I have quite the reading list to get through..

http://www.comingsoon.net/tv/trailers/761619-hbo-has-
unleashed-the-new-westworld-trailer#/slide/1

I wrote an article this week about Westworld, a new HBO original series. I was hooked by the first two episodes and started looking into the premise of the show. It is a remake of a 1973 film directed by Michael Crichton (who also wrote the book). Crichton is the author and director of several popular and well-known pieces, mostly Science Fiction. He has a knack for the cautionary tales of our machines enslaving us. He is the author of Jurassic Park and The Lost World. In 1994 he had a film, a TV show, and a book topping the charts (Jurassic Park, ER, and Disclosure.) He wrote Eaters of the Dead, later made into the film The 13th Warrior. He went to Harvard to study English and found that one of his professors just didn't get his writing style. Thinking the professor was either messing with him or wasn't reading what he turned in, Crichton tested it. He submitted an essay by George Orwell under his name and received a B- on it. 

https://books.google.com/books/about/
Disclosure.html?id=PS4W1XV
mPugC&source=kp_cover

Shortly after, he changed his degree and continued on to medical school. He wrote a book about his travels, titled Travels and in my opinion he is a certifiable genius. After his death in 2009, Pirate Latitudes was published. Another manuscript found on his computer will be published in May 2017 called Dragon Teeth. His website is pretty interesting. He also wrote the screenplay for one of my favorites, Twister. Like, seriously, this guy is

Michael Crichton, USA Weekend magazine, 1994.

my hero. He's a role model for writers and filmmakers. 
So where do I begin reading? Do I begin with controversial Disclosure about sexual harassment? Or Timeline that travels back in time to the Middle Ages in France? Perhaps Rising Sun, an international best-selling crime thriller? Or do I crack open Jurassic Park and enter into a world of dinosaurs? My bookworm heart is warm and fuzzy thinking about it. 

The link to my article detailing more about the TV show Westworld is here!

Snapshots of Inspirations

When I was little my mom told me there were forest fairies in our backyard. I got a small plastic aquarium that used to have a hermit crab in it and made a home for them. I put honey water in a little dish every day and waited to catch one. I became obsessed, and my imagination grew so vivid that I could swear to this day I saw one. My mom planted a butterfly bush outside my bedroom window and she said that like the butterflies, the fairies were attracted to the bush as well. My dad placed a flat boulder next to it for me to sit on. I’d curl up like a cat in the sun and lie there.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/314829830173700045/

I grew up on Green Acres Lane and every time I talk about it the theme song to the late 1960’s TV Land show “Green Acres” plays on a loop in my head.  “Greeeen Acres is the place to be! Faaaarm livin’ is the life for me!” It’s okay if you don’t know that reference; if you can’t imagine it, place a city slicker on a tractor singing like a hillbilly, voice cracking and everything. I only know because of a house warming gift. A family friend bought us a candy dispensing house that sang the song. The quirky background music played the tune to my life. We rarely watched TV, but when we indulged ourselves during breakfast on Saturday mornings, we always flipped to TV Land. “Bonanza” and “Little House on the Prairie” and “I Love Lucy” played. I’m not sure if those were all actually on the same channel, Hallmark was really the only other channel Mom let us watch. Grandpa always watched “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman” and “Walker, Texas Ranger.” I’m not sure where the trend of “Name, comma occupation” for TV show titles disappeared to.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/179229260147241399/

With many horses, 20 acres of land, an arena and a barn, Green Acres Lane really was the place to be. My family went to rodeos every weekend and Cowboy Church on Sundays. Sometimes we left the Christmas lights up all year; we only locked the doors when we heard about a break-in near our area. My best friend and I would walk along the fence by Burgess Road waving and making honking motions towards passing cars, counting how many we got in return. We never wore shoes and were always outside. I remember many times when my dad would have a fit of rage, I’d hide in the forest plotting my escape. I’d run away someday. I’d ride away on my favorite horse, Jose. I never did, of course. I was bright eyed with big ideas that I never acted on. I’d plan them out and write stories about girls much braver than I running away from home and making it on their own, just their horse and themselves. I started writing bigger stories about girls going to bigger cities, for college, for jobs, for a bigger, better life. I started plotting my own journey, saving money and googling places new to me.

