Last night around 2 am I was awoken by two drunk men singing Backstreet Boys at the top of their lungs right outside of my window. Oh how I love you London.
Tomorrow is Guy Fawkes Night which is when people celebrate thus guy who tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament… well I mean, they celebrate his being captured. But mostly they get drunk and shoot fireworks. What a better way to celebrate than a costume party/ boat cruise thing around the Thames River? Here is a fun rhyme the people sing:
- Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
- The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
- I see no reason
- Why the Gunpowder Treason
- Should ever be forgot.
- Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t’was his intent
- To blow up the King and Parli’ment.
- Three-score barrels of powder below
- To prove old England’s overthrow;
- By God’s providence he was catch’d
- With a dark lantern and burning match.
- Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
- Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
A darn fine song rhyme thing that one. And a big thank you to Wikipedia. Now on to travel writing, because why pass down an opportunity to talk about Richard? Last Wednesday in class he introduced our next assignment, though he skipped some of the major details. He went around the room asking all of us if we had to write a short story about travel what would we write about? Well it suddenly was my turn and I said I would probably center my story around the fact that my family has moved a bunch of times in my childhood. Everyone else said things they and some were interesting (someone said time travel. How cool would that be?? Someone else mentioned their bipolar step mom…) some were expected (a somewhat interesting kid said his would be more sci-fi) and some were questionable (someone said relationships. How does that relate to traveling? I have no idea. Neither did she, as it turns out). So I’m excited about this project and ready to go when yesterday Richard hands out the “official guidelines.” First things, it has to be third person. I HATE writing short stories in the third person. Second, it had to be a framework story meaning we had to introduce the character telling the story in the beginning, instead of just jumping into the story itself. Lastly, he gave us three specific setting to chose from. And here they are:
1. A tale told in a cafe in Marseilles, France on 3 March 1815.
2. A tale told on a stagecoach leaving Washington D.C. on 15 April 1865.
3. A tale set in the Hacienda Motel in Los Angeles County, 11 December 1964.
Now here is why he chose those specific settings. 1- it was the day after Napoleon escaped or something from somewhere. I wasn’t really paying attention. 2- it was the day after the assassination of Abe Lincoln. 3- it was the day after Sam Cooke was shot. After he read the paper out loud he looked around the room and asked everyone what they were going to do. One by one he called on us and after about ten “I have no ideas” he said “Is every one okay with this then yea?” And of course no one answered him. Finally sci-fi guy spoke up and said “well this sort of throws out what I was planning on writing about.” One could sense the bitterness in his voice. To make a long story short, I have decided to go with option two, and completely throw out anything I had previously wanted to incorporate in my story. I am making the entire story fictional and I have a really good twist to add in. I was unable to fall asleep last night so I began working on it, and so far have 284 words of 3000+ which I am actually excited about. The story is kind of dark, but most a lot of the short stories I like generally are dark (Edgar Allan Poe anyone??). I just hate, hate, HAAAATE that it has to be third person. Why Richard, why??
And now I leave you with more limericks, composed in Shakespeare class (taught by the lovely Professor Buckingham).
1. Shakespeare you are one funny guy.
But this class is so long I might cry.
We’ve had a good run,
And now I am done.
If you don’t let me out I will die.
2. Oh Buckster you silly silly man.
I am your number one fan.
But if you don’t let me out,
I know I will pout.
And hit you on the head with a pan.