Baggage.

The term people use when they need to avoid answering a certain question or situation; an excuse to make someone feel bad for them.

"Sorry baby, you don't want anything to do with me, I've got some baggage."

Go fuck yourself. Seriously.

Everyone has some sort of baggage that they carry around with them, like that capuchin monkey in Indiana Jones. Except, this one is annoying as fuck, and constantly screams in your ears, digging into the back of your neck, and always eats your dates... poisoned or not. Your "baggage" is no worse than mine or that little old man on the bench over there. At least, when you use your baggage for such a petty ploy as an excuse to get out of a situation.

Get out there! Try new things! Don't let your baggage bring you down. And don't use it as an excuse. Be a man, and break people the old fashioned way.

Home and the Holidays.

Home. That place you can always return to, eat all their food, drink all their beer, and still be loved and accepted... at least until you finish university, and have your own home to go too, where you precede to sadly give your own beer and food over to your "loved" guests.

The holidays. That time spent, usually at home, drinking someones beer, and eating someones food. And still be loved in the process.

 I, am home for the holidays. I've just completed and passed everything in my first semester of university. A pretty satisfying accomplishment, if I do say so myself. So I returned home for the holidays. And I returned to , as the definition of home and holidays explain, free food and beer. Who cares if you now have to sleep in the little room in the basement, because your Father decided to turn your room into a gym. Or your sister as taken your entire book, and game collection as her own. They're family, right? And it's the holidays. Good spirit and good will...right?

All jokes aside, it's good to be home after three months. Last Christmas, I was involved with a Katimavik Program, so I was away in Ontario, however the genius of the internet allowed me to Skype home to my Dad, and watch as everyone opened their gifts, and they watched as I hauled mine out of the brown paper and boxes.

I don't really know if I had a point for this piece, I think I may have just wanted to write about the holidays. I am happy to be home, and to be surrounded by smiling faces. It's a nice feeling to have. And I hope everybody can experience it over the the holidays.

Donation.

I was filling out the form for my license back in the beginning of December, (19 years, I know...). and I came down to the "Organ Donor Consent Form". At first, I thought it was a great idea! You're not going to need your organs, six feet underground, why not save another life, and give them to someone who needs them.Yet I hesitated, automatically thinking about what my Dad would say, to me, giving my organs away. Because what if he is the one to have to deal with that... aspect in my life, or lack there of. Now neither of us are very religious, but we both share the ideology, there might be somewhere we go in the afterlife.

So, I gave my father a call to discuss with him what I should do, because although I am suppose to be young and heedless, I take into acknowledgment what my father has to say, and put his opinions in high esteem. We began to talk, about life in general, like two old friends would, but they happen to be father and son as well.

I explained the situation to him, that these organs would be saving someones life without harming mine. He simply replied:

" Well, what if there is something after this life, and you need your organs. I don't think you'll go very far with out a heart." 

Well I can't argue with that. My father, believes that if there is something after this life that we might need are organs for it. It reminds me of the movie: "Wristcutters: A Love Story". The movies is about a young man, who commits suicide, and is placed into another world where everyone else, as committed suicide. The world is, very gray, and boring; more so than the actual world. AND (point of me talking about the movie) everyone who is there bears the effects of how they "offed" themselves. Whether it be a scar on their wrists, to a swollen, blueish tint to their skin from drowning. It really opens your brain to the thought of an afterlife. And an excellent movie as well. I would recommend it to anybody.

So, did I sign the consent form, to donate my organs after death? No. Because although I don't truly believe that there may be something else after this life, I would like to hope that there is. So I'll be keeping my organs.

"What's That Smell In The Kitchen?" - Marge Peircey

It's ironic that I am writing about that smell in the kitchen when I am attempting to cook a chicken at the same time. I just haven't gotten around to catching it yet. I'm kidding! I am keeping it in the cage till I build up enough courage to... do it. Kidding again. I bought it at the first mass consumer corporation grocery store I could find. I was lucky enough to obtain one of the several thousand chickens they had. Returning to the poem, which I didn't even start writing about yet...

WOMEN'S OPPRESSION. And where would women be today without the kitchen, and the supply of lethal weapons and reagents within their home in a home. Kidding once again... at least about the kitchen being the home in a home for women. A poem relating burning food to women fighting against being repressed. That's quality work'woman'ship (punny, I know) at its finest. Peircey turns a serious topic into something of a comedy, but one that still retains it seriousness about oppression of women. It lets people know what's going on, and what better way to enforce an idea that should be acknowledged then to include it in a humourous piece of literature.

Women, using what they were given and brought up using, or taught to use are fight back they only way they were taught how. Through the kitchen. Your man comes home expecting a lovely pork roast, and what do you show him. A black lump or carbon, which on closer inspection, looks like Ab Lincoln. Take that, repressing husband. If you want something decent to eat, you better let me vote! It can be argued that the women in the story are acting out passive aggressively, which can be understandable. How else are they able to act out when they are constantly repressed by 'the man'. Truly an amazing feat. Conquering women's oppression one meal at a time.

