This is an assignment I completed in my ninth or tenth year of school. My teacher told us to write our own Greek or Roman myths. I love anything to do with Italy (especially Venice) so this is what I wrote about. Enjoy.
Venice and the God of Wine
When earth was first formed and the land around Italy was first flourishing all the Gods were full of activity. Jupiter, the god of all gods, visited the land with his renewing rain and Pales watched over the pastures as they grew. Saturn directed the sowing, Pomon planted the fruit, Consus and Ops sustained the harvest and Flora the goddess of flowers planted her seeds. While all worked one did not and the gods and goddesses grew tired of his idleness. The gods gathered and told Jupiter their complaints against Bacchus, the god of wine. Jupiter departed from them to think and ponder on what should be done about Bacchus. Juno, the queen of all gods, counseled with him and soon it was decided what they should do.
Calling upon Bacchus, Jupiter asked him to remove his right boot. The god of wine removed it and Jupiter handed it to Mercury, his messenger god. To him he said to fly the boot high above the Tyrrhenian Sea and drop it. The boot landed in the water and on that spot an island rose out of the sea. It grew and grew with mountains dividing the west and east coast. Bacchus stared in surprise and as the island emerged he saw that its shape was that of a boot.
“What does this mean, my god?” Bacchus asked in wonder. Jupiter stared out at the island newly formed.
“You are to take care of this land and the people there. The island you see will be your duty and you will be responsible for their lives and fulfillment.” Jupiter declared; and so Italy was born from water and the hands of gods. Its hills were green and fertile and the sea was full of life. Bacchus did his part in the establishment of the land obeying the directions of Jupiter. He created people and sent them to live on the boot that was now land. They lived well because the land was rich and guarded by the gods. Unto them the gods gave only one demand: to not neglect the land which they had been given.
Many years past and the people of Italy watched their land diligently and raised crops from the earth watched over by the gods, but Bacchus wanted his people to feel the pleasure of the spoils he was accustomed to. He gave the people wine and gifts. They began to forget their own duties and were provoked to idleness and festivities. The land they dwelt in began to be disregarded and cities were built up for the people to gather in. They forgot what their gods had done for them and thought only of their own pleasure. Jupiter began to see the signs that the people who had been chosen to live in Italy were following the path which Bacchus had chosen.
The people of Italy had ignored his demand. They had neglected their inherited land and built cities to destroy the mountain and crops the gods had made prosperous for them. Jupiter saw that some had kept to the fields and he was glad, but those who had not he was very displeased with. He proclaimed that any who had not followed his counsel would be banished from the land he had created. He forced the people off the land and cast Bacchus out of the place of the gods. Bacchus became mortal and joined the people he had taught to be idle.
The people felt regret and remembered how much Italy had meant to their heritage and were unwilling to leave it. Bacchus lamented for having led his people in a way which had taught them to be disobedient. He suggested that a city be constructed on the coast of Italy out of the water and so it was done. The people stayed near the home they had neglected, and through this Venice was born. A city was built on stilts and water by the hands of those banished, and the mortal god Bacchus. The people built there city on water and because of their idleness they had no land to till or plow. Those who had listened stayed on land with their fields and flocks watched over by their gods and goddesses.
This is how Italy was first born and how Venice came to be on water; Jupiter watching over the land and Bacchus over the Ventitians. He found his rightful place among mortals and helped build up a city dedicated to festivities and the pleasures of the people inhabiting it.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Jungle in the Water
The stirring breeze dances lightly,
Winding through and through,
Climbing up and around my head,
Playing with my thin ribbons of hair.
The calming thrum of crickets rises on the lake,
The rippling surface hiding the creatures within.
My grandfather's fishing pole swings back and forth,
As I breathe out in little puffs of white.
"Quietly, Quietly", he whispers to me,
Silently, silently I follow his lead.
Gently he lifts me into the old red row boat.
I sit expectantly in my large yellow boots.
He pushes me out into the dark wet unknown,
But to him its a friend, familiar and understanding.
My little hands grip tightly the broad worn out oar,
And my grandpa whistles softly to the red rising sun.
Skimming the surface I lean over the side,
Below I picture a jungle submerged in the water,
With flowers and roots and leaves intertwining,
And lazy wide-eyed fish weaving in and out.
I know this because Grandpa tells me his secrets,
He tells me of the world where the fish like to live,
In the depths, in the cold, with bright scales and quick tails,
They flash like bright rainbows and forge slimy paths.
He gathers his gear and attaches a worm.
