ForumsArt, Music, and WritingJeol: The Resuscitation

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I need no introduction. Oh, wait, I guess that's a little late. As you may have guessed, this is the infamous Jeol's thread.

So this morning, I was on my way to the co-op I take classes at thinking about my speech, when out of the blue comes a story. About a land named Rhyme. So, in the class I made my speech in after my speech, I started to work on one of my first poems that wasn't inspired by the 'First Line Poetry' thread, a quatrain.

Rhymes of Rhyme - a quatrain.
Once upon a time,
in the land of Rhyme,
rhyming was so prime,
it sparked such a fine time.

There was a man named Pine
in the land of Rhyme
who rhymed so prime,
it made ev'rybody cry.

When the man died,
it made the country dry
for the prime of their rhymes,
and the rhymes lost their shine.

In times since then,
in the land of Rhyme,
rhyming was so bland,
no one ever rhymed again.

Yes, the non-rhyming of the last stanza was intentional. Yes.

I will post other creations and whatnot in the future.

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Summer - a haiku.

Warm sunlight blazing,
Down on our contented heads -
Lively, bright summer.

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It's seasons time!

Winter - a nonet.

A frozen wind blew across the land;
Snow blanketed the barren ground.
Ice covered the sea surround.
Bundling up in layers,
Offering prayers,
The people wished

Spring - a sonnet.

The air was e'er cold, warmth unfree;
From the sky a frozen wind blew.
Yet I knew that soon would be
When the final frost would accrue.
Life was springing anew even as I walked;
The frozen ground began to melt.
Plants and animals around me stalked,
And warmth and life again dwelt.
Flowers and green foliage sprung forth;
Animals of all kinds from winter sleep awoke.
Ended was the cold reign from the North,
I knew, as green grass beneath me kindly stroked
My bare feet - I, free from the grip of Winter,
Was settled in the soft arms of Spring, limber.

Summer - a haiku.

Warm sunlight blazing,
Down on our contented heads -
Lively, bright summer.

Autumn - a tanka. (As requested by Tacky.)

Crisp colorful leaves,
Falling slowly from above;
Trees wary of cold,
Of the coming Winter days.
Autumn ablaze with color.

*Alt ending: 'Autumn is really awesome' (as Tacky requested...)

... There it is.

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Jeol, what is a parnassian??

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Jeol, what is a parnassian??

A poet, in French, I think.

Yay, someone posted on my thread...

I just realized how long it's been since a title change. *ponders a title change*
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I know this isn't really relevant, but...

I think Tumblr hates me.

It keeps giving me security warnings. I've reset the password at least thrice now to ones that I've never used before, and it still gives me the same message.

In other words, if I got a dollar for every security warning Tumblr gave me, right now I would be rich.

I even went so far as to delete the account and start over, but when I tried to customize the theme, it started giving me warnings again. Is there any way to avoid this, does anybody know? Does it not like it if people customize the themes anymore?

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Humm, the problem seems to have corrected itself. Sadly, since I deleted my account and reactivated it, that means I have to recreate it from scratch... Thankfully, I left a window open which contains all my previous posts. The bigger problem is recreating the theme... I pretty much have to do it all again from scratch, though I do still have some of the images and stuff that I used, except for a few of the colors... But, even then, should be easy enough to at least get close.

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I just returned from a two-week trip to China on Tuesday. What a trip! What a fall.

Baha. I love puns. Sorry.

I suppose some people want to see pictures. Here is an Arctic sunset from the airplane... A two-hour sunset. The best kind.

The flight was long (that particular one took thirteen hours), and not much sleep was caught on the way. But hey! Nothing like going on your first plane ride... Or going out of the country for the first time... Or going overseas for the first time...

Next, a photo taken from the place I was staying (with a host family). Chengdu is primarily known as the Green City of China (ironically enough, it was the smoggiest city while we were there). (It's also a very laid-back city, but that's irrelevant.) Because of this, they have a lot of trees and plants in the city. One thing that fascinated me was the amount of tree farms outside the city - once a tree was fully grown, they would transplant the tree to whether it was wanted. This is how most of the city came up, I suppose. This next picture is of a complex that was only built a few years prior. (On a sidenote, they are surprisingly nice - Iduno what to call them, apartments? Especially on the inside.)

