2015年11月19日 星期四

Call of the Wild bkre

Old longings nomadic leap. Chafing at custom’s chain; Again from its brumal sleep. Wakens the ferine strain. John Myer O’ Hara’s poem “Atavism”, located at the very beginning of the novel, fully describes the theme and the mood of a book no other than Jack London’s timeless classic “Call of the Wild”. This is a tale about the emancipation from civilization and the embrace of wilderness; a tale in which the protagonist, Buck, was a Scotch Collie struggling in the manacles of humanity; while the call of the wild seems incessant, it signals the advent of a primitive, untamed form of life for him. As the story begins, Buck was a domesticated dog, pampered and comfortable, before he was sold to become a sledge dog during which he was treated with poor conditions by his subsequent masters. Eventually, he learnt how to cope with the hostitlity of his companions and to get used to the harsh environment he was living in. He became a genuine wolf and soon when the claws of humanity lost their grasp. He responded to the call of the wild, a mysterious howl from the depth of a forest, and succumbed to a living which is of his breed. The book was written in a strong, lurid style, depicting the cruelty of nature and the physical violence of dog fights, which is quite unique and tantalizing. Yet it was the ambience of the story that stands out the most. The story sets on the snowy mountains and tundra of Alaska, where sunlight is dim and life is scarce. There the boundary of the world of human and the world of nature is blurred, and life fights for survival instead of other trivial matters which a modern day human would do. Such image commands a sense of calmness to one’s mind, making us reflect on the rationale behind all the activities of our daily life. Why are we bounded by so many rules and standards given by the society? And why should we conform, instead of defy, and to live the life we truly belong. The theme of breaking free and striving for existence is what the novel is all about.
If I were to use a picture to represent this story, I would draw a Scotch Collie sitting on the edge of cliff, howling towards the sky, with an expanse of Alaskian trees and snow below it. Not only will such picture accurately represent the main theme, it will also show Buck’s return to the wild, which is what the whole plot circulates around. Buck is hapless and pitiful throughout the plot, being forced to adapt and to obey. Later he met a master called John Thornton, the only man that would caress him and love him. However, he was soon killed and left Buck behind heart-broken. Toiled physically and mentally, Buck’s endless struggle for survival made him a hero in the hearts of all readers. Therefore, by adding him , the picture will fully show what the readers’ thought of the story, affectionate and thought-provoking with the protagonist finally having a good ending.

If I were asked to write a sequel to this story, I would surely continue Buck’s journey as a maverick and to further discuss the conflicts between nature and civilization. When the story ended, Buck was referred as the “Ghost Dog” by the locals, a formidable man hunter with prolific offspring. Now free to stride across the lands of Alaska, it will be a perfect opportunity for the narrator to account more about the fate of Buck, probably more encounters with humans, evil or kind, reckless or wise.

2015年3月21日 星期六

Feel sad, but greatness is brewing

After the metamorphosis i look pretty much weared down and indifferent towards challenges. I am no longer a valiant warrior fighting for the sake of myself against the ascendancy of time. I want tranquility. Sth i waved adieu a long time ago, and now i want it back. interesting, it is, time to render effect towards us. Days has past and i abide by still wondering if i have a goal at all, or if im actually disoriented. In which i frankly accede to th3 latter.

Once, i describe life as a boat floating on the sea, without turbo, without external force. Let it be unbound, and let it drift its way to all the unaugured possibilities of life. What is the guide to its voyage? There ain't much. But time would tell the truth of its face. And today time has disclosed so many of them that im too filled to accept anymore. The ominous and truculent faces glancing at me, and steping forward in a pace commensurating with thr rythm of my trepidation. Then by the time i know for sure that the world is not apt to be conquered. Qnd the human figure i take as myself once being called hunter shd be considering himself the hunted indeed.
The boat is trapped in an enduring, adamant whirlpool. I am so lost in this swirling world suddenly turned so peculiar. Ask me to count down the last moments i still cherish the vestiges of nostalgia. I assure you, the asking would b3 as ludicrous as a grav3 digger r3surfacing his own grave.
There is the times of excellence. There are those of calamity. Pls beg me pardon, i condon3. My real self, my real world, my true dignity and effulg3nce. All scintillating at the palpable corners of the boundless universe, reciprocating my,call with a sign of approval. Do see me as a lonesome, dreary and wistful maverick loitering in the depths of humanity. I am far from human. A true great is never a star at the front of the world and its population. Do trust that no s5andards,guide the true winner and its winning way. The spark that breaks the night is my favourite example of world domination. Audacity, adamance, and complacency. Lastly the belief  may these not leave your way to the entrance of greatness