Infatuations.

I always liked this word. The sound of it. The meaning. What does it mean to be infatuated with something or someone? To be infatuated. I liked the word so much better before I looked up the definition. I always imagined infatuation as a long-term thing, like a love for a person. But nothing is really long term.

My planning jarred to a halt when my grandpa died my junior year of high school. I vowed not to leave and to spend more time with my family. The heart ache convinced me I could never spend enough time with my relatives. The revelation of death persuaded me to believe that any of us could die at any moment, and it would have been worse if I was unable to be there in their last moments. My older brother was away at school, and he didn’t have a chance to fully accept it and say goodbye. But senior year I was ready to leave; I wouldn’t go far but I needed breathing room. I drove the six hours to Hastings, Nebraska.

~

We built a tree house, us kids and dad. Well, mostly dad. All three of us would sit up there working on art projects. We’d have our French toast with syrup and peanut butter for breakfast out there. We’d invite friends over and pretend it was our own humble abode. My older brother had a friend over once and we were playing with the hose under the tree house making small lakes and rivers. Trying to contain the water in places as it ran down hill.

            “Dam it!” his friend kept saying. I giggle uncontrollably as I usually did around my brother’s friends.

            Taylor was mad and telling him to stop saying that in front of me. I encouraged him as though I thought it charming and humorous.

            We hung our artwork on the walls of the tree house and read books on the floor. I wrote in my journals, my mind running wild. There were many insects and spiders. But there were always spiders where I was. Slowly, the tree house was abandoned. I don’t know what point we thought we outgrew it, because to this day I would still enjoy sitting in that tree house. But now it has what I consider a spider infestation, and the last time I was in there I saw not one but two black widow spiders.

            For whatever reason, my room always had the most spiders. Perhaps I noticed them more than the rest of my family, like the large black pregnant spider in my bed. But I learned how to squish my own spiders because by the time I’d run to the kitchen to find my dad and run back in hysteria to show the proof, the ugly creature would be gone. And I would sleep somewhere else for a few nights, unsettled by the thought of a spider sleeping in my bed. I received no pity as well in those psychologically scarring moments of my childhood and my dad showed no hustle following me to the horror scene.

Living in Oklahoma for the summer, where the bugs are much greater in number and size, I religiously sprayed the house with bug repellent but to no avail. Spiders inhabited every space they could, spiders that looked exotic and poisonous. One day while I was cooking in the kitchen and Toby was messing with the TV, I heard a small squeak and I looked up. Toby stood with broom in hand jabbing at something on the floor.

            “What?” I asked.

            “Spider,” he said, eyes wide. I realized now the squeak came from him.

            I moved closer to see a monster of a spider, the size of the palm of my hand. I tried taking a photo of it but couldn’t get close enough. Wouldn’t get close enough.

            The first night I slept in our house in Hastings senior year, a bat flew out in the middle of the night swooping down and flying in chaotic circles. Nobody believed me, and I wished it was a dream. The next evening it came upstairs. I’ve never seen three girls move quicker. The shrill shrieking was terrible. If my fiancé wasn’t there we probably would have lit a match, slammed the door, and never looked back. Eventually he shooed the damn thing out, and we crossed our fingers there wouldn’t be any more. I love animals. I’ve always surrounded myself with them, cats, horses, dogs, hermit crabs. Now I have no animals near me. No horse to feed every morning and evening; no cat to cuddle with at night. It’s rather lonely. Animals were my muse. I wrote about horses from the perspective of the horse. I envied their freedom I imagined in the open range. But it seems now I’m mostly surrounded by the ugliest of creatures.

