Richard c carpenters essay
After donning a clownish mask that had been discarded on the floor by the departed lover, Michael hacks his screaming sister to shreds before enacting his own post-climax exit down the staircase and out the front door. Outside the house, he encounters his parents emerging from the family car, and his father calls out to him by name as he approaches the street. I was maybe ten years old when my father took me to the video store during one of the weekends when I was staying with him at the old house where we had all lived before the divorce, and we came home with a VHS copy of Halloween.
I remember wandering the aisles alone while my father waited in the car, nursing one of the beers that he brought with him for even the shortest of drives.
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Their covers featured eyes glowing in perfect darkness, or headlights in the distance on an otherwise empty street, or a dark house on a hilltop beneath a stormy sky with just the uppermost attic window glowing bright, as if to say that the only person inside was to be kept hidden upstairs, perpetually out of sight.
I instantly became obsessed with Halloween. The dread-inducing and methodically paced score quickly became the soundtrack to my own life, and I would hum its provocative notes as I walked or cycled through the streets and sidewalks of a small town that was to me a direct facsimile of Haddonfield, Illinois, where the future victims of Michael Myers sauntered home from school clutching textbooks and discussing their plans for the night.
I could see myself in the universe of Halloween , recognizing its contours for the shape my own life had taken. I grew up a few hours south of fictional Haddonfield in the suburbs of St.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
As if the act of being deliberate about his choices was enough for him to get exactly what he wanted. The film teaches a voyeuristic way of being in the world, a way of looking without being seen. I watched Halloween countless times after that first viewing with my father, always in the dark, always aware that I was coming closer and closer to unearthing something locked up within myself.
The reason I was able to watch the film so frequently was because my father never returned it to the video store. The film remained on the other side of a doorway through which I had come to dread entering. My father was an all-day drinker by then, his eyes always glassy and far away, empty cans littering every surface of the kitchen, the carpet in the hallway perpetually soiled.
He would pass out and wake up and start drinking again, cases of beer at a time, like it was some kind of race to get it all down. My mother would drop me off outside his house on Saturday mornings and I would wait for her to drive away before storing the cooler containing my lunch in the backseat of his car, always left unlocked in a neighborhood like the one we lived in, and then I would play with the neighborhood kids until dusk, when my mother would pick me up again.
I was afraid of being a teenager long before I became one.
What I knew or at least expected of adolescence was that it would involve performing desire in the form of pursuing girls and trying to lure them into dark corners. The heavy petting I had seen in movies always took place in closets. Schoolyard jeers portrayed queerness as a weakness, an affliction, some kind of monstrosity. In one of my last memories of my father, we met in a public park, the old house having been lost to foreclosure, and he tried to talk to me about girls.
I was twelve years old and a girl named Sarah had recently pursued me at school, leaving notes in my locker and then in a brave show of vulnerability asking me to a school dance. But the night of the dance came and I pretended to be sick and I avoided her afterwards at school in the most cringingly obvious of ways.
She understands his desire, and she knows how to satisfy it. The experience of adolescence as a closeted queer boy is one of constantly attempting to imitate the expression of a desire that you do not feel. And Michael as Bob is not only wearing the familiar mask now ubiquitously associated with his character in the Halloween franchise. He is wearing a mask over a mask. And he seems so cartoonish in this moment, his desire to conceal himself having reached the level of self-parody.
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She has just risen from the hallway floor where she had been recovering from the shock of what she believed to be her final encounter with Michael, having stabbed him with his own knife and believing him to be dead, when he suddenly rises from the floor behind her. To disarm him, she must reveal him. He releases Laurie in the effort to conceal himself, fumbling desperately with the cheap plastic, and I remember hating the look of him without the mask. My body seized with an urgent, almost unbearable need for him to put it back on.
I remember hating the look of him without the mask. Early in the summer in which I would later turn thirteen years old, my mother took me on a weeklong vacation to Florida with the man she had been dating for the past several years.
I would get myself lost and then make a game of finding my way back to our building again, one of several identical towers in the complex, mapping the space between them as lizards scurried across the sun scorched path at my feet. One afternoon, I was swimming alone in the shallow end of the pool when a man waded toward me. His chest hair was thick and his arms looked strong.
I was swimming alone in the shallow end of the pool when a man waded toward me. The game we played was that I would swim between his legs, straddled wide at first, with the goal of not touching him at all as I swam through, and then each time he would narrow his stance further, closing the gap, making it more and more difficult for me to pass without our skin touching. I thought I was winning the game because I kept angling my body just so, and I would get through each time without my own legs rubbing against his.
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Carpenter v. United States
Crawford, was published in Crawford has expanded the essay into a Domes — Shelter Publications Domes vs. A rectangular structure is built of walls, which are vertical, and a roof. Richard c carpenter essay , runnermarketing. Join Facebook to connect with Richard C Carpenter and others you may know. Richard C. Carpenter , 85, of Syracuse passed away peacefully on Monday at Crouse Hospital. A native and life resident of the Syracuse area, he was the son of the late. Forgot your username? Create an account.