JTR - Jack the Ripper

I look at each day with trepidation and a strange hope. I know that each day I live – each and every second that I breathe – it brings me one step closer to death. I cannot run back to the safety of the past, for that door has long since closed for me, never to reopen. I fear death like any other person. No one knows what waits for us on the other side. We have our beliefs, but how do we know? Do we really have any proof of what’s there? No. We can only accept what we have been given by people who have lived thousands of years before us.

We all try to hide from death. We scurry away from it whenever we sense it getting near to us. We cry whenever someone dear is taken from us. We’re happy that it is not us that are being taken. Then we feel guilty. But that sense of guilt soon passes, and we are back to being happy about still being here. However, somewhere in the backs of our minds is the thought that the next day, the next hour, the next second, the next breath could be our last. We suppress that with as much might as we can muster, for we do not want to think about our own death. We know the eminent and figure why dwell on something that is destined to happen anyway? Because we are a morbid people.

Death is not something to be learned. It cannot be taught. It just is. We cannot learn by doing it. We cannot learn from watching it. We must either die or become Death itself. That is how I learned of its mighty power – the ability that it has to strike fear into the hearts of so many. The ability to shatter the lives of people. The ability to make the orphaned, the childless, the widowed, the broken. To hold perhaps the world in the palm of one’s hand while one laughs, and, just perhaps, cheats death in the process.

It is how I am still here. What better way to hide from death than to become it?

I can walk the streets and appear just as normal as the person right next to me. They wouldn’t suspect that I could break them in a matter of seconds. They would never know that their pleas for mercy – for life- would only add to the great thrill that courses throughout my body when I bring the knife down. They could never guess that it only adds to the pleasure that I shudder with when the first drops of their pungent sweet blood splatters my forehead. For once, I am in control of something. I decide who lives and who dies. Me. I decide. I choose. I am in control. In power.

But I speak with an old man’s vigor. I find it greatly ironic, verily, for after the most gruesome killings that the greater London area has ever seen, I myself am now laying on a deathbed. Most of my victims never  had this… this… ability? Is that the word that I so search for? Perhaps. Continuing. Only one was found in a bed. She was the only one I killed indoors. The other four were all in the night in the dark, fog crowed allies. Of course there were others. I killed more than just a mere five. But those were just practice. Yes, practice. I couldn’t have my – we shall call them masterpieces - masterpieces in a harried state, now could I? Of course not. They must be just right. I had a point to prove.

They were all whores. Why be gentle about the point? They sold their bodies for money. Of course, it was how they made their living, but I believe that anyone can make a respectable living. They just could not – rather would not – do things the proper way. They were cheep. They spread the disease of the loins to many, who, in turn, gave it to families and friends. And it’s not like they wouldn’t die soon anyway. It could be from anything – disease, murder at the hands of another. Anything. At least at my hands, their deaths were quick, and the only pain was when the knife first entered their throats.

I still remember the first one I approached. It was not the first time I went whoring. I had taken several before. I knew what to expect. Still that did not change the fact that my heart leapt into the throws of my throat and my stomach tightened to the point of near pain when she said, “Make ‘ou feel good, dearie?” My palms were sweating so badly that I feared I may drop the knife and scare the harlot into alerting the local constable. Then everything would be over before it even began. But I held onto the knife. All I was able to muster was a dull nod.

“First time, dearie? Well, don’t ‘ou worry. I’ll make ‘ou feel real good. Coins first, ‘ough, ducky. Coins first,” she said. I fished six-pence out of my pocket and held it up. She smiled. “Follow me, ducky,” she said, and I did. The ally was dark. The only sound was from the clicking of our heels on the cobblestone of the filthy Whitechaple streets. The only movement was from the swirling mists and our shadows.

She stopped midway through the dark ally and lifted her ruffled skirts. The knife I would soon be wielding against this… creature was still palmed in my hand hidden by the folds of my cape.

