English 4H F: October 2015

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Woodstock (Psychedelic Fiction)

This song reminded me a lot of Ken Kesey and his life with the Merry Pranksters. Also just a pretty good song.

Chief Piece- Mackenzie Goldschlager

They’re all around me. I entered the room silently a few moments earlier, so that no one would stare. A tall, over 6 feet, Indian would be sure to draw attention. They are high school students, after all. Expecting at least one glance, I lower myself into a chair closest to the door. Now, as I sit at the back of the room, I am able to see the entirety of Tomasso hall. The rows, all lowering down into a central podium, seem to descend infinitely. Scattered amongst the never ending steps are children--I’m guessing early teens. They sit, backs hunched over their work. Their eyes are glued to papers and books like mosquitos to a lamp and their postures are unwavering. (4a) Some are staring straight ahead in thought, while others are tirelessly scribbling meaningless words onto a page. I see a student to my far left open a bottle of hand sanitizer. Quickly, a sweet, yet chemical, scent makes its way to my nose. I am suddenly aware of the variety of noises emanating from the room. The sound of pencils writing, chairs squeaking pens clicking, fingers typing invade my ears, but for only a moment. (4) Suddenly, the noises don’t seem as intrusive. The noises had faded to a dull ringing in my ears, almost unnoticeable. The only way to describe my surroundings would be as a silent cacophony. The distractions are there but they all blend together to create a singular constant noise. I reach down and feel the seat I am on. The cushion is soft and covered in a rough canvas material. It reminds me of the blankets in the ward, the kind that seem like they should be for decoration and not actual use. I remain here for an hour, staring into the quiet chaos until the bell rings and signals my departure.

Chief Piece-Surya

I have no idea what I am doing here. They just dropped me off here (as part of the routine set by the Combine). I don’t understand though, why here? Why Kingswood Oxford School. When the bus dropped me off, I was immediately welcomed by a group of construction workers who were (attempting) to work on a building apparently named Roberts. The workers were sweaty like they had just stepped out of a sauna. They gave me a smile that was the most obscure thing you ever saw and It made me feel paranoid almost and nowadays the workers are a lot less friendly, not that they have a reason to be friendly to others because they work with as much pay as my dead grandmother gets payed. As I walk past them I look at their face with disgust and empathy as they too, are part of The Combine.

I was ushered by many of the passing students and busy teachers and focused business people trying to find the principal. The chaos was too much for me to handle. It’s like I am in the middle of a school full of fish and I am the lone guppy trying to seem like I belong. I see their faces with malice and it scares me. I feel shockwaves in the back of my neck and it quite stings every second. I booked it for the nearest class I could find, to deviate myself from all the chaos. I step into the classroom and an immediate gave from all the students hit me like a slap in the face. The teacher shakes my hand and tells me to sit down. I sit down and the kid next to me is wearing a polo and shorts. I looked down at his left ankle and it was very different. It was dry first of all. You could tell that he needed a lot of lotion to cover it up, scratch marks all over it, a little blood. It was kind of red as though he had to just recover from a rash. It was different. Every 5 seconds he would try to itch it. He seemed very uneasy, antsy, twitchy. As I gazed away, everyone jolted up from their seats. It was time to move to the next class. As I got up from my seat and left the class, everyone was walking around. It felt like I was shoved into a box. I couldn’t handle the amount of movement and regularity these kids were following. They all were slaves to the Combine. I couldn’t take it anymore. I immediately sprinted out to the football field and as fast as I could out somewhere. I heard noises and people coming to chase after me, to bring me back. The escape was worth the try.

