A Twilight of Convoluted Anecdotes and Pretentious Titles

This was an essay that had to be purely dialogue, again for Advanced Writing. My mind went to this topic pretty easily, channeling the smooth dialogue I love from Tarantino films and obviously I had Inglourious Basterds ont he mind.

“May I come in?”

“Yes, of course Colonel Adler, please do.”

“Thank you. I’d like to discuss your housing, Herr Eberhardt.”

“Surely I do not understand what you mean, Colonel. Please, sit down.”

“Thank you, and there is nothing particularly difficult to understand, Herr Eberhardt. We are going through the process of searching for unfound enemies of the state. You have nothing to hide, I should assume, correct?”

“Yes, Colonel. My family and I have nothing to hide.”

“Then Müller, Krieg?

“Yes, Colonel?”

“Please search Herr Eberhardt’s attic.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“I hope you understand, Herr Eberhardt. We must be extremely thorough. There is a family of interest unaccounted for from this area, the Rosen family, a Frau Eva, Herr Reiner, and their little Engel. As der Führer said so perfectly, ‘Great liars are also great magicians.’ I don’t think I have to elaborate on the liars I speak of.”

“I understand, Colonel. I can assure you that I am not housing any of them.”

“Very good, then we will be done soon. I have particular interest in your house, as I’ve heard conflicting reports.”

“How do you mean, Colonel?”

“Well, I’ve heard many locals say the same thing: ‘The Eberhardt family is a loyal German family’. But there have been reports to the contrary; one local family has stated, ‘I hear strange noises coming from the house at night.’ Surely that means nothing, but again, we must be extremely thorough.”

“Of course, Colonel. I assure you it’s nothing, just my family shuffling in the night. You know how these things get around. Someone says, ‘The Eberhardt house has had some strange noises. Somebody told me, “There’s rats running around their house!” ’ It all gets out of hand quickly.”

“Yes, those things do happen. Nevertheless, Herr Eberhardt, these happenings are all too common. We hear shuffling in the night and think it’s nothing. ‘It’s only the neighbors,’ people might say, ‘there’s no one else there.’ But this seems to be different for you, Herr Eberhardt, as you often work late at night, yes?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Well, that is conflicting with the reports of noise during times of your absence. I am sure your children and wife aren’t up at such an hour. Maybe it’s nothing…ah, yes, Müller and Krieg. Was your search fruitful?”

“No sir, Colonel Adler, the attic was clear.”

“Well then, I guess I shall be on my way. Thank you for your time, Herr Eberhardt.”

“Of course, Colonel, please come back at anytime.”

“Your hospitality clearly knows no bounds. Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler.”

“Darling, are they gone?”

“Yes, he’s gone for now. Get the floorboards.”

“Eva, Reiner, Engel?  It’s safe.

“Was that the door, dear?”

“Yes, I’ll get it. Eva, Reiner, Engel, get back under the boards.

“Ah, Colonel Adler, what brings you back so soon?”

“I thought I heard some rats.”

Another Advanced Writing essay. This one was The Superior Sex, and if you can’t tell, I went for the satirical route….

They are loud, they are strong, and they are awesome.  Men just know how to lift weights; I’ve been watching them lift for as long as I can remember.  I build the majority of muscle in the men that visit, and every day I see strong man after strong man come in to my testosterone-abundant home.  They lift the weights over and over until they sweat profusely and burn every bit of fat that might make them look less manly.  Very few women come to my home, and the ones that do rarely come to the section of the gym that houses my family and me.  While the women run on treadmills and work on aspects of fitness less important than strength and bulging muscles, the men work out their biceps with dumbbells and their triceps with the best flat bench in the gym—me, if I may be so blunt.

The men here clearly understand what is most important in not only fitness, but also life.  The men lift the bar I provide with unbelievable strength, while the women run on the cardio machines.  The treadmill, Ms. NordicTrack, is the preferred method of non-transportation by the women in my house.  She helps the women here move a lot without going anywhere: just like the women do everywhere in their lives.  I’ve never understood why women consider cardio endurance better than muscular endurance.  It makes less sense to try to outrun a robber than it does to punch the bullets away.  Moreover, men made cars so people don’t have to run! There is no reason to work on cardio endurance when there are cars.  Strength, in contrast, has many purposes: punching robbers in the face, lifting weights on me, or building cars for non-running people.

I have found that, along with their superior understanding of fitness, men are a lot smarter than women in all important subjects.  I can tell you that I have not heard anything remotely intelligent from women in this gym.  Who really cares about a Jane Austen novel? It’s what I always hear the women talking about, but the manly men in this gym do not judge a book by its cover.  Weightlifters laugh at all books.  Who cares about social commentary on something over two hundred years old when a man can bench 500 pounds? Being strong will be important every day in a man’s life, whereas a book that’s old was important only when it wasn’t old.

