The Maleks’ mansion is pretty much his second home, and he was in his element that night, having accepted Lucy’s dare to show up in a girl’s character costume, and she even volunteered to do his make up, on one condition; no glitter involved. She did manage to put on something metallic-hued on his eyelids though, because he looked in the mirror and his eyes sparkled subtly whenever he blinks. Lucy had shrugged it off and told him, it wouldn’t be too noticeable, the house would be dim and there would be light strobes instead of actual lighting.

Lucy smiled up at him as she gave his make up, her handiwork, its last touch. “My goodness, you’re beautiful,” she marvelled. “Don’t make me change my mind, Luce,” he warned her. “No, don’t!” Lucy protested hurriedly. “No, no, no. Now let’s go.” But not before she stopped one last time to take a selfie with Joe, no, the Archer.

His Archer costume was a hit, apparently. But he made it very clear that he’s there just to enjoy the company of himself. And dance like mad, which was great because he had gotten back at it and been practicing for a while now. And that’s when he saw Rogerina. One sulky Rogerina who was drinking beer alone and trying not to look like he’s staring when he pretty obviously was doing exactly that. Joe thought that they look kind of wildly different, him and Rogerina who has a more muscular build and moody-boyish look. He even stood with his legs apart, chugging his beer with one hand on his hip, not even trying to appear feminine. But even across the room, Joe could feel his eyes on him, and they’re crazy-intense. He didn’t even know how to describe it, but he had never been stared at like that since he was five and sitting in an audition for Stanley Kubrick. 

He thought about it, but Rogerina obviously isn’t one of the people he knows, because he knows everyone here. Almost. Let’s find out who you are, Rogerina, he thought as one of his favourite songs came on, and he danced to it with an added flair, his moves all smooth and pronounced. Rogerina kept staring even as he made his way to Rami and Lucy. Lucy asked him if he’s murdering people on the dancefloor, and he just laughed it off. He headed to the kitchen to retrieve some rum he knew is kept somewhere safe and away from casual partygoers, half-hoping Rogerina would follow him there. And he wasn’t disappointed. Well he had to talk with Chace first, and the first thing Chace said to him was, “Hey there gorgeous.” 

“Asshole.” He laughed him off, because he knew Chace well. He’s always trying to get into someone’s pants, gorgeous girls or boys alike. They’ve fooled around before, but decided it’s better to remain friends as they are now. They talked shop and laughed, but from the corner of his eyes he could see Rogerina approaching the kitchen. He had never wanted a friend to disappear so fast before. And he’s glad when Chace decided to go looking for pretty girls at the pool.

The masked hesitation he could sense in Rogerina’s voice as he said hi to him was cute, to say the least. When was the last time he had been chased after like this? He was so determined too. He told him he came looking for a light for his cigarette. Classic excuse. He has a deep voice, British accent, and a very boyish smile. Definitely not a senior, maybe not even from the same department. He’d have remembered someone like him. Joe found himself looking into green eyes as Rogerina stepped closer to him to light up his cigarette from the mini kitchen lighter he was holding. He smelled nice, with a faint hint of aftershave. He wondered if he’d taste like beer and cigarette and something entirely different or surprising.

Mint, Joe thought later as they began kissing and he’s savouring the blonde’s lips. The cigarette he lit up earlier must be his first, as the taste was very faint, and it soon disappeared. The bitterness of malt and mint on his tongue fits right in with the Coke and rum sweetness on his own. 

Rogerina kissed him like he meant it, like the persistence by which he went after him to the kitchen, which found him pressing the sides of his knees on Rogerina’s hips, and that’s when he found the lighter innocently tucked in the side pocket of his skirt. He wasn’t even surprised, but he was absolutely delighted at the thought of this green-eyed British boy going after him and cooking up a lie to flirt with him. Makes him want to give him exactly what he wanted, and set him on fire while doing so. So he kissed him deeper, tongue all the way in, a hand in hair and another on his back, gripping him through the white shirt. He pushed himself forward and closer, so Rogerina could touch more of his exposed thigh. There’s growing heat at the base of his guts, and he slid even closer to give friction to it, and that’s when he realized they’re both hard.

