Hello.
I really liked this first book of the Iliad. I loved the language and all of the emotions that are shown, even such a short piece.
I have to say that I think that Achilles’ anger is entirely justified. In a society where your arête is everything, and your pride is your most important possession, it is not just a war prize that Agamemnon is stripping Achilles of. He is taking away is honor.
Then, of course, there is the matter of Agamemnon himself. Agamemnon is, essentially, a coward. He has never been into battle, he has never been on the front lines and yet he gets the best share of the loot, while warriors like Achilles, who fight hard all the time, get very little.
I cannot say that I think that Achilles was justified in calling his mother down form the heavens and pleading with her to talk to Zeus. No matter how much his honor was wounded, he has no right to wish that his own troops be killed. They are, after all, Greeks, such as himself.
I believe that even if Zeus were not to kill off troops, Agamemnon would soon realize that he could not win without Achilles.
Goodbye.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
*Myth, Religon or Cult?*
Hello.
I would like to take just a brief moment to rant about the difference between a myth, a religion and a cult.
The official definition of a cult: the object of such devotion. A group or sect bound together by veneration of the same thing, person, ideal, etc. Sociology. A group having a sacred ideology and a set of rites centering around their sacred symbols.
The official definition of a religion: A set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, esp. when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs. A specific fundamental set of beliefs and practices generally agreed upon by a number of persons or sects: the Christian religion; the Buddhist religion. The body of persons adhering to a particular set of beliefs and practices: a world.
The official definition of a myth: Any story that attempts to explain how the world was created or why the world is the way that it is. Myths are stories that are passed on from generation to generation and normally involve religion. Most myths were first spread by oral tradition and then were written down in some literary form. Many ancient literary works are, in fact, myths as myths appear in every ancient culture of the planet.
See a pattern? Well, that would be because they are all essentially the same.
What is a cult but a poorer, less powerful religion? What is a myth but a religion few believe in anymore?
The reason I bring this up is because we are reading “myths” in class and questioning the truth of them. No one (aside from us atheists) would ever question the truth of Christianity, but to me, that is a myth. The “myth” of the Greek gods was believed as a religion once, yet we question the “truth” of it. No one would ever say that the bible was unlikely to be true.
The other thing that has been really bothering me is a question on the California State Standards Test (the STAR test) last year. It was in the reading comprehension section. First, we had to read an article about “myths”, and then answer some questions. One of the questions was “Why did the Greeks invent their gods?” the answer they were looking for was “To explain natural happenings.” I was really angry about this question because the same question COULD be asked of Christianity, but no one ever would.
Just a few little things that anger me…
Goodbye.
I would like to take just a brief moment to rant about the difference between a myth, a religion and a cult.
The official definition of a cult: the object of such devotion. A group or sect bound together by veneration of the same thing, person, ideal, etc. Sociology. A group having a sacred ideology and a set of rites centering around their sacred symbols.
The official definition of a religion: A set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, esp. when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs. A specific fundamental set of beliefs and practices generally agreed upon by a number of persons or sects: the Christian religion; the Buddhist religion. The body of persons adhering to a particular set of beliefs and practices: a world.
The official definition of a myth: Any story that attempts to explain how the world was created or why the world is the way that it is. Myths are stories that are passed on from generation to generation and normally involve religion. Most myths were first spread by oral tradition and then were written down in some literary form. Many ancient literary works are, in fact, myths as myths appear in every ancient culture of the planet.
See a pattern? Well, that would be because they are all essentially the same.
What is a cult but a poorer, less powerful religion? What is a myth but a religion few believe in anymore?
The reason I bring this up is because we are reading “myths” in class and questioning the truth of them. No one (aside from us atheists) would ever question the truth of Christianity, but to me, that is a myth. The “myth” of the Greek gods was believed as a religion once, yet we question the “truth” of it. No one would ever say that the bible was unlikely to be true.
The other thing that has been really bothering me is a question on the California State Standards Test (the STAR test) last year. It was in the reading comprehension section. First, we had to read an article about “myths”, and then answer some questions. One of the questions was “Why did the Greeks invent their gods?” the answer they were looking for was “To explain natural happenings.” I was really angry about this question because the same question COULD be asked of Christianity, but no one ever would.
Just a few little things that anger me…
Goodbye.
Monday, February 12, 2007
*Rage--Cause*
Rage is a sly monster.