In my thoughts I see the fish circling beneath,
Licking their lips and preparing to eat,
As he tosses the bait into the dark smooth glass surface.
He lets me reel in the line and points out some ripples,
Telling me that that is where the fish dance together,
And the bubbles mean that their singing under the surface.
He winks at me wisely and I reel even faster.
Tug, tug goes the line and my hands grip even tighter,
I gasp as I picture the fish with the hook.
With the hard metal hook lodged deep in his throat,
And his fins beating wildly in his murky strange world.
He pulls and he pulls and he just wont give up,
But I'm determined to win against this small scaly trout,
So I reel and I reel, till I see his body fighting,
And with one giant pull he flies out of the water.
He drops at my feet and he dances for me,
Like his brothers and sisters alone in the water,
He flaps back and forth, waving his fins,
I smile at my grandfather as he watches me.
But my grandfather smiles and takes the fish in his hands.
He removes the dark hook and puts the fish in the water.
I gasp softly and stare at the disappearing fish,
As it vanishes suddenly in the fog of the morning.
He's special says my grandpa, placing a worm on his hook.
He's smaller says my grandpa, as he throws the line out,
One day when hes older than maybe we can catch him,
Or maybe he will learn from the scars that we gave him.
Winding through and through,
Climbing up and around my head,
Playing with my thin ribbons of hair.
The calming thrum of crickets rises on the lake,
The rippling surface hiding the creatures within.
My grandfather's fishing pole swings back and forth,
As I breathe out in little puffs of white.
"Quietly, Quietly", he whispers to me,
Silently, silently I follow his lead.
Gently he lifts me into the old red row boat.
I sit expectantly in my large yellow boots.
He pushes me out into the dark wet unknown,
But to him its a friend, familiar and understanding.
My little hands grip tightly the broad worn out oar,
And my grandpa whistles softly to the red rising sun.
Skimming the surface I lean over the side,
Below I picture a jungle submerged in the water,
With flowers and roots and leaves intertwining,
And lazy wide-eyed fish weaving in and out.
I know this because Grandpa tells me his secrets,
He tells me of the world where the fish like to live,
In the depths, in the cold, with bright scales and quick tails,
They flash like bright rainbows and forge slimy paths.
He gathers his gear and attaches a worm.
In my thoughts I see the fish circling beneath,
Licking their lips and preparing to eat,
As he tosses the bait into the dark smooth glass surface.
He lets me reel in the line and points out some ripples,
Telling me that that is where the fish dance together,
And the bubbles mean that their singing under the surface.
He winks at me wisely and I reel even faster.
Tug, tug goes the line and my hands grip even tighter,
I gasp as I picture the fish with the hook.
With the hard metal hook lodged deep in his throat,
And his fins beating wildly in his murky strange world.
He pulls and he pulls and he just wont give up,
But I'm determined to win against this small scaly trout,
So I reel and I reel, till I see his body fighting,
And with one giant pull he flies out of the water.
He drops at my feet and he dances for me,
Like his brothers and sisters alone in the water,
He flaps back and forth, waving his fins,
I smile at my grandfather as he watches me.
But my grandfather smiles and takes the fish in his hands.
He removes the dark hook and puts the fish in the water.
I gasp softly and stare at the disappearing fish,
As it vanishes suddenly in the fog of the morning.
He's special says my grandpa, placing a worm on his hook.
He's smaller says my grandpa, as he throws the line out,
One day when hes older than maybe we can catch him,
Or maybe he will learn from the scars that we gave him.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Red Apples
The brilliant red apple gleamed against the green of the soft, welcoming leaves. I smiled calmly and sighed, releasing the last of my worries and fears. The scent of the orchard spilled into my veins and cleared my head. The faint rustling of the leaves rose like the waves of the ocean within me. It felt almost tangible, like an object I could hold and shape to my desires. In front of me sat a young girl, basking in the sun below the tree. The long shining hair tied in ribbons below her ears bounced playfully in the wind. On her lap she held a perfect little pile of red delicious apples. She radiated triumph with a simple look of happiness on her face. I glanced upward knowing what I would see scaling the narrow and fragile branches of the apple tree. Like an agile monkey the little boy leapt from limb to limb, grabbing apple after apple and carefully lowering himself to drop them in the lap of the laughing children surrounding the tree. I could almost picture the tree stretching a branch or shifting its weight to guard the little boy from a dangerous jump or miscalculated step. The orchard knew us better than we knew ourselves. It was a part of each moment, each breath and each memory. The little girl with the ribbons knew this- just like I know this, and my days in the orchard have long come to an end.
