To Be An American Pop Princess-the extended version
Backstage Jessica could hear the roar of the crowd. The noise of their hands colliding together and their voices straining for volume in order to get her back on stage was deafening. They chanted, “Encore, encore, encore!” Jessica could feel the exhaustion aching in every one of her muscles, but she quickly caught her breath before the various people controlling the show’s logistics acting as her shepherds, maneuvered her back onto stage like she was one from their flocks. She pasted on her million-dollar smile as she skip-ran back to her adoring fans. As she returned to center stage, Jessica saw hundreds of signs all saying the same thing, “I love you Jessica Spears!” or “I’m your #1 fan Jessica!” She gave her signal to the band and dancers, the drums began to rattle, the fans started to scream, and Jessica’s angelic voice started the first line of the last song.
Jessica Christina Spears, born some two decades ago, had always been told that she had the voice of an angel. Upon hearing her sing, friends and family would immediately be floating euphorically on a cloud somewhere high in the heavens. Just as marvelous was, and still is, her unparalleled beauty. Her blonde tresses were just like brilliant rays of sunlight, and her dazzling blue eyes were a portal for anyone who made eye contact with her, to the crystal blue sky or shimmering sapphire waters of the sea. Jessica definitely had a passion for singing, but it wasn’t as grand as the passion her parents had for her to become the most famous singer possible. Fast forward to today, and Jessica is at the tenth concert of her third world tour, and she’s the most famous pop “princess” from the USA, thus fully realizing the dreams of her parents.
Jessica stepped off the stage for the last time tonight and was whisked away to her dressing room by her team of people. She was dripping wet and her clothes stuck to her as if her sweat and make-up had fused together to become a permanent glue. Her faithful assistant, Candy took on the arduous task of continuously yanking at Jessica’s Dolce & Gabbana leather pants until they would finally release their grip from her perfectly toned thigh muscles. After she had been helped out of her performance clothes Jessica refreshed her aching body with a cleansing shower. While showering, she wondered to herself how she ever got to this place in life. Concert after concert, interviews after interviews, nightly show appearances. Life never seemed to stop and ask her what she wanted any more.
While under the soothing beads of the hot shower her mind took over, slipping into a fanciful state where she thought about her deepest, unfulfilled dreams: going to college; friends she wished she had, but was never in one place long enough to make; places in the world she wanted to go to and not remain a captive in the confines of a hotel room. Realizing her mind had run away with itself, Jessica shook her head in order to fling those fanciful ideas out of her mind, got out of the shower, got dressed, and braced herself for the hoards of people she still had to deal with in order for her night to be over.
Just as she was applying the pale green and brown eye shadows that were supposed to highlight her much admired blue eyes, her manager, Jonathan rattled the hinges of the door as he stormed into the room. He informed her that there were already critical reports surfacing that Jessica had lip-synched through the entire concert. Her eyes started to well up from the inside out, as if the weak damns in place were going to let the floodwaters break through. Jessica was so weary of these types of scandals always being brought against her. And for what…so that some ridiculous source could profit by slandering her reputation as an artist. Jessica had always been able to confront the press using her charm and self-confidant image to whole heatedly negate the accusations against her. Jessica exuded confidence to everyone around her, but inside she knew these criticisms constantly being brought against her didn’t help with her inner issues of self-consciousness. She felt like everyone-her fans, her family, her manager-presumed to know her, when she didn’t even know herself any more. Jessica’s world had become increasingly confusing to her as the years progressed.
Seeing that she was upset Jonathan started to caress her neck and weave his fingers through her golden locks. Jessica shrugged her shoulder indicating to him that it was even more upsetting for him to continue his ways of seduction. She turned around giving him an all-knowing glance so he would know it was over. She knew that he was taking advantage of their cozy little situation of mixing business with pleasure, by giving himself extras shares of her earnings when he thought she didn’t know. He needed to know that she didn’t need him to fix her problems any more. She was always the one charming her way out of these scandals the media kept projecting onto her. Things were finally starting to seem clear, after having been so unclear for so long. Jessica knew what she needed to do. Her mind, body, and heart ached from all that she was enduring just to appease the public that demanded everything of her. She wanted to fulfill those dreams she had fantasized about for way too long.
The week after that, Jessica had a television appearance schedule for an interview and a performance. Inside she felt unsettled about the allegations that she would have to address. The pit in her stomach ached like there was a firey coal that was burning inside the depths of her gut. A lot of stress tended to have this effect on Jessica. She had been dealing with stressful situations for so long, considering that she had to worry about things that were well beyond her years because of the business. Jessica had been anticipating this appearance a lot, especially in relation to her new found purpose of living her own life. After much contemplation and anxiousness, Jessica decided on a plan for herself. She was going to make her big move, the one that tells the world I am my own woman, I live my life for me and I will not be controlled any more.
The morning of the appearance, Jessica showed up to her make-up room looking like her perky, happy self; the way that everyone is accustomed to seeing her, the way everyone expected to see her. However, something was different this time, whether the people around her noticed it or not. She had a gleam in her eye that looked like a witty secret that only she understood; there was a spark of happiness and vibrancy in her demeanor that had not been present for as long as she could remember. Interestingly enough, no one had seemed to notice the strain in Jessica recently. No one cared any more about how Jessica was inside, so long as the outside looked primped, cute, and she danced while wearing the most fashionable outfit.
A person on the backstage crew came to Jessica’s dressing room to let her know that she need to be ready to go in ten minutes. She smirked and gave it her cutest, “Ok thanks” that she could. Jessica grabbed her bottle of high-end, imported water, took a swig to ready her vocal cords, and started heading out of the room with her whole face beaming at the thought of what she was about to do. She approached the stage, as it was time to get all set up.
Regis hollered to Jessica from his station, “How you doing sugar? Good to have you back on the show.”
Jessica replied, “Thank you for the opportunity. It’s great to be back.”
Kelly chimed in, “Oh sweetie it is so good to meet you finally. Ever since I joined the show I’ve been telling Reg that we just had to get you on so I meet America’s sweetheart.”
Jessica cringed inside at the thought of Kelly coming over and squeezing her cheeks like the endearing old grandmother type that can’t seem to pinch enough to her satisfaction.
“Oh, well it’s great to finally meet you too,” Jessica said, as she chuckled at Kelly’s own exaggerated sweetness.
“Five minutes people!” shouted one of the cameramen.
