Never Let me go and the children

A few questions to look at , Is it ethical to create and raise children to donate their organs?

Why don't the students question what's going on rather than accepting it?

In the way of ethics, well it's a difficult thing. I just finished The Island and the same question was asked. Now the people in the move are clones who are raised to have their organs harvested. They live simple lives with no knowledge of the outside world; all they want to do is work hard and escape to the island. Now what about the children in the book, they have lives sort of. They learn, have relationships, and grow old. They know they are donors.

So is this right or wrong? Is someone playing god here? Technically yes and no, I’m under the impression that lives down the road are going to be saved and no one is complaining. But in the case of myself I don’t really care. Since the children are clones, then I think it’s ethical. It’s sort of like stem cell research, the stem cells are not really living people, they aren’t full grown. If it’s going to better the world somehow, just do it. And for this discussion, I’m not involving GOD or religion because that is a one sided battle that’s just going to piss me off and make me want to drink some beer.

Why don't the students question what's going on rather than accepting it?

Well they have been created for this. This is the only place they know, the only idea they know, and they are kept in isolation. Exposure to the outside world is limited. Young kids are impressionable, so from the very beginning they are brainwashed. They don’t know anything else. I’m sure if one of them gets curios they are shipped out to a new facility or they are killed, maybe eaten.

Why is there so much emphasis on sex?

I don’t know cause the author is a pervert. Maybe sex has to do with free-will and expression. Maybe it can show everyone the clones are people.

Something I'm not proud of....

I sit here, locked away in my study. I refuse to go out, tale any calls. My servant brings my tray of food twice a day and leaves it outside my door. For months no one has known I’ve been here, hiding, tucked away, waiting for my day again. I have done some terrible, so terrible I cannot even bear to mention it.

Angry mobs gathered outside my place of work and at my home. I was called a “Monster.” “A Demon-spawned soul sucker.” Instead of fixing the world, I was only dooming the world as a whole.

What have I brought upon this world? I have brought ruin and destruction to all. Societies will crumble, life, as we know it will case to exist. Families will be divided; turn asunder, never to be the same again. Brothers will be pitted against each other.

And they said the “Great War” was the war to end all wars. They said that was a horror stricken tragedy that the world must never go through again. And here we sit on the brink of another life changing, world transforming even, one that will fill the skies with darkness.

I, Philo Farnsworth have done the worse thing a man could do. I have invented the television, a talking, squawking black box that has replaced the TV. Families no longer eat together. Brothers and Sisters fight over who gets to watch what. Our children are taking things from television that is making them morally corrupt. They are failing at their schoolwork

The world is coming to end, no longer will people of earth have the social skills to meet and greet one another. Our only forms of communication will flow out something with vacuum tubes. Could this get any worse? I peer out of my house looking down into the streets, and wonder what have I done. Oh yes, this did get worse, as soon as Cable TV became readily available for the masses. And the Internet, don’t get me started on that. …

A poem....

Alright I saw a few poems posted so here's mine from a class last semester. And yes its free verse

Heading back

Long winding roads break and weave,

thoughts of what this school year will bring.

Sunny summer days have fallen to autumn nights.

My trunk bulges with gear, clothes and books.

Everything is packed.

My tattered “Wolf pack” sweatshirt dangles

from an over stuffed crate.

Faded signs flash by on the road

“Welcome to NMU, home of the Wolf pack.”

I look out as the pavement zips by.

Wolves have run through

splattering the pavement with painted paws.

The colored paws beckon and point me home.

It’s not far.

College-bound cars rush by, competing for lanes.

Our pack stays steady, weaving in and out.

Scenery evolves, desert hills transform as

tall trees crest the horizon.

The smell of green pines penetrates the nostrils.

The road winds, hills heave up and down.

Anticipation to go home,

like a wolf stalking its prey.

The radio plays a welcomed distraction from the tiring drive.

Suddenly I see the car in front hit the brakes.

They slide left and jerk right.

With a loud bang I slam into their bumper and swerve off and down the incline,

flipping and rolling, splitting bushes.

Crumpled rock meets crumpled metal, bouncing and spinning.

The world heaves,

textbooks fly out of the shattered windows,

My forehead cracks against the steering wheel.

Blood obscures my vision as night comes early.

Like a wolf pack nearing the kill, college bound cars circle their wounded prey.

Waiting.

Poetry...best read drunk or not at all

Since I am a creative writing major someone decided along the way that all creative writing majors should have to take at least one poetry class, which includes reading and writing it. That's a terrible idea, 98.2% of the creative writing majors here are prose, meaning fiction and non-fiction writers. Poetry makes us run in terrot. I mean there are a few poets that I like, Lord Alfred Tennyson and Edgar Allan Poe make my list of decent poets, William Blake's poems may be tough to stomach and understand but the dark over tones make it an interesting read even if I have no idea what's going on. But most of the modern stuff we are forced to read made me want to drown myself in a sea of ice beer, and not good ice beer either, at the time I was drinking Mickey's Ice which tastes like the end of a sewage drain.

