Dusk

Dusk

Madeline Willson

06-09-14

I don’t remember the last thing I saw before the blinding white walls of this hospital room. Waking up in a daze, I can’t seem to find the strength to lift my head from the pillow. To my left is a biohazard bin on the wall full of used needles. I don’t recall the familiar pinch of receiving one, but I can’t see how I could have avoided them. Everything is blurry, it seems as though my glass of ice water is in the middle of an earthquake. The voices coming toward my room sounded as if they were shouting through the empty halls of a school, echoing inside my head. As their words became clearer, the fear inside my chest started growing.

                “Did the tests prove what was in her bloodstream?” queried my Doctor.

                “There were foreign drugs in there,” the nurse replied, “It’s a miracle she’s this responsive.”

They were now at the foot of my bed, smiling.

                “Well good morning,” giggled my nurse, “You’ve had quite the wild night. Could you tell us your name, sweetie?”

                “Nora Peterson” I struggled.

The nurse rushed off. She hadn’t informed my parents yet, so I assume that’s where she was going.

                “Very good,” said the Doctor. “My name is Doctor Anderson. You’re in very good hands, don’t worry about a thing.”

                “What happened to me?” I muttered.

                “We’ll discuss that when your parents arrive. Just rest for a while.” said Dr. Anderson.

The world was coming back into focus. Looking to my right I noticed an IV drip leading to my arm. And next to it, a similar bag full of my blood, flowing thickly to around the same area.

Just then my parents came bursting through the doors. Both Mom and Dad looked harried, in their pajamas.

                “Are you alright?” cried my mother.

                “Ya.” I said, “Mom what happened to me?”

                “We should discuss why you’re here, Nora,” Interrupted my Doctor.

My parents sat holding hands beside my bed.

                “Do you remember where you were last night, Nora?” he asked.

                “Oh, I was studying.” I said, looking down.

                “Well that seems to have been quite the study session.” Chortled Dr. Anderson.

                “Fine. Anna and I visited a party at the beach at dusk. We didn’t drink any alcohol.” I tried to convince my parents. “I don’t understand, so why am I here?”

                “Your blood work showed quite the cocktail of drugs. Are you positive you didn’t try anything new last night?” he asked.

                “No!” I cried. “Mom, I would never!”

                “I believe you.” She replied. “Will she be alright? What happened?”

                “I have no doubt that you will make a full recovery.” He encouraged. “It’s very common these days for kids to try drugging each other. The ones in your system weren’t too harmful, you’ll be fine. Stay here for the night then you can head home tomorrow.”

                “Yes, thank you, Doctor.” My Dad shook his hand and Dr. Anderson left the room.

I spent the next hour in my parents’ arms, all of us crying, knowing how lucky I am.

Death of a Salesman, Journal Entry 1

Death of a Salesman

Laven, English 11, Journal Entry 1

Method of Connection: Personal Connection

Madeline Willson 05-02-14

                In the play “Death of a Salesman,” the main character Willy Loman seems to be suffering from a form of dementia. He is beginning to lose himself in another time in his mind, and talk to people from his past. Family and friends become confused as Willy starts to see things and blur the line between past and present. I have a vague connection to this, in that my Grandma is beginning to show early signs of dementia. She confuses my sister and me with each other and our cousins. This often leads to confusion as names and stories get mixed up. My Grandma has four sons including my Dad. They are very similar looking, and more often than not lately, the names get confused in her mind. Recently, I met her downtown after an exam and she said she was expecting my Dad for coffee in a few minutes. I nodded and went along with it. Later, walking back towards school, I called my Dad to make sure everything was alright. See, my Dad was at work for at least another three hours and I knew he wouldn’t leave the restaurant for anything less than an emergency. As it turns out, Grandma had mistaken Dad for his retired brother. As I talked on the phone with my Dad, we came to the realization that Grandma is in fact losing a bit of her wits. Although not as severe as Willy’s case of dementia, my Grandmother’s memory loss and confusion is definitely comparable to his situation.

Every Picture Tells a Story

Every Picture Tells a Story

04-25-14

Madeline Willson

            I heard from friends that our English class will be walking to the art gallery to view the current show called Styx n Stones. I was unimpressed at first, seeing as I had just visited this exhibit. As I walked out the front doors, I realized how art shows are like taking a trip abroad. No matter how long you spend there, you can never see everything on the first visit. It’s nice to take a break and come back again with fresh eyes, to take in more of what the art has to offer.

            Walking along Ellis Street, I overheard that most of our class had never been here before. I was a bit disappointed to hear this, but honestly not surprised. I suspected that many of my classmates would think this would be lame. Flowers were popping up between cracks in the pavement and pink cherry blossoms were opening up to say hello. Vibrant yellows and greens were showing themselves on bushes around me. Worms, who had wandered out to soak up last night’s rain, were exposing themselves to hungry pigeons.

            Travelling this street, I’m reminded of parking along here during Peachfest with my family, when other surrounding parking spots were taken by families excited for the annual event. As I glance about, the urban gardens that seem to be popping up remind me of similar projects going on in Vancouver. It made me happy to see, they are such a positive addition to a city, happy, healthy, and helping those who need a distraction.

            As we reached the gallery, Mr. Laven met us at the door, discussing expectations and reminding us of our manners. When I stepped inside I remembered all the times I’ve been to openings here. In the main showroom, I’m drawn to a piece called Breaking Free From the Bully Conundrum, by artist Dianne Bersea. It’s a piece on four canvases, painted in dark oils. Her thick brush strokes seemed to portray a release of pent up anger. The top left canvas was of a rocking horse covered in shadows, which represent a difficult childhood. The bottom has harsh words splayed across the canvas. On the right, was a hand with string tied to the fingers that lead to the bottom image. The strings used to be attached to three silhouettes, but were now cut and frayed. The three silhouettes were of a man and two girls who I interpreted as her father, sister and her. They are painted with deep tonal shadows which, to me, show a sort of anger and embarrassment. Art is so important to society. It’s a healthy outlet for one’s feelings, while being able to beautifully display messages to others.

