Phil's Portfolio

Minor Flaws in the English Language

2010-04-24T10:11:00.000-07:00

For a moment: to speak and spell, it has come to my attention, contains some minor errors. To many it is inconsequential to bother with minor deviance but I am confident that one may find some interest in this topic. It is, to be certain, true that that there is a dominant provision with respect to correct pronunciation of dictionary words in the English language. This accepted protocol does not take into consideration the natural inflection or accent of a given speaker. With so much current ado regarding the subject of diversity, one cannot help but notice the uniformity involved in the particular matter of spelling. Presentation of the rules is consistent and the exceptions are duly accounted for (the stupidity of which I am not concerned). The flaws lie in the lack of developed correlation between spelling and pronunciation, as well as, the urgency to have conformity. For an example we take three words: real, repeat and reality.

Real in meaning, truthful or actual, is pronounced “reel”, which, when spelled as such, means to lure or to wind. The letter 'a' in real holds its place but does not pertain to its pronunciations, 'ah' or 'eh'. The same holds true for 'repeat', in meaning to reoccur in sameness, which is spoken as 'repeet'. Again the 'a' in the correct spelling serves only as a place holder. While examples such as these are problematic and marring to an establishment of rule, which is both necessary and prestigious (depending on context or mode of use), we have not yet approached my primary concern. We accept the reality of the world which is the context in which events are actual. With the same implementation of the letter 'a', it is now to be detected ree-AH-li-tee. When pronounced, in accordance with the norm of the previous examples, sounds like 'reelty' which is meant as the business of buying and selling houses.

It is perhaps best not to dwell on these discrepancies when I myself am so arduously involved in the mode of spelling and its irksome constituents. My intention is not to complain, I am simply creating an important distinction which is essential to the following tale. I am also not claiming superiority with the use of English, nor am I claiming precedence on the points I evoke regarding it.

Non-Fiction Essay # 3 - Satirical piece titled "Self-Help Generation" by Phil DeAngelis

2009-01-13T10:33:00.000-08:00

Self-Help Generation
“Dear Stephen R. Covey,
I don’t really have the time to read “7 Habits of Highly Effective People” or “7 Habits of a Highly Effective Marriage”. Can I skip right to the Official “7 Habits” FranklinCovey 35$, 2009 wire-bound, fine leather agenda?
Habitually yours,
Naïve Steve”

If it wasn’t for Stephan Covey and his 7 Habits, it is highly possible that I would be only mildly effective. Or maybe I would have a plan to pay off my loans before I reach thirty and start a happy family. When we look to Self- Help books for new lives, we are undermining our own individual character. The authors of these guides to happiness do not understand our personal system of morals or how we plan to live out our aspirations. The irony here is that we are being taught by others to change how we live while loosing any inclination to actually help ourselves. Writing a Self-Help publication is as easy as writing “7 Effective Rules of An Untimely Death”:

1. Run for Office. Whether it’s campaigning for senate or pledging to be treasurer of Lakeview HappyTree Junior High, getting into politics will wear your out quicker than a 5 mile sprint.
2. Door to door sales. It’s all about increasing the probability of bodily harm from a fellow human being.
3. Be superior. If you start out better than everyone around you, it won’t take long to start asking yourself, “If I’m superior than what is the point of living?”
4. Smoke those cigarettes folks! This one simple habit puts you half way to your grave without doing a single other thing!
5. Put down that banana. Like I said, probability. If you neglect fruit from here on out, you’re bound to end up with Scurvy.
6. Become Diabetic. Let’s face it: no one likes to eat sugar-free cookies, and again, the odds of sugar consumption in today’s diets are against you.