“Alrighty, let’s get ready to do this,” Regis clamored.
The cameramen gave the signal and the red recording light starting flashing. Regis jumped started the production by giving the same introduction that he gave every show.
“And as our special guest we have Miss Jessica Spears,” motioned Regis with his hands in the most celebratory way. The crowd screamed with excitement. Jessica smiled to herself.
When it was time Regis and Kelly began their interview, or rather their interrogation with Jessica. Of course the most recent scandal of lip-synching accusations was addressed, but Jessica managed to keep her cool, use her charm, and smooth over the situation quite painlessly; the way she always did.
Kelly asked, “So Jessica what else is new with you? Any boyfriends we should know about, recent movie offers that you’re thinking about, a new album even? What’s next for you?”
Jessica took a deep breath to psych herself up for what she was about to announce. “Well…I’ve actually made a big decision for myself recently. I…I…” Jessica paused to just for a second to make sure she really wanted to go through with what she was about to declare to the entire American public. Mentally scolding herself for even hesitating at all, Jessica passionately continued; she knew what she wanted and this was her chance to take it.
“Yeeeesssss,” Kelly said, thinking she was going to hear some great scoop about Jessica’s new love interest.
“I have decided that this tour is going to be my last tour. I’m going to retire from singing and acting in order to go live out my dream of going to college and traveling,” declared Jessica.
A gasp came from Regis and Kelly, the entire audience, as well as all the crewmembers.
“Wh…why? Is it because of the accusations? Why?” questioned Kelly.
“It’s not because of any of the accusations, or scandals, or because of anyone in the industry. This is just something I have to do for myself,” said Jessica proudly.
Once the hosts of the show had recovered from the shock of Jessica’s announcement and managed to wrap up the show, she headed backstage feeling weightless; her body could have floated effortlessly into the clouds because of the stress that had been lifted from her. Jonathan was backstage even though she had told him to back off; he still seemed to slither nearby since people were still under the impression that he was her manager.
“What are thinking? Are you crazy?” Jonathan screamed at her.
“Stop it,” she instructed. “You are not my manager any more, you don’t make my decisions for me, or help yourself to my money. This is my decision and it doesn’t concern you. I am going to do what I need to do for myself.”
With that Jessica’s fate had been sealed, for better or for worse. She applied and got into a good college. Jessica was happy. Her life was finally starting fulfill her deepest desires. She went to freshmen orientation, got a couple a funny glances and finger-pointing, but everything seemed to be going fine. No one seemed to bug her about who she was and her previous career. She moved into the dorms with one of her really good friends who was already attending the same college.
One day Jessica was sitting under an inviting cherry blossom tree that was parading its newest spring blossoms. A guy started to approach Jessica and she became nervous for a split second that it was going to be just another undying fan wanting to harass her for something. The guy was now standing in front of her now and he said, “Hey, I think we have Modern Political Theory together. Are you reading that book for Mackin’s class?”
She replied excitedly, “Yes…yes, I’m in that class.” Jessica smiled to herself.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Reading Journal-Assignment 9
Averno, by Louise Gluck
In which time period is Louise Gluck’s Averno set?
For the most part I think that Louise Gluck has set this work in a contemporary time setting. She makes reference to certain things such as trains, Hawthorne, electric chairs, a bus stop, which are things that would propel the setting of the story into a more contemporary time period.
What is the tone of this book?
I think the tone of this book is very contemplative, dark, troubled, inquisitive, and questioning.
Describe the narrator(s) and what is of value to them?
The primary narrator seems to be constantly evaluating her own life, death, and the changes and evolution that occurs while establishing identity within one’s lifetime.
What kind of relationship does the Persephone narrator have with the earth in Gluck’s work? Cite at least one passage to back up your argument.
The one thing that I took away from Gluck’s rendition of Persephone’s story is that Persephone becomes displaced as a result of her abduction. Once she is taken from earth and “ravaged” she is no longer the girl she once was and therefore doesn’t have a place on earth, and she most certainly doesn’t belong in the underworld. She belongs neither on earth nor in hell.
To what does the final verse on page 16 refer?
I actually don’t know what the final verses on page 16 are referring to. Obviously it’s a reference to something that would have happened to one of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s characters, but I’m not sure who and what Gluck is alluding to.
Cite a passage in the text where the narrator second guesses her own voice by reconsidering the way in which to describe something. Why would an author show such a thing?
I actually didn’t feel like there was a place in the text where the narrator has been portrayed by the author as “second-guessing” herself. I saw a couple of inconsistencies in the very first pages where she talks about the beauty in the world and how wonderful it is, only to say a couple pages later that “it is true there is not enough beauty in the world” (13). However, I did not how see this or anything else were a good example of the narrator contradicting or second-guessing herself. I felt like the book was progressive mental discussion/analysis/elaboration on the work’s major themes.
What are some key differences between Part I and II of the book?
Part I of the book seems to focus more on the development and childhood of the female narrator, in my opinion. Part II seems to focus more on the second half of life and the mortal death that we all face. Those are my initial impressions. I think she addresses both of these subject matters in either half of the book, but I felt like it was more pronounced in one half versus the other.
How do you understand the ancient myth differently after reading Gluck’s interpretation?
I actually didn’t like Gluck’s 2nd interpretation at all. I much more enjoyed the 1st interpretation better. I don’t know what it was, a stylist difference or what, but the 2nd interpretation was a total turn off. I don’t think that Gluck’s version are any more helpful to reading the myths. I think they were any interesting compliment to the subject matter of the rest of the book; I actually found myself wondering sometimes if the entire book is a contemporary version of the myth, with Persephone as the contemporary narrator. However, I just took Gluck’s versions to be another rendition, and not an aid to actually understanding the myths better. Maybe that would change if I reread the poems a couple more times.
In which time period is Louise Gluck’s Averno set?
For the most part I think that Louise Gluck has set this work in a contemporary time setting. She makes reference to certain things such as trains, Hawthorne, electric chairs, a bus stop, which are things that would propel the setting of the story into a more contemporary time period.
What is the tone of this book?
I think the tone of this book is very contemplative, dark, troubled, inquisitive, and questioning.
Describe the narrator(s) and what is of value to them?
The primary narrator seems to be constantly evaluating her own life, death, and the changes and evolution that occurs while establishing identity within one’s lifetime.