Asking if men are superior to women is similar to asking if gyms are better than libraries.  The better choice is just too obvious; would I rather get Hulk-like or read a book? The answer is obvious for any real man.  Men are the superior sex because of their first-rate strength and intelligence.  Women’s inferiority to men regarding these important attributes is the reason that men will always be the most important people in society.  I build the strength—and, as a result, intelligence—of the greatest people I’ve met in my life: all men that come to this gym.

This is an essay for my Advanced Writing class, which will probably be what most upcoming items on here are from. This one’s subject was Knowledge.

Black holes and wormholes take objects and either expand the distance between them infinitely or shorten it. Is it a component of knowledge to know the differences between the function of black holes and wormholes? Alternatively, is it more important to understand why they have these effects, and how their infrastructure creates these anomalies? What divides viewpoints on knowledge’s makeup does not rely solely on theoretical sciences or unsolved mysteries: one reader may takes a story literally while another finds the hidden subtext and symbolism. Someone who does not love science may wonder why measuring the force of gravity is important – people would not float to the moon if the measurement were unknown. Knowledge is relative to the individual; pertinent information on any subject can be key to one person and useless to another.

Which field of knowledge is most essential or beneficial is an opinion that divides different-minded people. The oft-discussed subcategories of knowledge, street smarts and book smarts, contrast those who favor social understanding and adaptability with those who prefer textbooks and facts. These facets of knowledge are not black and white, however: it is hard to function anywhere in the world without comprehension of the spoken language’s grammar or an understanding of what drives the society.

There is also a level of detective work and inference in knowledge, a Holmesian thought process to uncover answers below the initial layer. Revolutionary thinkers and creators such as Socrates, Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, and even modern, stylistically progressive authors like Cormac McCarthy and Mark Danielewski look at already existing foundations of knowledge from different vantage points and create new ideas. Their applications of knowledge are unique and show their deduction of new answers from existing information. For philosophers and authors, their applications of knowledge show a combination of social and educational apprehension that they can use to form new styles of thought and literature that are both academically sound and socially relevant.

The brain processes all the thoughts that aggregate knowledge; it determines soundness and relevance. An author of several non-fiction books regarding the brain and its processes, neurologist Oliver Sacks, has stated that ten percent of his blind patients and ten percent of his deaf patients have had visual and auditory hallucinations, respectively. If Oliver Sacks were to formulate a new hypothesis based on his discovery, he might interview other groups of people to search for kindred sensations: might paralyzed patients have tactile hallucinations? Anosmic patients olfactory hallucinations? Ageusic patients gustatory hallucinations? He could take the research beyond the senses to an emotional and personal level. Might xenophobes alter memories of their experiences with foreign people, hyperbolizing the negative aspects? The conclusions drawn from the research, interviews, and results would show Oliver Sacks’ control over knowledge in not only his field of study, but components of others as well.

Knowledge is the basis for human function and interaction. One person’s interpretation can differ sharply from the next. The relativity of knowledge and its myriad branches both divide and bind all sentient beings; it has controlled the course of human history. A different viewpoint may disagree and claim that knowledge has had little effect on history compared to impulse, and that is the beauty of knowledge as a concept.

(Continued)

The pen is mightier than the sword,
But even the pen cannot save man,
From that which causes the most destruction.
Himself.