While we were there, we got to spend a bit of time with the students of the international school we were singing with... Gah. I miss them so :'

I refrained from making as many cheesy pictures as possible and saved only for the more artistic approaches... Now I regret. But here is a more artistic approach I made.

Also, while we were in Chengdu, we went to a panda reserve. 'Nuff said.

"Can leap over tall buildings in a single bound..."

They also had red pandas there, but of course they separated them from the white pandas. Racist much? ~ Haha, yeah, but seriously.

One of the many hilariously mistranslated signs around China. ("Beware of Slippery", etc.)

I'll skip a few days (mostly because I didn't take many pictures inbetween then) to the last days in China, climbing the Great Wall. It was an excruciating climb (tired from busy days), but it was definitely worth it.

To better show the steepness of the climb...

Well, that's all I have for now. I'll probably post a picture of me on the Great Wall in the official PoAG thread and leave it at that, unless you guys want more pictures, in which case I'll leech off of other people's photos, or if you want me to explain more about the trip.

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MegaIPOD were talking on another forum, and some things led to another and we were talking about Carlie. I ended up writing a rap about her, even though I never really met her :P I'm pretty sure it's horrible, but hey, it's a start. I wrote it so that all of the italics are the downbeats.


She was the definition of awesome.
She made the TERM awesome awesome.
She was the first awesome part of AG -
Aside from AG itself,
But AG was too hip to be awesome.
In fact, both she and AG
Are both high in definition.

I also wrote a haiku for the heck of it. It's on a pretty cliche topic ("Battle&quot, but whatevs.

The victory cry,
Last plunge of the lethal sword;
The conq'ring of us.

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First time I've drawn in a few months.

Yes, I watch SourceFed.

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REVIVE! (Again...)

I had to write a found poem for World History, and I don't dislike the result. Even though it technically wasn't on my own time, I feel like it was an accomplishment, given that this style of poetry is new to me. Anyways, poem be below.

The Charge

The morning -
The sun shone most gloriously, and so -
Saw the imposing lines of the enemy:
Immediately cavalry and artillery,
To the right and to the left.
Heard the boom of artillery,
The echoes of musketry.

When the enemy's artillery began to play,
We laid down;
We could hear shot and shell whistling,
Killing and wounding.
Consisting of three hundred guns,
We did not muster half that number -
Terrible havoc wrought,
Whilst we acted on the defensive.

On that memorable day,
We received orders to retire.
The enemy's artillery had come up;
By the time they discharge their guns,
We were behind the rising ground,

We had now before us the heroes;
We saw the bearskin caps,
Rising higher and higher as they ascended,
Advancing nearer and nearer to our lines.

It was at this moment,
His famous order given,
He rode along the line:
"Guards, get up and charge!"
After so many hours of inaction,
All the loss of comrades.
After firing a volley,
We rushed on with fixed bayonets,
And that hearty
Peculiar to British soldiers.

"The Battle of Waterloo, 1815," EyeWitness to History,, 2004.

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I had to write another poem in World History this week, specifically surrounding Romanticism (and in my own actual words). It turned out more like a metaphor, even though I tried to twist emotion into it as much as possible. I can't say it hit where I was hoping. I guess it depends on the point of view. It also lacks a title... Whoops.

Running, falling,
Tripping over the grindstone;
Pain is so prevalent,
Its lasting effects take hold.

Blinding stars and mental fog
Grasp my mind and shake -
Which direction I am facing,
I cannot tell;
All I know is that I am falling...

More pain, this time surrounding.
To see the smirk of his face,
The flash of metal -
To hear the ringing in the dead air.
His mocking eyes glare as he thrusts,
Into my soul, into my heart.
To feel this throbbing liquid
Abscond from my frightened substance -
To smell the abhority of pain,
The taste of metal.

All I did was rise.

I run.
Down I fall.
Moments in time,
Stretched into infinity.
Never was I living -
I was simply a falling entity.

This piece reflects the lower class during the time of the revolutions as they struggled to obtain their rights. They risk rising as 'he' (the upper or controlling class) sees them as a displeasure and an annoyance, pushing the working class back onto the ground. To him, they are nothing but a selfish lazy workforce that has no purpose other than his capitalization.