What kind of relationship does the Persephone narrator have with the earth in Gluck’s work? Cite at least one passage to back up your argument.
The one thing that I took away from Gluck’s rendition of Persephone’s story is that Persephone becomes displaced as a result of her abduction. Once she is taken from earth and “ravaged” she is no longer the girl she once was and therefore doesn’t have a place on earth, and she most certainly doesn’t belong in the underworld. She belongs neither on earth nor in hell.
To what does the final verse on page 16 refer?
I actually don’t know what the final verses on page 16 are referring to. Obviously it’s a reference to something that would have happened to one of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s characters, but I’m not sure who and what Gluck is alluding to.
Cite a passage in the text where the narrator second guesses her own voice by reconsidering the way in which to describe something. Why would an author show such a thing?
I actually didn’t feel like there was a place in the text where the narrator has been portrayed by the author as “second-guessing” herself. I saw a couple of inconsistencies in the very first pages where she talks about the beauty in the world and how wonderful it is, only to say a couple pages later that “it is true there is not enough beauty in the world” (13). However, I did not how see this or anything else were a good example of the narrator contradicting or second-guessing herself. I felt like the book was progressive mental discussion/analysis/elaboration on the work’s major themes.
What are some key differences between Part I and II of the book?
Part I of the book seems to focus more on the development and childhood of the female narrator, in my opinion. Part II seems to focus more on the second half of life and the mortal death that we all face. Those are my initial impressions. I think she addresses both of these subject matters in either half of the book, but I felt like it was more pronounced in one half versus the other.
How do you understand the ancient myth differently after reading Gluck’s interpretation?
I actually didn’t like Gluck’s 2nd interpretation at all. I much more enjoyed the 1st interpretation better. I don’t know what it was, a stylist difference or what, but the 2nd interpretation was a total turn off. I don’t think that Gluck’s version are any more helpful to reading the myths. I think they were any interesting compliment to the subject matter of the rest of the book; I actually found myself wondering sometimes if the entire book is a contemporary version of the myth, with Persephone as the contemporary narrator. However, I just took Gluck’s versions to be another rendition, and not an aid to actually understanding the myths better. Maybe that would change if I reread the poems a couple more times.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Writing Journal-Assignment 8
What are the implications of designing a piece which joins the imaginary (characterization) and the real (current event)?
Instinctively, I don’t really like the idea of combining the imaginary and the real. The implications are that an author can write something real without having ever experienced. For me, there seems to be lacking a certain ethos or authorial credibility. Then, again I’m sure that I’ve read many works that do just that, and it seems to work just fine; nothing too fishy about it.
Have you read any authors who do this regularly in their writing? If so, which authors?
I can’t think of any at this time.
As a reader, how can one determine how reliable the depictions are in a piece of literature which presents itself as autobiographical?
I honestly don’t know for sure. This is something I’m still trying to work out my own beliefs about. However, one way might be to use a very specific person as inspiration, as to try to conform somewhat to a real person’s experiences.
Are there more “reliable” forms for depicting/communicating real historical events, especially to future generations, than the personal account? If so, what might they be? If not, why not?
I don’t think so. I think personal accounts/memoirs/autobiographies are generally going to be the most realiable. I think someone who actually has experience in such events will be the best equipped to give reliable accounts of the historical events.
What impression did the writings on the walls of the Museo Storico della Liberazione di Roma have on you?
I thought the walls were astonishing. They made me feel like a was getting a real glimpse into the human elements of what happened to the people who were held there.
Why did you choose to write about the event you did for this piece?
I think the reason why I chose to write about this even is because I wanted to write about something I have been present for in my lifetime. September 11th would have been my first choice for the event, but I couldn’t think up a character situation that I wanted to elaborate on. So I chose the War in Iraq because it’s something that is present in my life all the time. You can't hang at all these days without it coming up in discussion. And I have seen the hostage videos on CNN, when journalists or reporters are captured. I found this to be a very interesting concept for a story, so I went with it.
Instinctively, I don’t really like the idea of combining the imaginary and the real. The implications are that an author can write something real without having ever experienced. For me, there seems to be lacking a certain ethos or authorial credibility. Then, again I’m sure that I’ve read many works that do just that, and it seems to work just fine; nothing too fishy about it.
Have you read any authors who do this regularly in their writing? If so, which authors?
I can’t think of any at this time.
As a reader, how can one determine how reliable the depictions are in a piece of literature which presents itself as autobiographical?
I honestly don’t know for sure. This is something I’m still trying to work out my own beliefs about. However, one way might be to use a very specific person as inspiration, as to try to conform somewhat to a real person’s experiences.
Are there more “reliable” forms for depicting/communicating real historical events, especially to future generations, than the personal account? If so, what might they be? If not, why not?
I don’t think so. I think personal accounts/memoirs/autobiographies are generally going to be the most realiable. I think someone who actually has experience in such events will be the best equipped to give reliable accounts of the historical events.
What impression did the writings on the walls of the Museo Storico della Liberazione di Roma have on you?
I thought the walls were astonishing. They made me feel like a was getting a real glimpse into the human elements of what happened to the people who were held there.
Why did you choose to write about the event you did for this piece?
I think the reason why I chose to write about this even is because I wanted to write about something I have been present for in my lifetime. September 11th would have been my first choice for the event, but I couldn’t think up a character situation that I wanted to elaborate on. So I chose the War in Iraq because it’s something that is present in my life all the time. You can't hang at all these days without it coming up in discussion. And I have seen the hostage videos on CNN, when journalists or reporters are captured. I found this to be a very interesting concept for a story, so I went with it.
Writing Assignment #8
Identity
Is it something you create for yourself or are given?
Does it exist in a name, a degree, a profession, a place?
It’s there, whether you sense it or not.
You won’t know it truly,
Until one day someone tries to strip you of it.
They can veil it or try to remove it from you permanently,
They can even try to terminate it.
It is once you feel it slipping from you completely,
That you realize it fully and struggle dearly.
Struggle dearly to get back to that place where it exists truly and freely.
Memoir of a Journalist in Baghdad
My identity, as I knew it, revolved around a couple things in life. My name given to me at birth, Maggie Avery Graceson, my undergraduate degree from Yale University, and my graduate degree in Journalism from Columbia University. Before the spring of 2004, I was consumed with my ambitions and progressing in my career was all that had mattered. When the opportunity presented itself within my company’s publication, I immediately volunteered to be a correspondent covering the war in Iraq. I knew that I would be chosen; it wasn’t exactly everyone’s first choice to submerge themselves in that environment of international conflict, plus I was one of the top journalists working and no one was as obviously equipped to take on such an important job or subject matter as I was.