Poetry is tough thing to swallow. Sometimes you can never understand what the author wants you to interpret from their writing. Sometimes it's amazing and other times its a jumble of words that makes no sense. Sometimes poetry can amaze you and make you go wow! Other times it will make you want to put a gun to your head in frustration. Been there many times, take that Coleridge and Frost! Just kidding... Poetry can mean whatever you want it to mean whether the author likes it or not. My preference if you are going to make us take poetry classes, make it simple and encourage free verse. Rhyme and Rhythm only bring frustration to the masses.

As for Chapbooks (I had to go look that word up thank you very much), a pocket sized book or a Hallmark card? Well the cards are cheesy, and cranked out by a bunch of Monkeys in an underground cave, then I'll have to take the pocket sized book of poetry known as a chapbook. Also I tend to stay away from the sappy, love sick poems. Ick.

Well its Thursday and I'm off to have a few beers somewhere.

Drunkey-the drunk ass

Drunkey, was an ass like no other. He could out drink anyone. In fact he was Animal U’s champion beer pong, boat races, and flip cup player. Yet to all who knew him he was a total ass. When little old ladies needed help opening the door or walking down icy stairs, Drunkey would slam the door in their faces or purposely push them down the stairs. At football games when parents brought their kids, Drunkey would purposely drink Tequila until he was near black out level, sit behind the kids and he would braw and heckle the refs. He would swear enough to make a sailor blush.

When he went to class he would sleep in the front row, talk loudly on his cell phone, or yell and laugh at everything the professor would say. At the bars he would push through the lines threatening to fight anyone including the bouncer who stood in his way. And at 6’ 5” at 320 pounds of muscle no one even whimpered. He treated women like they were objects, cheating on his many girlfriends just because he could.

He refused to work, only using his student loans for beer money. He’d spent the last 6 ½ years in college, failing out twice, and he still had three semesters worth of school to finish before he graduated. He was avoiding the real world like a bad bag of oats.

The truth was he was a sad donkey on the inside. He felt that he had failed at life and would never be accepted by anyone. So to mask his feelings of remorse he took drinking to a whole other level. Whether it was Monday or Sunday, 9am or 10 pm, Drunky found someone to share his love and pain with. It could be a bottle of Jack or a 30 pack of Busch Light, whatever made him happy.

The ideal reading expirence or as some like to call it, what makes reading good...

So the ideal reading experience is what? Or maybe it should be a who or a how?
Many people feel they have to read something because they are told too or because they are forced to. That's not how one should read. The ideal reading experience takes place somewhere where you can be alone with your thoughts, somewhere you can sink into the pages like a feathered bed.

Whether its on the subway heading home after work sharing a few moments with the friend that doesn't judge, the classical novel, or curled up in the corner of the library, hidden in the stacks free from your own distractions. Others find the ideal reading experience to be in other venues such as coffee shops or bookstores. I prefer to read at home either on a couch or in my computer chair. Background noise is fine since I'm usually concentrating on the task at hand.

So you’ve found your quiet niche. What about the book itself? If it’s a textbook for class I run the risk of getting bored and trying to distract myself from reading it. The ideal book should be something you like, something that holds your interest, and when 3 hours pass you should struggle to put it down.

I prefer a good book that plunges straight into something. In other words a book, which doesn’t take forever describing the setting, but lets the readers get into the characters heads and relate to them. An ideal book keeps you running pages, even after your parents have sent you to bed, hence the reading under the covers, waiting and listening for them to come down the hall so you can attempt to fake snore as if asleep. The book doesn’t let you put it down. You find yourself reading it during your lunch breaks and on the train ride home. After you are finished with it, a few weeks later you read it again. Therefore the ideal reading experience is based on not only where you read the book but what’s in the book as well.

Time for another cold one...

6 word bio

Well this was a long and painful process to come up with something original and witty. Well here it goes.

A rambling path backtracking to nothing.

Maybe I've just been in school too long.

Reading, drinking, and such

So I'll have to admit it seems society has turned us into a army of mindless zombies bent on the tv and the internet. I used to read a lot, especially when I was younger, it was enjoyable and I could read what I wanted.

As I started college I had to read textbooks. And as most college students can agree, textbooks are nothing more then an intricate form of torture designed to further make us dislike certain classes. Not so much in the English department, most of the books I've read are enjoyable, the kind of book one can sit down and finish whereas the other kind of books are met with distaste and distraction. I could read this terrible 300 page book for English or I could drink a beer. One beer turns into several and the book is forgotten. Later on I realize I have a paper concerning the book due tomorrow at 9 am. Drunk reading and writing is not recommended.