Chief Piece-Phoebe

People like telling me the Combine isn’t real. Tell me I’m stupid. Deaf and dumb, deaf and dumb. But that’s just a disguise, isn’t it? I know it is, McMurphy seems to know it is, so it must be. I say it’s the truth, and like I said, it’s true even if it didn’t happen. This place is proof, though. Kids got their head down bent towards their computers, typing away with their fingers frantic insects. Click, click, click. (Sounds just like the crickets Papa and I used to listen to when we went on overnight duck-hunting trips deep in the woods.) Teacher sitting at the back of the class like a hawk, perched like a bird of prey, waiting for a mouse to step out of line to have an excuse to swoop down and snatch them for lunch, smack her lips like she just got a real treat. Teacher’s just Big Nurse with makeup and a dress. Combine’s training all these kids to be identical, got all of them too tired to think for themselves, eyes drooping like they haven’t got sleep in weeks, shoulders slumped at the same angle into themselves, breaths coming out all the same, collecting in the air around them, raining tired down, putting them to sleep, get them yelled at by the vulture, jerked back awake only to wilt again. Big and deaf and dumb Indian like me is still invisible, just like in the asylum (just got out a few months ago); I look a little around at the faces, looking for one that decides to turn its own light on instead of reflect everyone else’s. One does. She doesn’t have a laptop out; a pencil is sprinting across the page of a composition notebook instead. It looks too free to be assigned. I watch her for a while, waiting for her to look up and hoping she won’t. Then she does and she looks right at me and I swear she sees me and I realize I didn’t know it was possible for someone to see me anymore and she throws a little smile my way and then looks back at her paper and I watch her smile run through the air and crash against my forehead and then I take it in my hand and put it onto my paper and trace its edges and it’s beautiful. I look back up at her; she doesn’t look up again. As I watch, I see the Combine losing its hold on her. She shrugs it off, a jacket she doesn’t need anymore. I envy her. Then I remember. She’s like me before I went off to the asylum. She didn’t need the bad neighborhood to turn her into the Combine’s nightmare; she was just born that way. I guess I’ll see her in the ward someday. Then again, they generally separate the girl and the boys, so I suppose I won’t. I look down that the smile I trapped on my paper. “I’ll keep you safe,” I whisper.

Then the siren sounds, and the world waves goodbye.

Chief Piece - Lily Hammer

Chief Piece

Everyone is bustling around. The windows let in so much light; every part of me is exposed. There aren’t any shadows here for me to seek out and find cover in, to conceal and protect me from everyone’s prying eyes (4a). My best shot is to try to blend in. They’re all so young with so much energy, so much hope, so much drive (4). They’re very different from the patients back in the mental hospital. I can almost smell the difference. I don’t just mean the food smells, no. I mean the energy. Something about this place smells real light, carefree almost, like even if you mess up today you’ll always have tomorrow to fix it. Nothing is permanent. I think we lost that smell at the mental hospital. There it only smells like cold gray metal and the type of darkness you can’t escape with just the flick of a light switch.

There’s a line formed of people waiting for food. It’s like they have an unspoken agreement to keep everything in order, like a part of the Combine. If I go in line I’ll be too exposed. The sandwich bar in the far corner seems like a safer choice. Safe. As if I’ll ever truly feel that. I weave through the youthful faces, avoiding their bright eyes. If I’m not careful, their light will display everything within me. I can’t let them find my secrets.

The sandwich bar is cold and metallic; it reminds me of home. There are less people here, thankfully. I make my sandwich, but two girls urgently talking nearby distract me. They’re so absorbed in their gossip that they don’t even notice me. That’s how I like it. There’s a lot of people like that here. Engrossed in their own conversations, unaware of their surroundings. They should be more careful about their oblivion; I know people who take advantage of that. In a world like this, you have to be cautious. You have to put up walls. You have to resist the Combine.

I’ve finally made my sandwich; it’s time to find a seat. Some tables look welcoming, with students sitting openly. Some are more closed off, exclusive. I’d rather sit alone. I find a spot at the counter, and eat amongst the voices around me. The voices get into my ears, but I disregard most of what they’re saying. The conversations are superficial, all part of the Combine.

After I’m done, I clear my plate. There’s another line, more order. More of the Combine. It’s so obvious here. But I have to go along with it. If you’re anything like me, you learn to understand but not accept the Combine.

Chief piece - Goddard

As someone who is currently suffering from Schizophrenia, I’ve been invited by a school named Kingswood Oxford to deliver a speech regarding my experiences with electric shock therapy.

Upon my arrival, I’m already overwhelmed by the frenzy of students and teachers who begin to approach in order to welcome me to the school. However, their ceaseless appreciation only precipitates the turmoil of thoughts coursing through my head; look at those penetrating eyes, piercing right through that petty mask of yours. They know you’re paranoid, they only invited you so they could expose you for who you really are, a paranoid, psychotic, liar . . . You know it’s the truth.