I boarded a plane, on March 9, 2004, eager and excited to prove myself as a journalist even more than I already had. My heart fluttered in my chest like a butterfly struggling to release from its cocoon; not because I was scared of the impending danger that I was about to encounter, but I was anxious to have adventures and produce some riveting material. I stepped off the plane and immediately wanted to go maneuver about the city, finding the dangerous, glorious stories that would seal my career as a journalist; I don’t know at that time that I was to become the story.
I met up with the team of people I was to work in the center of Baghdad. We were to stay at this hotel that the U.S. army had taken over and was protecting in order to provide a place for some of the media teams covering the current events of the war. I dropped off my luggage and immediately felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my entire body. I’m here, I’m actually here, I thought to myself. I couldn’t wait to defy all those people back home who said I shouldn’t come here, that I would be in grave danger, blah blah blah. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I would be fine and I’m going to break a great story. Filled with an energy that I could no longer suppress, I grabbed my worn-out messenger bag, my moleskin notebook, my Canon power-shot, and my hardy Nalgene water bottle, ready to explore and research. The daylight had only started to fade, so I figured I would utilize the sun’s last hours of productivity.
Covered in dust, my feet were experiencing unparalleled levels of grim after only thirty minutes of walking. The swarms of warm breezes propelled by dust were overwhelming. It was an entirely new feeling to be in the Middle East – not only were the sights, smells, and sounds completely foreign to me, but it was obvious that I was out of place. I didn’t adorn one of the black veils that cover my body head to toe, including my face. I was out in the open with my American attire and blonde hair waving in the desert air. I hadn’t actually considered it before I left my group, that maybe I shouldn’t have gone out in the city unaccompanied. I was starting to feel a little unsettled with all the attention I seemed to be getting. Two hours had passed and dusk was upon me, so I thought I had better head back to the sanctuary of my hotel.
As I headed back, I began to notice a couple of stragglers that seemed to be following me, but I thought I might just be getting a little paranoid (first day jitters and all). I walked a little more, but I cringed when I realized that I had lost track of how to get back. I reluctantly pulled out my map of Baghdad, betraying my foreigner identity even further. I had just found my location on the map, when a figure dressed in black startled me in my peripheral vision. Before I could act, a strange hand that smelled of earth smothered my mouth and another covered my eyes. I struggled as I felt myself being dragged away, but I was quickly encouraged not to do so by a smash atop my head that rendered my body unconscious.
I woke up after an unknown period of time, to find myself in what appeared to be a cave. How had I gotten there? Who had taken me there? I didn’t know. I sat alone, tied up, slouched against a stone wall for quite some time. My eyes were no longer covered so I could see what was around me, though it was not much since there was barely any light. The only light source dimly shone through a nearby tunnel. I could hear faint voices coming from the end of the tunnel. Rapid, foreign words, that seemed filled with anger came from the distant figures that I could not see.
Someone from the tunnel finally started to approach my direction. The person was tall, but completely covered in haunting black garments. Their head was completely wrapped in a turban as well. I was sure it was a man by the look of the sturdy, rough, thick hands that appeared to be holding another black garment. He started approaching faster, and by this time I thought I might die from heart failure due to the overwhelming amount of fear that I felt inside. I didn’t know who these people were, why they had taken me, what they were going to do with me, and where they had brought me.
The man in black started shouting at me, while making grand, intimidating gestures. I had no idea what he was saying. I just shook my head, but this seemed to infuriate him. I started crying, “Please, don’t hurt me. Please. Let me go. Don’t hurt me.” He yelled at me, “American…no belong here…you pay.” I started sobbing; I couldn’t control my emotions at this point. I felt entirely helpless and my fate was in the hands of someone who hated me or hated what I represented. Finally, he throw at me the black garment he had been waving in the air as he was ranting. I knew what he wanted me to do, but I just fell to the ground in fear and in pain. He shouted and another man came into the space where we were. The second man proceeded to untie my bonds and grab my body, forcing it to stand when I could no longer stand on my own. I was limp with an all-consuming fear, the kind I imagine you experience at the moment that you realize you are going to die.
The man let go as I stood, but they shoved the black burka in my face demanding that I strip myself of my American clothes, anything that retained a sense of my identity. I was to be unidentifiable to myself. But that didn’t mean that I was to loose all identity. I knew that my identity was the very reason these men had taken me in the first place. It had been done before and I fear it would continue to be done as long as the war was going on.
Some how I had been dressed in the burka. Had I dressed myself, did they strip me and dress me with the oppressive garment themselves? Did they mock my female form as I reluctantly acquired their native dress? I don’t remember. I could still remember my name, Maggie. I could remember the faces of my mom and dad. But how much of myself would I remember when I was released, if I was released. As I slumped back down to the floor, I peered through my tears to see what they were maneuvering. It was a tri-pod. Next, they brought in a video camera. I saw them setting it up and I saw as the record button started flashing red. They walked over to me and propped me up. I was going to have my 15 minutes of fame, but never did I guess it would be in a hostage video.
Is it something you create for yourself or are given?
Does it exist in a name, a degree, a profession, a place?
It’s there, whether you sense it or not.
You won’t know it truly,
Until one day someone tries to strip you of it.
They can veil it or try to remove it from you permanently,
They can even try to terminate it.
It is once you feel it slipping from you completely,
That you realize it fully and struggle dearly.
Struggle dearly to get back to that place where it exists truly and freely.
Memoir of a Journalist in Baghdad
My identity, as I knew it, revolved around a couple things in life. My name given to me at birth, Maggie Avery Graceson, my undergraduate degree from Yale University, and my graduate degree in Journalism from Columbia University. Before the spring of 2004, I was consumed with my ambitions and progressing in my career was all that had mattered. When the opportunity presented itself within my company’s publication, I immediately volunteered to be a correspondent covering the war in Iraq. I knew that I would be chosen; it wasn’t exactly everyone’s first choice to submerge themselves in that environment of international conflict, plus I was one of the top journalists working and no one was as obviously equipped to take on such an important job or subject matter as I was.