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What precedes imagination? Imagination is the heart of all thought and creation. Even imagination itself takes part in inspiring emotions. But is there something that precedes imagination? Inspiration itself is founded by imagination that they inspirer was truly as good as the thought itself was. Some might say that imagination comes from the created mind. Indeed, the mind is truly unique - but is that the only source of imagination? To find the answer, one may need to dig deeper than he might think.

Color. Color is deep. It irrupts an indescribable emotion within the mind. Some colors have been linked to give certain thought processes - for example, yellow is often credited to anger. Indeed, it makes babies cry. There is hardly an explanation for it, except for the obvious fact that it triggers emotions. The question is, how attributed are emotions to colors? Are they a programmed thought of the mind, a simple imagination, or the Thought? That Thought, respective to the topic that this man is so daring to address.

These thoughts resounded with this man, only on a certain level that might be considered a scientist. Luckily, he often had thoughts that normal people might not be accustomed to - in fact, that was his job. He liked to think of himself as more of a moderator, observing, performing, and keeping in check those of his subjects. He did not meet many people on his job. Actually, he didn't meet anyone on his job - usually they were simply assigned to him, and he toyed with them as a cat would with string. Usually, his experiments verged on the thought that he didn't really know what to apply, but he still had a goal in the back of his mind. As this Thought came into mind, suddenly his goal seemed a lot more focused. Some thoughts had seeped into his mind in the past, but not as provoking as this one seemed. He pondered it.

Not only would such a project take massive research, but also extensive planning with a considerable day of execution - whether that day would work in the end would have to be assumed, but that day would also conclude whether or not the experiment would work, and he certainly couldn't do it on his own - he was the moderator, after all. He turned from his desk and stared at the wall.

It was blank, the bland whiteness covering the room, not even one speck of color on the five walls, or the ceiling, or the floor. He smiled.

He stood up from his desk in the corner (it was black, no color either) and run his hand over the smooth surface of the wall. Palms out, cheek in, he hugged the wall. The purity of it was rather astounding to him. The man stepped back from the wall. It needed some color. He nodded to himself in approval - yes, this he was confident of. He turned around, walked to the door opposite his desk, opened it, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

It was several hours before he returned. When he did, though, it took him a half an hour simply moving everything he had bought into the room. After it was all moved, he managed to catch himself before he started - his desk was still in the corner. Of course. He picked up anything that was on his desk and took it out of the room. He then picked up the heavy desk, squeezed it through the door, and setting it down, shut the door behind him. He rubbed his hands together. Now came the fun part.

The man looked at the supplies. Paint cans, brushes, rollers, rags - anything a painter might have used. A realization came over him, and he tossed the brushes and rollers and other equipment out of the room.

Pop, pop, pop, the lids came off of the paint cans. Aqua! Maroon! Navy Blue! Golden Yellow! Colors of various shades were thrown into the air, the thick liquid splashing on the walls, ceiling, and floor, colors mixing, drying, and contrasting. The paint soaked into the carpet, stiffening as it dried, sticking to the feet as the man pranced about the room. At last, when the final drop flung from the last can of Saffron paint, he threw the empty cans into the trash can he had conveniently bought with the paint, and without waiting for the paint to dry, took the desk back into the room and shoved it into the corner. The paint from the walls and ceiling dripped onto the black desk and dried as he left to sleep for the night. It had been a long day.

As the man lay in his bed, he thought. What could be his experiment? What was he fulfilling? How was he accomplishing? He explored his mind for a bit. Then he laughed at himself. Why, science of course. The questions beg for answers that only distract from the original purpose. How can you fulfill if you don't yet pursue? While the answers may look good on paper, he was searching for a much deeper answer. What does one accomplish by asking questions? He realized the irony of the rhetorical purpose of the question, and so rolled over and fell asleep.

Perhaps the intentions are partially hidden, but that was yet a small piece of one's imagination - and as accomplished as he felt at the end of that day, so he went into the next with vigor. Is action blinded by purpose, or vice versa? Or is the imagination of the mind so seeking that in resolve it fulfills a greater purpose, realizing or not? Perhaps everything is partially inspired and guided by some greater purpose, living within us. Even as it brings out the unique creations of the bitter mind, it sets and destroys the etiquette that people as a society are so desperate to obey.


One part of supposed fifty. What? NaNoWriMo? Never heard of it... :P

Anyways, I may add to this because I like the idea of where I might go with this. It'll take a lot of work, but I suppose it will be worth it in the end. Hopefully I stick more to philosophy this time than straying off into a boring story. Hrm... We'll see.

