The Wonder of the Great Minds

Adora Svitak's Journal
12th January, 2007. 5:59 pm.hi
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27th November, 2006. 11:18 am. ThanksgivingThanksgiving is a pretty boring holiday by a lot of people's standards. Almost every American schoolkid knows the origins of Thanksgiving--a bunch of pilgrims came over on a ship, called the Mayflower, came to the New World (U.S.), starved, and were eventually rescued by the Native Americans. There was a feast, some Native American chief brought ninety or so men, and killed five deer, etc. That is the story of Thanksgiving, summarized version. Unfortunately, Thanksgiving seems to be an All-American holiday. Okay, it has roots in the mistreatment and persecution of the pilgrims in England. But it's not creepily ancient like Halloween, with origins steeped in the magical mystery of druids and etc. The one great thing about Thanksgiving is the food. I am not remotely ashamed to say this but the only thing I was pretty much thankful for on Halloween--no excuse me, the only thing I was conciously thankful for--was the great food. I'm always thankful for the fact I have a laptop computer, the fact I don't have to go to a horrifically boring regular school and do banal cut-out construction paper excercises, but I don't think about things like this all the time. My--no, our--Thanksgiving was quite the event of the month. My dad wore himself out marinating duck, mashing garlic, cooking cranky cranberries with a bunch of the rest of the fruit shoved up into our freezer, mashing sweet potatoes, cooking rice (actually my sister did that), making shrimp salad, cooking salmon, making eggs-in-tea (a Chinese delicacy, which, in my opinion, makes the outside of the egg taste bitter and horrible)...We also baked a bunch of mini-quiches, bought in bulk from Costco. I am addicted to these quiches and I can devour around twelve at a time--on Thanksgiving I ate around six. This filled up a great deal of my already bulging stomach and I had to force myself to eat rice, shrimp, sweet potato, and the delicious cold cranberry sauce. For dessert we had pumpkin pie, rhubarb and strawberry pie, and apple crisp pie, as well as French Vanilla Dreyer's Ice cream. I ate some more later. We also played the game Cranium. I was the captain of the losing team--my sister was the captain of the winning team. They were two spaces ahead of us and, since our Cranium was a turbo edition, acquired one or two more cards than us, before us. And even if I didn't eat very much, there was always leftovers. Current mood: bored.
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8th October, 2006. 1:16 pm. ConstipationIt was a tiny sliver of odorous brown human waste, powdery and disgusting, lying at the bottom of the dirty toilet, looking quite impertinent as the fumes rose to the surface. One could hear my relative's groans and screams from a room at the other side of the house--every bit of fecal matter, forced out with a moan and a cry of anguish, seemed to have been brutally ripped off. It had not slithered out easily--no, it had lurked in its lair until the time came. Every one of my relative's screams was a triumph for it. Every scream meant more agony and toil, more writhing and shaking and torture--every scream meant some human waste forced out with fiery, blazing pain that stung and burned for what seemed like eternity, that seemed like deep gashes and bloody wounds on fire, that seemed worse than the pain of a thousand gruesome deaths, that seemed to be worse than burning at the stake or being stretched on the rack or being slowly drowned. The toilet water afterwards was still colored a dark liquid sort of brown, and one was extremely foolish to get near the toilet without plugging one's nose; it would likely be suicide to bend down and sniff it, and who would want to, anyways? for it would be a most horribly gruesome and torturous sort of death. Forcing the fecal matter out was already, however, rather like death, for it was like being burnt a thousand times over, never free from the sting and pain and blood and toil and cries of horror and terror and shock. And when you WERE free from that hellhole of misery, that area of doom, that hopeless tunnel of despair, then it was like entering a sunny paradise of flowers and food after being starved in a dark, barren desert--it was like the ray of sunlight coming through a neverending tunnel as you're just about to give up. When those torturous moments did end, it was like going to a strange kind of heaven after a strange kind of death. It was like looking up to a blue, blue sky after hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries of fog, mist, and rain, and knowing that tomorrow and the day after tomorrow was going to be sunny, and that everything would be alright. A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The described victim in this article is not myself. It is a relative. Current mood: pleased.
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8th October, 2006. 10:33 am. FaeriesFaeries--sometimes they're spelled fairies when they appear in children's storybooks or such--sometimes they appear faeries in more dignified, tattered-seeming tales. Sometimes they're quite "normal" seeming as faeries go--small and chirpy, dancing about for eternity in delicate frocks, other times they're stern and gruff, or plain odd. They can be high-tech civilizations living underground who have the power to modify the memories of all above-ground people, they can be mysterious monsters who never come out in the sunlight, but lurk in the shadows, when humans are around. Some faeries are mischevious, others helpful. Some are cherub-like flower faeries who dwell in peace with daffodils and roses--others are more like Cinderella's wicked stepmother or the evil witch of many legends, brewing poisons and potions in hidden lairs. The question of whether faeries are real or not is one that usually has "no" for an answer. It really depends, however--if you believe there are faeries, you should have the ability to make yourself see faeries, and if you do not think that you believe in faeries, then the matter is usually closed. One may, however, be influenced by years of "faeries aren't real" from parents/friends/etc., or years of faerie storybooks that most wholeheartedly assure one that faeries are real. Personally I do not believe in the existence of the legendary magical creatures known as faeries but I still think them a most interesting subject. Please leave comments about whether you think I am completely mad and that my essay is composed of balderdash, or whether you think faeries are interesting. Or your thoughts on anything written on this blog. Current mood: crazy.