~

            People called me a giggle box because instead of talking I would laugh. I was a silent child but a giggling one. Teachers spent their time trying to help me to find “my voice.” I used my voice on paper. I’d write stories. My little brother was a talker and he’d make up stories for days. He would tell jokes he made up too that weren’t funny and didn’t make sense, but the whole family would bust out in laughter. I was the opposite. I wrote stories that I didn’t want anyone to read. I wrote in my diary. I had so many journals; I’d beg Mom to buy a new one before I’d finished the first. I was the child that received extra homework, not as punishment, but because I was too good at it. My third grade teacher emailed my dad extra difficult spelling word for me to learn. I won every spelling bee from first grade to seventh grade, except for one. I don’t remember what year it was, but I was simply tired of people remarking about how likely it was I’d win again. I didn’t know it was such a big deal to some; I was simply spelling words correctly when they called the next person in line. That year I lost on purpose. A boy who was not very good at spelling was the last person standing with me, so I purposely spelled my word wrong. But then he spelled that word wrong, too, and it was my turn again, and I spelled that word wrong too wanting to hit him in the back of the head if he messed up again. But I think he won. I’m not sure; I’d have to go through my spelling bee plaques.

~

            The first time I had a gulp of liquor, I was at home and this was during my new obsession of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. I’m not sure if anyone actually likes the flavor or if it was the joy of self-inflicted pain, in any case, my mouth was on fire. My dad and brothers have a habit of filling up large glasses of ice water and leaving them on the counter. I rarely filled up my own glass because I was always taking theirs. So, my mouth on fire I marched to the counter and grabbed the large glass of water and threw it back. The burning sensation in my throat out matched the one in my mouth. I was sputtering for air, surely the vein on my forehead was bulging and ran to the bathroom. To this day, I still do not understand why anyone would drink (what I now believe to be) straight vodka. Positively not after a mouth full of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.  

            There’s really no point in these stories, except the fact that they still have lingering influence in my life. These are stories that I recall; they shaped my writing. Many stories I conjured in my mind came to life while sitting by that butterfly bush. The first time I saw a forest fairy is engrained in my mind, and that was the beginning of an imagination that still tells stories today. I still have “Green Acres” theme song stuck in my head since writing this, I still have a lot of spiders in my room, and I’m really good at spelling and laughing at myself. These are the moments of inspiration for my love of words and writing.

Why Boredom Is Actually Great For The Creative Mind

Today we strive to avoid boredom; it's practically a taboo in our society.

We have all heard that being bored is something bad. Something that you should never be. But it's actually not so bad!

I'm a person that quickly got sucked into the social media and Netflix black hole. Now I constantly have my favorite TV show playing in the background of everything I'm doing and Facebook is always open, interrupting my life with notification pings. As a result, I am bombarded with constant information. And useless information at that. Moments of silence in my life are rare. Moments of inactivity are far in between. My life is punctuated by the busyness of my day, the compulsive social media skimming and Netflix binge watching, and naps. I fall asleep watching Netflix as well.

I remember a time when I would fall asleep reading; I'd wake up my face lined with the imprint of the book's pages. Throughout my day, I'd be writing, doodling, and so on. I'd keep a journal and set daily goals to improve myself. Peace and quiet was welcomed, and doing absolutely nothing was welcomed with open arms.

Today, being bored is one of the worst things we can be.

Today, we can no longer stand in line without scrolling through our phones, texting our friends.

Today, sitting absolutely still for a period of time is agonizing.

Andreas Elpidorou, a researcher of the University of Louisville, writes in an article, "The Bright Side to Boredom," that "boredom helps to restore the perception that one's activities are meaningful or significant." Boredom actually functions as a "regulatory state that keeps one in line with one's projects. In the absence of boredom, one would remain trapped in unfulfilling situations, and miss out on many emotionally, cognitively, and socially rewarding experiences. Boredom is both a warning that we are not doing what we want to be doing and a ‘push’ that motivates us to switch goals and projects." Watching Netflix fends off boredom, but also the fulfilling experiences that boredom leads to.

---

"Boredom is both a warning that we

are not doing what we want

to be doing and a ‘push’ that motivates

us to switch goals and projects."