And finally, the most important rule of all:

7. Start young.

If these self-help books really work than who the hell is still buying them? Haven’t all the people who ever wanted to buy one found one they’ve liked yet? Haven’t all the people already been helped by the waiter at the “Woe is Me” café? And how come I don’t see any highly effective, un-begrudged, happily married, completely optimistic, freethinking, millionaire clones gardening petunias in every neighborhood?
Here’s some self-help for you: don’t live a life owned and operated under new management. In other words, don’t pay someone to clean your house no matter how much wealth you have acquired. Organize and maintain your own affairs. Take three hours on a Saturday to mow your lawn, pull your weeds and scrape the dead leaves from rooftop gutters. Without daily tasks and physical labor, one looses the motivation to improve ones own state of being. This is especially true today, when paying for help is the commonly accepted standard of success.
The concept of helping yourself (with the exception of buffet lines) has been slowly deteriorating for generations. My generation has almost lost the notion completely. Rather than cultivating the long-evolved ingenuity of our elders, we look to a hardcover version of Dr. Phil McGraw for enlightenment. A 400-some page book on “Getting Real” is about as useful as Sean Patrick Flannery giving open heart surgery. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Self-Help generation where everyone is making the same call and we’re all on hold.

"Bus Driver for Souls" by Phil DeAngelis

2008-10-19T22:45:00.000-07:00

Bus Driver for Souls

Jonas was a pilgrim in a quaint town. He drove a hearse with two bicycles secured to the roof. He quietly observed everything, all the busy neighbors up-keeping their colonial homes, still standing, protecting the inhabitants from rain. It was wet all the time, drops from friendly clouds cleansing the soil.

A husband patched shingles for three hours on Saturday while his two young daughters played out front. They chased one another, tripping into the grass intermittently. Across the road, Jonas admired their youth from his lawn chair, smoking two or three rolled cigarettes. A pile of mulch decayed in his driveway. His late wife had been the one to do most of the landscaping. All except for the garden, this was his domain. He went inside to make lemonade for himself and, as usual, he returned carrying two glasses on a tray and set one down near the side lot of the house and the other by the Petunias. Jonas retrieved a gardening claw and two tattered gloves from his garage.

Occasionally, passers-by would wave and he would nod. Mostly, however, Jonas held no interest in small talk anymore. After his wife passed away, he gained no happiness from life’s banalities. This is not to say he was grim or cold to his neighbors, he was simply more content observing. In fact, watching was all he did. He had tried to continue running a prosperous funeral home on Amherst Street but decided to sell the business to a man who lived close by. Jonas had plenty of money saved up so he kept the hearse, which he rarely used, as his only form of transportation. The neighbors assumed that the two bicycles he maintained held significance; it had been his wife and his favorite pastime.

Then there was a Monday in late March, the winter chill had lifted and positioned his chair close to the road. It turned noon as he stared at his neighbors seemingly vacated house. He knew both parents would be out on the job. Suddenly, the front door opened and one of the small girls strolled out. She walked straight at him. Without hesitation, she spoke:

“Hey Mister, I’m Alice”, she paused a moment, “What’s your name?”

“Hello there, you can call me Mr. Hutchin”

“May daddy says you’re lonely”

Unable to help laughing, he responded:

“I’d say he’s about right”.

“Its not funny mister, why are you so sad?”

Jonas thought for a moment, searching for a simple answer.

“I can’t ride my bike anymore”

“Did you forget how?” she asked, in all seriousness.

“I suppose I did, Alice. Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

A worried look overcame her face, as if she had been busted.

“I am sick today”, she said, “I should go inside now”.

Alice turned away quickly and retreated back to her home. Jonas chuckled, laughing out loud for only the second time in months. To himself, he hoped she would stay next time she was out front on the weekend.
The next morning, Jonas was pondering his conversation with the young lady. He wondered what had made her come over to him; she didn’t even seem nervous. She was obviously a bright girl for her age.
Once again, around the same time, Alice opened the door and walked towards him.

“I’m sick again today” she said folding her arms.

“Oh, I see, must be serious”.

Jonas tried to hide his excitement from her visit. She shrugged and asked, “What’s that big car for Mister?”