2015年1月6日 星期二

Wanna backup my essay

This is the rescue of death.
The paucity of scintillating stars stole away the ebullience of the sky. It was as dark as hell, and the profuse clouds haunting over the landscape did not ameliorate the atmosphere in any degree. Relentless wind battled against a solitary figure amid the long deserted streets of a little known town. Features constituting such a poignant imagery was not many, a few short, stout buildings sticking out of the ground adjacent to each other, dry and desiccate bricks of the ground, and occasional flickering of streetlight refusing to pay full respect to its trespassers of the night. It was all but night. Night in its utmost dominance. The impervious and imperturbable power of procuring darkness and fear to a piece of land, came bellowing down on earth and suppressing every tad of defiance brought up by life.
As Ishmael amble along street, he caught glimpse of a graveyard just next to him. Tormented by yet another mundane and banal day, he entered the vicinity to seek something entertaining.
Tombstones formed a neat row that covered the expanse of desiccate tundra soil. Sedated was the land before him, as he swept through each tomb one by one, meditating over the death dates and photos of the deceased. At one point, he stopped, at the very corner, as he glanced enthusiastically at one particular stone. It was one of the latest tombstones among a bountiful others in the graveyard. In such an ludicrously prodigious number of tombstones, as perplexing and bemusing as it seemed, this one showed something different. Vines covered the words marked on the tomb by a tumultuous formation. Ishmael looked closer, but his effort was futile when comparing to the vines that were too abstruse and dense, that everything buried beneath were vague and mutilated. It was an intimidating apprehension of rage and exasperation that came from the tomb, rushing into the eyes of Ishmael, making Ishmael shudder upon the chilling agitation in his spine.
Abruptly, a shrieking cry rang across the demesne of death, and a brute burst out from the maculate soil in front of the tomb. Dirty earth flew towards the galvanized Ishmael in a form of solid bricks. It was a human, but with horrible features, a pair of eyes wide open, his clothes ragged and torn from decay, and his skin rotten such that wounds are prevalent all over his body.
"Rescue me! Rescue all of us, my lad! We are in pain! Pain from the enmity and contrite of our lives. Do me favor, and we will return to true life!"
"True life?" Ishmael quivered, "am ... am I to exempt you from death? What should I do?"
"Rescue me with the dagger of life and death. Go to the abandoned mailbox. Get the dagger. You will soon be acknowledged of the way to rescue my soul, and millions of souls in this garden!"
In a trice, the brute vanished into its old dwelling. Shocked, Ishmael found himself on a mission. A mission to rescue, of which what to rescue was still ambiguous. He walked with a fast pace, through the multitude of tombstones and back to the entrance.
Amid such be-wilderness, there, not far away, a mailbox was sighted. Ishmael walked towards the mailbox, speculating over the features. Slowly, his hand was raised, just about to succumb to his benign character. He asked little questions about the figure that had shocked and petrified him, as he found himself actually trusting him. An aberrant trust, which is towards death, as he followed the orders. To help someone, and to return to him life. This is what he had in mind, and confidently he reached fro the contents of the mailbox.
"Halt!"A voice bellowed. Ishmael spun towards the speaker. It was a man, should be over his fifties, wearing torn and dirty clothes. A hat was worn, covering the majority of his face, that only the mouth was seen. He held up his hand, stopping Ishmael instantaneously.
"I am sorry. But I'm on a mission," explained Ishmael.
"No! Think, my friend! Do not commingle the living ones and the dead ones!"
"There was a person just now. I heard that they need rescue."
"The world of death is not as facile as it appears to be. You need to be insinuated. Please, do not be duped!"
The man was spoken in such intensity that his words transformed into a diatribe. Vehement, and affectionate, far to much a normal man of his age to perform.
Reluctantly, Ishmael stepped back. The man went towards him. He was of medium height, but of a terribly gaunt figure. The toothless mouth so empty that it glimmers, and his gleaming eyes was dark and almost absent below his hat, which intricacies had become more lucid, showed the name "D.R." at the front.
"My friend," spoke the man. "I am the graveyard keeper. I'm sorry to cause you such inconvenience. These days are diabolical days, and many of my guests all are not pleased by their visits here."
"There was a person jumping out of the grave."
"Oh, a lot of people also came across something similar. Disregard those facetious gibbering, 'cause what they believe is never true in the world of the living."
"Aren't they suppose to be dead?" mused Ishmael, his eyes hovering over the tombstones.
