Post by Swith on Jan 31, 2017 18:47:58 GMT -4
NOMINATION 1: The Contents of Chancellor Eberhardt's Journal
Nominated by: Imperial Idaho
Notes by Imperial Idaho: "This post shows a glimpse of the young life of Chancellor Eberhardt of Freedonia, a republic in the Great Plains and parts of the Northwest. While many think that such an influential person would have a warm and cheerful childhood to come out with the skills to be a national leader, as you read through the journal it becomes evident that its not true. It shows that even those with the most messed up lives can still come out to be someone great."
The first page is completely blank, both sides, and the writing starts on the second. The first words "This is my writing." The blunt obviousness of a child. Through the first few pages the excitement basically pulses through the pages. Eberhardt recalls preschool, his first day, and the incredulity at the concept of reading. He would stay behind once the day is up, just long enough for no one to notice, and be tutored-finding in this a love. Today, he writes, he first was taught the use of the pen, and he marvels at the eternality of the words he inscribes.
The writings continue, and are much as expected, a pattern begins to emerge. Eberhardt's writing is focused highly inward. He speaks nothing of his parents, and little of other persons. It is a journal of his discovery, but a journal of his discovery on his own. Persons show up from time to time, of course, but there is little focus, nor often, even, names given.
Some twenty pages in, a twist. Several pages are missing, torn, and some scorched. Apparently it had met someone it did not like.
A year passes, then two. Eberhardt is going into first grade, now, beginning to put himself into the realm of reason. He marvels at the assortment of items in the lunchroom, and bitterly mourns that he cannot have it. The form is not filled out. Pride is the culprit.
The writing begins to move in cycles. Long essays, detailing the most random of details, full experiences, pages for a day-then scrawls, a few words, here and there, hastily scrabbled, slowly, but surely, lengthening again. It soon becomes clear that this item is something that Eberhardt hides.
More years pass. He begins to age, and a spot of some joy appears-a sister. Descriptions of his tiny home begin to show up where none had been before, and slowly, the focus shifts from his purely academic focus, to an interpersonal one. He describes lovingly caring for her, until it becomes clear that such is not an action he takes, but a responsibility put on him-yet one he bears gladly.
Eleven years old now, his sister a toddler. Middle school, he begins to grow, fill out, and he begins to come more into confidence. Here the descriptions of his father pop up, now and then. He has gained some kind of courage, it seems, and he relays what he can. An undercurrent, not of love, but of commitment. Young Robert feels a need to connect, a duty, almost, but in the vaguest of terms, the lack of connection always comes about.
Eleven years old. The stocks fall, and his writings become sporadic again. Something has changed. When written, the letters themselves shake, as if with great difficulty. The pages miss. He speaks little of school now, though still much of his sister.
A resolution. November 2, 2001. His birthday, and a foul one. The first hints of what happens, a glass bottle, stolen, kept. An icon of power, almost, a feeling that he now possesses something of worth.
It is soon lost. The item taken, destroyed-and his fears begin to mount. He talks now of preparation. He worries for himself, finds a shard, holds it tight.
The climax. The last few pages. Robert Eberhardt is twelve years old, and he has ceased his obscure style in favor of a cold bluntness chilling for such an age.
He describes, for once, a day, a full one. March 15, 2002. He describes his rising, dressing his sister, leading her off to daycare, before dashing for his school. He describes how he moves through the day, flits between classes, how others seek to engage, but he denies them. Always focused on the self, fingers fumbling about. He goes on for pages as to feelings at a single moment.
Then, he returns home, and the prose turns to action. His father returns, enraged. The process is formulaic. Eberhardt attempts to placate, being struck aside. Such is normal, but this time, it does not end there. He seeks a new target, and his mother puts forward the daughter as sacrifice.
A haze, a flurry of fists, and he describes the feeling of her blood on his hands.
There is almost a palpable pause after that.
One final action of the day. The patriarch, vomiting into the alley, perhaps unaware, at all, of what happened. Young Eberhardt, coming to him-Young Eberhardt, wedging that precious sharp of bottle down his throat.
The entries are not regular after that. Katerina had been hidden. Almost a ghost already, nowhere known, nowhere came, she became one. His mother, disappearing, dying, it seemed. Forms came by, sometimes. The boy kept up the illusion. No one would check home. No one would care. The log ends without comment as he drops out of his school. Sixteen, enough, perhaps, to chart a course from the shadows of his past.
In newer ink, on the final page, a more mature hand has penned a small note, to which the photograph is pinned.
Faces of stone. How I wished I could be them. How Katerina longed for them. Amazed at the life from rock. I stand numbed, a cruel inversion, rock from life. Such is how we immortalize men. Carve them into nature. We believe that if the simulacrum of their visage continues to gaze, that they still remain. It is hope. It is foolish. It is the arrogance of man to think that, even in domination, they are complete. The greatest conqueror is humbled still by time and nature. It always returns. It is not powerful, but a coward. Greatness brought down not through strength, but corruption. The mark is left clear and bright, a castle's bastion in glory, but sees no battle, rots from the inside. So too, will it be here. She will never see the faces, they will never see her-and soon, none shall see them again. Life from stone is a crueler trick than is thought. We seek permanence, and instead see only inevitability. We see that the strongest do not survive in their glory, but, in their moment of triumph, spiral into nothing but decay.
From the inside is where it comes. I will be the agent for her. The cruel faces, the mockeries of the joy she had expressed, fall, life from stone killed by stone from life. It is just.