It’s more potent than doubt, more powerful than grief. It doesn’t creep into your mind in the middle of the night, like jealousy, you’re not born with it with it, like happiness. No, rage steals over you quickly, sweeping through your blood. It doesn’t creep, it pounces.
Rage, in many ways, is more human than the others. Unfortunately, the evilest of emotions hides in human form. Like the wraith that sheds its skin to inhabit another, rage changes its shape, presenting itself in the figure most appeasing to its viewer.
And perhaps worst of all, rage is a monster that makes itself appealing. It sweeps over the soul, and then roosts there. It twists itself into a tempting snake, coiling around your heart, offering you a shining apple of false comfort. It consoles you while quietly fueling the burning fire it has started, perhaps without the knowledge of its seemingly innocent host.
Rage will consume you, devour your soul.
It’s more potent than doubt, more powerful than grief. It doesn’t creep into your mind in the middle of the night, like jealousy, you’re not born with it with it, like happiness. No, rage steals over you quickly, sweeping through your blood. It doesn’t creep, it pounces.
Rage, in many ways, is more human than the others. Unfortunately, the evilest of emotions hides in human form. Like the wraith that sheds its skin to inhabit another, rage changes its shape, presenting itself in the figure most appeasing to its viewer.
And perhaps worst of all, rage is a monster that makes itself appealing. It sweeps over the soul, and then roosts there. It twists itself into a tempting snake, coiling around your heart, offering you a shining apple of false comfort. It consoles you while quietly fueling the burning fire it has started, perhaps without the knowledge of its seemingly innocent host.
Rage will consume you, devour your soul.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
*Burning Fear (Fahrenheit 451)*
Hello.
This assignment was to rewrite a scene from the book that was frightening from the prospective of one of the characters in the scene. My last post was describing this and choosing words that I liked from it. Now, here is the scene, the way I (and the poor woman) see it:
A knock came fast and hard at the door. Whoever was on the other side banged away at the fragile piece of wood, how flimsy it seemed under their fist! Doors had always been a safety, something to keep out the talking walls, talking people, talking world. Everything talked and they all talked and talked about nothing.
Slowly she walked to the door, only one person, or group of people, rather, could be on the other side. Only one person would come to see her. Only one person would care enough to visit her.
She stood for a moment, filled with the noisy sound of knocking and the sound of her own racing heart and thoughts. It seemed to take an infinite amount of time to reach the knob, to turn it. She stretched out her hand, wondering, childishly, if she would be able to reach, it seemed like such a very long way.
As soon as the door was open things moved very quickly. A man was revealed on the porch, a man with his fist still raised in the attitude of knocking. The man grabbed her arms, holding her like a limp doll and shaking her, shaking and shaking.
She didn’t feel able to move, the coming and going of her breath seemed to be the only movement through her whole body, she couldn’t even hear her own heart beat. Her eyes were fixed on the wall, a single spot of color there. Had it always been there? She wondered, it looked like a bloody fingerprint, just a bit below her eye level. She watched it while they shook her. She knew that she was weaving drunkenly across the porch, swaying in a sort of fear-induced trance.
There were words, words she had told herself that she would say if they came. When they came. No one escaped, no one was spared their rigorous purging. The words, the words, they were, they were…
“Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.” Yes, those were the words, she wasn’t sure from what well she had dug them. She wasn’t sure how she had managed to remember anything, the rest of her mind seemed so blank. But perhaps it was like the wall in her entrance hall, blank with just enough distinction to give her the courage to perform her final act.
The man, the tall one, the leader was screaming at her, asking her where the books were. He wanted her books, he wanted to burn them. She swayed a bit and fixed her eyes on a point just past his broad shoulder. She focused on that stretch of wall behind him, focused on it to give her courage. She had never been more afraid…or more purposeful.
His hand came down across her face. The slap stung painfully and tears came to her eyes, they hid there, waiting for the moment to spill over. “Where are they?” he asked, digging his fingers into her shoulder.
More words, there were more words that she needed. Why couldn’t she find them? She knew ever so many words, she just need a few, just a simple few. “You know—” she started but no sound seemed to be issuing from her mouth. She tried to gather her courage, to wrap it about her like a cloak, a cloak of protection. “You know where they are or you wouldn’t be here.” Her voice was stronger now, more forceful and defiant sounding.
A card, a white one with stark black text was thrust under her nose. It looked so ugly to her. It was nothing at all like the beautiful text from her books. It was far too harsh, too hideously frightening. She didn’t even read it.