---

Boredom pushes us to find what we are lacking in the present situation. We crave something more meaningful and rewarding. So the next time you run into creative block, whether in writing, painting, etc. allow your brain the chance to be bored. Pause the Netflix series, silence all notifications and find that creativity. Being bored shouldn't have the negative connotation that today's society places on it. Let your mind wander for a minute without bombarding it with useless information and interruptions. Let boredom motivate you.

Social Media Has Changed The English Language

Ever hear a member of the older generation, perhaps an English teacher, say texting, tweeting, and facebooking are ruining our language? There is actually no proof that shortened text language affects our grammar. Facebook introduced us to new words with new meanings like 'friend,' 'wall,' and 'like.' Read more here.

English Majors: It's What We Want

English majors have a bad rap. We're virtually taught to be poor and thrown out into the world assumed that we can only be teachers. False. My English major is everything I want. And it is a lot more than people think. 
I'm pursuing what I love, and it has opened so many doors for me. No, I do not want to be a teacher; I want to be an editor, a writer, an intellectual, a critic, and a traveler. My English major gives me these options and coupled with my Spanish and Publishing major, the world is wide open! 
There is nothing wrong with being a teacher; they're the people that do the most for this world and receive the least credit. I salute them, and I have an utmost respect for them. Teachers are the ones who got me to where I am today: I owe it all to them. 
But let me tell you what I can do with my English major: Anything I want. 
I can travel. I can teach English in Spain. I can edit articles for the local newspaper. I can submit short stories to popular publishers. I can write a novel. I can read The New Yorker and Wired, and learn about anything I want. I can be a writer; I can be an editor; I can be an intellectual. I have the skills to do just about anything, skills that are valuable in a company. 
I started taking a Web Communications class this year, and the class is not what you would think it is, unless you were like me and had really no notion of what a class with that title could entail. The professor spoke in terms a layman like me did not understand (what are deliverables), assigned 60 pages of reading, and told us there was a large project due at the end of the semester of producing an online presence for a real company. I shrugged and said, "That's nothing for an English major." 
The professor and the students in this class looked upon me as unprepared and oblivious to this class. On day one. And as much as I mirrored those looks, I knew I had what it takes. Sure, the first reading I actually had to active engage myself and look up terms and take notes and do such things that I've managed to skip since freshman year, but I get it. I think critically; I think outside of the box.
Second day of class, the professor notices my Star Wars mug and jeers, "Hannah's a closet nerd!!"
I said, "Oh, there's nothing in the closet about it." Apparently, I gave him the perfect segue to his next discussion: being open to new concepts and the ever-changing world. 
I may not know all the web design terminology, or what deliverables are, but I surely can find out. I can be as up-to-date as anybody because I love information and I love searching for it. Reading is easy. Research is easy. Best of all: It's my passion. 
So here's to the doors opened to me, doors of travel, opportunity, and novelty. 
Lastly, here's to all the English majors. Keep on keeping on. 

Spanish Poetry and my Journey to Fluency

As much as I hate being stuck in the same cycle, having a daily routine is healthy. I've started a list of things that I want to do each day, and limited them in some ways so that the list is achievable and more feasible. School started this week, and with the new rhythm of a schedule, I'm settling into a new routine. I'm writing of list of things I want to do everyday, and the first thing on my list is to read one Pablo Neruda poem a day. I bought Cien sonetos de amor (100 Love Sonnets) by Pablo Neruda translated by Stephen Tapscott several months ago and I didn't start digging into until now.
I will share my favorite stanza:

Oh invádeme con tu boca abrasadora,

Indágame, si quieres, con tus ojos nocturnos,

Pero en tu nombre déjame navegar y dormir.

Invade me with your hot mouth; interrogate me

with your night-eyes, if you want—only let me

steer like a ship through your name; let me rest there. 

These words struck me, "Only let me steer like a ship through your name; let me rest there." I read them over and over, settling into their loveliness, their familiarity. Some people truly have a way with words, and it's one thing to be a poet, famous or not, and it is quite another to be a translator of poetry. 