Nominated by: Imperial Idaho
Notes by Imperial Idaho: "This post shows a glimpse of the young life of Chancellor Eberhardt of Freedonia, a republic in the Great Plains and parts of the Northwest. While many think that such an influential person would have a warm and cheerful childhood to come out with the skills to be a national leader, as you read through the journal it becomes evident that its not true. It shows that even those with the most messed up lives can still come out to be someone great."
ENTRY BEST HEARTWARMING/TEAR-JERKER SINGLE POST
Eberhardt's Journal
The first page is completely blank, both sides, and the writing starts on the second. The first words "This is my writing." The blunt obviousness of a child. Through the first few pages the excitement basically pulses through the pages. Eberhardt recalls preschool, his first day, and the incredulity at the concept of reading. He would stay behind once the day is up, just long enough for no one to notice, and be tutored-finding in this a love. Today, he writes, he first was taught the use of the pen, and he marvels at the eternality of the words he inscribes.
The writings continue, and are much as expected, a pattern begins to emerge. Eberhardt's writing is focused highly inward. He speaks nothing of his parents, and little of other persons. It is a journal of his discovery, but a journal of his discovery on his own. Persons show up from time to time, of course, but there is little focus, nor often, even, names given.
Some twenty pages in, a twist. Several pages are missing, torn, and some scorched. Apparently it had met someone it did not like.
A year passes, then two. Eberhardt is going into first grade, now, beginning to put himself into the realm of reason. He marvels at the assortment of items in the lunchroom, and bitterly mourns that he cannot have it. The form is not filled out. Pride is the culprit.
The writing begins to move in cycles. Long essays, detailing the most random of details, full experiences, pages for a day-then scrawls, a few words, here and there, hastily scrabbled, slowly, but surely, lengthening again. It soon becomes clear that this item is something that Eberhardt hides.
More years pass. He begins to age, and a spot of some joy appears-a sister. Descriptions of his tiny home begin to show up where none had been before, and slowly, the focus shifts from his purely academic focus, to an interpersonal one. He describes lovingly caring for her, until it becomes clear that such is not an action he takes, but a responsibility put on him-yet one he bears gladly.
Eleven years old now, his sister a toddler. Middle school, he begins to grow, fill out, and he begins to come more into confidence. Here the descriptions of his father pop up, now and then. He has gained some kind of courage, it seems, and he relays what he can. An undercurrent, not of love, but of commitment. Young Robert feels a need to connect, a duty, almost, but in the vaguest of terms, the lack of connection always comes about.
Eleven years old. The stocks fall, and his writings become sporadic again. Something has changed. When written, the letters themselves shake, as if with great difficulty. The pages miss. He speaks little of school now, though still much of his sister.
A resolution. November 2, 2001. His birthday, and a foul one. The first hints of what happens, a glass bottle, stolen, kept. An icon of power, almost, a feeling that he now possesses something of worth.
It is soon lost. The item taken, destroyed-and his fears begin to mount. He talks now of preparation. He worries for himself, finds a shard, holds it tight.
The climax. The last few pages. Robert Eberhardt is twelve years old, and he has ceased his obscure style in favor of a cold bluntness chilling for such an age.
He describes, for once, a day, a full one. March 15, 2002. He describes his rising, dressing his sister, leading her off to daycare, before dashing for his school. He describes how he moves through the day, flits between classes, how others seek to engage, but he denies them. Always focused on the self, fingers fumbling about. He goes on for pages as to feelings at a single moment.
Then, he returns home, and the prose turns to action. His father returns, enraged. The process is formulaic. Eberhardt attempts to placate, being struck aside. Such is normal, but this time, it does not end there. He seeks a new target, and his mother puts forward the daughter as sacrifice.
A haze, a flurry of fists, and he describes the feeling of her blood on his hands.
There is almost a palpable pause after that.
One final action of the day. The patriarch, vomiting into the alley, perhaps unaware, at all, of what happened. Young Eberhardt, coming to him-Young Eberhardt, wedging that precious sharp of bottle down his throat.
The entries are not regular after that. Katerina had been hidden. Almost a ghost already, nowhere known, nowhere came, she became one. His mother, disappearing, dying, it seemed. Forms came by, sometimes. The boy kept up the illusion. No one would check home. No one would care. The log ends without comment as he drops out of his school. Sixteen, enough, perhaps, to chart a course from the shadows of his past.
In newer ink, on the final page, a more mature hand has penned a small note, to which the photograph is pinned.
Faces of stone. How I wished I could be them. How Katerina longed for them. Amazed at the life from rock. I stand numbed, a cruel inversion, rock from life. Such is how we immortalize men. Carve them into nature. We believe that if the simulacrum of their visage continues to gaze, that they still remain. It is hope. It is foolish. It is the arrogance of man to think that, even in domination, they are complete. The greatest conqueror is humbled still by time and nature. It always returns. It is not powerful, but a coward. Greatness brought down not through strength, but corruption. The mark is left clear and bright, a castle's bastion in glory, but sees no battle, rots from the inside. So too, will it be here. She will never see the faces, they will never see her-and soon, none shall see them again. Life from stone is a crueler trick than is thought. We seek permanence, and instead see only inevitability. We see that the strongest do not survive in their glory, but, in their moment of triumph, spiral into nothing but decay.
From the inside is where it comes. I will be the agent for her. The cruel faces, the mockeries of the joy she had expressed, fall, life from stone killed by stone from life. It is just.