Holy shit, he thought, and almost immediately wanted, no, needed more of this delicious friction. They’re separated by layers of fabrics, but fuck if this doesn’t feel so good, kissing a boy indecently in an open space, pushing and rubbing against each other fully clothed while the sound of the party droned on in the near distance. There’s no way this would not look exactly like what it was, and the thought of anyone potentially walking in on them is an incredible turn-on.

But Joe did pull away from Rogerina, mainly because he did not actually want anyone to walk in on them, and he needed to at least get a name. “Ben,” he told him in between breaths, eyes still transfixed on his lips. He looked like he was dazed and drunk, or somewhere in between. They were kissing again in no time, and when Joe deliberately pushed himself against Ben as he slid down the kitchen counter, they both moaned loudly into the kiss, and he almost lost his mind a little. They’re fast becoming like magnets, one gravitating to the other as soon as they pull away. He wanted to get his hands everywhere on Ben, wanted to touch him, kiss him, make him moan his name. They were strangers barely ten minutes ago, it’s so fucking insane, but there’s nothing else he’d want more right now than this green-eyed Brit in Rogerina costume. But not just yet.

So he smiled sweetly to him when he asked him nicely if he’d want to get out of the party with him, and he thought there’s no way he’d say no to that. They were kissing slower now, heartbeat calmer, desire kept in check. He held his hand close, making sure he wouldn’t change his mind. Something’s telling him he needed to do this right. This isn’t just a party hook-up, a fooling around kind of fun.

That same something’s also telling him he’s hooked, and it felt headier and sweeter than anything he’d drank tonight.

So when they did get out of the party, not before he caught Rami for the barest seconds to say goodbye, surprisingly without Lucy by his side, he decided they’re not going immediately to his place. He still has Ben’s hand in his, and he’s looking at him and smiling with his lucid green eyes and Joe wondered if it felt a little bit more than just infatuation or hormones. He thought about how ridiculous it was to think of it as anything more than what it was, but it lingered on long after.

[annemariewrites]

Till We Have Faces

Close Reading

The novel, Till We Have Faces, by C. S. Lewis is a retelling of the myth of Psyche and Cupid, told from the perspective of Psyche’s oldest sister Orual. In this novel, many characters have a difficult time deciphering reality from illusion and therefore are unable to understand to truth about life and the world that they live in.

One of the most obvious instances where a character had trouble knowing the difference between illusion and reality is when Orual visits Psyche but cannot see the castle in which Psyche lives. This incident is shown at the end of chapter ten when the two sisters are speaking to each other about what Psyche’s life is like being the wife of a god. The exchange goes,

"Is it far?" said I.

She gave me a quick, astonished look. "Far to where?" she said.

"To the palace, to this god's House…"

"Orual," she said, beginning to tremble, "what do you mean?"

I too became frightened, though I had yet no notion of the truth. "Mean?" said I. "Where is the palace? How far have we to go to reach it?"

… "But this is it, Orual! It is here! You are standing on the stairs of the great gate." (Lewis 115-116)

This conversation shows Orual cannot physically see the palace and therefor does not believe that it truly exists. This is similar to how people in real life refuse to believe things that they cannot physically see. People understand the world through the five senses of sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell. Because Orual can acknowledge none of these senses concerning the palace, she believes that it is not real. She begins to worry that Psyche has gone mad and the sisters argue about whether or not the palace is real. They say to each other,

"So," she said, "you do see it after all."

"See what?" I asked…

"Why, this, this," said Psyche. "The gates, the shining walls -”

… "Stop it! Stop it at once! There's nothing there!"

… "Well, feel it, feel it, if you can't see," she cried. "Touch it. Slap it. Beat your head against it…”

"Stop it, stop it, I tell you! There's no such thing. You're pretending. You're trying to make yourself believe it." But I was lying. How did I know whether she really saw invisible things or spoke in madness?” (Lewis 117-118)

When confronted by someone who can see something that another cannot see, a person tends to become angry and defensive, which is what is happening with Orual in this scene. The sisters continue to argue and try to sway one another about which one of them is right in believing if the palace and Psyche’s experiences were real or not. Much in the same way that people in today’s time will argue about what is real and what is not, especially when it comes to religion.

