Susan Sontag, Illness as Metaphor and AIDS and Its Metaphors

John Flanagan

There are activities that could be compared to games of chance or fortune cards when a player might draw a bad hand of cards during his life time. Death (illness) is of course a major card we wish to immediately trump with a stronger suited character or number—to become well—each time this card is dealt. In Susan Sontag’s, Illness as Metaphor and AIDS and Its Metaphors, readers experience a style of medical, historical and informative metaphorical labels used to shield the truth of serious diseases. Susan Sontag’s is distinctive on the theme there is no worse description than a sugar coated fantasy rhetoric explanation of a person’s serious illness. From discovery in pertinent yesteryear’s medical histories Sontag uncovered fantastical fallacies connected to the definitions of both individual and community diseases. She provides readers persuasive proof of nonsense information doctors’ used to tell patients on painful TB; shameful cancer; demeaning syphilis and the environmental cholera. For example, cancer is voiced similarly to the once dubious TB illness, where no one knows anything or if they did, they would not tell you about it. She complains the professional spirit has let patients hear a glossing over in metaphoric or symptomatic explanation of (understated imagery) for terrible known problem diseases. In a philosophical polemically narrative she develops a cultural criticism. She tells us the use of divine wrath or supernatural punishment in less understood medical territory only disguises cover ups for fear the patients would react with additional dilemmas.

The cultural activity we find significant here is to voice reform for this neglected condition. Susan Sontag’s argues metaphorically inherited imagery which identifies the body’s sickness is an unsatisfactory scientism. The defining terms with these obscure obsolete identities proves to be only confusion not a reliever of suffering. On investigating, comparing and contrasting these absurd descriptions for critical diseases she determined only a misanthropic would appreciate such nonsense. Confusing logics and lack of values to her were only horrendous medical obstacles not very well researched. These legendary dais and dial letters of resignation to Sunday were outdated cheap villainous frustration of the old soul card death.

Aids and Its Metaphors is the second part of Sontag’s book, where the descriptions of serious illness have done us wrong. She processes an instructional outlook on historical medicines and surrounding societal events that complement her crusade against the crippling comprehensions that encourage incorrect labeling and defining of serious maladies. She points out that man’s nature orientates towards a body’s space (risk group) to describe social conflicts. Disease, Aids, that develops in stages is social medical conflict. Sontag plots triumphant expressions of reason on how through metaphor we catalog perceptional intelligences of those foul diseases. She promotes a broad spectrum of fluid inoculations by recognizing the grounds of unmanageable illness, where she imitates a formidable defense parameter, through disclosure and meaningful antigenic stimulus. The plague, influenza, cholera and other bacteriological comparisons to aids, cancer and syphilis only build up in mind defenses creating a new type of immune criteria that indirectly strengthens awareness of the Aid virus. This is a preventive ideology. In many aspects of her writing we find a formulated type of new medical education from research history discovery, case study and experience that helps predict future outcomes of the spread or evil epidemic repressed.

The Three Hour Hike up Old Indian Trail

On an early Friday afternoon late in April, the type of day when flowers start to come out of the ground and the sun shines warm in the breezy soft wind; I decided to meet Ms. Susan Lever, a passionate friend, from the law office. Susan is a master in the craft of hiking on the northern trails of New Jersey. Her plan today was a strenuous three hour hike up Old Indian Trail situated in the nearby blue spruce pine baron of Nature Park Preserve. Our rendezvous point was a familiar Park entrance crossroad on main highway #1 and old rustic road. After I got out of the Chevy, I stepped into wolverine boots, put on a back pack filled with all kinds of modern hikers’ tools and stretched out a topography map Susan had lent at work to view the terrain elevations of old Indian trail. I look out towards the Meadow next to the road, there I observed a colorful blue picturesque mound of a melting snow which appeared to be like a great giant of nature reclining in the light, expressing to any passersby who cared he was a natural barrier to the thawed 20 area lake.

Nature Park Preserve had a nice earthy splendor to it. On the other side of the lake a wind was blowing through the tops of pointed pine trees in a cloudless bright blue shy line. The southern sun light produced dark shadows all over the lake, and you could see tiny craved out camper sites along the water’s edge. Susan came walking toward me in this cold desolation marvel of nature prepared to hike and I realized wonder and excitement of boldly going where I have not gone before.

