Mary+Parbery

=__CREATIVE WRITING INTRODUCTION DRAFT__= Sunday morning, when the sun hits the stained glass window of the ancient Victorian building and illuminates the mosaic of the big man upstairs. Although I may not believe, I cant help but sleepily admire the pure beauty of this simplistic artwork. Crap the Morgan's are coming over to talk. Why can’t they just stick to their on little congregations of gossip forming outside instead of coming to push what little patience I have left. Mum always tells me to respect others but as far as I'm concerned Mrs. Morgan is as low as her promiscuous daughter, ironic isn’t it her beliefs wont permit her to put out for her own boyfriend but pleasuring her best friend Stacey's behind her back is completely fine. As if Mum can read my thoughts she gives me the "Be polite and make small talk" look as the Morgan's close in on the gap between us. But seriously who are we really kidding here, what kid gets up at seven o'clock on the weekend and is actually expected to exchange words with another human being. Reality check people **teenagers need more sleep than babies,** wake us up at the crack of dawn and you may as well put us in a boxing ring and hit the bell "Ding Ding Ding." As if that’s not bad enough have you ever had your Mother dress you before? Donning a white front zipper dress ladies and gentlemen, the bottom of her outfit poofs out into a bell shape and ends appropriately with a cascade of some "oh so girly" ruffles; I look and feel like an exotic French pastry. = = =MACBETH= To be thus is nothing, But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be feared. 'Tis much he dares, And to that dauntless temper of his mind He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear, and under him My genius is rebuked, as it is said Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. He chid the sisters When first they put the name of king upon me And bade them speak to him. Then, prophetlike, They hailed him father to a line of kings. Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown And put a barren scepter in my grip, Thence to be wrenched with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If ’t be so, For Banquo’s issue have I filed my mind; For them the gracious Duncan have I murdered; Put rancors in the vessel of my peace Only for them; and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man, To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings! Rather than so, come fate into the list, And champion me to th' utterance. Who’s there?

//**I have chosen this scene as the theme I am relating to is reality vs appearence. This is when we see that although Macbeth has fallen very short of his great expectations he still seems to be having an in depth battle with his head and his heart. He is represented as a big, brave hero yet really is a scared and rattled with insecurites that drive him to murder his best friend.**// = = = = = = = = =__//**Creative Writing**//__=

As the world escapes us and reality blurs, the past in which our futures entwined slowly begins to fade. Pen to paper was where she'd confide, the details written down, a record of time. I'm in a transit yet still I'm stuck inside my head, read the story and decipher the meaning but be careful not to smudge the ink, for when you do your perception may be altered. Although insanity holds the ties among your mind, the words will continue to play. Pick it apart as much as you like, it’s never going to change. Pull tighter on those ties and you are presented with the concept of a game, was it thrill of the chase that enticed him, was she never completely sane? Her confidence was of those that screamed louder then words, his charm would always get him through the night. He carved her open and took her truths, her lies, her fears, she shared with you. Progress the plot to see how far its going to go. Many pass the chance at cheap romance, others mistake the conception completely, so they fall in love as they fall in bed. Take it back, how did this story start again? I wish we had met in different lives that way I could call you mine. But they fought that truth, they bent those rules, we proved them wrong, so tell me please, who is this stranger in your eyes? A place in her life you'll always hold, your space in her future unclear. Maturing in his arms, trapped beneath his past, she'll always linger on his presence. And as the story unfolds, the ending unknown. I'm not giving up, I'm letting go, think about it. Forever and always; Drifting from your memory, I'm lost.



