Displaced Fairy Tale: Duncerappel

Gurn Blanston and his wife Ethyl had long been trying for a child, but their attempts were to no avail. Ethyl had high hopes that God would soon grant the couple their only wish. The Blanstons had a beautiful little house in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Their beautiful little house had a beautiful little window with a nice view of their neighbor's beautiful little garden. But the garden had a huge wall surrounding it so no person could enter and steal the wonderful vegetables which grew there. Nobody dared enter the garden becuase it belonged to a paroled psychopath convicted on three accounts of murder conspiracy.

As time went on Ethyl began gazing out their window upon the neighbor's garden. Oh how she longed for a nice ripe tomato. The days passed and Ethyl began to grow weary and pale for the longing of a tomato had overtaken her. She said to her husband "If I dont' get one of those tomatoes soon I think I will most likely die." Her husband realized the necessity of the tomato and decided to act upon it.

So one darn night Gurn ascended the wall and fetched a tomato for his wife. She was overjoyed and made herself a nice juicy B.L.T. sandwich. She appeared to be much better, but the next day she realized her longing for a tomato had grown threefold. "Oh Gurn you must fetch me another tomato or I will surely die." said Ethyl. Gurn agreed and ascended the wall once more. He dropped to the ground on the other side and to his horror saw the psycho standing on his back porch.

"How dare you ascend my wall and trespass into MY garden! I shall have your head for this." The psycho screamed. Gurn explained his wife had an overwhelming longing for his tomatoes and if he did not fetch one for her she surely would have died. Some decency still dwelled in the heart of the psycho and agreed to let Gurn take the tomato. "You are permitted to take one tomato per day under one condition. I get to take your firstborn daughter. I will take good care of her, worry not." the murderer said slowly.

Gurn hesitantly agreed for he knew his wife would die if he did not. So the day came when the Blanstons gave birth to a lovely daughter which they named Duncerappel. To the horror of the Blanstons the psycho appeared and took their beautiful daughter away. Ethyl screamed at Gurn how he could let this happen. Typical thought Gurn. It's the womans fault and she fucking blames me.

When Duncerappel was twelve years old the psycho grew tired of her and placed her in a tall fire tower in the local forest. The tower had long been abandoned and the stairs to the top had caved in. The only way in was through a small window at the top. When Duncerappel needed food and such the psycho would come to the base of the tower and call "Duncerappel Duncerappel let down your long golden hair." She let down her long hair all the way to the base and the man would climb up and give her the food. One day the mayor's son was riding his dirtbike in the woods and witnessed this all happening. He thought Duncerappel was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Soon he began coming back to that spot every day, one day summoning the courage to talk to her. The boy walked to the base of the tower and called "Duncerappel Duncerappel let down your golden hair." Sure enough the twenty foot span of hair fell and he climbed to the top.

The boy's visits grew more frequent and the couple soon fell in love. They shared every day together and enjoyed each other more with each day. They soon decided to hold a special wedding ceremony for themselves. And Just like that the couple was married. The boy, who was now a man, began to devise a plan to get Duncerappel out of this awful tower and away from that horrible psycho of a man.

The man decided he waould take a rope to the tower and lower Duncerappel down. Little did he know the psycho had been spying on the couple and knew of their plan. The psycho exiled Duncerappel to Death Valley and waited in the tower for the man to come rescue Duncerappel. Soon enough he appeared at the base of the tower calling for Duncerappel to let down her golden hair. A weave of golden hair fell right beside him and he climbed to the top. As he climbed over the ledge he only had a split second to see it wasn't Duncerappel in the room as he was kicked back over the ledge. He fell all the way to the bottom and landed in a bush of thorns, blinding him.

For years the man wandered the forests calling in woe for his lost love and eating berries. he wandered for years until at last he came to Death Valley. He began to give up hope and layed down to die in the sun, when he heard a voice calling. He immediately recognized to voice as Duncerappel. She was overjoyed to find her husband, but was shocked to learn of his blindness. She wept for him and her tears fell upon his face and cured his blindness. They moved back to Los Angeles where he resumed his father's position as mayor. The couple lived happily ever after and I don't really know what the hell happened to the murderer.

Essay #2

The pieces of literature we have read are all different, yet all share striking similarities. The pieces exposed the familiar feeling of a need to explore the world, expand your experiences, and find your true inner self. I think this is a very powerful subject, and one that many people can easily relate to.

These selections also shed light on the significance which dreams have. Stevens' poem described, in my opinion, exactly what the title suggested. I believe the mountain referenced by the title was a place of sanctuary for Stevens. The mountain could be an actual mountain or a metaphor for a place of solid ground. A place where your feet could be planted on solid ground, yet you could let your mind take you wherever you wanted. Stevens' mountain is a place that everybody can relate to, but he discovered a substitute. I think poetry, or a certain poem in particular, served as an alternate sanctuary for Stevens. This doesn't go to say the mountain was eliminated as a personal refuge, but rather that there can be many "mountains" you can discover.

Stevens' notion of a mountain related to Chris McCandless' story in more than one way. This notion can relate directly because McCandless literally abandoned his typical city life for a trip into the wilderness, directly to "the mountain." Chris escaped to this place for the same reasons I believe Stevens did; to escape the reality the were both growing tired of. Although McCandless' story ended quite tragically, he reached his ultimate goal. He survived off the wild and discovered the true meaning of living. You aren't really living until you actually have to survive. Only then can you really appreciate life to the fullest. I think everybody really benefit from experiences like this, although, probably not in such a drastic manor as McCandless did.