Something all of a sudden was wrong. A local park ranger on patrol was beeping his horn from the State ranger truck. “I noticed you carrying backpacks,’ he yelled from his truck window, ‘just a moment before you walk into the woods.” He approached on foot and explained the Park was not yet opened because of heavy melting snows on a significant amount of the grounds. He insisted we reschedule. Susan’s camper enthusiast burst forward moving her arms in a silent scream type motion yet in a humorous acknowledgement of Ranger Eddy to ask him for special permission. Susan made her argument perfectly clear to Eddy she was prepared for a day hike right down to the tang and the packs were complete with overnight bags if necessary for a safe trip to the old historic Indian tribal village. “Look tools and supplies for every occasion,” she remarked. Ranger Eddy was reluctant but Susan overcame the conflict with her responsible caring attitude. She was a convincing woman and they both seemed happy. Ranger Eddy in a serious tone looks at us and stated, “Ok, but if you see any type of dangers on your way then turn back.”

The circumstances we faced with the Ranger made me a bit uneasy; I am not much for facing dangers. Susan, however, prevailed to restore everything back to normal. I admit she does process have a strong goodie attractive woman’s character you can trust for any occasion. She is fearless, loving and knows how to put a plan together fast. I believe she prays to a Guardian Angel for answers. Anyway, I think her method of persuasion was powerful when she discussed the hiking issue with ranger Eddy. I revaluated it would be a real nice day. Susan’s eyes were filled with joy, so onward we two brave souls went heading toward the old Indian village. Susan happily bellowed like an old wise owl “It should be about eight to ten miles to the village.”

It became dusk around 5 pm, yet the sky was incredibly clear and a huge full moon started to light up the surrounding hills. “It‘s not far to the tribal village. I hoped to make it in this last climb.” The melting snows poured cold icy water down the small grassy ravines on the hillside. There were no more trails, just step by step climbs straight up. I thought the hike wasn’t too bad, time past slowly and I liked being with Susan the next moment her jazz her steps turning round to look and said here it is John. There stood an old restored hunting lodge with animal horns on it in the middle of an Indian village. It proved to be worth the effort. Susan gathered up some dry fire wood to build a dinner campfire outside lodge entrance. The moon and stars, the fire and Susan all was a heavenly sight.

Susan was a pretty good storyteller and told me a lot of confessional tales on a slant about things that confused her. There was one story of two Native American sprits like an Adam and Eve tale who supposedly originated the tribe’s population. I laugh a lot and forgot all about city life responsibility. It was getting late and out of nowhere Susan suggested we spend the night in the Great lodge. She brought a large sleeping bag with her and I had some blankets in my pack. It didn’t take long to decide whether to take that long walk back in the dark and I agreed. It was cold outside but we were delightfully warm and slept comfortably sound till late the next morning.

Packs on, we headed out. The hike down to the cars was beautiful, a clear crisp day and I love it. I have been hiking steadily since that day and I never grow weary of the memory of Susan, a most wonderful caring person who understood the true craft of a hiking.

The Art of Watercraft Bridge Exploration

The Art of Watercraft Bridge Exploration(SciFi)

By John Flanagan

If it’s not an amazing mine, Mr. Hugo Flash a phenomenal exchanger of transactions in the operating division on lunar 7, you know, the guy who buys and sells goods and services; borrows and invest money; pays wages to employees; purchase land and building and equipment; distribute earnings to owners and pays taxes to the government for a grand portion of the populations identity groups, leaves the insignificant source to a minor functional group. He is damned gutted senseless by society if anything turns out wrong on his review sheets, so Hugo allows them to posts his awkward small frustrated concern accounts. The document summaries and budgets for the entity are facilitated through his analysis for a highly speculative technological solar design. Keeping track of transactions, closing journals in due coarse and reporting to supervision requires lots of sensory gut implant intelligence. This apparently is a bend of style that runs deep rooted in the Flashes family tree.