Crits or comments are good. :3

3,842 posts

It Stood

Standing firm, standing tall,
Ominous in disguise, royal in apathy,
Erect in stature
Stood it.

Trumpet blasts, blaring call;
Tried and true in resilience,
And yet silent
Stood it.

Metallic tang, reeks enthrall;
Stench for sure, spice of pleasure,
An essence of wonder
Stood it.

Full of everything, empty of all;
Used for anything, yet not exhausted,
Not unprecedented
Stood it.

Symbolist poem. I'm also working on a short story for World History, which may also make it on here. We'll see.

3,842 posts

I thought update with a story I wrote with a friend of mine. I'm also working on a rework of a 'sequel' to the Explorer, I poem, which may be popping up in the future. Sorry in advance if it's notated incorrectly... I had to copy it from Word.

A Series of Peculiar Events

The morning of the 31st of March, 1956 began as any other morning might: my cat woke me early, I shaved off my light brown whiskers, a comet crossed the morning sky, and I was on my way to work at the Rome Central Police Station. However, this day would quickly cease to be average, for I was scheduled to be the assistant interrogator of the prime suspect in the murder of a tour guide at the late Roman Senate.


I stood in the corner of the interrogation room looking upon the first and only suspect we had: Brutus, a tour guide at the late Roman Senate. The chief detective of the case, Pietro, was leading the interrogation.

"So, Brutus." Pietro cleared his nasally voice. "We have a murder on our hands." He leaned forward on the table, looking Brutus in the eye. "Unfortunately, the only lead we have is the discovery of a man in a toga (most likely a late tour guide) lying dead in the Senate room as of yesterday morning. Let's see. He seems to have died from . . . " Pietro flipped through some papers. "Multiple stab wounds. Once in the neck and several times in the torso area." I peered over his shoulder at some pictures of the crime scene. Well, that was evident enough.

"So far, based on what information we have gathered, - " The chief detective coughed. "Well, you're our only suspect."

Brutus stared at us blankly. Suddenly realizing what had just been said to him, he stood up and attempted to defend himself. "Well, I didn't do it, if that's what you're asking. You're calling me a murderer?"

"No. Well, yes," Pietro admitted. "But there's a possibility you are, in which case this isn't just a wild accusation."

"It's not a disease - I can't 'might' catch it," Brutus wildly claimed. "I'm not the murderer."

I interjected. "Sounds like someone needs an antidote."

"Et tu," Brutus retorted.

"As far as we know, it is a disease," Pietro sighed.

Brutus sat back down and thought for a moment. "Well, I haven't gotten any fleas or rats recently."

Pietro stated sarcastically, "I suppose that it is out of the question, then."
Brutus continued. "And - whenever this happened - I didn't do it. Wednesday and Thursday, the 28th and 29th, I was off work, at the shore with my wife. You could check the Sole Hotel in Castellaneta Marina where I stayed." Giving the detective and me this information, we dismissed him to his cell, leaving the two of us alone.

Pietro sighed. "There goes our only suspect." He turned to me and ordered, "Look into that hotel and make sure his alibi checks out. After that, I want you to meet me at Antico Caffe della Pace so we can talk about another case that has come up. This one should be a little more fun."


"I certainly am glad to have that over with." I sighed as I paced down the dimly lit hallway to my office. I located my telephone by following the curly cord underneath the clutter on my desk to where it lay, dangling into the trashcan. Mindless of the unsanitary state, I pressed it to my ear, found the number for the Sole Hotel in the telephone book, and dialed.

Moments later, I had donned my coat and scarf and was hailing a taxi to take me to the Antico Caffe della Pace.


Arriving at the cafe, I located Pietro, I doffed my coat and scarf and sat down across from the chief detective. Without saying a word, he plopped a newspaper in front of me, the headline declaring, "MITRE FOUND AFTER HUNDREDS OF YEARS IN VAULT." I read the article.

