Taxi Driver Best thing about not making it as a writer is you can write in peace, read too, live happy, free, suffering from the effects of status inconsistency. Monumental Cucumber madness pickling minds fraught chiseled on the mountain head-rushing LSD trips in stone representing hope, freedom, the American way of love Christian values dammit in travail, growth, organization, and war at night in the moonlight howling. Among the Inhabitants of the Ant-farm I would be wondering if there were no God the idea to create one might be overwhelming. Rodent Sharp incisors naked tail furtive eyeball chewing pet worthy of plague.
Discussion On the Plot, synopsis and setting of the novelist Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations
Fundamentally, Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations immortalizes satirizing constitutional democracy, parliamentary reforms bill, labour rights’ and prison amendments through reformation of genteel characters as gentleman. Marginalization and exclusion both extend suffrage of these fictional characters; they accomplish the triumph of success and prosperity of Dickensian doubles or juxtaposition with regard to indigenous or hybridized gender, caste and ethnicity. The publication of “The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin” theorized or reinforced Dickensian novel Great Expectations compelled characterization undergoing cataclysmic degeneration or progressive evolution.
“Through all my punishments, disgraces, fasts and vigils, and other penitential performances, I had nursed this assurances.” These lines expostulate the infernal despotism of injustice and tormenting tyranny, grieved by the biographer or the protagonist. Firstly, churchyards symbolize deathly gallows or gruesome grimace and secondly, prisons symbolize the exploited or persecuted power. Sepulchral graveyard with tombstones and the dramatic encounter with the prisonship or hulk escaped convict memorializes Charles Dickens’ juvenile infancy –the symbolic immaturity. Through freemasonry sympathy or affectionate tenderheartedness, the narrator embodies Abel Magwitch as the marginalized or underprivileged distinction.
Intellectual liberty or freedom of education enables readers to interpret that this aspect Miss Havisham abandons ever since jilted by her fiancé Compeyson twenty minutes past nine. “She an’t over partial to having scholars on the premises […] and in partickler, would not be over partial to my being a scholar, for fear as I might rise. Like a sort of rebel, don’t you see?” The narrator doesn’t want to be governed by institutionalized authority that penalizes the rural village folk community. These majority of oppressed from injustice and victims of presentment becomes marginalized as minority by administrative power, aspects of wealth or finance-the symbolic evil menace. Dickens references to “savage young gentleman contrasts ”“wild beasts” symbolic of modest aggressiveness and profound explosiveness respectively. Abel Magwitch’s Gentleman Compeyson, the sham involvement in feud reflect Dickensian demonic that needs to be polished. This misty marshes or moors scene foreshadowing contrasts with the feud of Satis House, Pip challenged to duel with Herbert Pocket, “the pale young gentleman” ere in the novel.
Moreover, Dickens’ Great Expectations turning point plot twists renders to the advancement of society from the threshold terminal of the sub-urbs to the absolute cosmopolitanism. The narrator or biographer’s migration embodies aquaintanceship with Mr. Jaggers, the lawyer. Beknownst of the stranger’s eccentricity Mr. Jaggers. “smell strongly of soap” body fragrance and the incessant “washing of hands” memorialized by the incidental wedding feast of Miss Havisham’s party. Dickens allegorizes British imperialism, English the parliament and justice system through the obsessive washing of hands as a psychological mechanism to persecute criminals from corrupting or impure him- this symbolize despotism in shrewd criticism. He consorts with vicious criminals and even these ruffians are terrified of him. Although a criminal lawyer-ironically symbolic impenetrable exterior [Mr Jaggers can be characterized as pragmatic, dark, professional and arrogant] Mr. Jaggers was bestowed with the sponsorship or patronage to be Pip’s counselor and guardian. Benediction of wealth and fortunes intrigued Mr. Jaggers to solicit family Havishams’ or Magwitch’s lawsuits of legacy.
“Jaggers has an air of authority not to be disputed” and “a manner expressive of knowing something secret about every one of us that would eventually do for each individual if he chose to disclose it.” Wemmick’s remark further elicits disposition of Mr. Jaggers when he says, “as deep … as Australia.” Mysterious Molly, the wretched savage caregiving or civilizing was happening by and by. Subtlety of detrimental knowledge pertaining to the appraised Molly’s persisting existence. The hero’s Great Expectations should be fulfilled by solicitation and purchase of shoes and suits embody the perpetual condescension as a gentleman-symbolic of cultural assimilation to consumerist London. “Through good and evil I stuck to my books.” and “I had a taste for reading, and read regularly so many hours a day.” Education of Victorian England and passion of learning exemplifies the Dickensian spirits of Shakespeare’s reading. The narrator subconscious acquiesced privileges of attending the tutorship of Herbert Pocket. Even Magwitch dreamed of being a gentleman despite being a fierce rebel; nonetheless, he wanted to embellishing prospect to mould Pip as a young gentleman. Moral regeneration lacks in the apprenticeship of Orlick [“He should never be thinking”] or education of Drummle [“half a dozen heads thicker than most gentlemen”] respectively.