A call came from the end of the orchard and the little girl sighed the sigh of a much older woman. As the sun began to bend the shadows of the twisted branches, the girl gathered her days catch in the little basket at the base of the tree. Many of the other children began to gather their baskets, too, but an air of reluctance tangled with the sweet smell of the orchard. I remembered this time for myself, remembering the feeling of loss that a few hours away from our haven would stir within us. For an outsider this might seem strange and irrational, our connection to the land and this place. But in my heart I could still conjure the very smells and the very sight of it because it had become part of me.
The call came again and the girl smoothed her hair, straightened her dress and grabbed her basket. The wise young children exchanged knowing looks as if to comfort each other as they stepped out of the orchard, rejoining their parents and leaving the world where time stands still. The parents are ordinary, pragmatic and simple. I wonder if they remember the things the orchard once stirred within them; if they could still hear the soothing whistle of the breeze weaving through the branches whispering secrets into our ears; if they could remember the delight of watching a bud slowly grow from a green pod to the brilliant, rounded apples waiting to be gathered. But I know they cannot. It happens to the best of us one day or another. We simply wake up to find a house busy with excitement and a day packed with priorities and tasks, and soon enough we forget to listen for that low hum of nature or to stop and admire the birds- till an apple becomes an apple and an orchard is nothing but an orchard. I know that, everybody knows that. And though we know this to be true somehow we still forget to listen for the hum.
The parents scold the little girl with the ribbons for being so long in the orchard. I follow mechanically but my thoughts are far from here. They float somewhere among the leaves and the fruit, climbing up and up with the little monkey boy, swinging here and jumping there. Drifting among my friends and their ancient and protective limbs, I feel myself being swiftly pulled away from this place that I long for. In the distance I begin to hear the sure whooshing sound of morning. It grows louder and louder as it nears and I grow desperate trying to escape it- but it is inescapable.
Suddenly I am awake in my bed. I take a moment to realize that the whooshing I dreamt of is the early morning traffic seeping through my window. I press my eyes together wishing that I could will myself back to sleep- back to the orchard and back to my world. My aching limbs remind me of things I would rather forget. I look over at the chair next to my hospital bed where my daughter has fallen asleep.
She no longer wears ribbons in her hair.
A call came from the end of the orchard and the little girl sighed the sigh of a much older woman. As the sun began to bend the shadows of the twisted branches, the girl gathered her days catch in the little basket at the base of the tree. Many of the other children began to gather their baskets, too, but an air of reluctance tangled with the sweet smell of the orchard. I remembered this time for myself, remembering the feeling of loss that a few hours away from our haven would stir within us. For an outsider this might seem strange and irrational, our connection to the land and this place. But in my heart I could still conjure the very smells and the very sight of it because it had become part of me.
The call came again and the girl smoothed her hair, straightened her dress and grabbed her basket. The wise young children exchanged knowing looks as if to comfort each other as they stepped out of the orchard, rejoining their parents and leaving the world where time stands still. The parents are ordinary, pragmatic and simple. I wonder if they remember the things the orchard once stirred within them; if they could still hear the soothing whistle of the breeze weaving through the branches whispering secrets into our ears; if they could remember the delight of watching a bud slowly grow from a green pod to the brilliant, rounded apples waiting to be gathered. But I know they cannot. It happens to the best of us one day or another. We simply wake up to find a house busy with excitement and a day packed with priorities and tasks, and soon enough we forget to listen for that low hum of nature or to stop and admire the birds- till an apple becomes an apple and an orchard is nothing but an orchard. I know that, everybody knows that. And though we know this to be true somehow we still forget to listen for the hum.
The parents scold the little girl with the ribbons for being so long in the orchard. I follow mechanically but my thoughts are far from here. They float somewhere among the leaves and the fruit, climbing up and up with the little monkey boy, swinging here and jumping there. Drifting among my friends and their ancient and protective limbs, I feel myself being swiftly pulled away from this place that I long for. In the distance I begin to hear the sure whooshing sound of morning. It grows louder and louder as it nears and I grow desperate trying to escape it- but it is inescapable.
Suddenly I am awake in my bed. I take a moment to realize that the whooshing I dreamt of is the early morning traffic seeping through my window. I press my eyes together wishing that I could will myself back to sleep- back to the orchard and back to my world. My aching limbs remind me of things I would rather forget. I look over at the chair next to my hospital bed where my daughter has fallen asleep.
She no longer wears ribbons in her hair.