“That big car used to be for my job. I suppose I was a sort of bus driver for souls”.

“Can I ride in it?”

“I’m afraid not Alice”.

“My Daddy says it’s for dead people”.

Jonas laughed. “Actually it’s for living souls who no longer have bodies”

She thought for a moment, pondering his response.

“Do they pay you?”

The sky darkened and it began to drizzle. They said their goodbyes and Jonas moved his lawn chair into his garage to enjoy the rain. The next day, he was not surprised to see Alice again. This time though, she straddled her own bike, wearing a large pick helmet. He smiled at her.

“You know you shouldn’t really be outside too much if you’re not feeling well”.

She ignored the statement. “Why do you have two bikes on top of your dead people car if you don’t know how to ride?”

“I think they are memories for me”.

“Do you want to take a ride?”

“Oh I don’t know sweetie. I’m too old for that”

“That’s silly mister, I used to be too young so how can you be too old?”

It seemed to make sense. He thought of his wife alongside him, smiling through the rain as they rode home when they’re rides were cut short so many times. Jonas got up from his seat and untied one of the bikes from atop the hearse. He got on carefully and they rode together as a new rain cloud gather overhead.

"Like Lighting Wet Spots" by Phil DeAngelis

2008-10-19T22:38:00.000-07:00

Like Lighting Wet Spots (wt)

Flicker once, it goes out.
Wet spot.
The sun did help though,
Earlier.
The straw-bedding is still saturated.
To himself, he thought
To say more. Yes. Spark it.
No, wait, she will kindle
The flame.

“That’s interesting, tell me more”

Ah, yes, that line, like a blanket of Pine,
will suffice. Find the dry spot.
Now,
She will talk more.

Not for long though.

He lays another log,
Wet
From the dew in the grass,
Still smolders.

Too much smoke.

He shuts his eyes, but
He can still
Speak.
That’s a mistake, damn.

Another log laid to rest.
Almost silence.
Only the bark
Can be heard, sizzling.
Smothered bed of coals.

Conversation, like the grass, is dank.

She’s leaving now,
Fleeing,
Like smoke running from
The heat.

"Years Gone By" a sonnet by Phil DeAngelis

2008-10-15T19:23:00.001-07:00

A woven cloak of silk, taught ‘cross his back.

He wore authority and ironed pleats.

She spoke and sang to pull a loosened slack

Of conversation bare, which nude man speaks.

He will respond with intellect and wit

A time he knew she sung forgotten verse

With tact, she thwarts once stout now tepid grit,

To strip him nude, A plague, she thought, A curse.

The years gone like folds which delineate

His face, his robe, the wisdom lost in time

With ruggedness, he sings the song of fate.

Of death. Of Love, she’s far too late to find.

He rises, A king who fell from lofty thrown

The naked man she thought she’d never known.

"Hearing the Ring" a historical fiction by Phil DeAngelis

2008-10-14T19:41:00.001-07:00

At the time, a wayward uncle of Vinny’s was unmarried but happily settled in France. He managed an art museum and heard that his nephew had been struggling in his young adulthood: he was ill-fated with women and had yet to remain employed. He offered the young gentleman a chance to work as a curator at his establishment and even to fly him out on his own buck. Needless to mention, Vinny leaped at the opportunity to work for a relative where he would surely get some second chances.
Despite his perilous history with women, Vinny actually once met a young artist who frequently browsed the museum. The way she flitted along the walls of every room at only a short distance from each piece attracted his attention. Her ever consistent pace and timeless glare brought the splendor out of each piece and was pleasant for any casual spectator.
On a certain Wednesday in December, she glided through the sliding doors to view a brand new exhibit. Only a few other die-hard patrons weathered the wind and rain that day. The woman was bundled tight from muffs to boots. Sanitizing a glass casing, he stopped to watch her remove her layers sensually as if she were staring him down bedside. When she unraveled a long winding scarf that seemed to strangle her neck, she pulled against a long earring and it fell from her left ear.
She strolled on, lost in thought, unaware of the scintillating jewelry that was no longer harnessed to her delicate earlobe. Instinctively the curator went for it and prudently lifted it to call her attention to the dangling prize as an offer of conversation. She faintheartedly accepted and quietly thanked him. She smiled slightly and asked him if he enjoyed his privileged access to so many renowned exhibits. Vinny nodded, but knew from experience that he must not become overzealous.
“I enjoy observing the admirers of these displays, for it is you who gives art depth and imagination.”
She smiled. Vinny moved for a cautious leave, but then a second thought made him pause and he asked her to discuss the exhibit over coffee during his break.