“That would be Mrs. Blake, my neighbor.” She wondered where she found the words with which to lie. They flew so smoothly to her mouth, the lie was so easy.
The men were already off, screaming triumphant cries at the overpowering of one woman. They had no idea what they were doing. They were the mindless slaves of their twisted sense of justice. Except for the leader. He knew. He saw the lies that were being fed to the people. He was the worst kind of scum, because he knew the deceit and did nothing. Filth.
They rushed up her stairs and started to hack away at her attic door, banging it down. She stood there, motionless for a moment. Fear was paralyzing, it rooted her feet to the ground, froze her hands.
No, no, she thought. There was more, more she had to do. Quickly, silently, she rushed to the kitchen. Matches, she needed matches. They were hidden; no one used matches any more. She most likely had the only store left in the whole city. Just one, just one would do. She looked at the tiny thing, sitting in the palm of her hand. It was so small. So pitiful, it was just a small stick, just a red head, angry looking.
She moved back to the hallway and stood there, listening in silence to the raging men upstairs, they were so loud and she knew it was to cover her own silence. She felt a small triumph in their unrest. Her silence spoke far louder than their words.
The came tumbling back down the stairs, dragging their horrible kerosene bottles. She hated the stench, it was so cloying. Books were sprayed with the stuff; it was a physical blow to see them drenched, the dye from their covers seeping over the floor, the gilt of their titles peeling off with the stinking liquid.
One of them kneeled by her, he was trying to get her to move, to pull her out of the house. She didn’t want to move, she didn’t want to leave, she had to finish it, she had to.
No, she told him, no. He was persistent. He pulled on her arm, tried to coax her. No, she said again and again. Finally, she revealed the tiny, powerful kitchen match. The man, the kind one, stepped back and the boss edged to the door in a way that she knew was nervous, though he tried to hide it.
How powerful the kitchen match felt. She could have been holding a gun and commanded no more respect. She touched the covers of the books around her, caressing them.
Goodbye, she thought, and lit the match. Goodbye.
This assignment was to rewrite a scene from the book that was frightening from the prospective of one of the characters in the scene. My last post was describing this and choosing words that I liked from it. Now, here is the scene, the way I (and the poor woman) see it:
A knock came fast and hard at the door. Whoever was on the other side banged away at the fragile piece of wood, how flimsy it seemed under their fist! Doors had always been a safety, something to keep out the talking walls, talking people, talking world. Everything talked and they all talked and talked about nothing.
Slowly she walked to the door, only one person, or group of people, rather, could be on the other side. Only one person would come to see her. Only one person would care enough to visit her.
She stood for a moment, filled with the noisy sound of knocking and the sound of her own racing heart and thoughts. It seemed to take an infinite amount of time to reach the knob, to turn it. She stretched out her hand, wondering, childishly, if she would be able to reach, it seemed like such a very long way.
As soon as the door was open things moved very quickly. A man was revealed on the porch, a man with his fist still raised in the attitude of knocking. The man grabbed her arms, holding her like a limp doll and shaking her, shaking and shaking.
She didn’t feel able to move, the coming and going of her breath seemed to be the only movement through her whole body, she couldn’t even hear her own heart beat. Her eyes were fixed on the wall, a single spot of color there. Had it always been there? She wondered, it looked like a bloody fingerprint, just a bit below her eye level. She watched it while they shook her. She knew that she was weaving drunkenly across the porch, swaying in a sort of fear-induced trance.
There were words, words she had told herself that she would say if they came. When they came. No one escaped, no one was spared their rigorous purging. The words, the words, they were, they were…
“Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.” Yes, those were the words, she wasn’t sure from what well she had dug them. She wasn’t sure how she had managed to remember anything, the rest of her mind seemed so blank. But perhaps it was like the wall in her entrance hall, blank with just enough distinction to give her the courage to perform her final act.
The man, the tall one, the leader was screaming at her, asking her where the books were. He wanted her books, he wanted to burn them. She swayed a bit and fixed her eyes on a point just past his broad shoulder. She focused on that stretch of wall behind him, focused on it to give her courage. She had never been more afraid…or more purposeful.
His hand came down across her face. The slap stung painfully and tears came to her eyes, they hid there, waiting for the moment to spill over. “Where are they?” he asked, digging his fingers into her shoulder.
More words, there were more words that she needed. Why couldn’t she find them? She knew ever so many words, she just need a few, just a simple few. “You know—” she started but no sound seemed to be issuing from her mouth. She tried to gather her courage, to wrap it about her like a cloak, a cloak of protection. “You know where they are or you wouldn’t be here.” Her voice was stronger now, more forceful and defiant sounding.