Livy's Letter
The dark clouds on the distant horizon seemed strangely reflective in the unexpectedly cold wind. This unsettled summer day was dimmed by the cloud of my laboured thoughts. Above the sky showed no sign of future tumult- but many things in life can deceive us: childhood, hopes and dreams, traffic lights… moments that you think will last forever. My hand moved up my neck. I felt the scars that marked my once smooth face. I remembered the flash of blinding lights and the wail of a high speed, bullet-fast collision and the crushing feeling of darkness as it whispered its sweet lullaby over my misshaped body. Once I had hopes and a vision for my future. But these days all of those dreams felt like a burnt pile of ashes slowly being blown away by the wind. I had nothing to fill the few short hours I could spend sleeping and when I did dream I woke up drenched in sweat, covered head to toe in lingering terror. My subconscious would bring up a real of screeching tires, beeping hospital monitors, shouts and the desperate look on my pale, drawn face. Even after all I could do, I still couldn’t block out those flashbacks. They hurt me everyday.
I rolled my wheelchair slowly towards the bus stop- the one near the gymnastic complex and the small rundown coffee shop that I used to visited everyday. I averted my eyes from both of these places. The bus was just pulling up and I spun my wheels faster to make it there on time. I wished for the millionth time that day that there was another way to make this better. It made my heart ache to consider what awaited me where I was headed. But I hadn’t visited her in the last month since my recovery- if it could be called that. My upper body was functioning now, but people never really heal from these kinds of things. How can they?
Samuel Levitt, the bus driver’s elderly assistant, helped me unto the ramp and into the bus. He stooped down with a hand on the rail supporting his frail body, somehow maintaining his dignity. The irony of the moment struck me like a slap in the face: the old taking care of the young. I shut my eyelids tightly, ordering the building pressure behind my eyes to stop. But over and over all I could see was that look of burning pity on his wrinkled face. When I was younger and neither my father nor my mother could drive me anywhere on my days off of school, I used to sit there with Old Sam and talk while the bus drove down the streets of the city I loved so much. Now all I could see was the emptiness. Places I had once visited. People I didn’t know anymore. I saw her too- everywhere I went. I would turn the corner of a street and imagine that I caught a glimpse of some untamed curly hair bouncing under an Angels ball cap. When I went shopping I would picture buying things for her. Some ice-cream on a warm sunny days; a jumper for her ninth birthday- she had always loved the way they looked on other girls; a little puppy wagging its tail in a pet shop window.
I looked out at the city flashing past, praying for some little piece of comfort or peace or confidence to come to me at that moment. I would never need it more than at this time. The bus stopped, and though I hadn’t been here in months I remembered every detail of the house that stood across the street. And suddenly I was moving. At first I thought my prayer had been answered and I had been allowed some courage to face this moment. But it was just Sam pushing me towards the exit in his kind and helpful way. Inside, my head was screaming at me, begging me to turn back now. I knew I couldn’t do that- I owed her this much. I would do this for Liv- not for myself.
A few summers back my sister’s husband- before they divorced- had built a ramp up their steps when Livy made friends with a young neighbourhood boy who needed a wheelchair. I never thought I would ever need it. I rang the doorbell and waited, feeling my heart pound, as if it were trying to escape at any cost. I heard footsteps. I knew them well and just hearing the familiar sounds of my sister so near made my eyes sting. She hadn’t visited me. Jimmy had, but he’d said that she wasn’t ready to face all of it yet.
She opened the door and something in her eyes told me that she was being careful not to show her emotions. Even though we are four years apart, I know her like the back of my hand and I know what that look means. She bit her lip, she clasped her hands and she didn’t look at me. We had always trusted each other but now there was a wall between us. I wanted it torn down, and she wanted its protection from any more pain. When you’re you blame yourself for the accident that killed your sister’s youngest daughter there isn’t much you can say… So I didn’t say anything. Instead I reached to take something from the side pocket of my jacket.
I handed her the envelope- the one Liv had made me promise to keep safe till the perfect time. I now knew that there would never be another perfect moment in our lives without Livy around- and present was the only time I could count on. You never know how long you have with the people you love. I learned that the hard way.
“She made me promise not to give this to you till your birthday,” my voice cracked, “It’s a little late now... and I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. Each crystal drop left a streak of shame and guilt on my anguished face.
My sister looked at me once and I saw a tear of her own escape under her dark lashes. She took the envelope. It was a little crumpled, but when she opened it a little pink paper stuck out. She lifted it and began to read:
Dear Mama,
I love you. You are my best friend.
You make me happy and you always
protect me. Happy Birthday! I love you from here to
the moon and back. Forever and ever.