I boarded a plane, on March 9, 2004, eager and excited to prove myself as a journalist even more than I already had. My heart fluttered in my chest like a butterfly struggling to release from its cocoon; not because I was scared of the impending danger that I was about to encounter, but I was anxious to have adventures and produce some riveting material. I stepped off the plane and immediately wanted to go maneuver about the city, finding the dangerous, glorious stories that would seal my career as a journalist; I don’t know at that time that I was to become the story.
I met up with the team of people I was to work in the center of Baghdad. We were to stay at this hotel that the U.S. army had taken over and was protecting in order to provide a place for some of the media teams covering the current events of the war. I dropped off my luggage and immediately felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my entire body. I’m here, I’m actually here, I thought to myself. I couldn’t wait to defy all those people back home who said I shouldn’t come here, that I would be in grave danger, blah blah blah. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I would be fine and I’m going to break a great story. Filled with an energy that I could no longer suppress, I grabbed my worn-out messenger bag, my moleskin notebook, my Canon power-shot, and my hardy Nalgene water bottle, ready to explore and research. The daylight had only started to fade, so I figured I would utilize the sun’s last hours of productivity.
Covered in dust, my feet were experiencing unparalleled levels of grim after only thirty minutes of walking. The swarms of warm breezes propelled by dust were overwhelming. It was an entirely new feeling to be in the Middle East – not only were the sights, smells, and sounds completely foreign to me, but it was obvious that I was out of place. I didn’t adorn one of the black veils that cover my body head to toe, including my face. I was out in the open with my American attire and blonde hair waving in the desert air. I hadn’t actually considered it before I left my group, that maybe I shouldn’t have gone out in the city unaccompanied. I was starting to feel a little unsettled with all the attention I seemed to be getting. Two hours had passed and dusk was upon me, so I thought I had better head back to the sanctuary of my hotel.
As I headed back, I began to notice a couple of stragglers that seemed to be following me, but I thought I might just be getting a little paranoid (first day jitters and all). I walked a little more, but I cringed when I realized that I had lost track of how to get back. I reluctantly pulled out my map of Baghdad, betraying my foreigner identity even further. I had just found my location on the map, when a figure dressed in black startled me in my peripheral vision. Before I could act, a strange hand that smelled of earth smothered my mouth and another covered my eyes. I struggled as I felt myself being dragged away, but I was quickly encouraged not to do so by a smash atop my head that rendered my body unconscious.
I woke up after an unknown period of time, to find myself in what appeared to be a cave. How had I gotten there? Who had taken me there? I didn’t know. I sat alone, tied up, slouched against a stone wall for quite some time. My eyes were no longer covered so I could see what was around me, though it was not much since there was barely any light. The only light source dimly shone through a nearby tunnel. I could hear faint voices coming from the end of the tunnel. Rapid, foreign words, that seemed filled with anger came from the distant figures that I could not see.
Someone from the tunnel finally started to approach my direction. The person was tall, but completely covered in haunting black garments. Their head was completely wrapped in a turban as well. I was sure it was a man by the look of the sturdy, rough, thick hands that appeared to be holding another black garment. He started approaching faster, and by this time I thought I might die from heart failure due to the overwhelming amount of fear that I felt inside. I didn’t know who these people were, why they had taken me, what they were going to do with me, and where they had brought me.
The man in black started shouting at me, while making grand, intimidating gestures. I had no idea what he was saying. I just shook my head, but this seemed to infuriate him. I started crying, “Please, don’t hurt me. Please. Let me go. Don’t hurt me.” He yelled at me, “American…no belong here…you pay.” I started sobbing; I couldn’t control my emotions at this point. I felt entirely helpless and my fate was in the hands of someone who hated me or hated what I represented. Finally, he throw at me the black garment he had been waving in the air as he was ranting. I knew what he wanted me to do, but I just fell to the ground in fear and in pain. He shouted and another man came into the space where we were. The second man proceeded to untie my bonds and grab my body, forcing it to stand when I could no longer stand on my own. I was limp with an all-consuming fear, the kind I imagine you experience at the moment that you realize you are going to die.
The man let go as I stood, but they shoved the black burka in my face demanding that I strip myself of my American clothes, anything that retained a sense of my identity. I was to be unidentifiable to myself. But that didn’t mean that I was to loose all identity. I knew that my identity was the very reason these men had taken me in the first place. It had been done before and I fear it would continue to be done as long as the war was going on.
Some how I had been dressed in the burka. Had I dressed myself, did they strip me and dress me with the oppressive garment themselves? Did they mock my female form as I reluctantly acquired their native dress? I don’t remember. I could still remember my name, Maggie. I could remember the faces of my mom and dad. But how much of myself would I remember when I was released, if I was released. As I slumped back down to the floor, I peered through my tears to see what they were maneuvering. It was a tri-pod. Next, they brought in a video camera. I saw them setting it up and I saw as the record button started flashing red. They walked over to me and propped me up. I was going to have my 15 minutes of fame, but never did I guess it would be in a hostage video.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Reading Journal-Assignment 8
How does the poem opening the work affect how you read the main body of the text?
For my personal reading experience, the most effective result of the poem opening the story was that it gets you thinking about all those little things that we so often taken for granted.
Sum up what the poem is saying in one sentence.
Appreciate the things of life that we normally take for granted, and if you do not you should be cursed.
What are the key characteristics of the narrator which Levi chooses to present in this work; how would you describe the narrator?
Key characteristics-cynical, not foolishly hopeful, very matter of fact
Cynical (“Only a minority of ingenuous and deluded souls continued to hope…” p. 20)
I would say that the narrator is a great observer of things as they actually happen. I feel like I get all the minute details, as well as the overarching issues, relayed to me in such a way that I have a really clear vision of what is taking place in the text.
Does this add to or take away from your ability to sympathize with the narrator?
I still sympathize with the reader even though he’s not this innocent, naïve, hopeful figure. He is explaining the type of torture and mistreatment that he had to endure and I feel like there’s no way that I wouldn’t be able to sympathize with him. He seems very real to me and I understand the mentality that he’s adopted in order to survive.
Which moment(s) in the text stand out or make the strongest impact on you? Why?
p. 21 “…neither Italian nor German, had the courage to come and see what men do when they know they have to die…But the mothers stayed up to prepare the food for the journey with tender care…Nor did they forget the diapers, the toys, the cushions and the hundred other small things which mothers remember and which children always need. Would you not do the same? If you and your child were going to be killed tomorrow, would you not give him to eat today?”