Hugo Flash Jr. was born on this moon, lunar7, into the best society; dressed a jumper named Philip Hempstead for a hobby during his tender watchful years and now finds respect from lunar villagers. Hugo Flash senior, God bless, left a legacy of teachings for good memory and how to shine it crystal clear utilizing the inner gut force traditions. Hugo’s father was the Regent of Significance and Development on the surface and retired Chairman of focus information here on lunar 7. He generalized the best rules and concepts to protect a planetary family business. Son, Hugo was not a bad descendant, growing pace and proportion to his father’s constant questionings and advices on learning new meanings to deal with the strange and weird space beings ever presents , nor the ideal perfect son, which was told to him from community gossip.
Father Hugo senior had two wishes in life ; the first to retire at 68 and that society refrain from messing him over for some idiotic trifle or bad art play walk that might disable his gut intuitional constructs. The Orwellian council regulations here on lunar 7 although considered primitive for advanced polite society is the means to an end to protect all the important inhabitants’ real property. Everyone keeps the law or else they wind down on the old proverbial unintuitive species farm list, plucked predicable with no instinct gut controls except, perhaps, those society receptors to process outlandish empty fear. It’s the established method of enforcement out here. I mean once guy losses his gut control for something stupid like too much of a good time he will find himself uptight on ever issue. Once Hugo gossiped a total recall on a few gutless egg head worriers who frowned from there lowly devil gutless condition on how they saw the art of water craft bridge exploration. Imagine, looking down cast at this moon’s favorite pastime.
Watercraft bridge exploration activity is strictly a maverick made for adult inhabitants located on the sunny side of the lunar surface. Gosh! The time it takes to set up a good walking space or play the energy as the work forcers like to call it, you’d think everybody who knew its existence would be happy for such exploration. Another thing Hugo let out in a tell tale was that when people get old the guts naturally die and the excess fear drives them mad until society installs counter receptors. Grandfather Alpheus according to Hugo’s father was a watercraft bridge expert. He walked over the lunar lakes with a technique he invented to marshal quality information from inaccessible energy dimensions for a fine tune restoration of focused memory intelligence. Alpheus famous win, Yes, We Have No Bananas is supposed to be legendary, and almost made label. This was something to do with a gun control theory for the galaxy. Grandfather Alpheus like Hugo’s father lived proudly having gut implants to the day they died and now son Hugo has that theoretical cross to carry. One old maxim remains a man without a gut control paddles the audiences’ canoe. Oh! The gutless, how do civilizations survive?
Everyone knows the art of Watercraft Bridge exploration is the journey through temporary nooks and crannies within the dingles and dangles of the collective memory cycle logs. It reflects manageable pieces properly balanced for a silent walk, understanding a particular difficult equation, over a lunar bridge using the artificial watershed lake environment. Each play has rules and labels. An impressible influence caused from known working designs proposes a mental perception suggestion of rhythmical impacts which initiate thoughts that are added to the players’ memory banks. Art painting of colorful pictures for instance reflects subliminal messages of modal impressionable influences that symbolize points made in the play. For example, we find an ordinary landscape environment of a particular nature distributes a descriptive message to the viewer’s mental conception and strikes a core sensation process that is recognized and then an added value to an already established logged in memory and that synthesizes new energy.
Whistler an earth general’s painting “white girl” of a beautiful young dilettante is a famous label used here for a watercraft bridge maneuver; it’s a white girl, nice panting or a combination of the two scoring points for acquiring the right sources for developing information. For instance, the difference can be significant because a nice painting holds precedence over a white girl original forcing the memory to respond differently but when you expose the elements together it becomes a new level or label of an exceptionally beautiful combination for a new notion of a play with strength and variation memory.
The end results are a production of incredible style distributing an excellent equality. In using previous charted domains to determine the right amount of energy the public benefits from new information and the galaxy population receives a distribution of a generously proportioned memory log. A walker must have a strong active hereditary dialogue structures and almost prefect gut control sequencers to persevere each obstacle and obtain the wisdom needed to prepare for their next entry leap using the marvels reveled on the bridges spectacular of lunar 7.
The Flash kinship have walked the walk and talked the talk of Watercraft Bridge for many generations. There life works are historic and great tales are spoken of them. Canoe ship passengers like all audiences have study and judge their entropy moves on each piece of information process in a play as they heroically walked over the portly bridges. These spectators provide company for the walkers and some outers actually win reputations for their event services. Social identity is very important on this marvelous moon.
It’s a major belief here workers become bored crunching the numbers day in and day out, paying the bills, keeping a sine on the shoes or singing social discourses so watercraft bridge analysis play is a great pastime. Space folks do not know what creatures like the Flashes would do without it-- probably sit and watch the big screen for a strange in coming creatures from a distant planet—who knows. Oh well, all is well if the beast inside finds an outlet for his creative expression using the art of Watercraft Bridge exploration.