"This is the penchant of living, my friend. In my sentiment, those dead people are tired of the toils they meet in the inferno, and it is indeed the inception of an incessant process. Voracious of life, a palpitating hear, and nothing more. They are to live to do what they had missed in there lifetime, perhaps a perform few actions, to relish a few things, or to regret how they have missed the small details before there unworthy death. They had the chance, but not the wisdom to realize the truth, and then they will decease to live in enmity and contrite perpetually. People in the living often misunderstand the dead. They always believe that the dead possesses a lot of emotions and feelings. No, I tell you. They are so blind of emotions indeed, and as callous as ice. "
"I see," responded Ishmael.
"Come, my friend. Let us have a walk."
Ishmael followed, the clouds was denser than ever, ominous as it seemed, dyed in pure black, not showing any signs of mercy during its menace towards the land under his dominance.
Suddenly a consternation was evoked. Ishmael wanted to leave. Everything is too unfamiliar and formidable. Fear broke his barricades, torrid flame sizzling in his heart, a conflagration beyond his ability to extinguish. A voice, not relinquishing, so as the mission, ringing alarmingly in his mind.
"You can do it! You can do it!" The voice rang in his head. He was yet to know the meaning it connotes.
"You see that grave over there, my friend?"
"Yes," said Ishmael, "wait, is that the grave..."
"That is the latest victim of the adversities of life. Newest of the deceased. These whole bunch of them here, as you can see, they came in group of people. That happened four days ago. A group of about ten young men died of stabbing. That was sad news. A lot of people came in their affliction. Weeping and weeping all day long...
"Those are quite clever people, as they referred them. I do not know much about them myself. One in particular was peculiar, though. He has such high intelligence and shrewdness that no one could have ever imagined, and I feared that he might have the chance to abscond death! But no, there are too many forces that does not fall within his vision, unseen and unexpected forces, so unfair to exist in the world of living. I do pity the victims, but frankly speaking, what more can they say? They could only lament and regret in their dwellings as for now."
Ishmael nodded as he listened silently to the peculiar tone of the old man.
Just then, the sound of thunder rattled across the freezing tundra. The old man told Ishmael that he had unfinished work to dig into, and that he could no longer accompany him in his visit.
As Ishmael waved farewell, the sound returned.
"You can do it!"
It was a faint yet potent call, almost sound like begging and crying. It was a sense of fervid emotion that shook Ishmael. An intense feeling, so warm with heat and bright with light that he never perceived before. The shook of emotion, eventually drove his body to the direction of the mailbox, so inadvertently from Ishmael, so shocked at the scene, that he found himself in front of the very mailbox he had seen a couple of minutes ago.
"Okay, I'll do it." He said to himself, while also trying to mollify the voice in his head.
He reached in.
There was nothing.
There was no dagger of any sort. It was a chicanery after all.
Ishmael smiled in relief. Of course the dead were wrong, everything he saw and heard, so frightening as it seemed, had led to a fraud.
Slowly, he began to comprehend everything. The keeper was right indeed, as he knew the truth that deceased people couldn't be trusted at all.
Ishmael returned to the grave. The same piece of stone stood in front of him. There wasn't a single thing bursting out of the tundra soil that was soft and fresh, unlike the other parts of earth around the graveyard.
Perhaps there really was a person that came out of this particular part of soil. Ishmael refused to think of it anymore.
A deluge came down. It was heavy raining, shattering the vines, undermining its formation and annihilating the unwanted. Words are no visible on the tomb's surface.
Then there was light. Why was there light? The moon persisted to unveil behind such a circumstance. So ominous and pitch dark was the patches of clouds that covered the night. So strong, and so imperturbable. When did the moon realize itself being as a defiance towards such a large army of dark forces lingering in unseen limits of its demesne? The moonlight penetrated the clouds, defying the norm, as it shone proudly to add another miraculous event to its diary full of wistfulness and adversities.
In this new age of perception, Ishmael noticed the words marked on the tombstone gleaming in bright white.
"D.R. edify me of death.
D.R. gave me my stone."
The phone was drawn instantly.
In somewhere not far away, a police station received a call for yet another request.
"Police! There is a mad man murdering people! Death Reaper Graveyard! Now!"
But the dagger of life and death had already sunken into the weary flesh of the trespasser.
It was the shivering feeling of a metal blade. As the dagger stuck out, Ishmael saw the word "D.R." on the blade.
Yet another grave would be engendered upon this cursed land.
But at least millions of souls were rescued.