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7th October, 2006. 9:32 am. The KingThe King's stewards came to claimThe taxes every yearSometimes it was twenty coinsSometimes it was tenSometimes it was a bag of grainOr the hide of a newborn deer. But the King was always to blameBecause he did not care to stop his menHis grand feasts left eighty peasants eating weedsHis palaces, his games, his wardrobeIt was always the sameThe peasants would pay thirty, twenty, tenSometimes it could be a bag of grainOr the hide of a newborn deer. Current mood: cranky.
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7th October, 2006. 9:25 am. BirthdayIt was a cakeAnd that was obvious. It was a cakeWith swirling, twirlingLayers of chocolate creamAnd frostingThat seemed to danceBefore your eyesMaking your mouth waterIt was a cakeWith sugar-plum fairiesGuarding an ice cream realmWith all kinds of flavors--Vanilla, chocolate, dark raspberryCreamy coconut tooThen flavors that had never been heard ofParadise flavors that melted in your mouth And seemed to give you eternal life. For a few minutes anyways. Current mood: creative.
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7th October, 2006. 8:25 am. Back From Europe!To any ladies and gentlemen out there who have been to Europe and knows what it feels like to get jetlagged, and also those who have not entered that beautiful continent and eaten French crepes and chocolate buns and Italian gelato and pizza, here is another oh-so-tragic--and at times, if you really think so, oh-so-comic-- tale about my unfortunate--and more fortunate-- experiences in and out of Europe. HEATHROW AIRPORT"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" as I stepped off from our enormous international plane, still feeling slightly queasy from our rather rough landing. I was of course, relieved to be in England after a tiresome day watching T.V. reruns on waxy earphones, attempting to wake up a snoring sister so I could play Twenty Questions, sleeping, waking up to go to the bathroom, coming back, and sleeping again, but I could not say I was feeling my best in that airport either. It was hot, humid, and sweaty, and the smells of bad perfume, sweat, and thousands of unwashed people (including myself, I might add) were all mixed together in one long line at Immigration and Customs that seemed to twist on and on and on for eternity. It took us about one hour or more to finally reach the end of the line, and by that time there were thousands of other poor saps in the back who were looking at us enviously. Once we had had our passports stamped and all the special things were done, we idly walked around a little bit pretending to be doing things until we finally came to our senses and went outside to wait for a taxi. There were quite a few other people there and there was some conversation but for the most part we sat huddled together, sometimes crouching or squatting, other times standing or pacing around, waiting and waiting and waiting. I was rather surprised when three large black cars drove up. I was used to the Yellow Cab taxis of America but realized these were taxis--England style! Those were followed by a few others, not all solemn black, one a glorious, majestic, shining red, a few with ads painted on their doors. One was a gorgeous dark purple, but, alas! again, we had to wait. Finally we caught a taxi--black--to our hotel, the Sheraton--and here we will begin a new chapter, telling the tale of that pleasant place, and all our adventures in it. THE SHERATON HOTELThe Sheraton Hotel was a very glamorous-seeming hotel, with a shiny floor and a well-lit lobby and an enormous reception desk in the front. Our room was not the best of rooms in all of my experiences but it was still quite spacious and nice. There were two large beds with fresh sheets perfectly lain out and striped blue coverlets, and we were provided with a lovely bathroom and a table, on which we ate a meager dinner of snacks we had saved from the plane and some free snacks provided by the hotel. It was a great hotel but a measly dinner. We spent one night there, and in the morning we went to the apartment our mom had rented, even better than the hotel. Unfortunately, something would go wrong that day. Very, very, very wrong. TO BE CONTINUED
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20th August, 2006. 10:03 pm.Adelaide's chemise was wrinkled, her dress was mussedNobody made too great of a fussAs her bright-red braids swung from side to sideShe laughed and said "I tried, I tried". She tried to look neat and cleanPerfection in every fold and seamBut instead there was dirt on her gownShe honestly looked quite like a clown. Her father shook his head with a grinEven the fishes waved their sparkling finsHer nanny shrugged with a smileAs she washed the bathroom tiles. She walked to church with her dress inside-outAnd yet she never even tried to poutShe smiled instead, swinging her braidsAnd that is the story of Adelaide. Current mood: cheerful.