I. where out of black by a small stretch of sand the moon grasps the breakers unawares I feel like I've gone back to the beginning when I sat with a pail and packed it with sand since then what passed rolling in the radiant grass touched by moonlight and hand and a breast heaved towards the low tide rocks by the bridge span how right Euripides was in that I lean on a cane who wanted to crawl back to the beginning and do it again II. a man lived here until his wife died his children left and all he had left were television shows of comedies and commercials (he had seen the massive wings of fascism spread and briefly landed) he had worked, had lived had suffered and grew old like the rest and when there wasn't anyone to talk to he resolved to go I saw him leave without a wave except he bowed unto the trees and the birds and the rain III. the light is what you're reading and where it is not is also there in its places at night a stag moves between trees silent as the shadows the trees have surrendered the hunter moves down stream and safe is wanted
Blood Stirring Under Scars
Although memory’s boat has drifted far downstream now I remember a movie directed by Resnais about troubled memory, others adapted from plays by William Inge, Paddy Chayefsky, characters living in boarding houses, but alone, clocks ticking, repressed sexual energy, longing; Cheever’s stories, sadness of the human heart, days draining into the gulf of middle age. I also strain to remember staying near a train station, some storm of my own, some calm, leaving almost-love, airy dreams, behind.
A publican’s spoiled daughter with a taste for carnal excitement who resembled a Toulouse-Lautrec model, liked Elvis Presley, averted her head to exhale smoke, showcasing curls on her nape, hair in a top-knot. Tracing her after so long, I ambushed logic with foolish assumptions, a wrong address. You could blame addiction to quietly dramatic tales, wanting two goes at life.
A postal employee in the Dead Letter Office, perhaps a TV soapie fan with an old-fashioned attitude to service enthused by possibilities of solving problems of the aforementioned human heart, placed a newspaper ad that tinkled a tiny bell of memory in a reader’s mind.
I hitch-hiked thousands of miles across foreign soil through the Yukon to Alaska without losing my nerve, yet now, feeling the heft of years, sleeping too much, welcome her answering service, relief a brief respite from angst, my message putting off expectations, but too late to turn back. Coward, coward, I think knowing not how many blurred, bestilled evenings I have left.
Train arrivals once shook our floor like great wind gusts as we sought each other’s heat. I again trawl over early chapters, their residuum, questions needing detailed answers. My agitated phone’s signal engulfs me, trapping a small bird in my chest. Those trains emerging from the blackest tunnel, those dilapidated days, surge back.
A thirteen year-old boy wearing a school jumper and gauzy bravado he shall always remember strides towards a beach several miles from his poor family home south of Melbourne, cold, trembling from his latest thrashing. The gravel road lies quiet but for a lone car driven by a novelist who never stops to offer a ride.
When my father died my mother gave me his wallet, his belt. He left no memory of kind words. She knew this. She remembered. Inside the wallet, hidden, I found money, too much for the old-age pension, not part of a memento.
The novelist’s family, with their own light aircraft and airstrip, lives beyond the boy’s, all English emigres settling a domain of kookaburras and copperheads. He has finished writing a book about the fraught end of our beloved world, a world I wanted to experience before it ended, later to be filmed, partly in this area where the posher properties swoon, immaculate, with white horse fences gleaming below a pale moon and its jewels.
Through the long personal twilight I thought about my father’s life, and death, which he feared right until the end. I thought I heard a man weeping when a bird, seeing only freedom in my window, stunned itself, lay panting on my veranda near a birds-nest fern in a tub before travelling on, a wingbeat ahead of silent cats and certain death.
The car’s sound faded, the boy’s contempt for that novelist, for most adults, parents, teachers, cops, dissolved into shadows at a paddock’s edge, a stray dog passes him, then turns to follow ten yards behind, gait faithful to his, seeking adoption, the boy’s mind running amok through a dreamlike future, that unknown pinprick of starlight we each grope towards.
I fell to thinking about how I found a kind of love, relegated the past, discovered the remainder of my days. When I returned the banknotes, everything except a cropped photograph of my sister long ago, and small change, my mother’s face stamped her guilty of attempted bribery. And heartache.
The boy has a pound for each year he has lived, earned, stolen, stashed, his pouch of tobacco, a rage for freedom, for cities’ giddy adventure, thinks he could hitchhike 500 miles to Sydney: in imagination’s kingdom a truck-stop, a jukebox, songs of lonely far-off times.