The Dirty Dozen ( a story)

Once upon time on a warm sweet earthy fragrant Spring May afternoon in 1967, the sleepy New York suburban town of Seaside dismissed its 10th graders at 2:30 PM. Our crowd, better known as the dirty dozen, and interestingly called this because the boys wore Beetle shag haircuts and the girls went bra-less. The people who met to procrastinate and verse wits until dinner time were six persons or less out of about twelve or so in our crowd. The place most frequented for our gathering was the old abandon brick wallpaper building, right around the corner from Patricia’s split level gray ranch house, around three blocks from the High School, where we smoked cigarettes on the steps and platform underneath a flat cement type roof, next to a big chain locked factory entrance door. A thousand and one thoughtful lines got recited from our crowd’s members on various in vogue paperback texts read and talked about on the steps. The main reason for this Grande of maturity was to find sufficient mental distances from Seaside’s boring research topics such as dress codes; leash laws; protecting parks; Pledge of Allegiance in class; homelessness; and driver’s education. You see we really strived to be responsible although sometimes it did seem otherwise.

All of a sudden out of the blue the adult conversation of great authors’ prose grew cold and the talk slowly evolved into purely personal beliefs on that early afternoon. On this occasion parent/child care topics originated because of Paul’s mention of a problem his mother was discreetly solving with a familiar Math teacher. The passing association was a jump start for Matthew’s reminiscences of an upsetting ordeal with a Mr. Jean Mouse PhD. This flicker here set a precedence to stop lines in paper books and talk on parents’ different methods to solve their kids’ antagonistic mental stresses. It struck me kind of funny, you know, these perplexing social issues. If memory serves me well, Mathew dominated the entire time with his peculiar episodes, then Patricia, every so caringly cushioned a verbal expression of a verisimilitude to unfold her experience in response to Matthew’s story. I thought gosh the maxim was true opposites do attract. And surprisingly I mused there was something special about our parents.
It was around 3:30, when I try to remember when the sunshine felt so nice. Matthew a close friend since the beginning of time started to speak to the lazy foursome loafing and laughing all over the old factory steps. He looked at his watch, and the sadly reported; “Betty and George (his parents) considers me pecks bad-boy’ ’ he smiled jokingly, ‘the black sheep of the family.” Apparently, his mother Betty employed a psychologist. “Mr. Jean Mouse PhD”, Matthew mimicked in a silent performance a stuff shirt and tie guy before he verbalized a formal descriptive skit quoting, “sees what appear to be unconscious conflicts of memory and causes meaningless types of behavior instead of strong normal determinations. Patricia, usually very talkative, sat quietly and listened attentively to Matthew’s every word.

The Shrink, told Matthew’s mother the symptoms were memory obstacles that lead to a serious forgetful lapses of the proper learned adult patterns needed for quality behavior. Because of this defect the garden landscape of his mind gets too weedy and the only response he initiates during a lapse of remembrance was anxious ad Hominem demeanors and aggravated denial avoidance tempers. Matthew said, the psychologist interview his mother on her health history and her parents, as well as questioning her about George’s family. “I went to see, Mr. Jean Mouse PhD., for a session once; he gave me such a fright; he used exactly the same statement as mother did when we children fell ill. I mean, Mr. Mouse, got too close; he frowned, tracing his hand fingers with his thumb quietly saying, “Sometimes you draw a bad hand and sometimes the bad hand draws you,”

Patricia, the free thinker of our crowd moving from the intuitive to abstraction jump in for a moment. “Wow, how odd that must have been awful for you to experience!” “Well I tried’ ‘to change the subject , but I only thought of having a high fever or the death card popping out of the gypsy’s card deck, another one of Betty’s stories for a sick phenomenon identifying encounters with a toothache; a stomachache; a headache; a earache or a combination thereof.” Mouse asked me, if he could massage my head to release the pressure and dredge out symptomatic realities that cause memory loss but I refused that sort of thing. To Jean Mouse the talking cure of free association was the main therapy to help his clients out of anxiety.