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20th August, 2006. 9:58 pm.Her noseTannedLike the desert sandTinged with orangeGrayAnd sparkling white. Her eyesSometimes sky-blueWith hope forTomorrowSometimes dusty grayWith pessimistic brownAnd green In every corner. Her lipsThin, sometimes pursedSucked into her faceSome people would sayWasted awayBut sometimes it was light, light redWithout showy lipstickOr anythingFull and content-lookingSome people would sayLips that were always smiling. Current mood: annoyed.
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8th August, 2006. 8:44 am. Journal Letter"Mr. and Mrs. Journal"I will begin with a letter concerning my day, yesterday, and the day of a couple of anonymous individuals who would probably prefer not to be named. You may sit back and enjoy if it is possible/convenient for you. As yesterday was doubtless a longer day (having begun today just reccently) I shall begin with the notable and not-so-notable events of yesterday. To begin with one must know that I attend a school called Seeds of Learning where I am homeschooled; in the morning, we have class from nine to twelve, and in the afternoon, we take class from three to five, doing homework from five to six. We learn about the details of gory battles, notorious monarchs, and various other interesting things; but in any case I was sitting at my desk, doing a mixture of math, absent-minded doodling on my well-worn workbook, and a couple of secret things. When school was done and we had recieved our homework (which we invented ourselves) we...TO BE CONTINUED Current mood: gloomy.
8th August, 2006. 8:36 am. WeatherThe sky is gloomy, foggy white, the sun almost blocked by the clouds and the breeze silently sweeping in. Hopes of good weather are mere flecks of blue behind the clouds, and everything is cold and glum. The shadiest places are freezing cold with winter's icy winds; the hottest places, on which the sun has breifly smiled on, are refreshingly warm to one who has walked in the breeze but cold and unwelcoming to those who have remained sheltered in a warm house. To go outside without freezing to death people must huddle together in the warm spots, quickly run together through the colder spots clutching each-other's hands, and again crouch down, in fear of the coming wind, ready to run. Current mood: groggy.
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6th August, 2006. 9:53 pm. Zoo ExperienceThe giraffe basked in the sunlight, one great gold spot shining on his back as he swept his tail across his back legs and stretched his neck up to devour the leaves; the zebra, striped, and woefully short, looked up in envy, and edged away. The giraffe then bent down, the majestic head lowered to the lush grass, and began grazing, peacefully, like the others, and, like the zebra who had looked at him so enviously before, he was now eating grass. __________________________________________________________________________________________We looked in through the windows, our noses pressed to the glass, ignoring the sign that clearly read "PLEASE STAY BEHIND RAILING" and ducking our heads up and under the wooden fence in front of the glass; some tapped on the glass and others remained staring through it; some zoomed in on the scene on digital cameras, while others merely installed the image firmly in their mind; it was indeed a beautiful sight, the animals walking about; some were excercising and showing off to the crowd; others were napping curled up in the few corners they had their privacy; and yet others were doing a mixture of both, seeming to close their eyes and fall asleep, suddenly to spring up again and begin showing off. __________________________________________________________________________________________ Current mood: sleepy.
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29th July, 2006. 6:19 pm. WritingWriting is something that gives you a chance to share your ideas. They can be stupid or silly or smart. Or creative. I started writing when I was four, about little boys in restaurants and fantasy fairylands-things almost everybody has read about before. My mom helped me hold the pencil, which was ridiculously brobdingnagian to a midget of my puny size. Now I still like to write fantasy stories, but with strong women characters and complex plots; with antagonists who are clever and cunning and prove worthy adversaries to the heroes of the story. I like writing about these things because they are both more interesting to read about and write; they are more unique and give me the opportunity to really share my ideas in an interesting setting. To a four-year-old, words appearing on previously blank paper, words simply flowing out from a pencil, was magic. It still is magic to me sometimes, when I tilt my head and look at my notebook or my computer sideways, to see those words, appearing on paper or my laptop browser. The mini-movie inside my head that I can enjoy watching while I write is also rather magical. With an infinite number of screens through which I can watch my characters, I am the omniscient narrator. Only too bad I'm not omnipotent…my characters rebel only too often. I'm of the opinion writing gives you free rein to really express your ideas. You can create fantasy fairylands or science fiction planets; you can complain about unfair things under the cover of a story, making yourself the martyr; you can make fun of the people you hate and insert and exaggerate your own personal experiences; you can do whatever you want in the world of writing. You can make your archenemy the corpulent slug or the evil villain; you can make best friend the protagonist. I believe that everybody should experience the joy of writing; writing gives you the power to do whatever you want, wherever, whenever, and however. Current mood: calm.
