Rhapsody

Yeah, I actually stumbled onto that site in its first week of existence, right after the election. Apparently its been growing my leaps and bounds, enough so that it now has a sister website, called apologies accepted. It can be seen here Since some newspapers have reported on it, its popularity has grown. We talked about it in my freshman sociology class today and we were all amazed at how it started out as merely a lark and grew into this huge site with thousand and thousands of people sending in photos. If you haven't already looked, check out the photo gallery on sorryeverybody.com. I've heard the site has averages HALF A MILLION hits per day. As for the motive, it might, as Gryphon said, be a subtle way to insult the President, but it seems to have grown into a way to reconcile with the world. A lot of people seem to think that Bush has harmed the U.S.'s foreign affairs and relations. And his re-election may be a sanction for the continuation of such. So the people who are upset about the election results have bought into this website....as a very non-political way to reconcile with the world outside the U.S. that presumably dislikes the ways in which Bush handles foreign affairs. At least, this is way my sociology prof interpreted it. Actually I heard a retaliatory site has been created for Bush supporters. But I haven't actually seen it or searched for it, as I'm not a huge Bush supporter. *Rhaps*

Lady Celes Crusader, I'm a little late, I know, but I too applaud you for thinking of going international. I think it will be a wonderful help to aspiring writers of all ethnicities. Out of curiosity, have you had a heightened demand for forums of a different language, or is the creation of the forum purely in anticipation of multi-lingual posters? I would imagine this forum would be the place to go if one wanted to translate a certain passage or poem into a different language? Or to infuse one's writing with the literary style and diction of a particular world region? I personally am an Asian American and will be exicted to see the thoughts of other Asians here soon. Thanks again.

