How has the word "Muslim" changed since 9/11?
I also want to include the incident with Bill O'Reilly recently on the View. He made a statement saying that Muslims killed us on 9/11. 2 of the hosts then proceeded to storm off the stage in disgust. I disagree with the host's actions, and I think what Bill said was okay, and true. Although, he didn't mention that the radical muslims committed these acts, which are a very, very miniscule portion of the Muslim faith. There is a line that shouldn't be crossed, but where should it be drawn? I think that it is okay to say that radical Muslims killed us on 9/11. There is nothing untruthful about that statement. People shouldn't have a problem with it.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
what to write about, what to write?
I want to write about the Beatles for my free choice essay, for sure. Hopefully. I have it narrowed down to two ideas, but I am open to other options.
- the "Bigger than Jesus" controversy, was the reaction acceptable or blown out of proportion
- the "Paul is Dead" conspiracy, is he or not, the "clues"
Thursday, October 7, 2010
favorite poem
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
------------------------------------------------------------
We also sang this poem in Tigerettes 2 years ago, and I still remember all the words to the song.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
------------------------------------------------------------
We also sang this poem in Tigerettes 2 years ago, and I still remember all the words to the song.
Monday, October 4, 2010
more draft
Requiesta in pace. I mouthed these words, Italian for Rest in Peace, to myself, facing Michelangelo's tomb in the Basilica di Santa Croce di Firenze. The main Franciscan church of Florence, Italy, holds the burial places of not only Michelangelo, but also Machiavelli and Galileo, and other well known Italians.
I could not believe that I was merely feet away from the body of one of the most talented people of all time. The mastermind behind the Sistine Chapel's ceiling, and arguably the most recognized statue of all time, the David, Michelangelo was no amateur.
It hit me just then, that thought: There is so, so, much more to the world than Flemington, New Jersey. The bland green and brown town in central New Jersey was such a stark and uninteresting contrast to the golden Tuscan earth, and the emerald Venetian waters, and the red Florentine sky. The familiar farms and fields simply could not compare to the immense beauty of Italy.
"Let's move on!" our friendly tour guide's voice, Brigitte, jolted me out of a trance. Slowly I walk outside, reluctant to leave the church. I enter the loud, busy world outside of the silent church. Where are the birds? I ponder the absence of the common city pigeons. I spotted a number of them in the surrounding area but none directly above the church. They seem to have a conscious respect for these beautiful holy places.
24 hours later. The soft white sunlight of another day falls behind the hills of Tuscany, through the sparse cypress trees. We visit a monastery, quiet and still, except for the movement of the 5 monks that still remain there, the last of their kind.
I am angered to hear this unwelcome news. This beautiful monastery, hundreds of years old, is going to be made into a hotel after the last monk dies? That to me is disgraceful. There is so much beautiful art here that is going to be further withered by the activity of people around them. A well in the courtyard designed by Michelangelo himself, and beautiful paintings on the church ceilings will only further fade and crumble due to this.
I start to wonder: even on vacation, will I ever escape the negativity of the real world? It seemed like not.
It seemed like just a minute before. I was in Rome. The Eternal City. Its somber glisten and ancient structures were old and wise as the city itself. There was so much life, so much energy here. I always took the window seat in the tour bus, gawking out and all the new sights, color and people that were around every corner.
"Keep your purses close, folks, this area is crawling with pickpockets!" warned our tour guide, Dennis. I liked Dennis. He wasn't your average, irksome tour guide. He was a real person with real stories and experiences. I liked listening to his accounts of his travels. They filled the cold silence those first few days on the tour.
Pickpockets? Of course. I thought. There had to be something wrong to ruin my state of bliss...
70 people killed by suicide bomber....Elections rigged in Africa...Player injured in World Cup game...American economy still failing... Watching the news can be like eating too much of an unhealthy snack: you like it, but in the end it puts a damper on your day. The news station that we watched seemed to cover not only Italy's problems, but America's and others worldwide. I fell onto the bed not reflecting on how strikingly beautiful Roma was, but fretting over what I heard on the news.
"Oh my God, is that the Mona Lisa?!" I point downwards to the streets of Florence. There it was, the spitting image of the Mona Lisa right there in chalk, being drawn onto the street by two young artists. The vibrant colors seemed to jump off the pavement. I noticed there were 20 other spectators around me. All of them chatting away in their native languages. It was nice to see people come together to appreciate this art.