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21st June, 2006. 9:32 am. EQUALITY FOR ALL!!!We the common children of the United States of America demand true equality for all! We have been held in contempt by adults, who would take away our rights, and many youngsters have been mistreated, misunderstood, and assumed inferior to adults; we have been disrespected in many forms and underestimated by many; we are ordered around like tame dogs and often told, "You'll know when you're older..." There are centuries of knowledge in this world; why should adults selfishly keep it to themselves, or refuse to admit it when they do not know the answer to a question made by a child? Why do adults, who advise their children not to lie, often use trickery and deception themselves? Why do adults, who advise their children not to fight, with speech or fist, are really the ones who inspire skirmishes with their loud arguments in the kitchen? And why do many online journals and blogs put the minimum age to thirteen? Why are children excluded from these sites and those responsible for this exclusion claim it is for safety? Do these sites really think this would stop a determined blogger? And why does the misbehavior of one tiny midget cause adults to equally blame those related, by blood or deed, to the troublemaker? Why does the irresponsibility of one tiny midget cause adults to think children are irresponsible and not trustworthy on the whole? Why is it an adult's task to discipline the child, not vice versa? Adults surely make just as many, if not more, mistakes as a child? Why must an adult, when angry at some other person, take out their anger on a child? This is unfair beyond words; adults demand perfect obedience from their children; everlasting respect, even when they are making decisions of pure stupidity? Why is it adults have the power to forbid the consuming of the following articles of food: ice cream, cake, and other vital, essential foods for children? Why is it adults have the power to force and punish, to shout and yell, etc.!!! We the United Association of Revolutionary Children, we of all races, wealth, and faith; let us rise up against those tyrants who hold us in bondage; let us have true freedom, and turn away from the paternalistic government of adults; let us have TRUE FREEDOM FOR ALL!!!SIGNED, Adora Svitak & The Revolutionary Children of the United States of America Current mood: infuriated.
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18th June, 2006. 9:39 am. HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!!!TO DADDY Happy Father's Day!!!FROM ME HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!!!Happy Father's Day!!!HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!!!To the best dad in the world, mine andA's: Whether you're on the potOr exploring life's thorny forestsI will always love you a lotSo Happy Father's Day! Dear Daddy--Had money to buy you a presentBut didn't want to bother you driving me to get itHad ideas to make a presentBut didn't want to make a mess of construction paperWhich you claim you end up cleaning up. But I can easily produce enough loveTo take the time to make a poem Only thing I need to bother you withIs not to see itUntil I say it's done. Infinity baskets of love fromAdora Current mood: pessimistic.
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18th June, 2006. 9:39 am. HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!!!TO DADDY Happy Father's Day!!!FROM ME HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!!!Happy Father's Day!!!HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!!!To the best dad in the world, mine andA's: Whether you're on the potOr exploring life's thorny forestsI will always love you a lotSo Happy Father's Day! Dear Daddy--Had money to buy you a presentBut didn't want to bother you driving me to get itHad ideas to make a presentBut didn't want to make a mess of construction paperWhich you claim you end up cleaning up. But I can easily produce enough loveTo take the time to make a poem Only thing I need to bother you withIs not to see itUntil I say it's done. Infinity baskets of love fromAdora Current mood: pessimistic.
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17th June, 2006. 11:25 am. If You're InterestedIf you're interested in my writing, I'd like to announce I'm doing a fifteen-minute speech about writing, reading, and congratulating winners of this year's Redmond writing contest. You can find me at 12: 30, Anderson Park.
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17th June, 2006. 10:34 am. Online History Class #2: King Henry and His Six Wives ONLINE HISTORY CLASS #2KING HENRY AND HIS SIX WIVES King Henry was born Prince Henry Tudor June 28th, 1491. He became one of the most famous monarchs in English-and worldwide-history. Why? His six wives. Prince Henry Tudor was the second son of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York. He was athletic, handsome, and talented, being accomplished in poetry and music among other things, and was said to have written "Greensleeves", although modern historians are now not so sure. Prince Henry's older brother, Prince Arthur, was destined to be the king after King Henry VII. He was, in other words, the "heir" to the throne, and was really the one trained to be king. However, Prince Arthur was sickly, often catching colds, and not as handsome as his younger brother. At the time it was quite common for European monarchs or other influential or powerful people to marry off their sons and daughters to other wealthy or powerful people. Matches were usually made for money or power, hardly ever love, although some royal couples did get along. Matches were also made to strengthen relationships with the leaders of neighboring kingdoms or duchies or ally rulers against a common enemy. One of these such matches was made between the son and heir of King Henry