I was very taken with the novel "My Name is Asher Lev" in my sophomore year. When we were assigned projects to write an additional chapter to the book, I really put some effort into it. Immersed in this work are my own opinions of art, expressed in an imitation of Chaim Potok's bleak style. First person Asher's POV. For those who have not read the book, a brief summary. Asher Lev is a Hasidic Jew born and raised in New York City. His artistic talent is discovered early on in life and nurtured by a painter named Jacob Kahn. But his passion for art forces him to confront issues with his culture, religion, and family. The climax comes when Asher creates a painting depicting his own mother crucufied, called the Brooklyn Crucifixion. In the end, he is forced to choose between his family and his art. FIFTEEN My flight was delayed. During the night, a late winter storm overtook the sleeping city. All planes were grounded. I called Jacob Kahn from La Guardia airport and asked to stay at his place. An hour later, Anna Schaeffer came in a cab to pick me up. She chuckled in the car on the way to Ninety-sixth Street and Broadway. “A blizzard in February. How inconvenient.” “Very.” “Do your parents know you are staying with us tonight?” “No.” She did not say anything, but shot me a worried glance. At the studio, I did not see Jacob Kahn. Anna said he was still recovering from his illness, bedridden. I said nothing and went to my room. My sleep was troubled that night. As the darkness engulfed me, a familiar figure invaded my dreams. He stood, my mythic ancestor, frail and shivering, leaning feebly on a spindly cane. His strong face was now lined with age. His beard was long and white and his eyes were mad slits sunk deep into their sockets. He beckoned to me with his wasted hands and spoke. As always, I could not hear him, but could guess his words. Your pain is on the wind. Come, journey with me, Asher. With the last vestige of his former power, he summoned me. His dark eyes, dull with madness, now shone with woe. I followed him into the trees. I woke in a cold sweat and hurried to the bathroom. When I emerged from the light of the bathroom, I feared crawling into bed again and letting the darkness and stifling closeness take me. Lying silently between the sheets, I listened to the silence, not wanting to go back to sleep. Finally, in the hushed moments before dawn, I crept out of bed and stood at the window, staring out at the snow and silhouettes of bare trees and barren street. I saw the pristine snow illuminated by dimming stars, but they were few and the still shadows were many. They stretched into the sky, bereft of the moon, hushed and leaden. Asher, snow is an enemy in Siberia. I pulled a clean canvas, palette, and brushes from my packed luggage. Standing by the window, I swept the canvas with titanium white, the bleakest hue in the color spectrum. I rubbed it with a frosty gloss, mimicking reflected starlight. I sketched in charcoal the looming buildings, their cold glass and steel and sharp angles, shrouded in darkness. I drew the desolate branches of naked trees, clinging grimly in the teeth of the cold wind. I drew slender vertical lines, slight lampposts with faint pools of light at their feet. I drew the still shadows leaking like ink into the sky. I drew the frozen street, its curbs iced over, slowly dripping. The drops flowed and the wind shrieked and the shadows trickled and suddenly I was slashing and hacking. The paintbrush and palette knife tore at the canvas, at that street, and I painted swiftly, feverishly. I worked in cobalt blues, carbon blacks, smoky pearls, and dark indigos, tainted colors that seeped from plagued Siberia. I do not remember how long I painted there in the cold of the sheltered room, only that when my hands stopped the rosy streaks of dawn washed over them. The weak sunlight scalded and I stared up at my creation. The straight contours of the black street had melted into a rushing river. It churned with white foam and glistened with the glint of shattered glass. A chill went through me, gazing into those frigid depths. It lacked something; the cold was incomplete. I raised my brush as if to attack the painting, not knowing what it needed. With a soft click, the door opened behind me and I whirled. Tanya Kahn poked her face into the room. Her eyes widened when she saw me. She stepped fully inside. Her short white hair caught the only light in the room, where daylight had not yet reached. She stared at me for a long moment. I must have looked mad, a thin boy gripping his brush like a spear and spattered with paint. With the sun rising behind me, my unkempt hair was highlighted, flaming like the visage of a demon. I said nothing. At last she spoke. “Your plane will leave in three hours. It is safe to travel. Jacob wants to see you before you leave. He is an impossible old man. He snores during the day and cannot sleep at night. Yet he wants to see his student at dawn.” She shook her head, the faintest trace of a smile on her face. I heard a strained fondness in her soft voice. My own heart leapt in concern. “I will see him. Will you take me to him?” She nodded. I walked to my baggage to put up my tools. When I looked up, her eyes were fixed behind me, on the painting. Suddenly I felt cold and exposed, stripped. Her gaze turned to me and her eyes contained wonder and something else I could not name. Under her intense gaze, I flushed, feeling the blood rush to my face. “You have a gift, Asher.” Her voice rang in the fading darkness between us, unencumbered by her heavy Russian accent. Involuntarily, I shuddered. I turned to my painting, trying not to look at it; I placed it against the wall, facedown. Then I turned to Tanya, ready to visit Jacob Kahn. Her eyes swept over my face with sincere curiosity. She smiled gently. “You are a strange Jew, Asher Lev. Come, Jacob is eager to see his strange little prodigy.” I followed her out of the room into the morning light, closing the door behind me. ************************* Jacob Kahn lay prone under thick quilts, his eyes shut tightly. His breath rasped raggedly in his throat. His pasty skin was beaded with sweat. For a moment I saw my teacher lying, eyes closed peacefully, in another bed, a bed of encasing stone that was slowly lowered into the open jaws of the earth. Then the lid closed over him and I saw Jacob Kahn as he lay now, shivering as his breath whistled out beneath his walrus mustache. I stepped up to the edge of the bed, hearing Tanya retreat out the door behind me. Jacob Kahn opened his eyes. I smiled helplessly and caught the briefest spectre of a smile in return. “Asher Lev. My little Jew,” he said tiredly. I winced. He saw it. The artist’s eyes had not yet lost their keenness. “You are exiled.” “Yes.” “By the Rebbe?” “Yes, and by my father.” I paused as he studied my face. “It was the Crucifixions.” “Yes. He said there are limits.” My teacher gazed up at me thoughtfully. “He is wrong, Asher.” “I know.” “As an artist, you do not recognize any limits. All