I lean against the wall facing the famed poet Dante's house. I see families walk by in the adjacent alley, young children toddling around, laughter. I see the massive red dome that makes up the Duomo, a welcome contrast to the bright blue sky. I hear the aging Roman women chattering away, what they were talking about I will never know. I see brides outside the Arco di Constantino and the Colosseum. Passing under young couples on the footbridges of Venice, the gondolier's voice ringing in my ears. Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia....
I realize something: about my life, about how I look at the world. In school, even if I have a spectacular day, one shoddy grade can overshadow all the positive events that happened that day. Likewise could happen with my trip. Over the course of 11 days, I learned to be positive. To think on the brighter side. I just needed to let go, and not let the negative get to me. Sometimes music can give you the best advice. One thing I can tell you is you've got to be free.
The last night in Florence. It is warm, a melancholy tinge to the air. The old elevator stumbles to a halt. 6th floor, it reads. I skip out, briefly into the redness of the hallway of our former palace hotel, and then out the door, onto the patio on the top floor. "Hailey!" the 6 or so other people from our tour group greet me, my mother, and my Nana. We sit, with Dennis, and the adults talk for what seems like forever. I just listen. I enjoy seeing another side of my family. I don't want to spoil this.
I glance over at the Duomo, dominating the skyline. The extraordinary amount of detail that I can see from hundreds of yards away. Giotto's Campinalle, or bell tower, standing beside the cathedral like a trusted old friend. My mind wanders back to my Nana and Dennis' conversation. And when I go to glance again, there it is. A red moon. It was so perfect. The red rooftops, the red Dome, the red flowers, and the red faces of laughter from happy people all around me. It was simply the happiest moment of my life.
I could not believe that I was merely feet away from the body of one of the most talented people of all time. The mastermind behind the Sistine Chapel's ceiling, and arguably the most recognized statue of all time, the David, Michelangelo was no amateur.
It hit me just then, that thought: There is so, so, much more to the world than Flemington, New Jersey. The bland green and brown town in central New Jersey was such a stark and uninteresting contrast to the golden Tuscan earth, and the emerald Venetian waters, and the red Florentine sky. The familiar farms and fields simply could not compare to the immense beauty of Italy.
"Let's move on!" our friendly tour guide's voice, Brigitte, jolted me out of a trance. Slowly I walk outside, reluctant to leave the church. I enter the loud, busy world outside of the silent church. Where are the birds? I ponder the absence of the common city pigeons. I spotted a number of them in the surrounding area but none directly above the church. They seem to have a conscious respect for these beautiful holy places.
24 hours later. The soft white sunlight of another day falls behind the hills of Tuscany, through the sparse cypress trees. We visit a monastery, quiet and still, except for the movement of the 5 monks that still remain there, the last of their kind.
I am angered to hear this unwelcome news. This beautiful monastery, hundreds of years old, is going to be made into a hotel after the last monk dies? That to me is disgraceful. There is so much beautiful art here that is going to be further withered by the activity of people around them. A well in the courtyard designed by Michelangelo himself, and beautiful paintings on the church ceilings will only further fade and crumble due to this.
I start to wonder: even on vacation, will I ever escape the negativity of the real world? It seemed like not.
It seemed like just a minute before. I was in Rome. The Eternal City. Its somber glisten and ancient structures were old and wise as the city itself. There was so much life, so much energy here. I always took the window seat in the tour bus, gawking out and all the new sights, color and people that were around every corner.
"Keep your purses close, folks, this area is crawling with pickpockets!" warned our tour guide, Dennis. I liked Dennis. He wasn't your average, irksome tour guide. He was a real person with real stories and experiences. I liked listening to his accounts of his travels. They filled the cold silence those first few days on the tour.
Pickpockets? Of course. I thought. There had to be something wrong to ruin my state of bliss...
70 people killed by suicide bomber....Elections rigged in Africa...Player injured in World Cup game...American economy still failing... Watching the news can be like eating too much of an unhealthy snack: you like it, but in the end it puts a damper on your day. The news station that we watched seemed to cover not only Italy's problems, but America's and others worldwide. I fell onto the bed not reflecting on how strikingly beautiful Roma was, but fretting over what I heard on the news.