And this folks concludes my journal project about literature. It was certainly an adventure to say the least, and this is the first project, that was worth something in class that allowed me to be myself, without the barriers that normal essay writing brings about. It allowed me to release my creativeness through writing, which I would have done anyway, AND gain some excellent gradable material for my English class. All in all, a productive three months. At least for my writing ability and my imagination. An excellent project even if it wasn't worth anything in class.

"The Man He Killed" - Thomas Hardy

Another wonderfully interpreted poem about war. Thomas Hardy brings war down to it's most simplest form.

"But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place." (Click?)

This poem, is written very simply, and is similar (simply, similar) to that of Doc Suess. And in reality, war is pretty simple, at least from an infantry point of view. A soldier does what he is told, and does not deal with any of the politics that surround those of a higher ranking. He doesn't even know why he is fighting, why he shoots at the person opposite, other than he was his foe. "Just so: my foe of course he was;/ That's clear enough; although" It puts war into standards any normal person can agree on. Perhaps if there wasn't a war happening, they would have been the best of chums, heading out to the pub for a "nipperkin". BUT, because of the war they are enemies, and will never know if they could have been friends. They only know that they are the enemy and that they have to shoot at each other. It's pretty bizarre when you sit down and think of it. How illogical war really is.

That is what I enjoy about this poem. It simplifies war down to the point where even a child could understand it, and even the child would be able to see the lack of sense war has. Why shoot a man when you can split a jug of beer with him. Why shoot a man when you can sit down with him and talk about what changes need to be made by both parties. I always think about Canada being a peacekeeper, and this scenario comes to mind.

*Two parties are about to charge into battle*
Canada walk in the centre and says:
" Woah, woah, woah guys. I'm a peacekeeper from Canada, eh. Tomorrow, we're all gonna sit down and have a pancake breakfast with some maple syrup and figure this shit out."
*Both parties erupt in cheers at thought of maple syrup and pancakes.*

And here I am talking about war and how senseless it all is, and I'm applying to the Reserves. That being said I would rather buy a man a drink then shoot him, any day. Or have some pancakes with them.

"Holy Sonnet X (Death be not proud)" - John Donne

I never knew who John Donne was, and I had never read any of his poems up until this one. The words " Thou shalt never comprehendth thy words I speak... because I lived in the 1600's and speaking like that was a regular day thing for me." come to mind. All sarcasm aside, after picking the poem apart in class, I came to the conclusion that this John Donne guy is pretty cool; despite his use of of -th's and -st's. Defeating Death in a game of chess is quite the awesome feat ( Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey). However, completely reducing Death's power to the point where he is useless,  is something that only the power of words can do.

Given my limited knowledge of being able to pick through the ancient script, I don't think I would have gotten very far in understanding the poem, without the opinions of my professor and the rest of the class. Once I did understand the poem, I could really appreciate what it really had to say. With all that said and done, I don't think I will attempt reading anymore of John Donnes poetry without an army of other poets behind me to read between the lines.

U no read poem? click here -> ___

"Dreamers" - Siegfried Sassoon

Poetry. I always considered poetry as like reading a book, but being half awake at the same time. You are reading everything, but in your stupor, you are only catching and understanding bits and pieces. "The...walked...road." Well who walked, and where did he walk. Man, dog, sea tortoise? up, down, left, across? Well, it was a sea tortoise, and he was swimming, because the road was under water, but for sea tortoises that is classified is walking; I should think everyone would know that. And he was crossing the road, because the super fast school of fish were feeling generous at the time and stopped to let him pass. Poetry can be pretty confusing sometimes, but other times it can be easily understood. Dreamers (second poem) is one such poem.

I've always had an interest in wartime novels. Being from Newfoundland, "No Man's Land" by Kevin Major, was nigh on burned into my brain in high school, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. Dreamers was an interesting read, to say the least. When one usually thinks of war, they tend to dwell on the glorifying action, courageous soldiers charging into battle, and the like. However this poem focused more on what the soldiers were dreaming about rather than what the people at home are imagining. It talks of pretty regular days things a clean bed, maybe a home cooked meal, something you would take for granted if you weren't living in a trench, stepping in your own filth and crawling over bodies of other men day in and day out. War isn't always fighting for freedom, and running out in the blaze of gunfire taking out enemy soldiers, getting your leg blown off and then winning a medal. Soldiers are people too, and they have feelings and thoughts of home just like we do. However their thoughts might be a little more simple than ours.

A side note of sorts; War is sometimes an answer to the problem. I won't classify any actual events, because it's pretty subjective and one event that I may think that war is the answer to, others may see it in a different light. However war happens. If it wasn't for our soldiers back then, we would not be here today. So perhaps them thinking of home, and a nice warm bed gave them the motivation to go on and charge into battle without fear. Perhaps those homely thoughts, and the thought of losing them if they lost the war, was enough to push even the weakest of men to accomplish great feats of bravery. Or maybe not. Who knows.