great artists study the masters only to break their rules and establish their own. With your Brooklyn Crucifixions, you have become a true artist. It is but the beginning, Asher.” “I know.” “You have more to tell me.” It was not a question, but a statement. “I talked to the Rebbe.” He nodded. I went on. “He said that I have crossed a boundary and he cannot help me now. He said that I am alone.” My eyes pleaded with Jacob Kahn, but he offered no mercy. “He is right. Asher, an artist is always alone. He must discover his own path. He must walk his own path. An artist does not have a family or a home. He is a rebel.” He sighed wearily. “Asher, I told you once that art is for pagans and goyim. Art is your only religion. You must follow only our laws. And then break them.” He looked into my eyes and must have seen something there. I do not know what. All I knew were hot tears slowly filled my eyes. “Yes,” he said. “The world is not a pretty place. Let go of your grief.” He looked again. “You have accepted your fate.” “Yes.” I nodded, not caring about the tears that ran down my face. I did not wipe them away. “Good. Where do you plan to go?” “Paris. Anna suggested Leningrad and Moscow.” “Yes, and Florence?” I shrugged. “Florence is a gift.” “Yes.” I agreed. “I am an old man, Asher. But I am content. I told you I have sculpted a David, a living David. I am complete. Someday you will paint a Guernica, Asher. And you will understand.” He coughed. “I am tired of this bed, Asher. I want to get up and sculpt. But I do not think it will happen.” “You are an impossible old man. But you will reach ninety.” He laughed, a sound that warmed my heart. “Perhaps, Asher. This impossible old man is not ready to go yet. He has yet to see his fledgling fly.” He paused. “I am proud, Asher Lev.” I smiled. “I wish you well, Jacob Kahn. May you sculpt again soon.” I bent over quickly and embraced him. My master, my mentor. He stiffened in surprise, then embraced me in return. When I pulled away, I saw a smile on his face. “Good luck, Asher Lev.” ************************* Once aboard the plane, I waved to Anna Schaeffer and Tanya Kahn. They gestured back, grinning and yelling good luck. Other passengers loading onto the plane stared at me. I laughed at what they must have seen, a young man dressed in the ritual fringes of an observant Jew, whose scruffy red hair hung out of a frayed fisherman’s cap. Then the plane took off and I was in the sky, looking down into the endless depths of the ocean. The waves shone like glass in the light of the sun. Like fractured glass. I took out my unfinished painting and stared at it. The words of Jacob Kahn rang in my ears. The world is not a pretty place. Let go of your grief. I made the world pretty, Mama. Asher, will you stop this foolishness? Be careful of the Other Side, Asher Lev. He has dark burning eyes. Suddenly I knew what to draw. Picking up a brush, I completed the night sky, painting swiftly, surely. My brush made bold confident strokes in streaks of metallic silver. In a short time, I viewed the result of my efforts. In the empty darkness of the sky, two huge stars blazed out, a pair of burning heavenly eyes. The divine and demonic. I laughed at the irony. But it was still incomplete. Why didn’t you draw the pretty birds and flowers, Asher? “Yes, I’ll draw you birds and flowers, Mama.” In the icy waters of the street river, I painted golden flowers, the color of my mother’s hair. Their crescent shaped petals were slips of pale fire. I worked them in Renaissance gold, saffron, and cream yellows, cheerful hues that betrayed their character, flaunting the destructive nature of fire. The flaming blossoms floated down the rapids, tossed and splattered, but never doused. Their own wild heat singed them inside out, charring them to scorched tones of burnt sienna and raw umber. Their flames seared the water, those tears of winter, and sent up trails of white steam. Those vaporous plumes were silent testimony to the pain of the both the flaming flowers and the roaring river, their condensed screams of agony. I thought pensively, “Perhaps they will both die in pain, those who hurt and those who have been hurt.” Everything that lives must die. “Yes Papa.” In the emptiness of the sky, I sketched flocks of scarlet birds. Their wings were outstretched in glorious flight, fan-shaped tails flared, shapely heads pointing upward, frenzied in their ecstasy. They pulsed with the vibrant tints I bestowed upon them, wine red and rose. With a prompt mood change, I scribbled on, depicting the fragile creatures plummeting to the snowy earth, or swallowed by the raging waters. Their broken wings drooped clumsily at impossible angles, angles that I exaggerated with harsh strokes of my palette knife. My hands painted vehemently while my eyes watched reverently. I saw bloody shapes of vermilion and burgundy tumbling like teardrops onto the chaste snow. Crimson fledglings soared in rapture; delicate birds fell, eyes burning brightly, too blinded by their own brilliant plumage to notice their rapid descent. Dead birds, eyes glazed, wings extended, and talons curled, dotted the river like beads of spilt blood. I leaned back and appraised my work. Unbidden, my mind recognized a disturbing comparison. Those falling ruby birds transformed unexpectedly into clipped locks of red hair, severed payos that fell, neglected, from those burning eyes. As I gazed, I knew I had just broken the last link to my past. No longer would my mythic ancestor thunder in my sleep. I looked up to the sun blushing on the eastern horizon. I was headed toward that light, armed with the blessing of the Rebbe and my gift. I reached into my pocket for the plane ticket. “Florence,” read the black script. Yes, Florence is a gift. Finally, I glanced at my work again and chuckled. For the first time, I noticed the unwieldy canvas was propped up against the back of the seat in front of me. The passenger sitting there gaped at me. I looked at him, then extended my hand. “My name is Asher Lev.” Unnerved, he turned away. I dropped my hand. My brushes lay on fold-up tray usually reserved for food. They had stained the tray and the seat, as well as my person, with specks of paint. Never mind. It is a good painting; I did not hold back. A work of two worlds—ice and flame, light and dark, divine and demonic. Jacob Kahn would be pleased. I leaned back in my seat, refusing to yield to the urge to look back, and catch a last glimpse of the place I had called home. Instead I gazed forth, towards my destiny. A world of art awaits me in Florence, one that will either cherish or reject this new painting. I did not try to fool myself. It is a world of the sitra achra. It is not a world of rigid religion and brittle laws. It is not a world for the Hasidic Jew. But it is enough. It is but the beginning, Asher. On impulse, I reached for a phone and dialed a number I had dialed many times before. “Hello?” It was the voice of Anna Schaeffer. “Meet me in Florence, Anna. I have a new painting for you.”

