’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death.

Just as lighting may strike a tree and send a shock wave through the ground, electrocuting every blade of grass, Iago's revenge is directed at Othello, but effects many of the people in Othello's life. The irony in it all is that it was love that became the ultimate downfall of many of the characters. It all began with Iago's unconditional love for himself, and his surety that the position as Lieutenant was rightfully his. Iago's preying on Roderigo showed his magnetism towards the weak, and how his manipulative nature easily molds Roderigo to his every whim. Roderigo's blind love bings his tragic end with his final realization of Iago's plan. Only in death does Roderigo regain his sight.
Othello and Desdemona seem to have the perfect marrige; true love, trust, and kindness. That is, until Iago slithers into the picture, whispering ideas directly through Othello's ear, and into his head; Poisoning it with a plague of doubt. Othellos pure love for Desdemona feeds his jealousy almost as much as Iago does, and to his very last weeping moments, Othello is passionatly, and deeply in love with his wife.
Both Emilia's love for her husband, Iago, and her devotion to Desdemona blind her of true motifs. Her purely ignorant acts, however, bring the end to both these people. Emilia's death is truely tragic in this way because her kindness was manipulated and twisted by the power of "lightning," and left her singed and torched.
The fast pace of the play Othello, and the power of manipulation lead this play's tragic vision. When people are hearing what they want to hear, or expect to hear, situations can be blown out of proportion, and insiuation can spred like wild fire. This theme shows up in some of Shakespear's other plays as well. In "Romeo and Juliet," it is Romeo and Juliet's hurried, rash actions that lead them to an unnessesary fate. The tragic vision of Othello is the journey of all characters through oblivion, directly to understanding, and ultimately to a passionate hate for Iago.

"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow:
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow.
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur’d her moans;
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften’d the stones;
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let nobody blame him - his scorn I approve -
I call’d my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow:
If I court more women, you’ll couch with more men."

and you thought you knew teen angst!

God damn this pathos I have put myself into. Such a tragedy has befallen me all whilst I watched in horror. This repulsive, terrifying, and vile adjective has crept onto and throughout my life like a plague. God damn it to my mother who has lived with it for years, and to the librarian at the public library, and the cashier at the little Kroger on Commerce Drive. Damn it to the old guy at Blockbuster, and the accountants at my bank, and damn it to Gladys the waitress at Evan’s Fine Foods. But god—have mercy on me. I can’t tell you the hour, and I certainly cannot tell you the day, that boredom began making meritocracy out of every one of my actions. It is a tragedy when a teen gets wrapped up in the monotonous details of everyday life. And I mean everyday life. The same life—everyday. School, club meetings, work, dinner, homework, Saturday! School, club meetings, wor….BLAH! Get me out of here. We try so hard to fit all our fun into one day, that its not even fun anymore. Then we walk, or should I say drag, ourselves into school on Mondays thinking about nothing but how we could possibly use that one day to its full advantage. Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe I just have too much shit to do. Too much boring shit to do. I’m sixteen freaking years old, and I already have shit to do. God help me I’m bored.

The Turner Girls: proper noun.

There are five. All girls. But you already knew that, right? Everyone knows that. And, apparently, we all look “exactly alike.” So much, in fact, that now it doesn’t surprise me when a stranger on the street recognizes me as such. As a “Turner Girl.” I guess if you know one, you know them all. Ah, but therein lies the question. Do you know one? Do you know them all? I doubt it. Very few have seen the gears, levers, and screws that are The Turner Family.
There’s the screaming for one. Always Screaming. Screaming with anger, screaming with laughter, screaming just to hear your voice echo down the hallway. But screaming, is the common (and preferred) form of communication.
“It’s time for dinner!”
“You’re wearing my shirt!”
“Rebecca did it!”
“Madelyn used it last!”
In a house of seven, screaming is the only way your voice is going to get heard. And how appropriately absurd that this form of communication, so typically geared toward anger, should be our everyday form of interaction. Because damn-do we get angry. I’ve never had more horrible and terrible things said to me than at home. But there it is, I called it home.
The bond between sisters is internal and eternal. It is imperishable and it is binding. And all the mean things that have been said to me, all the pinches and scratches, have all been trumped by the humor, loyalty, and love that I find refuge in these four girls. I know each one. I know them all.

what i say about what's been done.

after all the discussions we've had about fate and freewill, i have to say, i feel quite unfulfilled. We've all questioned this and theorized that, but what do we know? but, then again, that's not really the point, is it? the knowing is not what matters. the point, im sure, is to wonder. wonder "what if," wonder "how come?" But i really can't help but be quite perturbed with the lack of answers for so many important and influential questions. Actually, just talking about it now is making me frustrated...and maybe even a little pissed. i know it's stupid for me to crave answers to questions that i know have none, but i cant really help it. i want one. But again, i do realize that it doesnt really matter either way. if im just living my life by the moment, and none of it really has any importance, than so be it. But if my fate is to do something great or something awful, then its going to happen whether i believe in it or not. i hope there's more of a point to my life than eating, shitting, and sleeping. And, if nothing else, i have realized from all our discussions, that fate would be okay by me.

fate shmate

Oh god, i hope not. I hope my whole life isn't already planned out. That would really be a waste of time. Life would be nothing more than the time it takes you to get to the end. An end you cannot prevent...or change...or have any say in whatsoever. It kind of makes me wonder 'whats the point?' What would be the point in having your life predestined? Is it for god (or any other gods for that matter)? What would any god achieve from planning the lives of mortals? A relief from the usual boredoms of natural disaters? I like to think that the choices im making in life, I'M actually making for a reason. I think i should be the one who desides what becomes of me. MY actions, MY mistakes, MY goals. i hope no god thinks any man or woman deserves to live a life of starvation, trial, loss...hurt. we, as men and women of free will, choose.

the GOLDEN oldies

i don't really see what the big deal is with getting old. you get some wrinkles, and your bones hurt. so what? take some asprin. think about all the years you had young. i want to date, i want to travel, i want to discover, i want to fall in love, i want to have children, i want to go to college, i want to get a career i love, i want to do so many things. how can someone possibly learn anything about life and the world around us if they do not live it for as long as possible. there isn't even enough time in one lifetime to learn all the secrets. And I'm not saying i would never die young, but i honestly can't imagine anything i could achieve by dying for that's more important than what i can learn by living.

Sid

In Siddhartha, Siddhartha weaves through and around many ideas and theories about life, and what it means to "find" yourself. By the end of the book, you realize that it is really impossible to "find" yourself because you're yourself all along. you just have to wait for you to show you yourself.(jeez, right?) how ironic that in western civilization they push the exact opposite idea. Right from the begining, your parents are getting you ready. ready to become something, become someone. And then they pass you off to your teachers who guide you, but also push the idea that there are so many things you have to do to become a someone. They prepare you for places that will prepare you for places...and so on and so forth. But you are who you are and no one can teach you that but yourself. you cant be anything other than who you are no matter what you know, or who you know. And as much as westerers stive to be someone, it seems kind of silly because we've all been someone all along.