A card, a white one with stark black text was thrust under her nose. It looked so ugly to her. It was nothing at all like the beautiful text from her books. It was far too harsh, too hideously frightening. She didn’t even read it.
“That would be Mrs. Blake, my neighbor.” She wondered where she found the words with which to lie. They flew so smoothly to her mouth, the lie was so easy.
The men were already off, screaming triumphant cries at the overpowering of one woman. They had no idea what they were doing. They were the mindless slaves of their twisted sense of justice. Except for the leader. He knew. He saw the lies that were being fed to the people. He was the worst kind of scum, because he knew the deceit and did nothing. Filth.
They rushed up her stairs and started to hack away at her attic door, banging it down. She stood there, motionless for a moment. Fear was paralyzing, it rooted her feet to the ground, froze her hands.
No, no, she thought. There was more, more she had to do. Quickly, silently, she rushed to the kitchen. Matches, she needed matches. They were hidden; no one used matches any more. She most likely had the only store left in the whole city. Just one, just one would do. She looked at the tiny thing, sitting in the palm of her hand. It was so small. So pitiful, it was just a small stick, just a red head, angry looking.
She moved back to the hallway and stood there, listening in silence to the raging men upstairs, they were so loud and she knew it was to cover her own silence. She felt a small triumph in their unrest. Her silence spoke far louder than their words.
The came tumbling back down the stairs, dragging their horrible kerosene bottles. She hated the stench, it was so cloying. Books were sprayed with the stuff; it was a physical blow to see them drenched, the dye from their covers seeping over the floor, the gilt of their titles peeling off with the stinking liquid.
One of them kneeled by her, he was trying to get her to move, to pull her out of the house. She didn’t want to move, she didn’t want to leave, she had to finish it, she had to.
No, she told him, no. He was persistent. He pulled on her arm, tried to coax her. No, she said again and again. Finally, she revealed the tiny, powerful kitchen match. The man, the kind one, stepped back and the boss edged to the door in a way that she knew was nervous, though he tried to hide it.
How powerful the kitchen match felt. She could have been holding a gun and commanded no more respect. She touched the covers of the books around her, caressing them.
Goodbye, she thought, and lit the match. Goodbye.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Hesiod Writing Asignment
Hello.
Wow. Two posts from me in one day. You must feel privileged. I jest, I jest.
This one is on a new and exciting project, however. As might have been determined from the last few posts, we have, as a class, finished reading and analyzing Fahrenheit 451 (except for the essay that we have due). Therefore, we are moving on to a new topic: Greek myths.
We have started by reading a section from Hesiod’s “The Theogony”. The word “theogony” means, literally a genealogy of the gods. This particular part we read was about the birth of the Greek gods and their reaction to those that came before them, the Titans.
In the story, one of the things that it tells is the birth of the “head god” Zeus. Zeus was the son of Cronus, who was, in turn, the son of Uranus. Both Uranus and Cronus disposed of their children, Uranus because he was afraid, and Cronus because there was a prophecy that one of his children would overthrow him.
Cronus ate all of his children. When he had Zeus, his wife, Rhea, replaced the newborn with a rock wrapped in swaddling cloth. Cronus then ate this, and, unbeknownst to him, his son lived.
Some years later, after Zeus had grown, he returned to his father. He fed him a poison that caused him to vomit up all of his children, who were, by now, full grown. With his brothers and sisters, as well as the imprisoned children of Uranus, Zeus waged war against the other Titans, and after ten years of fighting, he won, taking the rule of the world.
In some ways, Zeus is similar to his father and grandfather. He is far kinder to his children that either of them were, but like Cronus, he defeated his own father. He also has a slight want of power, though not as strong as either Cronus or Uranus.
I think that the largest difference, however is that Zeus has a much less tenuous hold over his subjects. Unlike his father or grandfather, he is (or should I say “was”?) unlikely to be overthrown by any of his descendants. With my rather limited knowledge of the Greek gods, I can say that I don’t think that there are any of the gods who are strong enough, or would want to overthrow Zeus.
More on this subject to follow.
Goodbye.
Wow. Two posts from me in one day. You must feel privileged. I jest, I jest.
This one is on a new and exciting project, however. As might have been determined from the last few posts, we have, as a class, finished reading and analyzing Fahrenheit 451 (except for the essay that we have due). Therefore, we are moving on to a new topic: Greek myths.