*I went on a trip to my parents homeland, Burma, in summer 1998. These are my reflections on a particular event.* I slapped irritably at the pesky mosquitoes that darted about my head, attracted by the beads of perspiration dripping there. Our horse-drawn cart jostled onward, its destination, a towering golden pagoda that loomed in the distance. The old gray nag that pulled the cart plodded along, moving barely faster than the pedestrians that clogged the dusty road. Above, the sun blazed relentlessly, emitting a blinding glare from the gilded temple. Called the Shwedagon, the renowned pagoda held the distinction of the largest pagoda in the world. Every year, thousands of tourists mingled with red-robed monks at the steps of the famed structure, hoping for a chance to enter. This particular summer, it was our turn. Here we were, in the congested city of Yangon, the capital of a poverty stricken, third world country named Myanmar. The Shwedagon was supposed to be the highlight of our journey, however I was suffering from intense humidity, ruthless subtropical heat, as well as the bugs I was beginning to think of as my archenemies in Life. As the bumpy ride continued, I sunk low into my seat (a wooden plank) and groaned my misery. An hour later, I reluctantly tugged the woven sandals off my sunburnt feet and proceeded to ascend several cold stone steps through the gates into open vicinity. Here I hesitated, gaping. Before me, multitudes of gaudily dressed natives teemed, choking the walkways of glazed tile; it resembled the streets of New York City during rush hour. Marble statues stood majestically in a large circle, glorying in the shaven-headed monks that knelt timidly at their feet. Within the ring of sculptures rose the Shwedagon itself, looming imperiously, a golden dragon protecting her hatchlings and jealously guarding her treasure. The sun glinted on her metallic hide, blinding all who dared lay eyes on her. Above, her peak spire, a slender needle, pierced the clouds like the flaming tongue of a fiery dragon. At her feet, her puny subjects milled, shyly offering gifts of fruit, flowers, and incense. Monks and nuns, arrayed in crimson robes, spoke in hushed tones, displaying their respect. Some, however, did as they pleased. In one corner, a young girl sang sweetly while scattering birdseed. Flocks of pigeons fluttered almost immediately to her, cooing in tune with the girl. In another shaded niche, an old woman plucked the strings of a lacquered Burmese harp. The instrument, shaped like a miniature boat, rested on the woman’s lap, its ornate designs engraved in jewel tones of gold, sable, and crimson. The music possessed a distinctly Oriental vibe and I found myself adrift on its lilting melodies, enthralled by a world of drowsy warmth, heady fragrance of jasmine, and slow-motion sunlight. Only under insistent urging from my parents did I tear myself away from the enchanting harpist. Later we joined a group of sober-faced monks and nuns, kneeling in prayer before a stately image of Buddha, whose peaceful face echoed those of his followers. Within this secluded area, oblivious to the oppressive heat and clamor outside, my eyelids drooped. I surrendered to the monotonous chanting of the priests, a deep throbbing that reminded me of thunder, and slowly sank into a silent rhythm of my own cadenced breaths. Soft folds of velvet darkness cradled me, rocking in time to the gentle thuds of my heartbeat. A strange feeling, starting in the pit of my stomach, spread through my body. It seeped into every muscle, every tendon, every bone, infusing me with a new awareness. Even in this detached darkness, I could feel the position of every muscle, I could envision with a stark clarity the angle of each curled finger, the plump shape of each toe clamped under my thighs, the silky fall of black hair spilling over each shoulder, every drop of sweat upon my brow, each individual vein that flows beneath my skin, the golden pendant possessing my Burmese zodiac sign, the tiger, that swung at my throat. Acutely conscious of the energy that welled in each limb like a glowing pool of light, I reveled in this physical cognizance. Suddenly, I was shaken out of my reverie and rudely dragged outside. Blinking rapidly in the brilliant sunshine, I asked, “How long were we in there?” My brother glanced at his watch. “Five minutes,” he answered. Around noon, with the sun blazing high in the summer heat, I reluctantly stepped out the gateways and into a spacious, bamboo-roofed gift shop. My mother surprised me with a gift of an exquisitely carved jade horse. Some believe jade has healing properties. As I gently stroked the figurine, its refreshing coolness held to my flushed cheek, a brief serenity washed over me, barricading me against the disturbing noise and heat, and enveloping me in a utopia of dark silence. It lasted but a moment; however, that untouchable calmness remained with me, and nothing ruffled me that day. A glass of spilled coconut milk soiling my intricately embroidered longyi was wiped away without a word of rebuke. The usually sticky thanaka balm staining my cheeks actually seemed to cool my face in the simmering humidity. Even the itchy welts on my skin, caused by mosquitoes, did nothing to agitate my newfound tranquility. I felt as if I the world was at my command. Of course, I couldn’t harmonize with birds, or even begin to spin simple music into magic. Yet, to this day, I meditate every night before my mantel decorated with gilded statuettes of Buddha, managing to obtain a few moments of quiet serenity, and savoring the reassuring weight of a golden locket dangling at my throat, gold that mirrors that of the walls of the Shwedagon. At night, Sleep comes easily for I’m confident in the knowledge that a guardian spirit protects me. Standing loftily on my bookshelf prances a jade horse.