Patricia, although very much in our crowd was the odd sock. Her nature is always to be beautifully dressed with nice hats, silk scarves, clean shoes and stylish coats. She had the gliding foot of a dancer and during a few minutes of careless nothing happening, spilled the silence with “I am just the opposite;” I have a memory that overflows with thoughts on receiving new impressions which seriously stresses me out.

“Jean Mouse,’ Matthew, looking up from the bottom step to Mary and I on the platform, explained, “it like this, there are arguments amongst the Truths, yet let’s not go there right away but allow the insights and outlooks of actions to be bold emotional truth; a kind of purposeful stepping stone production of actions that matters most to people. In a light address he suggested to Matthew that caring about what you do with emotional truth everyday helps develop good memory and he defined it as a simple communication vibration of virtuousness using energies that reside in that hidden place deep within the memory banks of the soul. I think if you listen to the method I propose it ought to be a good way for you to improve your self esteem and control your excessive emotional outbreaks. Several examples of this emotional truth, Mr. Mouse, reported were to be a guard in the kingdom and protect his king. Or if possible use friendship in conversation with an older cultured man. Or, perhaps, seeing a lady standing on the bus you offer her your seat even through you don’t really want too.

Jean Mouse liked his added value… he was a Rick Bass nature writer type of guy telling me the landscapes of the mind were too rustic and alone on a cold sunny day that needed company. Matthew admitted to us, Mouse did catch a lot of his crazy hellish mind with the cross questioning sessions but he found this quiet self actualization return to a puzzled confused noisy state shortly after he returned home. I heard Patricia tell Mary, Matthew did seem easier to be with lately. Mary suggested to us Patricia’s had a too generous father. We could see this started the snowball of Patricia’s mind to start collecting as it rolled downhill on a freshly covered powdered trail of perceptions. Matthew could hardly finish his tale because the girls kept on and on. He told us he asked his mother and father if he could end it with the mind diver rhapsodist and just grow out of this difficulty like the other kids do. He promised them he would follow all of Mr. Mouse’s advice. There response to Matthew was they would seriously think about ending the ordeal if he promised to practice the consider techniques. This possibility he exclaimed in a clam sort of manner, “made me feel like a new man.”
To be continued …..

learning Record

http://www.cwrl.utexas.edu/~syverson/olr/evaluation.html

Without Feathers

Konigsberg. Allen father was a red devil tools salesman and his mother Nettie a pretty good department store clerk lived in a solid family relative type community. Whenever Nettie open the window of there small 34th street apartment on those stuffy night, where they resided, the smells from a famous Nathan hot dog cart and roasted chestnuts on the steps street below the apartment permeated his their senses, which for some reason increased his later desires to play outdoors. Because of the holiday season was full of cheer Mr. and Mrs. Konigsberg decided to name their boy Festive Woods but everybody new him as Woody. Woody is a New York City funny man , a shush trunk comedy guy humorous who believes in two major items: celebrate a good life and keep the entertainment business alive. Woody wordings make you think in number of hilarious ways and to prove it, all one has to do is read his faceted exposé, "Without Feathers". These stories are fun muster up rags; silly tales and good humors. In my opinion there is no better amusement. Woody Allen is widely appreciated and thoroughly discussed in Hebrew literary societies around the world.