In response to the sudden silence that befell those accompanying me, a teacher opted to guide me over to a building they referred to as a cafeteria. Ensuing my entrance into the cafeteria, I immediately encountered a flurry of students, anxiously bustling around like well oiled machines, exhaust excreting from their internal motors. In the distance, I glimpsed a long line stretching seamlessly over the newly waxed floor, swaying back and forth like the slithering of a snake. Cautious not to disrupt such a beauty of it all, I carefully infiltrated the body of the snake. Following entering into the snake, I eventually reached the a fork in the road, in which the snake diverged into two separate beings. Not knowing which line to follow, and too afraid to ask, I silently shadowed the person in front of me, mirroring his every move. When it came time to select my meal, I felt as if the eyes of the lunch lady was beating down in my soul, her nose discerning my utter confusion. In a state of panic, I quickly extended my finger and pointed to the nearest food in front of me, a Philly cheese steak. Satisfied with my impulsive choice, I continued to follow the boy out of the underpass, and back into the main cafeteria.

Next challenge, finding a place to sit.

Chief Piece
Jake Kulak
English 4 Honors

They’re all over the place, hundreds of these little ants marching around with their food held out in front of them like trophies. Constantly changing expressions that seem to slide off the faces they belong to and drift up, dancing and weaving through the infinite fractalized universe that is the ceiling. The faces weave through the void and create a malicious grin staring down at me. The face doesn’t speak but I know what it is saying. I know what they are all saying. Every single thing in this room. They all know me and they are all banded together, sneering. I realize now it’s their eyes, that’s how they do it. They see my fear, my insecurities, my weaknesses. All I can do now is wait and stare at the cold, shiny and smooth ceramic plate staring back up at me. The clanking of their plates is like a dissonant orchestra bouncing around inside my skull. It’s no use trying to fit in among these evil, corrupted, mischievous people and all I can do is stay quiet and hope I go unnoticed even though I am clearly not. I get up and walk silently across the menacing room over to the beverages counter, just hoping to get myself some water, although even that is risky. Who knows what they may have put into it. Every step I take is strained and I feel as if the floor will open up and devour me. The ants are swarming me. It’s almost as if they purposely don’t come after me yet, just so they can squeeze every drop of misery out of me. It’s what they feed on. The real meal today isn’t the food on their tray, it’s me and my terror. So I wait, and I’m determined to face whatever comes without fear. I won’t let them have that pleasure.

Chief Piece - Amiya

Since two o’clock, I have been sitting in the RTS (Real Time Strategy) room by myself. I keep myself occupied during my hour of free time by picking up people’s materials left behind from earlier that day. For the hundredth time this period, I look at my watch waiting for the big and to hit the two and the little hand to land on the nine. As it is two-forty-four right now, I stare at the door waiting for them to enter. Almost forgetting where I am situated, I immediately remove myself from the computer chair, and sit down on the couch chair nearest the back wall and farthest from the televisions and computers. A minute later, at two-forty-five, students begin filing into the empty room. One by one they all trail in looking optimistic and relieved and tired (4a). Almost like an instinct, several students took over the frail looking couch and turned on the video games with excitement. I sit quietly watching people amuse themselves with the school’s games and listening in the conversation between each group of people. About three o'clock, a girl waltzed in the room carrying cups of purple, blue, yellow paint colors in her arms (4). I watch her while she takes her time trying to find the perfect spot to start her work. Over and over again I hear the same intense screams of the students competing for first place against each other in the video games. The group of people situated on the unattractive couch burst into laughter, not even trying to stifle the laugh with their fists; that’s one thing different about the RTS room than at the ward, everyone wanted to be loud in their laughter and personal enjoyment. I just hope none of them are laughing at me and my act that I put on. It is now that I notice those people were not paying me any mind at all, they were all interested with something said by the guy in the middle of the couch. I focused my attention back to the girl painting and attempted to decipher what she could be drawing. For the first time since the school year began two weeks ago, it has occurred to me that this special room and the different people in it are unlike any Combine I have experienced before. The students here show no sign of similarities to each other, and have opportunities to explore their different interests, like deciding to complete assignments or playing games or even creating artwork for everyone to see. At the ward, all of the patients including myself preferred not to embrace ourselves mostly due to the fear of consequences handled by the controlling nurse, Miss Ratched. I view this organization of students as all different kinds of machines that benefit the society, whereas the patients back in the ward are supposedly machines needing fixing to contribute to society. As I got lost in my thoughts, one of the guys playing the game turned towards me and asked if I had wanted an opportunity in the pleasurable competition. I declined his offer since I seemed to be well fascinated with the girl painting her design on the white wall. Usually no one ever bothered turning their attention to me. I am so used to watching other people, not the other way around, and I did not plan to change that any time soon. . At three-fifty, I looked to where the girl painting stood now done with her art piece. She used the center of the huge white wall to paint an array of uniquely colored butterflies gradually spreading out, flying towards the ceiling. No two butterflies have the same color patterns, and eventually each butterfly ends up flying in different directions than the one next to it. I glanced out the doorway to see if any teacher was on their way to the room to yell at her for marking up school property, but no one was in the hall, no one even paid attention to what anyone in the room was doing.