VII, sickly Prince Arthur, and the daughter of Isabella of Castile--Catherine of Aragon. Catherine of Aragon was the daughter of Ferdinand of Aragon (a large part of Spain) and Isabella of Castile (its neighboring part). Isabella and Ferdinand made peace between the warring parts through their marriage and wanted to make a good political move through the marriage of their daughters and sons. Catherine of Aragon was finally shipped off to England, knowing none or little English with a few servants and a friend of Queen Isabella's to chaperone her. They landed in Plymouth, in England, on October 2, 1501. She was married to Prince Arthur around a month later on November 14, 1501 at Old St. Paul's Cathedral, London. After much of the wedding fuss had been gotten over, feasts had been finished and wedding dances had been danced, Ludlow Castle, on the Welsh border (the heir to the throne, or Prince Arthur, was traditionally Prince of Wales), became Catherine and Arthur's new home. Catherine and Arthur spent some time in Ludlow before Arthur, always a sickly boy, suddenly passed away, perhaps of the "sweating sickness". Catherine was childless, husbandless, and would soon become almost penniless. Catherine was almost or completely at King Henry VII's mercy. She had hardly any money left of her own (if she had any) and she was unable to use her marriage dowry, which consisted of several items of worth, to buy food and other essentials, because it officially belonged to Henry VII. At first King Henry VII was for marrying Catherine to Prince Henry, the new heir of England. It was still a good political move. He agreed to do so and it seemed final. But King Henry VII changed his mind and forced his son to write an article stating that he had been forced into the marriage. Young Prince Henry was really quite taken with Catherine and unwillingly did so. Catherine was a prisoner of the king. After Henry VII died, Henry VIII took control. He made Catherine of Aragon his wife and they were formally crowned, raising Catherine from the lowly posistion she had been in to one of the highest in the land: Queen of England. The first thing Henry wanted was a male heir. Catherine had a few miscarriages until she gave birth to a baby boy, whom she named Henry after her husband. Obviously there was a lack of name creativity in the Tudor family. Henry, Henry, Henry. But in any case, the baby boy should have led the way for a happy ending. Only too wrong.Full of smiles, wit and charm, Catherine of Aragon was enchantingly beautiful to King Henry VIII. Her face was a little plump, but it only gave her a healthy appearance. Now, after numerous miscarriages and royal life weighing down on her, she was short and fat, with little of her earlier beauty left in her pudgy body. She did give birth successfully, but only to a baby girl, whose name was Princess Mary. At the time Catherine was strictly Catholic, like the majority of people of her native Spain. The Pope, the head of the Catholic Church, had before said that Catherine's marriage to Henry had been valid despite the fact the Bible said it was un-Christian to marry your dead brother's wife. So Henry and Catherine could easily marry without fearing the fires of hell. But now Henry was tired of Catherine, who had only managed to give him a girl and a prince who had only lived for 52 days. Henry wanted an heir who would become king after him and keep England in Tudor hands. At the time Henry had various mistresses, but there are only two we know of: Bessie Blount and Mary Boleyn, who was the sister of the infamous woman who would become his second wife. King Henry wanted his marriage to Catherine annulled, or made unlawful and invalid by the Catholic Church. The Pope would not agree, and this was followed by arguments, pleas, court cases, meetings, and etc. Henry finally broke off from the Catholic Church, declaring himself the head of the Protestant church of England. He divorced Catherine, making Princess Mary an illegitimate child, and brought his new queen into the spotlight. Her name was Anne Boleyn. Much of England was shocked by their king's actions. Most were of the Catholic faith and disliked Anne Boleyn, calling her names and declaring their loyalty to Catherine in the streets as the king's procession went by. King Henry was enchanted by her and refused to listen to growing rumors she was a witch. The King, as well as the rest of the court, excitedly waited for the birth of Anne Boleyn's child. King Henry VIII was sure it was to be a boy; "Prince" had already been written in the proclomation of its birth. The baby's gender would determine the fate of England--and, as it later came to be, the fate of Anne Boleyn herself. The baby was a girl. Princess Elizabeth's title was quickly raised over "Lady Mary's". While Mary still had a fairly respectable title, she was made to live under the care of Anne Boleyn's relations, who were directed to slap her if she referred to Catherine of Aragon as the queen. She was forced to watch as Princess Elizabeth, dressed in gowns of most expensive material, was carried past in luxurious litters; she was forced to walk in the mud behind Elizabeth like a common servant; and indeed, she was hardly more than that in the castle she lived in. King Henry VIII's need for an heir increased as he became older, and finally he executed Anne Boleyn on charges of meeting other men and Wife Number Three, Jane Seymour, was brought into the spotlight. Jane Seymour died after giving birth to Edward, King Henry's first boy. It was possible King Henry actually loved Jane Seymour, as he mourned for a deccent time after her death. None of his other wives--Anne of Cleves, Katherine Howard, and Kathryn Parr--gave him baby boys, so he had to be content with Edward as he grew old and fat. A RHYME TO REMEMBER KING HENRY'S WIVES: Divorced, beheaded, diedDivorced, beheaded, survived . Current mood: sleepy.