I'm speaking from experience. 

Spanish Senior Seminar last year, I worked on several poems, translating them from Spanish into English. Spanish is a much prettier, more romantic, and lyrical language than English is, and it is tricky to maintain the rhythm and the mean. I translated poems by Venezuelan poet Elías David Curiel (1871-1924).

Curiel used archaic Spanish and some words are not widely used today, in English or Spanish. Many times I could not find any inkling of the words online and sat down with my professor who pulled out aged thick books to look up outdated definitions.

This was one of the poems I had the most fun with. Many times I took creative license to make the English lines lyrical and pretty. 

~

MAL DE LUNA

a Antonio Smith

¿No ha padecido usted nunca  de ilunación?

 He aquí una enfermedad mucho 

más peligrosa que la más terrible de las

insolaciones, según lo atestigua Guy de

Maupassant.

Blanca noche. Me enfermo de mal de luna. Un prado. Surtidores.

Estatuas. Indecisas penumbras. Temblorosas claridades.

Una niña, en su blanco peinador semi-envuelta, entre las flores,

me espera, junto a una de las marmóreas míticas deidades!

Esa desconocida, que me aguarda, a los tímidos fulgores

de las rubias estrellas en un pensil cuyas frondosidades

penumbrosas acendran perfumes de sus labios tentadores,

suda el humor divino de las divinas voluptuosidades!

Bad Moon (Moon stroke)

For Antonio Smith

Have you ever suffered from moon stroke?

I have a sickness more dangerous than the 

worst sunstroke, as witnessed by Guy of 

Maupassant.

White night. I have moon stroke. A meadow. Fountains. 

Statues. Irresolute shadows. Trembling clarities. 

A girl, half wrapped in white negligee, among flowers, 

She waits for me, next to one of the mythical marble deities!

That unknown, she awaits me, the timid glow

Of the blonde stars in the garden whose shadowy 

Canopy of trees purify the perfume of their tempting lips,

She sweats divine humor of divine voluptuousness!

Seated, beside her, upon the moss bank, among the roses 

And amid the statues,—an arbor of goddesses made of Pentelikon marble—,  

I will tell her that love is the cradle of art, of which she is they symbol. 

She will squeeze a cluster of grapes in my mouth with a kiss.

I will bite an apple: her heart. And in my memory printed

her love, my soul will be the vision of a garden full of moon!

~

Poetry is beautiful artistic expression in all languages. Incorporating into everyday the poetry of Pablo Neruda makes me happy! And furthers my journey to fluency in Spanish. 

How We're Confused About Sarcasm: And What You Need To Know

That quiet girl that sits in the front of the class and barely participates in discussion or group activities might not be as shy as she appears, but suffers from over-active-sarcasm and lives in constant fear that she will offend someone when she opens her mouth. The possibility that her humor won’t be funny to classmates or professors causes her to glance downward as she stifles a giggle in the middle of a lecture, making her appear extremely reserved.

The fact that not everybody understands sarcasm suggests a boundary that separates those who understand sarcasm and those who do not. Scrolling through articles, Psychology Today, study after study, research paper after research paper, I found to my dismay many negative articles on my favorite form of communication, sarcasm. My defense mode kicked in, motivating me to write this. I wondered is sarcasm all bad?

Next, I grabbed “The Official Dictionary of Sarcasm” by James Napoli, Executive Vice President of the National Sarcasm Society (yes, there is a sarcasm society). This is a guide for all your sarcastic needs; as Napoli states on the back cover, “not that you give a crap” (Napoli). Upon reading this, I felt reassured that sarcasm is humorous—but what exactly is sarcasm?

Sarcasm exists strongly in the English language, making a mark in our daily conversations; creating series of sitcoms, stand-up comedy, and humor columns in the New Yorker; establishing forums on the internet, memes on Facebook, and hashtags on Twitter—almost creating an entirely new language. Yet, not a universal one. So why is sarcasm difficult to understand and why does it have such a bad rep?

Read more..