"The missing mitre found at last! Five hundred year-old mystery solved! On the 500th anniversary of its mysterious disappearance, the mitre of Pope Callixtus III miraculously found its way to its rightful home. The mitre was found when the president of the Bank of Italy, Giuseppi Marzoli, opened a large safety deposit box to which the rent was long overdue. With a little investigation, several historians were able to identify the gold-trimmed, white cap as that which was believed to have been stolen back in 1456. Marzoli has donated the mitre to the Vatican Museum, where it will go on display on April 12th. Pope Pius XII is delighted to have the mitre again in the possession of the papacy. In a press conference after the generous donation from Marzoli, Pope Pius XII stated, 'The wandering artifact has-'"

"Finished it yet?" Pietro interrupted.

"I think I got the gist of it," I replied.

"I suppose you might conclude why we are here, in that case. As far as we know, it's a cold case, but some higher authorities want some answers on the behalf of the Vatican City, since such information likely would have been retained in Rome or the surrounding area." A waiter interrupted him, granting us our lattes at the expense of our thanks and a tip. Pietro continued, "Anyway, we're here at the cafe to meet some historians and explore some details."

"Ah. A little late, I presume?"

"As usual," he cracked. I rolled my eyes.

As we sat back sipping our steaming lattes, I listened in on a conversation behind my shoulder between an upper-class man and someone from out of town, as evidenced by his clothes â" yet, despite their dissimilarities, they appeared quite like brothers. The outsider seemed as if he was spooked.

"I heard a voice, man â" a voice!" he exclaimed.

"Okay â" calm down. Start from the beginning," the well-dressed man assured.

"I was going on a walk by myself, right? Near Lake Trasimena. There weren't nobody around. It was all fine until there were these loud noises. Sorta' like metal on metal, with all sorts of yelling. It was going on for a while, and eventually died down. I thought it was about over, then all the sudden, there was this booming voice, echoing through these groves. It musta' been as loud as thunder. What it said scared me so much I couldn't get it out of my mind â" 'Itali bellum non veni, sed auxilia contra Romanos Italicis.' Now what sense can you make of that?! I don't suppose you know Latin do ya'?" The better-dressed man shook his head. I took note of the phrase.

Soon after, the historians arrived. We went over some documentation, and an hour later, we retired to our various homes.


"Cinna: Oh Caesar â"

Caesar: Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus?

Decius: Great Caesar â"

Caesar: Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?"

I had returned to my small apartment to mull over the day's events. A murder â" an unsolved murder of a middle-aged man in a toga; a murder with no suspects; the sudden reappearance of an ancient Catholic relic; a Latin phrase being spoken by the unseen voice.

I felt these three unrelated events gyrate throughout my mind with the Shakespeare I was reading. I had picked up Julius Caesar. It somehow seemed appropriate as I skimmed along with my thoughts.

"Casca: Speak, hands, for me!

[Casca stabs Caesar in the neck. Caesar catches hold of his arm. He is then stabbed by several other Conspirators, and at last by Marcus Brutus.]

Caesar: Et tu, Brute? â" Then fall Caesar!"

I placed the volume back on the shelf and took up Virgil's Georgics.
"Germany heard the noise of battle sweep across the sky and, even without precedent, the Alps rocked with earthquakes. A voice boomed through the silent groves for all to hear. A deafening voice... Never fell more lightning from a cloudless sky; never was comet's alarming glare so often seen."

I returned that volume as well, rose, and crossed to my window overlooking the Roman Senate building.

Who could have said that epic Latin phrase? Who could have placed that mitre in the safety deposit box? Who would have murdered that man? Who was to blame? I don't know who others like Pietro suspect, but I blame all on the time machine.

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I like the short story, the twist was quite unexpected and merited a chuckle from myself. However, a few things stuck out to me:

In the first few paragraphs, the repetition of "the late Roman Senate" seems odd, and none the least because I'm confused about the purpose of "the late." If the Roman Senate is dead, or even late for an appointment, I think you could explain that more clearly. And if none of the above, you definitely need to clarify that.

A few word symbol translation funnys pop of in the middle of your story. I only point this out because it only happens in the middle of your story. I'm at a loss as to why it didn't happen uniformly throughout your piece.

Finally, the last paragraph is odd as well. I feel like you accidentally left out some sort of punctuation, because the first clause of the last sentence, "I don't know who others like Pietro suspect," which is a shame, because such a slight blurp in the flow just before the punch line really detracts from the overall quality of the ending.

But overall, its a great piece and a bemusing concept. You did a good job of combining Shakespeare with Italy with a 1950's detective mystery. Its almost like something out of Doctor Who, and I say that with the utmost praise.

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