"Oh my God, is that the Mona Lisa?!" I point downwards to the streets of Florence. There it was, the spitting image of the Mona Lisa right there in chalk, being drawn onto the street by two young artists. The vibrant colors seemed to jump off the pavement. I noticed there were 20 other spectators around me. All of them chatting away in their native languages. It was nice to see people come together to appreciate this art.
I lean against the wall facing the famed poet Dante's house. I see families walk by in the adjacent alley, young children toddling around, laughter. I see the massive red dome that makes up the Duomo, a welcome contrast to the bright blue sky. I hear the aging Roman women chattering away, what they were talking about I will never know. I see brides outside the Arco di Constantino and the Colosseum. Passing under young couples on the footbridges of Venice, the gondolier's voice ringing in my ears. Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia....
I realize something: about my life, about how I look at the world. In school, even if I have a spectacular day, one shoddy grade can overshadow all the positive events that happened that day. Likewise could happen with my trip. Over the course of 11 days, I learned to be positive. To think on the brighter side. I just needed to let go, and not let the negative get to me. Sometimes music can give you the best advice. One thing I can tell you is you've got to be free.
The last night in Florence. It is warm, a melancholy tinge to the air. The old elevator stumbles to a halt. 6th floor, it reads. I skip out, briefly into the redness of the hallway of our former palace hotel, and then out the door, onto the patio on the top floor. "Hailey!" the 6 or so other people from our tour group greet me, my mother, and my Nana. We sit, with Dennis, and the adults talk for what seems like forever. I just listen. I enjoy seeing another side of my family. I don't want to spoil this.
I glance over at the Duomo, dominating the skyline. The extraordinary amount of detail that I can see from hundreds of yards away. Giotto's Campinalle, or bell tower, standing beside the cathedral like a trusted old friend. My mind wanders back to my Nana and Dennis' conversation. And when I go to glance again, there it is. A red moon. It was so perfect. The red rooftops, the red Dome, the red flowers, and the red faces of laughter from happy people all around me. It was simply the happiest moment of my life.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
draft continued
Requiesta in pace. I mouthed these words, Italian for Rest in Peace, to myself, facing Michelangelo's tomb in the Basilica di Santa Croce di Firenze. The main Franciscan church of Florence, Italy, holds the burial places of not only Michelangelo, but also Machiavelli and Galileo, and other well known Italians.
I could not believe that I was merely feet away from the body of one of the most talented people of all time. The mastermind behind the Sistine Chapel's ceiling, and arguably the most recognized statue of all time, the David, Michelangelo was no amateur.
It hit me just then, that thought: There is so, so, much more to the world than Flemington, New Jersey. The bland green and brown town in central New Jersey was such a stark and uninteresting contrast to the golden Tuscan earth, and the emerald Venetian waters, and the red Florentine sky. The familiar farms and fields simply could not compare to the immense beauty of Italy.
"Let's move on!" our friendly tour guide's voice, Brigitte, jolted me out of a trance. Slowly I walk outside, reluctant to leave the church. I enter the loud, busy world outside of the silent church. Where are the birds? I ponder the absence of the common city pigeons. I spotted a number of them in the surrounding area but none directly above the church. They seem to have a conscious respect for these beautiful holy places.
24 hours later. The soft white sunlight of another day falls behind the hills of Tuscany, through the sparse cypress trees. We visit a monastery, quiet and still, except for the movement of the 5 monks that still remain there, the last of their kind.
I am angered to hear this unwelcome news. This beautiful monastery, hundreds of years old, is going to be made into a hotel after the last monk dies? That to me is disgraceful. There is so much beautiful art here that is going to be further withered by the activity of people around them. A well in the courtyard designed by Michelangelo himself, and beautiful paintings on the church ceilings will only further fade and crumble due to this.
I start to wonder: even on vacation, will I ever escape the negativity of the real world? It seemed like not.
It seemed like just a minute before. I was in Rome. The Eternal City. Its somber glisten and ancient structures were old and wise as the city itself. There was so much life, so much energy here. I always took the window seat in the tour bus, gawking out and all the new sights, color and people that were around every corner.
"Keep your purses close, folks, this area is crawling with pickpockets!" warned our tour guide, Dennis. I liked Dennis. He wasn't your average, irksome tour guide. He was a real person with real stories and experiences. I liked listening to his accounts of his travels. They filled the cold silence those first few days on the tour.