We have started by reading a section from Hesiod’s “The Theogony”. The word “theogony” means, literally a genealogy of the gods. This particular part we read was about the birth of the Greek gods and their reaction to those that came before them, the Titans.
In the story, one of the things that it tells is the birth of the “head god” Zeus. Zeus was the son of Cronus, who was, in turn, the son of Uranus. Both Uranus and Cronus disposed of their children, Uranus because he was afraid, and Cronus because there was a prophecy that one of his children would overthrow him.
Cronus ate all of his children. When he had Zeus, his wife, Rhea, replaced the newborn with a rock wrapped in swaddling cloth. Cronus then ate this, and, unbeknownst to him, his son lived.
Some years later, after Zeus had grown, he returned to his father. He fed him a poison that caused him to vomit up all of his children, who were, by now, full grown. With his brothers and sisters, as well as the imprisoned children of Uranus, Zeus waged war against the other Titans, and after ten years of fighting, he won, taking the rule of the world.
In some ways, Zeus is similar to his father and grandfather. He is far kinder to his children that either of them were, but like Cronus, he defeated his own father. He also has a slight want of power, though not as strong as either Cronus or Uranus.
I think that the largest difference, however is that Zeus has a much less tenuous hold over his subjects. Unlike his father or grandfather, he is (or should I say “was”?) unlikely to be overthrown by any of his descendants. With my rather limited knowledge of the Greek gods, I can say that I don’t think that there are any of the gods who are strong enough, or would want to overthrow Zeus.
More on this subject to follow.
Goodbye.
Words From Fahrenheit 451
Hello.
Though Mr. Jana mentioned this scene on his “blog” I was particularly attracted to it. After looking through the book, I couldn’t find a scene in which I thought conveyed emotion, and the emotion of fear, so well so I decided to come back to this part.
The scene I speak of is the one in which the woman is burned with all of her books. I chose it in part because of how powerful I thought it was. She believed so strongly in her cause that she was willing to die, mater-like, for it.
I think that depending on your cause, it can be easy to defend it, perhaps even die for it, but books…they’re not a cause, they’re a thing, and no matter how many people die in the defense of books, the opinion of the public and the government aren’t going to be changed.
Is the scene frightening? Strangely enough the woman seems very calm. She lights the match herself, once she has been caught, she doesn’t show a flicker of fear. I’m not afraid of dying, but the bravery this woman shows is truly wonderful.
Now, I have been instructed to choose words out of this scene that are particularly descriptive. On to that…
Staggering—pg. 38
Clumsily—pg. 38
Accusing—pg. 37
Condemnation—pg. 39
Contempt—pg. 40
Weaving—pg. 36
Objectivity—pg. 36
Musty—pg.36
Snuffing—pg. 36
The page numbers, of course, correspond to pages in Fahrenheit 451. I hope that you too enjoy these words.
Goodbye.
Though Mr. Jana mentioned this scene on his “blog” I was particularly attracted to it. After looking through the book, I couldn’t find a scene in which I thought conveyed emotion, and the emotion of fear, so well so I decided to come back to this part.
The scene I speak of is the one in which the woman is burned with all of her books. I chose it in part because of how powerful I thought it was. She believed so strongly in her cause that she was willing to die, mater-like, for it.
I think that depending on your cause, it can be easy to defend it, perhaps even die for it, but books…they’re not a cause, they’re a thing, and no matter how many people die in the defense of books, the opinion of the public and the government aren’t going to be changed.
Is the scene frightening? Strangely enough the woman seems very calm. She lights the match herself, once she has been caught, she doesn’t show a flicker of fear. I’m not afraid of dying, but the bravery this woman shows is truly wonderful.
Now, I have been instructed to choose words out of this scene that are particularly descriptive. On to that…
Staggering—pg. 38
Clumsily—pg. 38
Accusing—pg. 37
Condemnation—pg. 39
Contempt—pg. 40
Weaving—pg. 36
Objectivity—pg. 36
Musty—pg.36
Snuffing—pg. 36
The page numbers, of course, correspond to pages in Fahrenheit 451. I hope that you too enjoy these words.
Goodbye.
Monday, February 5, 2007
Words, Wonderful, Wonderful Words
Hello.
These are words chosen both from my “blog” and other people’s. The names are next to the word I chose out of one of their pieces. Mainly, I looked at their “Dread” and “Happiness” writing pieces.