“Coo!” she yelped suddenly then laughed. “’Ow do you expec’ to see anythin’ from ‘ay over ‘ere? Come ‘ere, ducky, come ‘ere.” I came closer, the hand holding the knife sliding deafly from its spot. I saw her eyes go wide and her mouth drop, but before she was ever able to voice her scream, I had cut her throat. Her blood bathed her body red. Her gurgled breaths soon died with the light in her eyes. It was then I went to work

I tore open the bodice of her gown, exposing her scared breasts. Obviously, I was not the first monster to get to her. Several others have already tried their sodomizing ways with this… girl. I waved all thoughts of taking this creature; she was already dead. Instead I wielded my knife yet again and made the traditional Y incision used when performing an autopsy. I located her heart, stomach, intestines, kidneys, and several other organs. Her intestines I cut out and placed around her body. I also cut her heart out. I wasn’t sure what I would do with it.

My own heart was racing and I was sure any of those who passed by thinking we were engaged in coupling would hear it. I was sure it would give me away. It would either be that, or the manic laughter that was building in my throat.

By the time I was finished, I was covered in the whore’s blood.     

Ghost stories: The same strength all over the world

I agree that the women in “The House of the Spirits” were all very strong in their own rights and ways. Clara actually reminded me of my momma’s momma – we called her Mum. Mum was always the strong one, and she knew exactly what to do in just about any situation. Mum was definitely the glue that held the family together, and I feel that Clara was the same way. I think Foreman really hit the nail right on the head with that one --  especially when it comes to talking about the strength of the women.

Blanca, it seemed, was independent and strong-willed, and that’s what I think made her strong. She knew what she wanted and she went for it. She put everything she had into her life – very passionate. But she still knew when to humble herself – I don’t know if that’s the word that I want or not, but she knows when to back off a little… like when Esteban when he wanted her to marry the French aristocrat. Blanca knew that he wouldn’t exactly be happy, but she still did so because it’s what her father wanted of her. But it seemed that she did things in the marriage on her own terms. She was quiet in the house and very pliant – much like Clara to an extent – but once she found out what her husband was doing in that secret room, she was out of there and right back home. And Clara knew in her own way. (And strangely enough, Mum always knew what was going on in the family, even though she lived two hours away from Columbus. Strange, ne? To be honest, I think that, because of Foreman’s thought on the strength of the women, the family in Allende’s novel is very similar to my family; we’re Italian, and we have tempers and we’re passionate about love and life and death.)

I also thought it was interesting how Foreman made the connection to “Beloved”. I knew there were similarities between Latin American Magical Realism and African American Magical Realism thanks to the choice-book Kelly read (which happened to be “Beloved”), but I never realized how deep they run together. I thought about it more after I read Foreman, and I mean I really started to think about it. Clara can see spirits; Beloved can be seen by her family. I don’t know; they just seem a lot alike. (And it’s been a while since I’ve read “Beloved” for myself, so all the details are a little fuzzy for me.) 

Likewise, I never really noticed the fact that most of the Latin American Magical Realism and the African American Magical Realism had the same vein of memory in them. Seems silly that I’ve never noticed it before, but I just have as I read the opening to Foreman. It was like a Frisbee coming towards me and hitting me in the forehead saying, “Open your eyes!!” I can’t remember if I’ve ever read Morrison’s “Song of Solomon” before, but I really see the correlation between “Beloved” and “The House of the Spirits” in that Clara’s notebooks are used to keep the family alive in print, and Beloved herself is used to keep her own memory alive. It seems really obvious, and I feel kind of silly for not seeing it until Foreman handed it to me on a silver platter.  

As kind of a random aside, Rosa the Beautiful kind of reminded me a little of the birth of Buddah, because Buddha had huge earlobes, a knot of bone on top of his head, golden skin, and flowers sprouted out wherever he stepped. Again, it’s the magical and the real combined to create something mystical and wonderful and strange all at once, and Foreman really points that out in her essay. Until I really sat down and thought about it, I never realized how much Magical Realism was used in all parts of the world and in all things that the world has – such as religion. It’s neat and strange and interesting.

Women as Men in Shakespeare: The Ability to Deceive

In today’s culture, people don’t think too terribly much of it when women dress like men or men like women. Not to say that women want to be men or men want to be women – though at times that is the case – rather that one gender will wear the pants or clothes of the opposite gender. And it doesn’t seem to really bother people in today’s society. However, back in the day of Shakespeare, women were expected to wear their gowns and petticoats while it was the men who could prance freely in their hose and doublets. Shakespeare the playwright used women dressing in drag several times throughout his works to both amuse the audience and further the play in a plethora of ways ranging from allowing the women to carry on with their journey un-accosted to their destination while playing cupid (as with Roslind in “As You Like It”), or freeing their lords and husbands from some crazy contract (like Portia in “The Merchant of Venice”).