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17th June, 2006. 9:17 am. Dear Mr. or Mrs. JournalDear Mr. or Mrs. Journal: Saturday went fine, beginning as usual with me up before A, although narrowly. I spent some time with her in the bathroom admiring her fine block art and then moved on to terrorizing our parents (namely, sneaking up on them and annoying them while they discussed some "serious business". As usual when terrorizing my parents I stole my mom's slippers and impersonated her, making A think I was her and fooling her (much to A's indignation). Right I am debating what to have for breakfast, as today is a Saturday (meaning I want something special), while precious time is running out and my stomach is rumbling more and more. Current mood: hungry.
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16th June, 2006. 9:13 pm. ANOTHER REMINDERAnother reminder. All my poems are strictly copyrighted--please do not copy them in any form. Thanks. Adora
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Adora Svitak's Journal
16th June, 2006. 9:08 pm. DarknessDarkness on a slanted wallShadowy, not pitch blackDarkness about twelve feet tallDarkness. Lonely black and shifting grayMixed in the darkness. Darker colors everydayOn the orange wall. Darkness rising o'er the plainsStormy clouds of lonely blackThen hail and rain. Brightness on the dewy grassBrightness on the wallBrightness has come at lastBrightness twelve feet tall. Current mood: artistic.
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16th June, 2006. 9:05 pm. My WebsiteMy website, www.adorasvitak.com , offers free writing tips, a blog, pictures, and lots of other cool things. Visit www.adorasvitak.com if you're an aspiring writer or you want to be my penpal! Current mood: calm.
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16th June, 2006. 8:07 pm. Did You Pay Attention In History Class? #2QUIZ: 1. What is a "letter of marque"?2. What is a privateer? 3. The Parisians stormed this famous jail in the French revolution. 4. What was one of the main European foods at the time of the French Revolution?Thank you, and please answer by comment. Current mood: content.
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16th June, 2006. 7:50 pm. Did You Pay Attention In History Class?HISTORY QUIZ: 1. What were some of the causes of the French Revolution? 2. What was the device used to execute King Louis XVI called? 3. Who was Mary Read? 4. Who was Anne Bonny? Current mood: busy.
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16th June, 2006. 7:10 pm. Online History ClassAHOY THERE, MATEY!!! Adora Svitak's Online Class on Pirates. INFLUENTIAL, IMPORTANT, AND INFAMOUS PIRATES: Anne Bonny-- Anne Bonny was a woman pirate and the accomplice of Jack Rackham, another important pirate. She fought as well (probably even better) as any man, and that was what her fellow pirates thought her to be. Like most of the other women pirates of her time, she dressed in men's clothes for better flexibility (imagine wielding a cutlass and darting from side to side with huge skirts to trip you up). William Kidd-- William Kidd was a privateer, or a pirate licensed to roam the high seas by a monarch or ruler. Privateers carried "letters of marque" which authorized them to attack ships of other countries, and when captured by enemies they were not usually hanged like common pirates, but instead imprisoned. Kidd became more of a pirate after his crew mutinied and was captured and tried for privacy. Kidd tried to produce his privateering license that would show his activities were legal, but he failed to do so and was hanged. Mary Read-- Mary Read was another woman pirate, and like Anne Bonny, she was thought to be an illegitimate child. She was disguised as a boy for most of her childhood so that her grandmother would willingly give her mother money to care for her and continued to disguise herself as a man even after she was told she was female. After she married she wore women's clothes, but when her husband died she dressed as a man again and joined pirates who had captured her ship. She made friends with Anne Bonny, and with the rest of their crew they prowled the high seas as pirates. For more info check out Pirates by John Matthews at your local library or surf the web for cool pirate sites. Current mood: productive.
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16th June, 2006. 7:06 pm. Online Writing ClassWriting Tips: 1. Do editing later. Don't keep anything inside of you when you're writing because you're worried about how it will sound, etc. You can think about that later. 2. Let your ideas flow. 3. Sometimes when writing, you can think it up first, tell it to friends and family second, write it up third (don't worry if you don't get everything word for word, it's part of the writing process), and edit last. 4. Don't let anybody's discouragement or criticism daunt you. You can take suggestions or not, but don't be discouraged if somebody tells you your story is "no good". Current mood: Professional.
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16th June, 2006. 6:58 pm. A REMINDERA reminder to my readers...My poems are my own private work, so please do not copy my poetry in any form. If I find my work has been copied, I will be forced to make future works private. Thank you. Current mood: busy.
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16th June, 2006. 6:57 pm. LifeLifeLike a rolled up carpetOr toilet paper. GrossBut true. LifeAlways rolling outYou can guessWhat the next partRolled out will be likeBut you never know. Current mood: contemplative.