"Bad spellers of the world, UNTIE!" I love that t-shirt!

Don't shoot me, please. I know this is a very rough English sonnet. I wrote it as a high-school freshman, enthralled with the concept of unicorns. It was inspired by Meredith Ann Pierce's Firebringer trilogy. Silken-Swift Unicorns don’t truly exist, it seems. Only in fables and fantastic tales, or perhaps in the children’s wildest dreams are the Silken-Swift confidently hailed. With velvet coats of cream and moonlit manes, horns of bright gold and soulful sapphire eyes, light-filled hearts, cloven hooves like silver rain, gilded wings and virtuosity cries, embodied in these heavenly deities. With wafts of cinnamon and spring roses, sweet voices sing exquisite melodies. Unicorns wander, bringing the lost hope. Mankind benefits from God’s gracious gift. Miracle-workers are the Silken-Swift.

Wow, I really liked the concept here, speaking to those no longer here. Fave line. And I like the title: Virtual Shapes. Really gets your point across.

Ah yes, the motto of the AP student: "Sleep is for the weak." I so sympathize. I understand. There simply aren't enough hours in the day. Yes, dying is someimes preferable. I love how all high-school kids consider sleeping a recreation.

How cute. Being a Buddhist, I found this refreshing; its not often that we see work about Buddha, and even less humorous work. Bravo.