Was the castle truly an illusion? Even Orual was not so sure during this argument with her sister, however, she was able to see it in chapter 12. Orual sees the castle but then still doubts if it is real or imaginary. The passage goes,

“There stood the palace, grey... it was like no house ever seen in our land or age… no memories of mine, you would think, could help me to imagine…

. . . . if what I saw was real. I was in great fear. Perhaps it was not real. I looked and looked to see if it would not fade or change. Then as I rose… almost before I stood on my feet, the whole thing was vanished…

And now, you who read, give judgement. That moment when I either saw or thought I saw the House - does it tell against the gods or against me?” (Lewis 132-133)

This clearly shows the internal turmoil that Orual went through while trying to understand the difference between what is real and what is illusion. Many people in real life go through a similar internal struggle when faced with what could possibly be the truth. The palace was definitely real to Psyche but because she could not see it at first, Orual doubted in its existence. Even when she could finally see it, she had misgivings.

[annemariewrites]

Entrapment and the Yellow Wallpaper

In “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, one of the most intriguing themes is that of being trapped. Whether being trapped in a physical way or trapped in one’s own mind, the motif of entrapment is one that carries on throughout the story.

In a physical sense, it is obvious how the woman in the story is trapped. She is put into a room that has bars on the windows, she is not allowed to move to another room, she is not allowed to leave the house at all. The woman is physically trapped inside the room where she is not allowed to do anything so she becomes obsessed with the horrid yellow wallpaper covering the room. This inactivity could be what eventually causes the woman’s breakdown. She is not able to break free of anything in the room. The bars on the window cannot be removed, the bed is nailed down, and she is not allowed to paint over the wallpaper.

I think in a more subconscious way, she is trapped in her own mind. The only release, the only connection she has, is her own mind and her diary. Her husband had forbade her from reading or writing, so she does this in private. Her only form of escape from her mental illness is through writing and yet she must hide this. The secretive nature of the journal begins to make itself become a form of imprisonment to her. Besides writing in the journal, the only thing she can do is stare at the wallpaper and she believes that she sees other women trapped in it. She begins to believe that she herself was trapped in the wallpaper but was able to get out somehow and if the trapped women could be free too. This is shown near the end of the story where she writes, “I wonder if they all come out of the wall-paper as I did?” This sentence clearly shows that she believed that she was one of the women in the paper but was able to get out. Curiously, she writes that she might have to go back into the paper, “I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern… and that is hard! It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep around as I please! I don’t want to go outside… For outside you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow.” It seems to me that she has grown so used to her confinement that she does not want to leave. At the beginning of her journal, she writes how much she wants to leave the house, or at least leave the room, but by the end, she wants to stay inside. Perhaps she spent so much time distressing over the wallpaper that, when she finally understood it, she could not go on in normal life. She could not deal with life without the wallpaper that she had become trapped in. It was the only thing in her life that she could control so she latched onto it and it took over control of her.

As the story progresses, it is easy to see the ill effects that being trapped in the room has on the woman. In the beginning, her journal entries are long and seem to be more thought out. She simply writes what has happened to her and how she feels about what is going on. As the journal entries progress, they become shorter and less coherent. She becomes so obsessed with the wallpaper, since it is the only thing that she can do with being trapped in the room, and she begins to not want anyone else to even look at the paper. This is shown through the quotes, “… I am determined that nobody shall find out but myself!” and “There are things in that paper that nobody knows but me, or ever will.”

It is strange to see how the illness warps her perception of the life that she is living in the room. At first, she wants to leave it all together but by the end she says, “Life is very much more exciting than it used to be.” She writes that she has something to look forward to and it makes her feel better, and she says it is because of the wallpaper that she feels better. Perhaps once she stopped hating the confinement and accepted that she was trapped, the paper stopped bothering her.