--This part of the story really impacted me because for one, it shows that it is a disturbing display to watch someone prepare to die, and second, because Levi touches on a really interesting concept; the concept that mothers, good mothers, are still going to provide their children with the things they need even if it’s a “waste” in a sense because next they will be dead.
p. 22 “Dawn came on us like a betrayer; it seemed as though the new sun rose as an ally of our enemies to assist in our destruction. The different emotions that overcame us, or resignation, of futile rebellion, of religious abandon, of fear, of despair, now joined together after a sleepless night in a collective, uncontrolled panic.”
--This moment gives the idea that time is not your friend a whole new meaning. The idea that the “dawn” is the betrayer, bringing with it inevitable death seemed very profound to me. And that this inevitability of destruction instills a panic was very haunting for me when I was reading this.
p. 28 “But there is also a tap – and above it a card which says that it is forbidden to drink as the water is dirty. Nonsense. It seems obvious that the card is a joke, ‘they’ know that we are dying of thirst and they put us in a room, and there is a tap, and Wassertrinken Verboten. I drink and I incite my companions to do likewise, but I have to spit it out, the water is tepid and sweetish, with the smell of a swamp.”
--I love to drink a lot of water all throughout the day. I had a full bottle of water with me when I was reading this. So when I read of these people’s undying thirst my heart truly went out to them. I felt so much physical anxiety and pain for these people at the thought of being taunted with a source of water they could not utilize. I thought the portrayal of their continuous thirst was actually one of the most horrible things to read about (considering how tragic that would be for me if I were in their position).
p. 30 “But by now my belief is that all this is a game to mock and sneer at us. Clearly they will kill us, whoever thinks he is going to live is mad, it means that he has swallowed the bait, but I have not.”
--This moment is so powerful, yet so sad when he realizes that he must accept death and reject all hope of living because that would inevitably lead to his death (the death of his mental sanity, which is death according Levi’s ideas of survival).
p. 43 “We Italians had decided to meet every Sunday evening in a corner of the Lager, but we stopped it at once, because it was too sad to count our numbers and find fewer each time, and to see each other even more deformed and more squalid.”
--I thought this moment that we see that their sense of community and fellowship end, due to the disheartening effect their meetings had on their morale, was so sad. I felt very impacted at this moment reading how they had to stop coming together as a people because they could physically see their own demise.
For my personal reading experience, the most effective result of the poem opening the story was that it gets you thinking about all those little things that we so often taken for granted.
Sum up what the poem is saying in one sentence.
Appreciate the things of life that we normally take for granted, and if you do not you should be cursed.
What are the key characteristics of the narrator which Levi chooses to present in this work; how would you describe the narrator?
Key characteristics-cynical, not foolishly hopeful, very matter of fact
Cynical (“Only a minority of ingenuous and deluded souls continued to hope…” p. 20)
I would say that the narrator is a great observer of things as they actually happen. I feel like I get all the minute details, as well as the overarching issues, relayed to me in such a way that I have a really clear vision of what is taking place in the text.
Does this add to or take away from your ability to sympathize with the narrator?
I still sympathize with the reader even though he’s not this innocent, naïve, hopeful figure. He is explaining the type of torture and mistreatment that he had to endure and I feel like there’s no way that I wouldn’t be able to sympathize with him. He seems very real to me and I understand the mentality that he’s adopted in order to survive.
Which moment(s) in the text stand out or make the strongest impact on you? Why?
p. 21 “…neither Italian nor German, had the courage to come and see what men do when they know they have to die…But the mothers stayed up to prepare the food for the journey with tender care…Nor did they forget the diapers, the toys, the cushions and the hundred other small things which mothers remember and which children always need. Would you not do the same? If you and your child were going to be killed tomorrow, would you not give him to eat today?”
--This part of the story really impacted me because for one, it shows that it is a disturbing display to watch someone prepare to die, and second, because Levi touches on a really interesting concept; the concept that mothers, good mothers, are still going to provide their children with the things they need even if it’s a “waste” in a sense because next they will be dead.
p. 22 “Dawn came on us like a betrayer; it seemed as though the new sun rose as an ally of our enemies to assist in our destruction. The different emotions that overcame us, or resignation, of futile rebellion, of religious abandon, of fear, of despair, now joined together after a sleepless night in a collective, uncontrolled panic.”
--This moment gives the idea that time is not your friend a whole new meaning. The idea that the “dawn” is the betrayer, bringing with it inevitable death seemed very profound to me. And that this inevitability of destruction instills a panic was very haunting for me when I was reading this.
p. 28 “But there is also a tap – and above it a card which says that it is forbidden to drink as the water is dirty. Nonsense. It seems obvious that the card is a joke, ‘they’ know that we are dying of thirst and they put us in a room, and there is a tap, and Wassertrinken Verboten. I drink and I incite my companions to do likewise, but I have to spit it out, the water is tepid and sweetish, with the smell of a swamp.”
--I love to drink a lot of water all throughout the day. I had a full bottle of water with me when I was reading this. So when I read of these people’s undying thirst my heart truly went out to them. I felt so much physical anxiety and pain for these people at the thought of being taunted with a source of water they could not utilize. I thought the portrayal of their continuous thirst was actually one of the most horrible things to read about (considering how tragic that would be for me if I were in their position).
p. 30 “But by now my belief is that all this is a game to mock and sneer at us. Clearly they will kill us, whoever thinks he is going to live is mad, it means that he has swallowed the bait, but I have not.”
--This moment is so powerful, yet so sad when he realizes that he must accept death and reject all hope of living because that would inevitably lead to his death (the death of his mental sanity, which is death according Levi’s ideas of survival).
p. 43 “We Italians had decided to meet every Sunday evening in a corner of the Lager, but we stopped it at once, because it was too sad to count our numbers and find fewer each time, and to see each other even more deformed and more squalid.”
--I thought this moment that we see that their sense of community and fellowship end, due to the disheartening effect their meetings had on their morale, was so sad. I felt very impacted at this moment reading how they had to stop coming together as a people because they could physically see their own demise.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Writing Journal-Assignment 7
What is the reason you chose the option (a, b, or c) you did?