As you are to soon find out, I like words for either what they mean, the image they bring to mind or the way they sound when one says them. For best results, say the word out loud, you’ll understand what I am saying better. If you don’t understand what a word means, I would like to introduce you to our friend the dictionary, who can most certainly help you!
If you would like to leave a word that you like as well, I would love to get a comment from you!
Immeasurable—Austin
I just like the way this word sounds when you say it. Go ahead, say it out loud, I can wait… I just like the depth of the word when you say it.
Luminosity –Austin
I chose this word because I like the image that it conjures. I see a light in a dark room, or perhaps a star flaring to life in space.
Gentle—Beth
Gentle, in many ways, is perhaps the most…common (for lack of a better word), only in terms of how often you hear it in conversation. No matter how flowery my prose, when I speak, it’s pretty normal. I like gentle because it is almost onomatopoeic (making a sound, when you say, similar to the sound of the thing that you are describing, for example, “meow”. When you say it, it sounds like the meow of a cat), it just sounds soft.
Pulses—Beth
I like this word because of the many things that it can be used to describe and the forcefulness of it.
Gleaming—Beth
One word: shiny. I love things that are shiny, sound shiny or are related to shiny things.
Serenity—Beth
What I like most about this word is that so many other, more common words could be used in stead, but Beth chose to use this one, which has such a beautiful meaning and sound.
Garish—Kit
This word sounds harsh and bright. It describes perfectly light or something else that is too bright, ridiculous or distasteful for some other calmer word.
Rambles—Kit
To me, this word brings to mind a river that sort of meanders. It just goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on…rather like my posts.
Seeps—Kit
This word makes me think of something leeching through fabric, or under a door (as I used it in my “My Fear, My Dread” paragraph). It just sounds like something unpleasant…well, seeping.
Noxious—Kit
First, I love the way this word sounds. Second, I think that it sounds like a poisonous plant or something. It could fit right in my Nightshade, Hemlock and Ivy. They all just have odd spellings and sounds.
Paralyzing—Kit
I’m not sure why I like this one. I think that it is because it isn’t just “frozen” or “still”, it’s something fare more interesting. It’s not a very pretty sounding word.
Goodbye.
These are words chosen both from my “blog” and other people’s. The names are next to the word I chose out of one of their pieces. Mainly, I looked at their “Dread” and “Happiness” writing pieces.
As you are to soon find out, I like words for either what they mean, the image they bring to mind or the way they sound when one says them. For best results, say the word out loud, you’ll understand what I am saying better. If you don’t understand what a word means, I would like to introduce you to our friend the dictionary, who can most certainly help you!
If you would like to leave a word that you like as well, I would love to get a comment from you!
Immeasurable—Austin
I just like the way this word sounds when you say it. Go ahead, say it out loud, I can wait… I just like the depth of the word when you say it.
Luminosity –Austin
I chose this word because I like the image that it conjures. I see a light in a dark room, or perhaps a star flaring to life in space.
Gentle—Beth
Gentle, in many ways, is perhaps the most…common (for lack of a better word), only in terms of how often you hear it in conversation. No matter how flowery my prose, when I speak, it’s pretty normal. I like gentle because it is almost onomatopoeic (making a sound, when you say, similar to the sound of the thing that you are describing, for example, “meow”. When you say it, it sounds like the meow of a cat), it just sounds soft.
Pulses—Beth
I like this word because of the many things that it can be used to describe and the forcefulness of it.
Gleaming—Beth
One word: shiny. I love things that are shiny, sound shiny or are related to shiny things.
Serenity—Beth
What I like most about this word is that so many other, more common words could be used in stead, but Beth chose to use this one, which has such a beautiful meaning and sound.
Garish—Kit
This word sounds harsh and bright. It describes perfectly light or something else that is too bright, ridiculous or distasteful for some other calmer word.
Rambles—Kit
To me, this word brings to mind a river that sort of meanders. It just goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on…rather like my posts.
Seeps—Kit
This word makes me think of something leeching through fabric, or under a door (as I used it in my “My Fear, My Dread” paragraph). It just sounds like something unpleasant…well, seeping.
Noxious—Kit
First, I love the way this word sounds. Second, I think that it sounds like a poisonous plant or something. It could fit right in my Nightshade, Hemlock and Ivy. They all just have odd spellings and sounds.
Paralyzing—Kit
I’m not sure why I like this one. I think that it is because it isn’t just “frozen” or “still”, it’s something fare more interesting. It’s not a very pretty sounding word.
Goodbye.
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