“Keith!  Keith Jenkins, get up this very minute!”
The teenager in question opened his eyes the tiniest amount, and brought his right hand to his face to filter the few refracted rays of light that managed to make it through his cracked windowpane.  He caught the warmth in his palm, closed his eyes, and exhaled.
This is going to be another crappy day.
“Keith Jenkins!”  The woman from before hollered, thrusting Keith’s bedroom door open with a crash.  A nearby bookshelf threatened to topple, and sent an encyclopedia tumbling to the ground, landing with a dull thud.  Keith did not budge in the least, but mentally acknowledged the presence of his aunt.
Serena Plesant was not serene, nor was she pleasant.  In fact, she was a very easily agitated, middle-aged woman with a head full of short graying hairs, a face full of wrinkles, and a body full of cellulites, whose fun only came from making others feel very unpleasant.  At five feet two inches, she was so astonishingly chubby that even if she were put through Willy Wonka’s taffy stretcher, at ten feet, she would still be considered overweight.
However, despite her body shape, she was very fit, and could easily outrun any up-and-coming track star.  She just never felt like it.
“Keith Jenkins, you are an absolute waste of space!”  Miss (for she was unmarried) Serena Plesant screamed, sending spittle flying, and stomping her foot on the ground.  The resulting shockwave sent a dichotomous key of local plant life plummeting to the floor.  “You are an absolute disgrace to your mother!  If she were alive…oh, if she were alive!”
“‘If’…” Keith murmured under his breath.  “‘If’ is a strong word, auntie.”
“What’re you babbling about now?”  Miss Plesant barked, completely hysterical.  “You get this from your father, you absolutely do!”
Keith tensed up, his raw nerve hit.  However, his legal guardian did not see Keith’s muscles flex, or his teeth bare.  She only saw him throw the blankets off, set his feet on the floor, and grab a shirt from his nearby desk chair.
“I’m getting up now, auntie,” he said quietly, buttoning up the front, and taking a pair of pants from the back of his door.  “I’ll be changing in the bathroom.”
Miss Plesant simply harrumphed, storming out of his attic bedroom behind him, continuing to berate him with as many insults as she could.  However, even the vibrations from her size 11 bare feet would not knock Keith off balance; he was just too used to them by now.
“And do something with that absolutely horrid rat’s nest you call hair!”  Was the final slight Keith barely heard before he closed the creaky bathroom door with his foot, and clicked the lights on with his shoulder.  He threw his torn jeans on the closed toilet lid, and gazed as his reflection in the mirror.  Through the flickering lights, Keith saw he looked as tired as he felt.  His dirty blond hair covered the top part of his green eyes.  No, perhaps “covered” is the incorrect word to use.  His bangs simply hid his eyes, hid them from the evils of the world, and hid the world from them.
Sighing, Keith took a comb with three broken teeth from the moldy, plastic cup on the sink, and ran it through his hair several times until it looked presentable enough.  Taking a swig of mouthwash while getting into his jeans up over his boxers was the next step, and when the last of the foamy blue liquid had disappeared down the drain, he pushed against the door and clicked the light off.
“Ah, so the beast finally arrives,” Miss Plesant scoffed, as her nephew descended down the stairs to the kitchen.  She had a frilly pink apron on and an oily metal spatula in her right hand.  Something was burning on the stove, but Keith knew better than to mention it.
“Sorry I’m late again, auntie.”  He apologized, taking a seat at the two-person table and pouring milk into a mug with a cracked handle.  He took a sip and refrained from reacting.  It had already gone sour.  However, years of practice had given him a fierce poker face.
“Here, and eat it, absolutely eat every bit!”  Keith’s aunt commanded, thrusting a cracked plate of burnt bacon, undercooked eggs, and one slice of nearly-molded bread at him.  Keith obeyed, picking up his fork.  This, too, he was used to, and his stomach of iron would accept anything, edible or not.
Finally, he mopped up the rest of the raw yolk with the dry bread, swallowed, and washed it down with his 2%.  Wiping his lips with his shirt sleeve, Keith swiftly got up, then took his empty plate and mug.
“Thank you for the meal, auntie,” he said, bringing his dirty dishes and silverware to the sink.  His aunt said nothing, being too busy watching a morning talk show on the TV on a platform behind Keith’s seat.  She simply grunted in response.  This was one of the good things Keith could count on every morning.
Snagging his lunch money from the counter, as well as stealing a small handful of change from his aunt’s overflowing change purse, he put all his money in his jeans pocket, and took his somewhat-too-large coat and ratty backpack from the floor.
“I’m leaving for school now, auntie.  Have a good day.”  Keith said, opening the front door while slipping his shoes on.  Yet again, he received only a grunt in response.
Once he was outside, he slung his backpack on, and carried his coat under his arm.  It was too warm for it right now, but he would probably need it later in the day.
The cobblestone path leading away from his house met with other paths, and combined into one large path.  Keith glanced behind him, seeing the ever-present mansion looming in the distance.  A very rich oil tycoon lived there, and his aunt worked for him as a maid and, he was sure, a very ugly concubine.  So did every other ugly woman who lived in the other five, equally shoddy, houses.  The oil tycoon never hired anyone else.  He only gave jobs to those who “couldn’t get them anywhere else”.  He never hired men, either.  Keith could only guess why.
As he proceeded down the sidewalk, Keith kept his eyes focused downwards, simply watching his shoes, which were at least one size too small, go up and down, up and down, forward, at a brisk pace.  Away, away from his home, away from his aunt, and his aunt’s boss.
This was an ordinary day in Keith Jenkin’s life.  Yet it was on this particular day, the second Tuesday of April, that his life would change, and become rather unordinary.