The poster is regarding the recruitment of young Australians that were interested in joining the A.l.F. The message being expressed throughout the poster itself plays on multiple Australian stereotypes. It features a typical business man who is enthusiastic to join the A.I.F, with his uniform in one hand and gun in the other he is ready to go. The stereotypes highlighted would be that everyday men in Australia are always ready for a fight, that they can work their way around a gun and that the uniform is just part of a typical aussie dress code. The reason this text type is a valid example would be because it is incredibly light hearted. The seriousness of War seems to have escaped the relevance of the poster, it portrays an adventure as apposed to a traumatic experience. If war itself is being advertised as an excited voyage then this puts Australia in a very awkward position when analyzing the countries cultural perspective. Yes, it very much so plays on the fact that Australia is stereotypically seen as an incredibly laid back place, but this is only one perspective. Others may be interpreted as Australia not portraying things for what they really are; trying to trick their own into a frightful situation. Conclusions may also be drawn to the beliefs that Australia thinks war is a joke and not something to be taken seriously. The Crossing of the Owen Stanley Range Now you mightn't believe what I'm saying, You may think that I've never been Through the hell that I am trying to picture As a vile and frightful scene, For I've seen men tired and exhausted And hardly able to walk I've seen them that weary and weathered, that they couldn't be bothered to talk. With their eyes wild and starey, their faces haggard and worn, They'd sit on the side of a native pad, and wish they'd never been born. I've seen them that sick and despondent, that with never a sign of mirth, They'd wish they were down with Satan, instead of this hell on earth, Straining, Sweating, swearing, climbing the mountain side, 'Just five minutes to the top'; my God how that fellow lied, Splashing through mud and water, stumbling every yard One falls by the wayside when the going is extra hard On and on they keep climbing, hour after hour of toil And when the word comes back to halt, they collapse on the muddy soil, Now it might sound fantastic to the man that's never been Over that rough and tortuous mountain track, through the jungle evergreen. So all you who don't believe me, who think it all sounds strange Just go yourself and try the crossing of the Owen Stanley Range, Then when you are in the mountains high, say 7,000 feet, Any you're expecting any moment the Japanese to meet When you're weary, tired and hungry and wet and cold and cramped You start to think of home and of the places here you've camped. When you think of a warming fire, and the meal that's hot and big Then sigh and pick up a shovel and a slit trench you start to dig. Then perhaps you'll agree, that it isn't quite so strange These things that I have told you, of the crossing of the Owen Stanley Range. We look around our numbers, and search for familiar faces But find that they are missing, not in their usual places So we've often thought and have often prayed For those unsung heroes, those mates of ours that stayed Back there within God's keeping, but with a cross to mark The spot where they are lying, in the jungle grim and dark So I ask you all to say a prayer for those who won't come back Those gallant chaps who fought and died on the Owen Stanley Track. By H. McLaren This poem was written to express the thoughts of one that has experienced trauma first hand. To give a visual representation of what the experience was really like through the power of words. War brings damage and devastation for all those who are involved, but for those who experience it first hand, they are the ones with the tales to tell. They are the ones who sore many of their brothers fall to the ground beside them, their souls leaving this realm forever. This poem is a classic example of portraying something for what is really is and the reason it had been included is because it contradicts the visual text perfectly. The poster portrays war as an adventure but this poem sees to it that readers will have an educated understanding of the horrible occurrence it really is. Described as "hell on earth" the poem leaves no room for positivity, it bluntly expresses the capability war has to wash away all the good things in life, leaving soldiers with only the cruel reality they now must face everyday. As the two representations contradict themselves it now leaves an accountable space to discuss the matter of Cultural perspective.