Later that week he took Maria to a theater viewing and out for dinner afterwards. There was visible chemistry in their personalities. That night he went home alone so that he could take it slow and evaluate his feelings. He called her two days later and landed another date. Once again in the late hours of the night he drove away as she fumbled the keys to her third story apartment. She played hard to get the following two dates until finally giving in on the fifth, where he once again took the controls by refusing swiftly.
One day in January, she stopped by the museum just before close. He noticed her waiting outside, framed through the frosted windowpane. He closed up hurriedly and went to meet her. She surprised him with entrance passes to a local show. The night was fascinating for both of them Vinny had never experienced that natural ease of interaction with any woman he had ever known. Sex was inevitable, so they gave in and he went gladly back to her apartment.
He became strongly attracted to Maria that night. He felt a very special love for her, an extent to which exceeded hers. She started to realize this when she could not elude him even for a day. Vinny began to hound her in person as well as over the phone. She retreated and finally broke it off with the obviously deranged figure. Caught up in his own obsession he performed a grotesque offering which he thought could never be refused.
Vinny had been encouraged by his father to pray which led him away from the museum and the other stable aspects of his life. Long days and weeks were spent traveling and preaching. He wandered streets, often unsure of his destination, and spoke with anyone who would so much as turn to profess their love for Jesus Christ. Distraught still by unfulfilling sentiments, the man took on a more personal approach. He desired to plant God into the lives of specific people who he knew needed saving. The coal mines became his sanctuary. Vinny was quite fearless and spent hours speaking to miners, decked out in a fully protective suit and a hard hat, complete with top light and hiking boots.
Despite his success, Vinny’s mind and intentions were insatiable. His manic depressive mood swings worsened and increased in number. His thoughts and feelings toward God faded as he dug deeper for meaning. Ultimately unsuccessful in his quest for contentment, his brain processes fell apart convoluting any source of coherent perspective.