Mr. Woody Allen comes home to his audience with the craziest articulations. This funny bone man of letters teaches us the art of how to change a grievance into a happy moment. He sails his comedic craft of words across a rich embodiment of laughter. He indicates special attention to cultural criticism, for instance,in the sixth chapter of “Without Feathers”, “The Whore of Mensa”, he light heartily uses comparison modes to touch upon the infamous social dilemma of sexual desires for prostitutes’ affections to that of the company of women giving sensual intellectual literary pleasures through their knowledgeable discussions of classic compositional literature. The levity and farces of the coffee shop philosophical variety are a few adult toys he builds to reinvent fun-filled topics. No matter how difficult the circumstances of problem seemed members of the audience arose to the occasions asking if either this is satirical or commenting, why aren’t those funny responses?
Woody engaged a descriptive strategy from a professional comedian’s point of view to emerge and connect weird tidings followed by rhapsodies of ecstasy to allow a variety of human levels to joyfully understand the truth. His stories are simple ones; people take for granted; neglect or pretend not to notice, although they actually are a big part of their personal life. If a reader could trust in an awkward correspondences, then Woody Allen’s story, “The Scrolls” would become Socratic. In this story, Mr. Allen gives primitive signs on how unfair and impossible the applying for employment process is to acquire anything. Mr. Allen also advocates clever hilarity in these novellas as wake-up calls to prevent serious health problems and predict social dilemmas. To mention just a few of his devil dog concerns are puns on mental illness (suicide); asthma; diabetes; bad feet; death; animal abuse; bad hair and bad drugs.
Comedian Woody Allen continually dialogues rants that are the equalizer to adversity. His nemesis is the poor little tough guy; the stoic; mamma’s boy and other such and such character stereotypes that are parodied in popular dispositions to create good comedy. These stories are easily identify categories found in ones in own backyard. He self criticizes the lack of his understanding and in these designs makes us laugh, but we realize the problems are not ideally a laughing matter; yet we laugh anyway, feeling the conditions are not as bad as they might seem. He plays the role of simple honest New Yorker voicing that life no matter how hard it appears is basically a great place to be. He rhythmically sacrifices old habits of the same old; same old; too walk the walk and talk the talk as a comical activist. He pauses by degrees for people to take notice of a fashionable reminder he likes to give; we too must remember to celebrate our own important life. His gift is pitching laughs for us to catch, and tears of laughter to be thrown back whether or not the discovery is from the best of times or the worse of times.
Woody Allen “In, Fabulous Tales and Mystical Beasts” for instance, writes a technique that adds interests to intrigues. He plays with one of his inventions, the mystical nurk bird. It a third person persona he catches your eye with the memory of some funny everyday experience. He arranges sets of reminders; substitutions; imaginary of attendants, throughout this book to give us a quick lesson on the ecology of a funny man, how–to keep a good name-- and what it takes to defeat death. In his “Psychic Phenomena”, Mr. Allen narrates the subheading Spirit Departure about astral projection that works like aspirin to relive the pain of mental stress; and in “A Brief, Yet Helpful, and Guide to Civil Disobedience”, he lists in banter of definitions to compare different types of revolutions one could possible rehearse to approach the problems of government employment.
This unusual type of writer is one that people find intimidating yet deliciously refreshing and those who read his stuff take to it like a fish takes to water. His friendship is an inspirational masterpiece of comedy. In a self mockery attempt, “Match Wits with the Inspector”, he draws a freshness from social disorder to solve audiences problems. I deduct that a good part his intuitions, both in joyful and in sad sense come from listening to his family’s conversations as he grew into a man. “Fine Times: an Oral Memoir” is a typical around the kitchen tall table telling of tales that gave audiences similar perceptions to care about someone else’s lost hope.
In the end, whether we agree or not with this methodology; bitching twain; jumbled origins or fiddle sticks knowledge, I think, Woody Allen objectifies life’s irony in the right kind of human spirit. He writes about the places; the people, and friends he knew and loved in a remarkable manner allowing everybody a sense of satisfaction. He made a lot of good humor, relieved a lot of pains, for lot of people with his book; Without Feathers.

Revision

An integral part of design in a first draft revision is to ad hominem a good clear description of how to correctly rebuild the augmented sentiments. Think etiquette language rules, learning acquired from portfolio assessments and rewrites that could resolve inconsistencies and give that place added value. The rhetoric in the first draft’s use ought to clearly express the purpose of the craftsman. This technique suggests questioning why the task clarity is not organized and simplify in a methodologically response toward a final conclusion. Writers usually rearrange their compositional sentence style and there is nothing wrong with that if the correspondences then lead to a new slant of formalisms for the claim. The reason for this affirmative approach is economics and the limited physiological preparations that continually internalize and exhaust a subject which needs to be accepted. Writers will engage coherent revisions when they practice new writing experiences, not just hammering out the end product. It should be impressed the writing process is recursive, portfolio as well as linear. Under a recursive model, writers continually revisit all aspects of their writing experience so that they can discover the proper way to organize and communicate a purposeful production model.

http://www.units.muohio.edu/technologyandhumanities/narastech.htm