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16th June, 2006. 4:54 pm. The French Revolution: Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity!!!The French Revolution was a bloody uprising in which the common people of France rose up against the king, King Louis XVI, his wife Marie-Antoinette of Austria, and the rest of his royal entourage. France was in a very poor economical situation at the time of the French Revolution; it was in a huge national debt and food was scarce. There was high unemployment rates; bread, the main food of many European countries, was sold for higher prices; taxation was often higher than many commoners would prefer; and it was frustrating that King Louis was unable to deal with their growing problems. King Louis and his nobles lived in lavish palaces such as Versailles, using most of the royal treasury for their own benefit. The French people were enraged by the fact that while they were living in poverty, heavily taxed and bearing the weight of a national debt on their shoulders, their sovereign was enjoying a merry life full of dance and drink at his palace.It was enough for France's common people. On July 14, 1789, angry Parisians stormed the Bastille and captured the royal family, imprisoning them in the palace of Tuileries. Shaken by the sudden turn of events, the King made an unsuccessful attempt to flee to Austria, the native homeland of his wife, Marie-Antoinette, but the plan did not work and they were captured again and brought to Paris, where the King was forced to swear obedience to the new French constitution. This was 1791 and almost the end of the decade. Louis continued to plot against the revolution, but in 1792 when France became a republic he was tried as a traitor and condemned to death. The French Revolution promoted the use of the guillotine, a device that consisted of one thick and heavy medal blade, quite large, and a wooden structure. One's head would be put beneath the blade, which was suspended at the top of the medal structure by an executioner. Once one's head was firmly set on the structure, the executioner would let the blade fall, causing one's head to be chopped off. It was quick and painless, or at least it was so thought. This device of execution was the device that put an end to Louis XVI's life, on January 21st, 1793. His wife Marie-Antoinette was guillotined some time later. The French Revolution was somewhat inspired by the American revolution which happened only a short time before, and the French constitution was somewhat modelled on the American version. At the time there were quite a number of revolutions worldwide, and France had quite a reason to start one of its own. For more info about the French Revolution, go to wikipedia.org and search The French Revolution, or go to http://chnm.gmu.edu/revolution/ . Thank you. Current mood: tired.
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16th June, 2006. 4:39 pm. CLASSToday I plan to make a lesson plan to take up half or less of today's school time. I might do it about the French Revolution, although I must say I am more knowledgeable in the subject of the Wild West...Of course the history of Thanksgiving would be pretty easy, but I want something bloody enough to catch K's attention...I could do a mini-bio about famous and infamous presidents in U.S. history, or I could talk about some controversial current events...I am in a serious dilemna. To me, the French Revolution is the most interesting among these, but I don't know as much about it as I would like to--mostly the more bloody details--the Wild West would be fun, but I could go on for hours on end about it--history of Thanksgiving, get done with the ninety Native Americans, the five deer, and it's over...anything I did about U.S. presidents would probably be made up of insulting parts...and I just don't feel like discussing current events with an A who will talk in a patronizing voice and a K who has no idea of a lot of today's current events. Current mood: frustrated.
16th June, 2006. 2:45 pm. AnnoyingBlasted A has gone and left her boots by the door again. While she's not really defouling the building or tracking mud, rain, or snow all over our beautiful marble entranceway, it's an annoying habit and everytime she does it I shout at her for hours on end. This time I exaggerated, saying my socks were "soaked, dripping" because of her, even though they were perfectly dry and she hadn't even really tracked that much rain in. She just gave me one of her shrugs and went back to plotting her evil plots. A more serious incident occured before this, involving A of course. I was rather in a fight with A (concerning walking in on me in the bathroom, with a friend--very embarassing) and I was calling her quite a number of bad words, not to mention attacking her with the toilet-paper roll and--spitting in her face. At this assault A was infuriated beyond belief. She puffed up, looking like a flying tomato, and her eyes flashed. And then--what she did next--SPAT HER CHEWED-UP THING OF CANTOLOUPE AT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Big gobs of orange cantoloupe ran down my hair, going onto my shoulder as I began wailing and laughing. Mom got mad, since we were delaying her walk, and we finally calmed down with some glowers and glares at each other. That's an example of what my sister A is like. Current mood: annoyed.
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16th June, 2006. 11:42 am. My DiaryDear Diary...sounds stupid, and makes me think of Barbie--so, DEAR MR. OR MRS. JOURNAL, My day begun with the usual "bang" "hey!" and "pass the milk, please". A was up early (EXTREMELY unusual, usually I'm the one who has to wake my groggy sister up, around 9: 30 at least...But this time A was up earlier than me (much to my disappointment) and crunching away on her cereal while I got dressed, shivering and swearing as another breeze blew in from my window. I got a raging stomachache after I devoured a heaping pile of cereal and retired to my room very grumpily to finish "Little Women" a book, in my opinion, with entirely too many morals and "perfect" characters. It was, however, almost the only thing I had not read 296 times, so I read it. After finishing the book, I was rid of my stomachache and soon plagued with a raging headache, at which I swore some more and proceeded to write, at which both aches were gone. About thirty minutes later I dashed away from my writing-table to say hello to A, who had finally returned, bringing a grumpy look and tracking mud all over the house, defouling the building and making me look at her in disgust. "One thing leads to another", as they always so annoyingly say, and here I am writing this up for the benefit of those ignorant of what happened today. Thank you and goodbye. Adora Current mood: gloomy.