These, it should be noted, are just two examples of places where Shakespeare has his female characters dress as males. The most noted and longest stretch for female-to-male drag is Viola in the play “Twelfth Night” where she spends most of the performance dressed as a man. However, because the roles of Roslind and Portia are no less important, they are smaller and easier to deal with.

The fact that this enables the female characters to move freely and show their intelligence is widely overlook and/or taken for granted. The time of Shakespeare was when women should be “seen and not heard”, regardless of the fact the monarch was, herself, a woman – hence the most powerful woman in all of England. The opinions of women were still thought less of. Had Portia not come up with the idea to dress as men in “The Merchant of Venice”, she would have probably been laughed out of court, her husband’s friend destitute or dead, and the whole lot of them might have been banished. Instead, she says to her maid:

They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit

That they shall think we are accomplished

With that we lack. I’ll hold thee any wager

When we are both accoutered like young men,

I’ll prove the prettier fellow of the two,

And wear my dagger with the braver grace,

And speak between the change of a man and boy… (MoV: III.v.60-66)

Portia is able to see the benefit of dressing as a man to go into the court and save both of their husband’s and Antonio, the friend of her husband. It was a very risky thing to do, impersonating a professional of the law as well as a man, but it paid off. When it comes to love, perhaps Shakespeare is saying, no risk is too big and inventive ideas will get one far.

Roslind, likewise, is actually facing banishment from her uncle, the Duke. It is her cousin Celia who is the one who comes up with the idea of heading into the woods, yet Roslind is hesitant, and rightly so, for she says, “Alas, what danger will it be to us,/ Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!/ Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold” (AYLI, I.iii.108-10). And Roslind is right: the men they encounter, when they see that the women are without companions, will be more likely to take their virginity than their gold and gems. But, of course, her gentle coz has yet another idea: they’ll dress as men! (AYLI I.iii.111-14) But Roslind, ever sensible, thought it would be better if she dressed the man, for “I am more than common tall,/ That I did suit me all points like a man?” (AYLI I.iii.115-16). And so, dressing as men, they’re able to make their way through the forest without be accosted, encounter Orlando, Roslind’s crush, and see Celia’s uncle, Duke Senior, who lives there in the forest.

Shakespeare, it’s fair to say then, uses women dressing as men both as a plot device and for comic reasons. While the comic reasons are more prevalently seen in “Twelfth Night” with Viola, “Merchant of Venice” and “As You Like It” utilize female-to-male drag to move the story along and allow the female characters, Portia and Roslind, to move freely in their actions, intelligence, and personality.   

 

Ceremony of Silence

Nixon was born in California in the year 1913. His records at Whittier College and the Duke University Law School were spotless. He married Patricia Ryan in 1940 and had two daughters. During World War II, he served in the Navy as a lieutenant commander in the Pacific. Upon leaving the service, he entered into politics and in 1950 won a Senate seat. Not long after that, General Eisenhower chose 39-year-old Nixon to be his running mate. His election as president in 1968 led to the climax and ultimate downfall of his political career.

Nixon promised to reunite a country divided over the folly of war. He promised to pull out of Vietnam and to improve relationships with the U.S.S.R. and China. Little did he know that a scandal of his own would not only divide this country more, but also lead to his resignation from the Presidency.

The whole thing began with legal wire taps. Someone was leaking information out to the press, and Nixon wanted to know who it was. Then things began to grow steadily worse. Power, like in most cases, is a grand thing to have. Those who have power will do anything to keep it. They usually become paranoid. Nixon was no exception. The legal wire taps soon became illegal. Paranoia was slowly creeping in on the most powerful man in the world.

Nixon wanted to find what the Democrats were planning. His plan was simple enough: have a couple ex-CIA agents break into the Watergate hotel and find what they were up to. These men were not as skilled as Nixon would have probably liked. They were caught and campaign money that was found on them was traced back to Nixon. To make matters worse, Nixon proceeded to lie about the whole thing, denying any knowledge or involvement. Anyone who said otherwise was fired or asked to step down.