I chose to write my dialogue between the three characters in the painting because I didn’t feel knowledgeable enough to compose a believable conversation between the artist and someone else. I would have wanted to know Artemisia even better before I tried to emulate her, mostly because I have so much respect for her and wouldn’t want to portray her in an inaccurate light.
What is challenging about writing dialogue, especially when you are reliant on it for character development?
The trouble with being reliant on dialogue for character developing is that it makes the “showing, not telling” process even more challenging and time-consuming. For me, I’m the kind of person who gets restless pretty easily when writing and if the process is taking too long, it makes me not want to follow through with the story.
Do visual works add to or detract from your ability to be imaginative in your writing and why?
The visual element of this project actually really inspired me to be more creative. Considering the assignment, I didn’t feel the need to closely adhere to the actual story that is depicted in the painting. I had a lot of fun coming up with an entirely different interpretation of what was going on between the characters.
What are some of the most notable differences between the cities of Rome and Naples; do you think place has an effect on how you write? If yes, how so, and if not, why do you think it is irrelevant?
Naples is most definitely different than Rome. I could sense their character differences immediately. Naples had its own unique qualities and identity apart from Rome. However, I wouldn’t say that this necessarily affected my writing. Although, this was the most violent piece I’ve ever written, and Naples, to me, will always be the city that “violently mugs.”
I chose to write my dialogue between the three characters in the painting because I didn’t feel knowledgeable enough to compose a believable conversation between the artist and someone else. I would have wanted to know Artemisia even better before I tried to emulate her, mostly because I have so much respect for her and wouldn’t want to portray her in an inaccurate light.
What is challenging about writing dialogue, especially when you are reliant on it for character development?
The trouble with being reliant on dialogue for character developing is that it makes the “showing, not telling” process even more challenging and time-consuming. For me, I’m the kind of person who gets restless pretty easily when writing and if the process is taking too long, it makes me not want to follow through with the story.
Do visual works add to or detract from your ability to be imaginative in your writing and why?
The visual element of this project actually really inspired me to be more creative. Considering the assignment, I didn’t feel the need to closely adhere to the actual story that is depicted in the painting. I had a lot of fun coming up with an entirely different interpretation of what was going on between the characters.
What are some of the most notable differences between the cities of Rome and Naples; do you think place has an effect on how you write? If yes, how so, and if not, why do you think it is irrelevant?
Naples is most definitely different than Rome. I could sense their character differences immediately. Naples had its own unique qualities and identity apart from Rome. However, I wouldn’t say that this necessarily affected my writing. Although, this was the most violent piece I’ve ever written, and Naples, to me, will always be the city that “violently mugs.”
Writing Assignment #7
Dialogue within Judith and Holofernes
On this particularly chilling winter evening, the moon glowed, full of mischievous intent. The wind whipped violently through trees and against the nearby tents, jostling emotions and stirring up trouble. Holofernes, Judith, and Abra were having a casual evening hanging out in Holofernes’ tent; playing cards, drinking, joking with one another, just like they did any other night. But something was different this time, maybe it was the wind, maybe it was the devilish, instigator ways of Abra that led things to go gone too far.
“You cheater, I slapped the deck first, those cards were mine,” shouted the defiant Abra at the cheating Holofernes.
“Whatever woman, those cards belong to me, I am the doubles-slapping master,” declared Holofernes. Taunting the women of the card game, he held his arms in the air as if cheering for his own victories falsely won.
“Why must we always have these feuds when playing Neapolitan Mouse Snatch,” whimpered Judith with her concerned brow.
“Just relax, Judith we’re just having some fun, as usual. I thought you liked this game,” replied Abra.
“I…I do…it’s just I hate when you and Holofernes are so competitive,” Judith sheepishly answered.
“Stop your ridiculousness, Judith. There always seems to be something plaguing you,” exclaimed Holofernes. “Try to have a bite more fun. Now pass me the wine and lets keep enjoying ourselves shall we.”
Judith reluctantly took a deep breath to perk herself up for the rest of the evening she would be spending with an intoxicated Holofernes and the always boisterous Abra. She could feel the anxiety looming over her, the way it always did when she would hang out with the two of them. Judith suffered greatly from a lack of self-confidence and tended to get pushed around by her bold friends. Nevertheless, these were two of her best friends and she tolerated their negative qualities in the hopes that the good would make an appearance every so often.
“Some day I am going to be the…ahhh…bestest…ahhh…greatest general ever, juuussst you girls wait and see,” stammered the progressively more inebriated Holofernes. “You see that sword, I am the best swordsmen you two would ever be lucky enough to see.”
Holofernes stumbled from out of his seat, weaving to the left and to the right as he walked over to get his sword.
“See look at how good I am with my sword.” Holofernes swung his sword around as he paced about the tent, almost losing his balance as well as the grip on his weapon several times.
“Sit down you big shot before you hurt someone,” scolded Abra. “Let’s finish this card game already. I am totally going to beat you,” she said with a cocky smile on her face.
Abra and Holofernes were different from Judith in a sense. The three of them had been friends for so long and were similar in many ways. However, Judith lacked the same boldness that Abra and Holofernes seemed to completely possess. Judith was the meekest of the three and was always easily coxed into doing things that were not of her own design.
Judith quietly started to chime into this discussion of future careers. “I want to be a model for a great painter some day. Maybe a painter like Caravaggio or Artemisia.”
“What,” Holofernes scoffed.
“Well…I think that’s what I would like to do. Dress up, be portrayed as someone completely different…than myself,” Judith replied.
“You could never be a model,” stated Holofernes.
“Why…why not?” she asked.
“Please, Judith, you don’t have the faintest clue what a model really does.”
“I…I don’t?”
“And…seriously…you might want to rethink your diet if you’re actually going to pursue being a model. You’re looking a little on the softer side.”
Then Abra finally decided to chime in. “Why the hell are you being so rude, Holofernes, you jackass?”
“Abra, I’m just telling her the truth, unlike you, who would sugar coat every thing for your poor, innocent friend, Judith.”
Abra turned to Judith and said to her under her breath, “Are you going to let him speak to you that way?”
“What?” responded Judith, with tears welling in her eyes and shame smeared all across her face.”
“I asked you if you are going to let him speak to you that way. You should stand up for yourself.”
“I…I should?” replied Judith.
“Yes goddamn it!” Abra said with her teeth grinding and her face completely tensed with furious passion. “You should make him sorry for what he said.”