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16th June, 2006. 9:45 am. DescriptionThe pool was kidney-shaped, in my opinion at least, and heavily-chlorinated water slopped over the sides. It was protected by a majestic gate of black iron, spiked at the top with cruel-looking blades. One could only get in if they had a key, or if someone inside let them in. To the side of the pool but not within the gate was a luxurious building, with a clean carpet spread across the room and two green plush couches perhaps more stiff then we would have liked but still quite relaxing. There was a glass coffee table between the couches and a pool table as well a a ping-pong table was located in the back room. There were four bathrooms--one was labeled "Girls"--one was labeled "Boys"--and the two others said in lettering that was quickly peeling off-- "Employees". Back in the "living room", where the couches were, we quickly settled into our chairs waiting expectantly for the pizza. While we waited I observed the table. It was of a rich mahogany color and very fancy. A huge glass vase stood in the middle of the table, full of flowers.
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16th June, 2006. 9:37 am. My PenMy pen. Splattered with inkThe inkThat was sticky Always holding onLooking like murky water. My penDark, rich burgundy crimsonWith those flashing spotsOf its own ink.
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16th June, 2006. 9:20 am. NastyIt's annoying that whenever my sister is here, the most common thing I say will be, "Go away. I'm trying to read. You belong in the dumpster" or something. But when she's away (at a piano lesson, a piano contest...), I am un-expressably bored. Then, of course, when she's back and we've got over all the fuss of saying, "Are you alright? How did you do?" blah blah blah, she just begins skulking in the shady, neat little corner of the house we call her room and I hobble off to write or read. It's like cold and hot--when you're hot, the only thing you want is a darn New York blast of icy wind--when you're actually in New York, you want an L.A. summer.
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16th June, 2006. 9:06 am.Summer. Hot on a windy dayOr humid, forestyWarm. Summer. One big eternityOf grassThat looks like it's been bakedIn summer weather's merciless oven. Summer. One big splashIn an outdoor poolOne big shoutThat can only partway expressThe overflowing joy you have inside. Summer. One zig-zag lineOf radiance.
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15th June, 2006. 10:06 pm.A daisy. Big yellow middleIf you looked closelyWas powdery GrainsOf artificial sunlight. A daisy--Spotless petals. WhiteThat made you think of ironed clothesAnd the laundryAnd the blouseWith golden buttonsYou only wear for special occasions. A daisy--looking so young, so smug. Seeming so fullOf artifical sunlightArtificial something. A daisy: For some reasonIt seemed flirtatiousWith all its bright colorAnd showiness. Popping up everywhereIn huge bunches. With its artificial sunlight. Artificial something.
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15th June, 2006. 9:52 pm.It's a log, they say. And it is. Big. And rottenLooking like a bigCadaverDecayingSlowlyLeaving one big Odor. Sorrowful. It's a logThat looksLike its been whippedWith somethingThat tore its skinAnd ruthlessly divedInto its body. One big log. In the middle of the river. They stomp on it. It sinksWith that sorrowfulOdorcoming from it. It's washed by the waves. DarknessAnd wrinklesAnd bitternessAll gathered on it. From the waves. it looksLike it'll be buriedUnder decades, centuresMilleniumsOf the dirtBeneath the ocean.It looks like it, for sure. One log. In the middle of the ocean. What could happen to it?It was put down. Its barkTorn offViciouslyIts flesh Pierced. But it rises to the surface. DeterminedStubborn. Everytime It rises. Like an obstinateChild.
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15th June, 2006. 9:39 pm.My sister--Sarcastically smirkingThen lovingly smilingRubbing my nose And making monkey facesThen shoutingThreateningCalling me namesI can't put here. My sister--her hair swinging in the windLike strips of silkBlack silk, wild Soaked in one zig-zag rayOf bouncy, joyful sunlightMy sister--commanding usShe's the captainWho standsAt the prow of her shipProudlyNo reason to be scared. My sister--DaredevilCould dangle from the cloudsAnd call the fall nothingCould bang her head on the doorLaugh the bump away. My sister--WorriedAbout other peopleTheir thoughtsOf her. Whether she's always the weird kid-- Homeschooled, bookish. My sister--Like a poemThat no oneCan solve.My sister--Like a treeNo oneCan cut down.My sister--Like a shipIroncladWith only a tiny secret entrance.
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15th June, 2006. 9:33 pm. A PoemThe truthIs likeA knifeCold, sharp, but swiftlySpeedingSlashing the airsThat surround youThe airsFilled with hope and doubtThe truthLike a knifeThat can pierce youOn different levels. SometimeYou never recover.

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