Livy
My sister’s sobs shook her shoulders and I wheeled myself forward to reach her. She fell on her knees and put her head in my lap, all her reserve falling apart. Each tear we cried together, missing the little girl that had blessed both our lives in so many ways. One thing was for sure though: she would never be completely gone. Livy lived on everywhere. She was in little things like her favourite flavour of ice-cream and in bouncing pigtails. But most importantly she lived on in the many ways that she had changed us for the better.
I rolled my wheelchair slowly towards the bus stop- the one near the gymnastic complex and the small rundown coffee shop that I used to visited everyday. I averted my eyes from both of these places. The bus was just pulling up and I spun my wheels faster to make it there on time. I wished for the millionth time that day that there was another way to make this better. It made my heart ache to consider what awaited me where I was headed. But I hadn’t visited her in the last month since my recovery- if it could be called that. My upper body was functioning now, but people never really heal from these kinds of things. How can they?
Samuel Levitt, the bus driver’s elderly assistant, helped me unto the ramp and into the bus. He stooped down with a hand on the rail supporting his frail body, somehow maintaining his dignity. The irony of the moment struck me like a slap in the face: the old taking care of the young. I shut my eyelids tightly, ordering the building pressure behind my eyes to stop. But over and over all I could see was that look of burning pity on his wrinkled face. When I was younger and neither my father nor my mother could drive me anywhere on my days off of school, I used to sit there with Old Sam and talk while the bus drove down the streets of the city I loved so much. Now all I could see was the emptiness. Places I had once visited. People I didn’t know anymore. I saw her too- everywhere I went. I would turn the corner of a street and imagine that I caught a glimpse of some untamed curly hair bouncing under an Angels ball cap. When I went shopping I would picture buying things for her. Some ice-cream on a warm sunny days; a jumper for her ninth birthday- she had always loved the way they looked on other girls; a little puppy wagging its tail in a pet shop window.
I looked out at the city flashing past, praying for some little piece of comfort or peace or confidence to come to me at that moment. I would never need it more than at this time. The bus stopped, and though I hadn’t been here in months I remembered every detail of the house that stood across the street. And suddenly I was moving. At first I thought my prayer had been answered and I had been allowed some courage to face this moment. But it was just Sam pushing me towards the exit in his kind and helpful way. Inside, my head was screaming at me, begging me to turn back now. I knew I couldn’t do that- I owed her this much. I would do this for Liv- not for myself.
A few summers back my sister’s husband- before they divorced- had built a ramp up their steps when Livy made friends with a young neighbourhood boy who needed a wheelchair. I never thought I would ever need it. I rang the doorbell and waited, feeling my heart pound, as if it were trying to escape at any cost. I heard footsteps. I knew them well and just hearing the familiar sounds of my sister so near made my eyes sting. She hadn’t visited me. Jimmy had, but he’d said that she wasn’t ready to face all of it yet.
She opened the door and something in her eyes told me that she was being careful not to show her emotions. Even though we are four years apart, I know her like the back of my hand and I know what that look means. She bit her lip, she clasped her hands and she didn’t look at me. We had always trusted each other but now there was a wall between us. I wanted it torn down, and she wanted its protection from any more pain. When you’re you blame yourself for the accident that killed your sister’s youngest daughter there isn’t much you can say… So I didn’t say anything. Instead I reached to take something from the side pocket of my jacket.
I handed her the envelope- the one Liv had made me promise to keep safe till the perfect time. I now knew that there would never be another perfect moment in our lives without Livy around- and present was the only time I could count on. You never know how long you have with the people you love. I learned that the hard way.
“She made me promise not to give this to you till your birthday,” my voice cracked, “It’s a little late now... and I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. Each crystal drop left a streak of shame and guilt on my anguished face.
My sister looked at me once and I saw a tear of her own escape under her dark lashes. She took the envelope. It was a little crumpled, but when she opened it a little pink paper stuck out. She lifted it and began to read:
Dear Mama,
I love you. You are my best friend.
You make me happy and you always
protect me. Happy Birthday! I love you from here to
the moon and back. Forever and ever.
Livy
My sister’s sobs shook her shoulders and I wheeled myself forward to reach her. She fell on her knees and put her head in my lap, all her reserve falling apart. Each tear we cried together, missing the little girl that had blessed both our lives in so many ways. One thing was for sure though: she would never be completely gone. Livy lived on everywhere. She was in little things like her favourite flavour of ice-cream and in bouncing pigtails. But most importantly she lived on in the many ways that she had changed us for the better.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
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