The truth eventually came out. Nixon confessed to the people that he lied to. The very same people that trusted him. The place and title of “President” no longer held the same regard that it once did. Nixon had defiled it. Still, however, some say that Nixon had nothing to do with the great Watergate scandal. Maybe they’re right.

Paranoia is probably the greatest leading factor in what drove this man to do as he did. It was wrong. But, because it was wrong doesn’t make it alright to publicize it and try to make it ok. So, that just leaves one question: why is this here and what purpose dose it serve if not to try to explain away things?     

Jeffy’s Doll?

Born as the son of a planter and surveyor in 1743, Thomas Jefferson had no idea as to the role he would play in the formation of this country.

Although lanky, he was refined and genteel nonetheless, and in 1772 married widow Martha Wayles Skelton. He was seemed the “silent member” of the Virginia House of Burgess and the Continental Congress, for it was with his pen and not his voice with which he often spoke. At the age of 33, he began to write the Declaration of Independence, the very document which led to the birth of this country. Aside from the Declaration, Jefferson is most well known for writing a bill which allowed religious freedom; it was passed in 1786.

In 1785, Jefferson became the successor of Benjamin Franklin as the minister to France. He resigned in 1793 as Secretary of State due to conflicts with Alexander Hamilton. Also, due to increasing tensions, two parties began to form, and Jefferson slowly became the leader of the republicans. In 1796, Jefferson became close to winning the presidential election and became vice president. Later, Jefferson assumed Presidency, and the problem with France had passed. While he cut many things, he was able to reduce national debt by at least a third. He was able to get new land from the French leader Napoleon while keeping the county from the Napolonic wars.

He died on the birthday of this nation, July 4, 1826, at the ripe old age of 83.

It has been 180 years, and, in light of attempts to ignore or other wise explain things away, even more evidence mounts as to the 38 year long romance between Thomas Jefferson and a slave which he acquired as inheritance via his wife, a Sally Hemings, continues to grow.

Sally was only nine when Jefferson’s wife died, leaving the 39 –year-old alone and full of grief. The passage of time and the ability to serve his country helped somewhat, as well as a trip to France. Normality returned once more. A whooping-cough epidemic, which broke out in Virginia, forced Jefferson to call his daughter Polly to France, accompanied by Sally. Abigail Addams knew this was a mistake and begged that Jefferson send Sally away. He refused, and an affair broke between the two. Sally only returned to the States at Jefferson’s call when he promised her children freedom at age 21. Sally returned, glowing and quite pregnant. She supposedly bore him seven children between 1789 and 1805, though no records were ever kept. Several slaves disappeared from records after their 21^st birthday. Sally herself was also nonexistent in records. Jefferson felt it was the only way he could protect her. Sally died not long after Jefferson in 1835.

They suffered because of their love for one another. Jefferson’s administration suffered and Sally faced taunts at the hands of such notables as John Quincy Adams, who dubbed her as “Monticellian Sally” able to “breed a block of slaves for stock.” Wanting to spare Sally from more pain, Jefferson kept quiet. This threatened his administration more; sadness once again reared its ugly head when Polly died suddenly. His other daughter, Martha, tried to protect them as well, dispelling rumors that Sally had given her father children. Media readily took to this, as they did not wish to believe that such a great man could do as he did.

Current research, as appeared in Nature magazine, November 1998, uses strong evidence, such as DNA testing, to prove that at least one child, a one Eston, belonged to the Jefferson-Sally union. Some say, however, that another man in the Jefferson family could be the father to Eston, but the descendants of Heming contend this is not the case, point out Jefferson’s red hair and freckles, as well as several other Jeffersonlike features, in Eston.

Many opinions of this so called conspiracy float from ear to ear and head to head and have been jumbled in the process. It may never be known whether or not Jefferson did father the Hemings children, even with DNA testing. There were over 20 other Jefferson men living in the state of Virginia at the time; any one of them could have fathered the children through an illicit affair. This could very well be the case; however, it is very unlikely. Perhaps one day technology will advance even more, but, until then, the outcome will not be known, and the topic still open for debate.

While this may have ruined Jefferson’s reputation in the past, currently it serves to help him somewhat, for the so called negative brings to light the more positive things the man had been able to accomplish in his 83 years of life.