            Strolling back to the school at a more leisurely pace, I found myself thinking about the beauty of art galleries. How impressive it is that so many different messages, works from artists all around, can be put in one area, and together convey such an exact message. This was an intense exhibit and I’m glad I had the chance to experience it twice.

Protest Poem

In the lobby they sit,

Who will get the promotion?

Final interviews,

Are full of emotion.

Woman and man,

They have equal credentials.

Resumes in hand,

Both are full of potential.

From his office walks the boss,

It's the man whose hand he shakes.

As expected she faced her loss,

Walks away, while the new job he takes.

Sadly these were foreseen feelings,

This boss was not the first offender.

She has reached her glass ceiling,

Turned down due to gender.

Sonnet XVIII by William Shakespeare, Parody by Maddie Willson

Shall I compare thee to my cat Gizmo?

Thou art more dopey and more lean.

Rough winds do knock you off the window,

And your fur hath much less a silky sheen.

Sometimes too bright your yellow eyes do shine,

And often is his black complexion dimmed.

And every glare from glare and every whine,

Perhaps because he got his little nails trimmed.

But thy eternal coolness shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that hair thou ow'st,

Nor shall any cat try to take your place,

Though in eternal cat breath stench thou grow'st,

So long as mic can run and fish can swim,

So long lives you, and this makes me grin.

Ode to Button by Maddie Willson

Ode to Button

When I first held you,

You chewed my on my buttons and frolicked about.

Hence your name,

 Button.

Just a baby, you hardly fit your skin,

A silky little puppy,

Brought to your new home.

Your ears are so long and floppy,

Tongue twice the length of your head,

You howl, growl and bark.

You rip through your toys daily,

Except pretzel, wubba, and kong.

Pretzel you've had since you came home,

He holds strong yet slightly broken.

Sleeping on your bed,

You snore louder than any man.

Your kennel is your home,

You’ll make sure that cat never enters.

You will wait for hours to see Gizmo,

Race around the corner of that couch,

If only to chase him,

Make sure he knows he’s not welcome.

Your fur is so white, flecked with black,

We should have called you snoopy.

Your gimpy little leg,

Damaged from birth,

I guess that comes along with being part Basset.

Limping along like a champion,

You will never let it hinder you.

Button, your tiny hairs weave into anything and everything,

Making it so we can't wear anything black,

Unless we want to look like crazy cat ladies covered in hair.

It is alright Button,

Choosing you over your poop-eating sister,

You’re our baby dog,

And we wouldn't take you any other way.

Philosophy of Identity by Maddie Willson

Alone no man can survive,

For a day, for a week one can manage.

 Love and compassion is needed to thrive,

A whole life alone and there’s sure to be damage.

Human touch,

And the voices of others.

We need these too much,

Like love from our sisters and mothers.

To say you’re affected by nothing,

I must say I believe you are bluffing.

Sometimes we all need a friend,

I promise it’s not just a trend.

Dad

Sitting in his big brown chair,

He quietly recalls his favorite stories,

I see his soft blue eyes and fading hair,

Dad laughs and smiles at his past glories.

 

The great big ship the captain let him steer,

After two long weeks in blinding fog,

Soon it cleared; deckhand pouring a beer,

He grins, absentmindedly patting the dog.

 

He tells of times when I was a child,

His baby girl fast asleep on his lap,

I would roll down his legs, fall to his feet piled,

He retrieves memories from his mind like a map.

 

He repeats the same stories at least once a year,

It’s all alright, these I love to hear,

“I’m the luckiest Dad” he often tells me,

I love him so much, he’s the best there could be.

Passion

     My passions in life are what have guided me in making decisions, and have taken me along the path that I walk today. Having these desires to follow my passions have gotten me through hard times and allowed me to reach my goals. Defining the person I am today, and who I will be in the future are my three main passions, the search to find beauty in all, the glorious idea of a true love, and the thirst for knowledge. 

     I seek to find the beauty in things for I believe even the most wilted of flowers has had a beautiful past. In every difficult situation I find myself in, I make it my duty to uncover a brighter side. If only I can find that beauty, I know I can handle the situation and mold the darkness into a work of art. In doing so, I believe that nothing can stand in my way, for nowhere is there a tunnel that I can't find my way out of.

     I have been so lucky, in the way that I was raised in the most loving of homes. My parents share a love so deep, held so strongly for so long, that I now have the greatest desire to find a love as beautiful as theirs. My parents compassion for each other is such an inspiration to me. Just knowing that in this world, a love so pure truly can flourish gives me such hope. The proof of their love has given me the passion of believing in true love, and keeps me going everyday. 

     Many believe that the only way to achieve high grades is to study and work as hard as you can. Although I too believe this to a degree, I know that this is not the only way. In my life I have realized that I have a great thirst for knowledge. The idea of filling my brain with new information is exciting. There is so much in this world to be learned, and my passion for consuming as much of it as I can leads me on a path of higher education and new experiences. With this passion, I aspire to attend post-secondary and go on as many life altering trips as I can.

     In the foundation of who I am there are many more building blocks than what I have described here. It is these three passions, though, that really drive me to be the person I am today. Through all my life, searching for beauty in dark times, the idea of experiencing true love, and educating my self as much as I can, have sculpted me into the girl I am today.