Pickpockets? Of course. I thought. There had to be something wrong to ruin my state of bliss...
70 people killed by suicide bomber....Elections rigged in Africa...Player injured in World Cup game...American economy still failing... Watching the news can be like eating too much of an unhealthy snack: you like it, but in the end it puts a damper on your day. The news station that we watched seemed to cover not only Italy's problems, but America's and others worldwide. I fell onto the bed not reflecting on how strikingly beautiful Roma was, but fretting over what I heard on the news.
"Oh my God, is that the Mona Lisa?!" I point downwards to the streets of Florence. There it was, the spitting image of the Mona Lisa right there in chalk, being drawn onto the street by two young artists. The vibrant colors seemed to jump off the pavement. I noticed there were 20 other spectators around me. All of them chatting away in their native languages. It was nice to see people come together to appreciate this art.
DRAFT ENDS HERE HEHEHEHHE
I could not believe that I was merely feet away from the body of one of the most talented people of all time. The mastermind behind the Sistine Chapel's ceiling, and arguably the most recognized statue of all time, the David, Michelangelo was no amateur.
It hit me just then, that thought: There is so, so, much more to the world than Flemington, New Jersey. The bland green and brown town in central New Jersey was such a stark and uninteresting contrast to the golden Tuscan earth, and the emerald Venetian waters, and the red Florentine sky. The familiar farms and fields simply could not compare to the immense beauty of Italy.
"Let's move on!" our friendly tour guide's voice, Brigitte, jolted me out of a trance. Slowly I walk outside, reluctant to leave the church. I enter the loud, busy world outside of the silent church. Where are the birds? I ponder the absence of the common city pigeons. I spotted a number of them in the surrounding area but none directly above the church. They seem to have a conscious respect for these beautiful holy places.
24 hours later. The soft white sunlight of another day falls behind the hills of Tuscany, through the sparse cypress trees. We visit a monastery, quiet and still, except for the movement of the 5 monks that still remain there, the last of their kind.
I am angered to hear this unwelcome news. This beautiful monastery, hundreds of years old, is going to be made into a hotel after the last monk dies? That to me is disgraceful. There is so much beautiful art here that is going to be further withered by the activity of people around them. A well in the courtyard designed by Michelangelo himself, and beautiful paintings on the church ceilings will only further fade and crumble due to this.
I start to wonder: even on vacation, will I ever escape the negativity of the real world? It seemed like not.
It seemed like just a minute before. I was in Rome. The Eternal City. Its somber glisten and ancient structures were old and wise as the city itself. There was so much life, so much energy here. I always took the window seat in the tour bus, gawking out and all the new sights, color and people that were around every corner.
"Keep your purses close, folks, this area is crawling with pickpockets!" warned our tour guide, Dennis. I liked Dennis. He wasn't your average, irksome tour guide. He was a real person with real stories and experiences. I liked listening to his accounts of his travels. They filled the cold silence those first few days on the tour.
Pickpockets? Of course. I thought. There had to be something wrong to ruin my state of bliss...
70 people killed by suicide bomber....Elections rigged in Africa...Player injured in World Cup game...American economy still failing... Watching the news can be like eating too much of an unhealthy snack: you like it, but in the end it puts a damper on your day. The news station that we watched seemed to cover not only Italy's problems, but America's and others worldwide. I fell onto the bed not reflecting on how strikingly beautiful Roma was, but fretting over what I heard on the news.
"Oh my God, is that the Mona Lisa?!" I point downwards to the streets of Florence. There it was, the spitting image of the Mona Lisa right there in chalk, being drawn onto the street by two young artists. The vibrant colors seemed to jump off the pavement. I noticed there were 20 other spectators around me. All of them chatting away in their native languages. It was nice to see people come together to appreciate this art.
DRAFT ENDS HERE HEHEHEHHE
Saturday, October 2, 2010
thanks everyone for the feedback!
just to clarify, Requiesta in Pace is actually Italian, not latin.
thank you for the compliments and I will try my best to incorporate your advice into my piece!
thank you for the compliments and I will try my best to incorporate your advice into my piece!
Monday, September 27, 2010
The link to make the Adventure Time Finn hat!
http://frederatorblogs.com/adventure_time/2010/03/24/finns-hat-is-awesomeeeee/
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