Chief Piece- JV Boys Soccer

JV Boys' Soccer

Running and running and running. But what are they running from? It seems to be more running. The Combine’s reach extends beyond the horizon in all directions, like a cocoon woven by some mechanical spider. It has them in an inescapable trap, woven into a network and enslaved by function. Shiny and new, fixed and improved, Better. Not quite though: the Combine’s metal probes have not fully infested. Still a trace of Freedom remains: they look on displeased at the rebounding of their efforts: their Freedom seems stronger than their wires, able to resist its guise. They are rubber in their cores.

But, rubber means nothing in a trap; a lion’s strength means little against a hunter’s snare; a butterfly cannot escape the spider’s web. A web of wires, that is the Combine. It might not reach them fully, there may be a speck of rust on their perfect mechanical bodies, but they fulfill their function all the same. Ensnared. Trapped. It’s easier to be that than free and knowing, or trapped and knowing. I found the weak thread, the cornerstone of the Big Nurse’s web, and unplugged it. Unplugged myself. But it cannot be called Freedom, when nobody else is free or when you escape into another web. That is hell.

Even if they escape, abandon their programmer’s wishes, they are still trapped. Denial leads to fixing: the Big Nurse’s specialty, and the Shock Shop works very well. They’ve even trapped the green field- nature itself is trapped. But then is it even nature? Are we even human? The Green is surrounded by industrial compartments, a locker room of robotics, and parts whom loom over, forever intimidating. Maybe I’ll find somewhere so barren, so devoid of Parts that it cannot be used. There I’ll run: to Colorado or to Montana or to fickle India? Where the horizon is the limit and within is empty. I want to return to the grasses and hills, and see no trace of machinery: just unrealized Parts. That’s my people’s homeland: where the Free tribe’s live. As Chief, I must return to save them from the machinery, to teach them to tear down the Combine, to shatter its wires, to be rubber. That’s my goal, even if it will never happen.

Chief Piece- Jenna

Where am I? Is this the Outside? What did they do to me? What have they done? Don’t put me here. I don’t want to be here. Their hypnotized eyes are staring at me. At me. Looking into me. Wandering. Don’t make me stay. I want to go back to the Inside.

It’s quiet in here. Mechanical minds doing work for the Combine. Routine work. People are talking, studying, working. I walk past the librarian’s desk, and go to the computer lab. Seated students are sitting in front of the machines. Mesmerized.

Shelved books surround me, their words suffocate the air. Everything around me is friendly yet with a false sense of warmth. All I hear is the metallic typing of the keys. I’m too exposed here. I don’t belong. Straight faced, I walk past the people, avoiding all types of interactions. I shy away from eye contact. I feel small here.

The cold glass windows bring me back to the hospital. I look outside to the fields. Kids run in formal lines, rigid, static, unchanging. The sun glistens off their helmets. Focused, I walk into the conference room. I sit in silence, looking out the windows observing them. I hear Chatter. Meaningless chatter. The librarian shushes them to be quiet, they’re misbehaving. They stop talking and they begin their work, fully absorbed in the work of the Combine. Suddenly, they all get up. They all mill past in a synchronous movement leaving the building. I decide to walk out, follow them, and see where they are going. I walk into a bookshelf by accident, and the books fall over, and they all clang as they hit the floor. The librarian tells me to pick them up. They all keep filing past me, staring at me.

I am the kink in the machine that they must fix.