Lol, how adorable! BTW, Kalyso, I love how you took your name after the leader of the Muses!

Wow, talk about a new perspective! I absolutely loved it. So simple in language, but so profound in message. Initially, this reminded me of Kafka's Hunger Artist, but it turned out to be much more pleasant than that. Did this remind anyone else of Allegory of a Cave? V. nice Rune; this is amazing work, so amazing it deserves comparison to Aristotle's.

Oi! Congrats, Wyv! You deserve it, since you were the one who got me in this place. All hail Bard Wyvern!

Ooh, i really like it, Wren! But could you explain the last stanza to me? The one about the golden ring? I was thinking wedding ring...

I think we're kinda missing the point in all this discussion. Let's face it, Tolkein was British and Christian, plus he was creating a new world. Isn't it perfectly normal to have aspects of your personality seep into the world you create. It could've been unconscious; its just that as Americans in this day and age, Middle Earth seems biased towards the European way of life. Hence, all this uneccessary reading into what otherwise is a perfectly good story.

Whoa, I liked it up to the last stanza. After that I was half-repulsed, half-amused. V. creative.

Whoa, it sounds like Tolkein made everyone a Christ figure or was like hey lets see what Christ would be like if he were schizo! lol So does that make Saruman like Judas? And what about the Elves? And Sauron? Gollum? I'd like you to go more in depth. All I've ever heard of is that Tolkein's message was a veiled criticism of WWII, never about religion.

Holy Christ! That's a winner if I ever read one. Keep me updated on how you do. At first I thought you might be posting some of Arthur Miller's stuff, but it didn't sound like his. Lol, I get a weird image here. But I really like this metaphor of writing be tailored to fit one's personality. Very creative. Really really liked this stanza. When I saw "plucking of so many heart-strings", I got an image of a heart strung like a harp. I imageined music with this act of plucking. Out of curiosity, is this the musician in you coming out? Later, with the stanza about painting/sculpting, you really got me involved. What with the music and art motif, I felt you had a really original critique of art going. I had to stop a moment when I got to this line. Its like a punchline, so severed from the rest of the poem, short and succint, and powerful in its message. I especially liked the phrase "calculate creativity". Talk about contradiction. Go Icarus! Fight conformity!

Salinye, is it too late to sign up? I just stumbled upon the post now and would be thrilled to participate.

Willow, just cuz her name is cooler than "Buffy". And just for the record, Angel over Spike any day.

I love this poem! Its very nostalgic and melancholy. I like how you personified Summer and described her passing away. Though it was sad, you made it seem serene. The last line was my favorite. Congrats and welcome to the Pen!

Yes, I can imagine this being read aloud. it seemed to me some parts of it rhymed, though I could never figure out a particular rhyme scheme. Initally I thought it didn't flow very well, but as I read on, it got better. Your style seems a juxtaposition of lyric and dramatic poetry. It's very free-form and evocative. The imagery is ingenious. I sense a new talent here. Welcome to the Pen, Marishka.

I wish I could hear the melody behind this. I can really see Dave Matthews as being your inspiration here. Its very mainstream, in a good way, as in I could imagine hearing it on the radio.

WHOA! You should consider getting published. I really love your style. This stream-of-consciousness style is far too rare these days. You make it coherent and whimisical at the same time. And even though you are dealing with a very overdone concept of love, you manage to make it sincere and not trite. In the faint possibility that you are Asian, I extend a greeting to you, one Asian to another. Welcome to the Pen! You'll fit right in.

Your title reminded me of a book I'd read called The Rose and Beast. Were you just exploring this concept, or was it something you deeply felt? Because I'm curious about this beast. The way I interpreted it, this beast may not a be a bad thing. I saw this as your own high standards that may not always be able to be met. I know that as an idealist myself, many of my goals are simply impossible to meet. At the end, you mention the beast and "deeper, darker things" and I saw that as self-doubt and your own fears. What worried me most was not the beast per se, but your third and fourth stanzas. Apathy scares me most.

Welcome to the Pen! An emotional and heartfelt first post here. Short and sweet. Out of curiosity, does your name refer to Oscar Wilde?