The dorms within the inn-keeps of Auvers-Sur-Oise, were confined, characterized by rustic layers of brick design. The rooms were neighbored only by a few other occupants. The doctor’s eyes immediately adjusted to the poorly lit ambiance provided by the room. He was a healthy looking elderly gentleman who stood tall and lean in the doorway. The slow approach of Doctor Gahmet comforted his sometimes anxious patient and friend. Vinny, a peculiar man, similarly built but lankier, gazed upward. He was occupied by his normal hobbies, lounging thoughtfully on a wooden stool. Vinny reminisced on the quiet confidence of his younger days, before things fell apart.
The muted but definitive conversation began with some of the usual subject repetition.
“What did it mean to you, Vinny, that your father was a minister?”
“His words were dignified and his thoughts were honest. As you know I deeply respected my father.” Doctor Gahmet was fishing for another answer.
“Yes but with this reputed respect, I sense a factor of intimidation. Did you feel angry at him?”
“My father taught and led his family through intimidation. He was so morally upright that, many times, we felt inferior. Sometimes it was disquieting to watch him lecture my mother.”
The older of the two gentlemen relaxed his muscles and fingered his stubble. His poof of orange hair wafted softly as he shifted his weight.
“Were you bothered by your mother’s complacency?”
“I wouldn’t say it bothered me because she had a quiet, thoughtful confidence. I see those qualities in myself. However, I knew she was not in control of the household”.
Vinny smiled flaccidly at the memory of his pleasant mother. He could hear the ministers motivated and narrow speeches which belittled his feelings, echoing in his ears.
“Tell me about your sisters… go ahead and start where you like.”
Vinny sighed, “Well Elisabeth is the oldest of the three. As a child she was tall and plain looking. She embodied many traits of Kathy, but tended to be more straightforward.”
He paused and moved on,
“Anna was the classic middle child; she was often protective of me. The youngest, Wil, differed significantly from the others. Like me, her mind was creatively inclined.”
“Right of course, lets move on to Theo…” muttered the psychologist.
Theodore became Vinny’s best friend as time wore on and was the recipient of almost every letter he ever wrote.
“He has been the single strongest influence in my life, Doc. We talk of any personal issues and, God Forbid, he actually listens to me. I continue to write to him to this day, it seems to provide some balance in my life.”
“Tell me about your faith, Vincent.”
“Well like most children, church came and it went. Seemed quite redundant and the lessons were quite tedious. Our Father’s sermons tended to irritate rather than inspire.”
“I take it you do not consider yourself spiritual?”
“To the contrary, God was instilled in our hearts as children. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I understood the true meaning of Christianity. I became depressed at my museum job and quit to seek guidance. The connection was confirmed. I embarked as a missionary to preach, depending solely on God for my well-being.”
“Quite interesting… hmm…. What came after that?”
“St. Remy.”

The particular activity he was engaged in at present, in his room at the Inn, always conjured and brought forth all flashbacks. The most striking difference could be seen in the strokes. At one time, elegant unrestricted delineation of images in his head had opened him up. Those days were over, slain by the hand of sanity. Along with exoneration and balance came the accidental portrayal of life through broader and more defined strokes. The activity came to a halt as it normally did when he felt an impulse to write to his brother Theo.

Dear Theodore,
Sweet brother, for so long you have been confident in me, never encroaching upon my capabilities. No other man or woman has ever befriended me that way. For this, I am afraid, I owe a great debt of graciousness that can never be repaid…

Even though my work has suffered as I sit and grow older, Doctor Gahmet is most apt and attentive to my needs. I fear that I can not be cured of my ailments. If perhaps I could be freed of the incessant ringing in my head, I would not be constantly reminded of my psychological mutations. Sometimes I feel as though a tragic transformation has changed me into a magnanimous monster…

My vision of the future is egregious, far too grandiose to acknowledge as honest. God, if he is who father said he was, has dealt quite a certain destiny. The brush of paint is lost on itself, so Theo, I will step away.

…the loss of beauty through definition. To you my brother, a debt of gratitude.

Sincerely,
Vincent Van Gogh

The sun rested upon the shoulder of clouds and light settled gently on his room framing his talents. At once, a gradually deteriorating mind became filled with disgust. Shame and bitterness swelled inside him towards himself, his friends and his own innocent family. Only Theodore remained in his positive thoughts.

There was a silver .45 magnum revolver tucked away discretely in the back of his closet. He found the box, hearing the roll of one single unused bullet as he lifted the case from its hideout. The gun had been in the family for generations, and he had been allowed to retain possession. Of course, Gahmet was never aware of the ominous ammo. He exhumed the convenient six-shooter from rest and headed for the door. Very slowly Vincent recalled the events that had taken place in his life, confirming his current intuition.

There was a demon inside of him, clawing at his withering soul. The ringing lived right beneath the troubled man’s heart which pumped his life with delusion. He had enough of the squirming and uneasiness caused by the sound, so he aimed and fired. The bullet was lodged and the gun dropped of its own weight to the damp ground. Panicking, he crawled for the inn. How painless it truly was, could he feel no regret?

Historical Fiction