Chief Piece

Tens - no - hundreds of workers come in to get what they need. The non- animal eaters go to one side of the room to get their nourishment, while the meat devourers stick to the main courses. They all come flooding in at once, sending a ripple through the room. It was as if the flood had caused a spark to start an engine. Suddenly, there was noise. Lots of noise. So much noise that someone could get lost in it and never find their way out. The ripples of energy are all organized into parallel lines, each moving with great speed and efficiency, ensuring that each worker gets what they want. Occasionally, there is a disturbance in this natural order. There’s a huge crash, and everybody stares at the source of the disruption. The embarrased worker quickly gets the broom to mop it up, and continues their handling of the machines. Then, when everyone is satisfied, they go and throw all of it away. They throw away everything the machine spits out, usually the stuff they aren’t satisfied with. Eventually they all leave, as quickly as they came. The switch is turned off, and everything is quiet and peaceful like I like it to be, but I can’t enjoy it at all. I too am a part of the machine. I must go as quickly as I came, and hurry off to my next course.

Alex Herz - Chief Piece

The school day begins with students mingling throughout the campus before class. Often students are unnoticably checked by teachers of their compliance to the dress code. After all, this is what the Combine works to create, similar people without flaw or expression. As the day goes on students may be “dress-coded” — this would infer their lack of compliance with the school’s code. Often this results in harsh punishment.

On the first day of school, a new student was brought in to the school. He was dressed in a t-shirt, shorts, and sneaker (4). He immediately stood out among the crowd of button down shirts and ties and blazers (4a). I remember noticing how large he was ; he nearly could not fit through\ the door. Immediately after managing his way in, teachers began to claw at him. Furious of his lack of respect for the dress code, teachers came at him with ties. “They are too tight on my throat,” he said as the teachers chased him with the ties.

He eventually walks himself to class shaking the hand of nearly every student on his way, including myself. As he shook my hand I noticed by arm begin to bulge. It was as if he was transmitting some kind of energy through his veins to my veins.

The teachers began to come at him again. He let go of my hand and directed himself toward their swarm.

He was eventually forced into accepting the tie. However, he never once put it on, merely draping it over his neck for the entire day.

Chief Piece - Marottolo

The alarms go off or at least I think they go off or maybe they don’t. Sometimes I hear the alarms inside my head before everyone else does. But today all the patients - sorry, students - react. The teachers tell the students to go outside, go on the turf. I pretend I can’t hear them, so’s to not make them suspicious. All the students shuffle out of the classroom in neat orderly ranks, under the watchful eyes of the teachers. I don’t follow them. The teacher swings around and points at me, she calls my name but I just go on sweeping the floor. The teacher looms over me, her eyes sweeping my new janitor uniform, her fists ballooning up as she swells with rage - she’s about to knock me senseless! she pulls her clenched hand back! and - a student pops around the corner. Instantly she deflates, all the little cogs and wheels folding back in on themselves to make a person. She gestures to the patient - sorry, child - and says, Take Mr. Bromden out to the field with everyone else. She says it calmly, as if we’re just going on a walk, but I feel the tension in her arms as she drags me toward the student. He pulls on my hand and points at the door and gestures repeatedly until I let him lead me out (4a). Outside, the sirens are quieter, and the cold numbs my ears, dulling the sound, til I’m practically as deaf as I pretend to be. It’s misty out today, and the whole world’s swimming through the fog, doing the 100-meter backstroke, all the colors inverted and the trees pointing the wrong way …

(The bird sits in the tree, watching the pointer dogs sniffing at the base of the trunk. Papa picks up his gun and shots Bang!, but he misses this time and the bird flies away but I’m stuck down here on the ground and I don’t have wings and it’s cold and sirens are blaring from the buildings that may or may not be burning behind me).

The world snaps back into focus, and it’s no longer upside-down. I see the children lined up in rows, a group of seven or eight on each yard line, docile and quiet, shuffling back and forth. Each one is connected by wire to their advisor, one network, all reporting back to the central hub - the cluster of teachers in the center of the field (4). Each advisor competes to see whose advisory is most orderly, whose charges are quietest. Eventually the sirens stop. I hear the echoes of their clangorous screams reverberate in the fog, bouncing back and forth between my earlobes. I hear it rebound once, twice, three times before leaving my mouth.