**Kokoda Trail** by George, who was there Early in September the heavily outnumbered Brigade withdrew, but was never defeated, fighting day and night, denying every mile until almost surrounded, inflicting many times its own casualties. This most difficult of military operations in mountainous country continued for nearly four weeks until the Japanese advance was finally halted and turned back at Ioribaiwa. There was but one axis of withdrawal - a mountain track that defies adequate description. Before the campaign, this route had been considered passable only to natives or trained district officers. Imagine an area of approximately 100 miles long, crumple and fold this into a series of ridges, each rising higher and higher until 7,000 feet is reached, then declining again to 3,000 feet. Cover this thickly with jungle, short trees and tall trees tangled with great entwining savage vines; then through the oppression of this density cut a little native track two to three feet wide, up the ridges, over the spurs, around gorges and down across swiftly flowing happy mountain streams. Where the track clambers up the mountainsides, cut steps – big steps, little steps, steep steps or clear the soil from the tree roots. Every few miles bring the track through a small patch of sunlit kunai grass, or an old deserted native garden, and every seven or ten miles build a group of dilapidated grass huts as staging shelters, generally set in a foul offensive clearing. Every now and then leave beside the track dumps of discarded putrefying food, and occasional dead bodies. In the morning flicker the sunlight through the tall trees, flutter green and blue and purple and white butterflies lazily through the air, and hide birds of deep-throated song or harsh cockatoos in the foliage. About midday and through the night, pour water over the forest, so that the steps become broken and a continual yellow stream flows downwards, and the few level areas become pools and puddles of putrid mud. In the high ridges about Myola, drip this water day and night softly over the track through a fetid forest grotesque with moss and growing phosphorescent fungi. Such is the track which was once described as "being almost impassable for motor vehicles", and such was the route to be covered from Deniki to Ilolo. Along this track, day after day, the walking sick and wounded passed and plodded, those too desperate to stand being carried by native carriers. Carrying improvised stretchers, one or two blankets lashed with native string or vine to two long poles spread by stout traverse bars, as many as eight or ten native bearers would traverse the track day after day. To watch them descend steep spurs into a mountain stream, along the bed and up the steep ascent, was an object lesson in stretcher bearing. They carried stretchers over seemingly impassable barriers, with the patient reasonably comfortable. The care they give to the patient is magnificent. If night finds the stretcher still on the track, they will find a level spot and build a shelter over the patient. They will make him as comfortable as possible fetch him water and feed him if food is available, regardless of their own needs. They sleep four each side of the stretcher and if the patient moves or requires any attention during the night, this is given instantly. These were the deeds of the "Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels"-for us! What can we do for them? As to the walking sick and wounded absolute ruthlessness was essential. Those alone that were quite unable to stagger or struggle along were carried, but frequently men against their will had to be ordered on to stretchers. There was practically never a complaint nor any resentment. From each staging post at dawn, the walkers, the lame and the halt were set upon their way, while the native bearers were assembled for their tasks. Late each afternoon, and far into the night, each staging post would receive its casualties. These would be fed, sheltered and tended until dawn, then on again. The courage and cheerfulness of these casualties was wonderful, beyond praise-some-times almost incredible. One soldier with a two-inch gap in a fractured patella, splinted by a banana leaf, walked for six days and arrived at hospital in good condition. That no known live casualty was abandoned, that of the many hundreds brought out during these weeks only four died subsequently in hospital, is a magnificent tribute to the fitness and the fortitude of these men. Time and rain and the jungle will obliterate this little native pad, but for ever more will live the memory of weary men who have passed this way, ghosts of glorious men that have gone. Gone far beyond the Kokoda Trail..

This text is written in the form of a recount in post-war times by a man named George, who was actually there. If analyzed the conclusion could be made that the purpose of this text was to express what the place and time was actually like. It also includes examples of how the Australian soldiers braved out the challenges war presented them with. For example quotes like "There was practically never a complaint nor any resentment" lead us to the open arms of a typical Australian stereotype. Australia has always been considered a very nationalistic country and the people have commonly been known for overcoming obstacles without any complaints, no matter how terrible the situation may be. The will to overcome a difficult situation whilst maintaining a positive attitude is a rare trait, one that should be highly valued. In the terms of Cultural perspective this text positions us positively towards the views on Australia and the countries people.

NOTE TO SELF Essay Idea: Poster- War was portrayed as an exciting adventure. Poem- Reality check, it was actually horrible. Short story- Even though it sucked no one complained; they stuck it out. Overall Cultural Perspective- After all that the men were put through they still sucked it up and dealt with the situation without complaining. Australia is a proud and nationalistic place their for the that is the dominant stereotype linking these three texts.