At this moment in time, I know very little about Rastafarian and nothing I can consistantly verify. I've heard that Rastifarian comes out of Africa and that they don't believe in heaven or hell, but rather that Ethiopia is heaven-on-earth. I've also heard that the person it was named after (originally Ras Tafarian) wanted nothing to do with the religion itself. The Rastafarians may or may not have believed him to be a god on earth.
I want to know where this religion came from - not just its geographic location but its idealistic one as well. I want to know about their beliefs and their views on subjects. I want to know just what it means to believe in this faith and how you become Rastafarian.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
I chose Remus Lupin because of all the characters in the books, he has perhaps the heaviest load to bear and he does it with the greatest finesse. Because he is a werewolf and destined to live a life of pain and suffering, his entire month is horrible. He can't get a job because the ministry has classified him as a dangerous beast. He can't take proper care of himself because he can't get a job. He has very little material posessions because what money he does make goes into taking care of himself. On top of all that, he has lost the only people who did not care that he was a 'dangerous beast' and remained his friends through the years - one died, one was imprisioned under false accusations, and one switched sides. And when he gets anywhere at all, he is thrown back several steps. I think our unsung hero deserves a little credit.
More about Remus Lupin and more about werewolves in general, I want to learn where they came from. I want to know what exactly their myths are and where those got started. I want to know why werewolves are generally seen as evil creatures working for the devil - where did that start.
I think America is facinated with werewolves simply because the entire concept is interesting. A man during the day, a wolf at full moon's light. I also think that Americans are facinated with the unknown - it's only human curiosity.
More about Remus Lupin and more about werewolves in general, I want to learn where they came from. I want to know what exactly their myths are and where those got started. I want to know why werewolves are generally seen as evil creatures working for the devil - where did that start.
I think America is facinated with werewolves simply because the entire concept is interesting. A man during the day, a wolf at full moon's light. I also think that Americans are facinated with the unknown - it's only human curiosity.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
March 11, 1919
Dear Journal,
The sun looks so peaceful as it sets over the sea, painting the sky in rich reds, eye-catching oranges, and passionate purples, as it shades the sky forever. I have seen eleven similar sunsets in eleven similar nights all abord this ship with its moans and groans that taunt me, testing the strength of my will.
The sunset always clears my clouded head as I sit down against the cool metal railing, resting my forhead against its surface. At night, when it's cool, my head feels better and my stomach rests in its movement for a time even if my body cannot. I have not seen my bed in nights, too afraid the horrible jarring motion of the ship will cause my sickness again and I will be unable to make it to any side of the large ship. Most nights I would have been right.
I almost wish we were already in Boston because of it, but then my fears overtake me.
A part of me cannot help wondering if this ship, and the constant sickness it brings, is some kind of ill-fated omen, fortelling of times of great turmoil should we only listen. It almost brings me to tears when I think about it too long, so I try not to think too hard. It is surprisingly difficult.
As the sun sets behind the water, I am reminded of the sunset from my bedroom window back home. The Sicilian sky, I believe, will always be home to me. I can still hear the sound of birds crying their goodnights as my rambunctious little brother, unwilling to sleep, runs away from my mother. He tests her patience and her speed and loses every time.
Katarina del Ricci
Dear Journal,
The sun looks so peaceful as it sets over the sea, painting the sky in rich reds, eye-catching oranges, and passionate purples, as it shades the sky forever. I have seen eleven similar sunsets in eleven similar nights all abord this ship with its moans and groans that taunt me, testing the strength of my will.
The sunset always clears my clouded head as I sit down against the cool metal railing, resting my forhead against its surface. At night, when it's cool, my head feels better and my stomach rests in its movement for a time even if my body cannot. I have not seen my bed in nights, too afraid the horrible jarring motion of the ship will cause my sickness again and I will be unable to make it to any side of the large ship. Most nights I would have been right.
I almost wish we were already in Boston because of it, but then my fears overtake me.
A part of me cannot help wondering if this ship, and the constant sickness it brings, is some kind of ill-fated omen, fortelling of times of great turmoil should we only listen. It almost brings me to tears when I think about it too long, so I try not to think too hard. It is surprisingly difficult.
As the sun sets behind the water, I am reminded of the sunset from my bedroom window back home. The Sicilian sky, I believe, will always be home to me. I can still hear the sound of birds crying their goodnights as my rambunctious little brother, unwilling to sleep, runs away from my mother. He tests her patience and her speed and loses every time.
Tears always spring to my eyes unbidden at the thought of them. My family, I miss them. I miss my mother's cooking, I miss my father's hugs. I miss the smell of fresh bread in the morning, after I have slaved over it at the bakery. I miss the feeling of safety, of home. Now my home is uncertain, my position in live vague. My safety has been taken from me and all I have left of it is my memories.
The war tore us apart. Such a vile, awful thing. Wars. They are designed to be destructive, they are designed to kill, they are designed to be the games of grown men who care not for those they hurt. But, from destriction, hope is bread. Hope for life in death, hope for joy in sorrow, hope for peace in war.
My mother told me that and now I must tell myself. As the moon rises, its face smiling down at the calm sea, hope lives and breathes deeply.
Katarina del Ricci
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