Those days furnished no mementos, only hard memories about dreaming of freedom. Locked up in an historic gaol built in an era of self-satisfaction, of statues, outdated then, townhouses now, we spotted hardened lags wasting precious days in the much larger adult section. Like them, most of us boys were heading for damnation. Protocol savage, recent tattoos serving me well, we hearkened back in that pandemonium to times when we were boys as if our collective childhood happened in the distant past.
An infamous murderer, a DJ on the outside, ran our in-(the big) house radio station. I listened wrapped in a cloak of provisional safety holding a flat earpiece connected to a wire, alone at last, dreaming of freedom, endurance of solitude the best time for me but apparently not for many of the other young offenders between 4p.m. and 7a.m. when we emptied our waste in the cold light, avoiding splash, fetid stench swirling in the air, our reek the only vestige of us in that stink hole free to float away.
Old magazines circulated. Most boys didn’t care to read, or couldn’t, although they liked the pictures. Glossy photos of food outraged my hunger for a meal better than degrading. Swimsuit models caught my eye, my breath. I devoured word knowledge tests dreaming of freedom using a pencil stub kept in my tobacco, often guessing the opposite to correct answers of multiple-choice questions, otherwise doing OK. I instinctively mentally corrected spelling mistakes reading the despair, defamation, humour, and of course, rage, in graffiti etched and inked over years into my walls, but I lacked answers. Still do from time to time, faded tattoos become motifs these remedial years on.
Two boys who hit an elderly newsagent harder than intended when robbing him received crushing sentences, unlike mine. The younger one, who acted tougher in the yard, was overheard sobbing nocturnally in that silenced madhouse of rage sorrowing for a lost dream of freedom, or the dead man. Who knows? I can’t find them on Google, but traced another, a loud, ignorant boy from those drear days, dead now, described as a habitual petty criminal all his life.
There was a girl whose letters had finally caught up with me. She worked in the city. On my release, unmet, resolute after a careful countdown, a thing I still do, the raw cry of a tram rattling towards the bright city surged my young blood.
Ian C Smith, P.O. Box 9262, Sale, Australia, 3850. <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Out There It’s out there We must drive in it Walk in it It’s out there It’s too much with us Getting and spending We get it Understand what we Have done Wasted our powers Given our hearts away Lost the tune Forgot the words The weather changes Sealed in the politics Of now Of what we did What we are doing It’s out there That’s all Just out there The earth of it The air of it The water Collecting the evidence Details it will use Against us It’s all out there. Climate This hot breeze holds the afternoon summarizes it in a brief moment says so much about what we have these days – too much sun, heat, a few clouds that give into the days spinning by, so little rain. This is the climate change they promised us warned us about, while we were too busy with other things, things that seem trivial now in the nineties, in this heat wave, in this drought. We air-condition what we can, we sit in any shade we find, fill plastic pools for the dogs, joke about running through the sprinkler like we did as children, a game we no longer can play. The news we hear and watch doesn’t bother mentioning this any- more, as if the scientists have given up on us, realize playing Cassandra didn’t help, doesn’t help and like us feel this hot breeze, that summarizes what’s left of our afternoon, this brief moment that says so much about what we have done. Rain We used to say, farmers need the rain whether We knew they did or not, but now We all need the rain like today it rained all day not just our lawns and lakes but our spirits too need the rain bogged down the way We have been in a spiritual, a psychic drought tired, dry days, one after another till today We all needed the rain and it came down all morning, all afternoon, this evening beyond trying to satisfy our lawns and our lakes, the sound of the rain the ticking at times at our windows the whoosh in the wind and the calming hush of it bring a peace along with it a whole day of this peaceful sound of rain We should all now say we need the rain.
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the money was tempting though i had a woman send me an email today offering me three thousand dollars a week to be her sugar boy i congratulated her on finally reaching rock bottom ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- an empty church parking lot mothing makes me happier than an empty church parking lot on a sunday morning i'm sure if a few things would have gone different in my life my thoughts on god would be totally different although, i can't help but think god played a role in all of that so, the least of what should happen is all of the sheep going broke ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ under a tree i used to write poems under a tree across the street from where my girlfriend at the time used to live she saw me one morning and told me to stop stalking her i said just a few more stanzas to go the cops didn't understand that either ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- have it both ways sometimes i feel like not being afraid to die hasn't exactly worked out for me i somewhere lost the desire to still live i should be old enough to know you can't have it both ways but a stubborn asshole doesn't always get to choose his own reality ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- new neighbors the beauty of living around old people is you will have new neighbors every few years of course, none of them will be that lonely housewife you always heard about in the suburbs
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the last quarter century, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Mad Swirl, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)