Judith asked as she sniffled, “But how?”
“If I were you I would make him feel my pain, feel the pain physically. He says mean things to you all the time. Now it’s your turn. Slap him or something. Do it, just do something,” Abra insisted.
“I…I…” Judith stuttered quietly to her scheming friend. And then she started to look around the room for ideas of pay-back. Judith thought to herself about how mad and hurt Holofernes always made her feel. She glanced at him as he was now lounging on his bed chuckling to his-drunken-self; he was thinking he was so cleaver and had got her down for good. “Not any more,” Judith thought to herself.
She had become uncontrollably enraged. She swiftly grabbed Holofernes sword with a look of determination and rage in her eyes. She whipped around with the sword in her right hand and proceeded to attack Holofernes while he was lying helplessly on his bed.
“What are you doing?” screamed Abra.
“Getting my revenge! Help me!” cried Judith.
“Oh God,” gasped Abra.
“If you’re truly my friend, then help me.”
Knowing it was too late for Judith to turn back, as she had already started to strike Holofernes with his own sword, Abra rushed to restrain him. She couldn’t very well have both of her friends die from this situation (wasn’t she the one who suggested the revenge in the first place?).
“Hold his arms down,” Judith demanded. Suddenly the meekest one of their group was now the most aggressively demanding. Maybe there was something in the air of the night.
On this particularly chilling winter evening, the moon glowed, full of mischievous intent. The wind whipped violently through trees and against the nearby tents, jostling emotions and stirring up trouble. Holofernes, Judith, and Abra were having a casual evening hanging out in Holofernes’ tent; playing cards, drinking, joking with one another, just like they did any other night. But something was different this time, maybe it was the wind, maybe it was the devilish, instigator ways of Abra that led things to go gone too far.
“You cheater, I slapped the deck first, those cards were mine,” shouted the defiant Abra at the cheating Holofernes.
“Whatever woman, those cards belong to me, I am the doubles-slapping master,” declared Holofernes. Taunting the women of the card game, he held his arms in the air as if cheering for his own victories falsely won.
“Why must we always have these feuds when playing Neapolitan Mouse Snatch,” whimpered Judith with her concerned brow.
“Just relax, Judith we’re just having some fun, as usual. I thought you liked this game,” replied Abra.
“I…I do…it’s just I hate when you and Holofernes are so competitive,” Judith sheepishly answered.
“Stop your ridiculousness, Judith. There always seems to be something plaguing you,” exclaimed Holofernes. “Try to have a bite more fun. Now pass me the wine and lets keep enjoying ourselves shall we.”
Judith reluctantly took a deep breath to perk herself up for the rest of the evening she would be spending with an intoxicated Holofernes and the always boisterous Abra. She could feel the anxiety looming over her, the way it always did when she would hang out with the two of them. Judith suffered greatly from a lack of self-confidence and tended to get pushed around by her bold friends. Nevertheless, these were two of her best friends and she tolerated their negative qualities in the hopes that the good would make an appearance every so often.
“Some day I am going to be the…ahhh…bestest…ahhh…greatest general ever, juuussst you girls wait and see,” stammered the progressively more inebriated Holofernes. “You see that sword, I am the best swordsmen you two would ever be lucky enough to see.”
Holofernes stumbled from out of his seat, weaving to the left and to the right as he walked over to get his sword.
“See look at how good I am with my sword.” Holofernes swung his sword around as he paced about the tent, almost losing his balance as well as the grip on his weapon several times.
“Sit down you big shot before you hurt someone,” scolded Abra. “Let’s finish this card game already. I am totally going to beat you,” she said with a cocky smile on her face.
Abra and Holofernes were different from Judith in a sense. The three of them had been friends for so long and were similar in many ways. However, Judith lacked the same boldness that Abra and Holofernes seemed to completely possess. Judith was the meekest of the three and was always easily coxed into doing things that were not of her own design.
Judith quietly started to chime into this discussion of future careers. “I want to be a model for a great painter some day. Maybe a painter like Caravaggio or Artemisia.”
“What,” Holofernes scoffed.
“Well…I think that’s what I would like to do. Dress up, be portrayed as someone completely different…than myself,” Judith replied.
“You could never be a model,” stated Holofernes.
“Why…why not?” she asked.
“Please, Judith, you don’t have the faintest clue what a model really does.”
“I…I don’t?”
“And…seriously…you might want to rethink your diet if you’re actually going to pursue being a model. You’re looking a little on the softer side.”
Then Abra finally decided to chime in. “Why the hell are you being so rude, Holofernes, you jackass?”
“Abra, I’m just telling her the truth, unlike you, who would sugar coat every thing for your poor, innocent friend, Judith.”
Abra turned to Judith and said to her under her breath, “Are you going to let him speak to you that way?”
“What?” responded Judith, with tears welling in her eyes and shame smeared all across her face.”
“I asked you if you are going to let him speak to you that way. You should stand up for yourself.”
“I…I should?” replied Judith.
“Yes goddamn it!” Abra said with her teeth grinding and her face completely tensed with furious passion. “You should make him sorry for what he said.”
Judith asked as she sniffled, “But how?”
“If I were you I would make him feel my pain, feel the pain physically. He says mean things to you all the time. Now it’s your turn. Slap him or something. Do it, just do something,” Abra insisted.
“I…I…” Judith stuttered quietly to her scheming friend. And then she started to look around the room for ideas of pay-back. Judith thought to herself about how mad and hurt Holofernes always made her feel. She glanced at him as he was now lounging on his bed chuckling to his-drunken-self; he was thinking he was so cleaver and had got her down for good. “Not any more,” Judith thought to herself.
She had become uncontrollably enraged. She swiftly grabbed Holofernes sword with a look of determination and rage in her eyes. She whipped around with the sword in her right hand and proceeded to attack Holofernes while he was lying helplessly on his bed.
“What are you doing?” screamed Abra.
“Getting my revenge! Help me!” cried Judith.
“Oh God,” gasped Abra.
“If you’re truly my friend, then help me.”
Knowing it was too late for Judith to turn back, as she had already started to strike Holofernes with his own sword, Abra rushed to restrain him. She couldn’t very well have both of her friends die from this situation (wasn’t she the one who suggested the revenge in the first place?).
“Hold his arms down,” Judith demanded. Suddenly the meekest one of their group was now the most aggressively demanding. Maybe there was something in the air of the night.
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