Ouch, That StingsOuch, That Stings!
Whats this, you say? Why, this is a dissertation on those little fuzzy yellow and black winged-things. Yes, this is a paper that ponders the possible literary value of the bee. No, dear reader, I am not insane. It is my sincerest wish that this work be something less than nonsensical.
After all, why not? Why can a bee not be a symbol or metaphor of the utmost importance? Why must we domineering and self-important little humans look down upon a bee as just another miserable little insect to be regarded with disgust? Why must humans think a bees life is worth less than a humans?
In fact, a bee has more to offer to the natural world than a human being. In the twenty-first century, it can be said that all humans have to offer to the natural world is pollution. Given, this is not the whole hundred percent truth that defines the entir
Father's PortraitSomething special arrived in the mail today something from China. It is a letter from my Fourth Uncle and enclosed is a portrait of my father as a young man.
Father passed away recently, leaving me in ignorance regarding his past. What little I do know about him is what he repeatedly boasted about when I lingered in his presence for too long. Father never ceased to repetitively recount his days as a young man, always hungry for knowledge and skill, and he never failed to mention how apt he was and how quickly he accomplished these feats.
Father had a particular passion for the arts. He asserted that he was a great musician; he learned how to play the erhu, a Chinese instrument with two strings played with a bow the violin, the cello, the flute, the clarinet, the saxophone, and many other instruments. He would say, If it wasnt for the Cultural Revolution, I could have joined a music troupe and became