Many people misinterpreted McCandless' journey as a desperate strive to be recognized. Many thought him ill-prepared and inexperienced, and none were too happy to hear of his death. I, on the other hand, think McCandless took his voyage into the wild to escape the antics of these people which Chris was exposed to every day. I can't blame him. As a matter of fact, I really admire his determination. Anybody can repeatedly say they're tired of their daily routines, but it really takes some drive and ambition to actually take a break from the tedious burden of contemporary life. Two-hundred years ago nobody would have thought twice about McCandless' journey.

An escape into the wild can prove to be a life changing experience for any person who cared to try. I think you can learn a lot about yourself when exposed to the elements and every dynamic of Earth and its environment. You learn to see the world as it naturally is. New shapes, scents, and feelings come to new light and for one moment you can stop and almost put your life and meaning into perspective. I think that is what the characters in these pieces were after. Furthermore, I don't think any person has any superior perspective which gives them the right to title these journeys as idiotic.

I appreciate the fact that Krakaeur and his comrades truly respected and valued McCandless' journey. I believe Stevens and McCandless would agree upon many things. I think it takes a person who has experienced life and sees it for what its worth to truly understand the perspective Stevens and McCandless viewed their lives from. Both men resorted to nature and the wilderness to provide the relief from life they were searching for, and I believe that is a great place to find it. It is a place where you can be alone, yet also be among thousands of other living things. The source of everything can be traced back to the origins of the wild. Humans have simply come to dwell amongst it. I think McCandless was just tracing himself back to the roots in hopes of discovering what his life truly meant. His death doesn't hinder the story in my opinion and I think he most likely found what he was looking for. I think McCandless died how he wanted to. Maybe when our bones are ground into the dirt of the Earth we will finally realize what he accomplished...

RECCOMENDED BOOK: On the Road

On the Road is a novel written by Beat generation icon Jack Kerouac about his strive to dismiss himself from the normality and conformity of the 1950's. The book tells the story of Kerouac's many transcontinental travels across the USA with the infamous Neal Cassady portrayed under the name of Dean Moriarty. The book starts with Kerouac hitchhiking from his mother's house in New Jersey to Denver to meet Cassady, then later to San Francisco. The book is filled with raving acaholism, parties, illicit drug use, and trips to Mill City, Colorado. Kerouac meets countless new people and associates with many of his friends throughout the book, but Cassady is his constant companion. I find it very amusing that he has no problem with dropping what he is doing and traveling all the way across the country. Cassady and Kerouac travel all over the USA on trips spanning several different years.

This book is an excellent insight into how Kerouac and Cassady beat the conformities of the 50's and created their own niche. I highly reccomend this book. A Classic!

RECCOMENDED BOOK: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

I just recently read One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, a novel by hippie counterculture icon Ken Kesey. This book is amazing and probably one of the best I have ever read. The story is about an Oregon mental hospital and the struggles and victories of its' patients. The book is narrated by Chief Bromden, a schizophrenic indian chief who fakes deaf and mute. I think Chief Bromden makes an excellent narrator because of his seemingly deaf/mute status he serves as an almost omniscient narrator because he is allowed in all areas. His days are all spent mopping and sweeping the whole ward, incuding cleaning the staff meetings. The Chief hears and observes all the interworkings of the entire ward from a seemingly harmless perspective.

The ward is divided into two groups; the Acutes, a group of younger patients that are considered "fixable" and the Chronics, a group of older "vegetables" that are usually beyond repair and mostly just take up space in the ward. The ward is organized by a strict regimented schedule which is enforced by the notorious "Big Nurse." The Big Nurse is a heartless woman who is feared and respected by all of the patients until a new patient is committed who turns the whole ward upside down.... I won't spoil anything else, but I would highly reccomend you read this book. Kesey did vast amounts of research on this subject and his writing style and VOICE are amazing.
For a whole year Kesey lived in a mental ward in Menlo Park, California near San Francisco. During this time Kesey lived with the patients, took all their medications, submitted to drug testing such as; Marijuana, LSD, cocaine, and a whole list of other drugs. Kesey even voluntarily submitted himself to the infamous electro shock therapy just to gain some insight into what it was like for the patients.

The Lovesong Of J. Alfred Prufrock

I'm not really a fan of poetry but I really enjoy this poem. This poem deals with a subject that will most likely plague us all in the future. It's somewhat hard to interpret but if you do it line for line it all makes sense.

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . 110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old … 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me. 125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

the toughest indian in the world

I actually really enjoyed this story until the homo-erotic portion. I think Alexie's writing style is very exciting. It's a stream of consciousness style of writing that parallel's with Hunter S. Thompson and Jack Kerouac. Alexie's voice really shines through in his writing, like he is writing journal entries. All of his feelings and emotions are wrapped in his words. I really enjoyed the story but am having some trouble interpreting the meaning of the tough indian. I am not sure if he really actually exists or if he is a spirit of some sort. I guess it could be interpreted a number of different ways.

HOME

My home is the city of Pocatello, tucked away in the southeast corner of Idaho. Interstate 15 runs through Pocatello, so it is a common stopping area for travelers. I’ve lived there my whole life and never really thought much of the place. Actually, as my high school years peeled away I grew to resent the place more and more. Thoughts of life outside Pocatello constantly fascinated me. Pocatello always seemed like a harness on my creativity and potential as a human being.
In the fall of ’06 I moved here to Bozeman, and it was like a culture shock. This place is nothing like Pocatello, and I loved it. The culture here is amazing. There is stuff to do, places to see, and the people are unlike any I’ve ever met. Not to mention the skiing is pretty amazing as well. I love the fact that the outdoors draw so many people to live here. There is a common, unspoken bond between everybody.
I guess I’m not being entirely fair to my hometown. As a matter of fact, after I lived here in Bozeman for a while, my visits home changed my perspective about Pocatello. The entire town looked different. A new magical element had been implemented. I felt like the new kid in town. Pocatello now looked like a place of wonder, where I could do anything I wanted.