Book Review: Please Stop Laughing at Me

To most children, school is a happy place to learn, play, and socialize. For Jodee, it was a battlefield where she had to tip toe around to avoid numerous punches and verbal shots from abusive classmates. From elementary until high school, she was bombarded with physical and verbal attacks by other children. Moving to one school after the other, Jodee could not break free from the vicious cycle of bullying. She was an outcast. Her teachers remained useless, her parents did not listen, and her doctor's cure was more medication.

Jodee Blanco's "Please Stop Laughing at Me" is an inspirational account of the effects of bullying and how the outcast was seen as the problem. She exposes how society failed her through the interactions with the school, her parents, and her doctor. This book is not only for those who have experienced being bullied, but also for those who have seen it and done nothing. No child (or adult!) should have to go through the abuse that Jodee went through and that it is why this book is on most required reading lists.

Creative Writing : Second Star to the Right

This is a piece for my Creative Non-Fiction Class. The assignment is to write a narrative with a moral or truth that is no obviously written. Any comments or criticism would be greatly appreciated.

Second Star to the Right
By: Kat Casey

Owning a bicycle as a child opened up a whole new world to be explored. Places once impossible for my young legs to walk to were closer than ever with the simple invention of the wheel. At nine years old, a bike served as a ticket out of my small neighborhood way of thinking into a vast beyond that I never even comprehended. But what is a new world to a child if it cannot be seen by another? Alisha was my best friend, living two houses up the street from me. We spent every moment together, mostly reenacting the story of Peter Pan in the tree in front of her house. I would sit on the lowest branch with a towel tied around me like a dress trying to be Wendy. She would be Peter, using her unending energy to leap from branch to branch so fast that I could have sworn she could really fly. Her hair was a nest of tight brown curls, untamed and wild as it crept around her forehead. Her eyes seemed so small through her thick glasses but she barely stood still long enough for anyone to notice. When she ran she was a blur of frizzy hair and uncontrollable laughter that was so contagious that I couldn’t help but follow. Our imagination, though fertile, was stunted by the invisible barriers of our neighborhood. But with bikes, finding a true Neverland was finally within our reach.

We set out early on a summer morning. We circled our neighborhood a dozen times, speeding through the still hot air causing a cool breeze in our wake. We pedaled faster and faster until we reached the dead end of our street, the boundary as thick as the air around us. Without a moment’s hesitation we plowed through it, onto the dirt path leading into the woods. I remember feeling so free as the invisible border peeled from my skin. The sun on that dirt road seemed brighter and the leaves were greener. This new freedom caused a small thought to bubble to the surface; our parents should know where we were going. But that would mean we would have to turn around and face the possibility that they would not let us press on. The idea that our Neverland would be once again out of reach was crushing. Our parent’s were the Captain Hooks of our story, always trying to control Peter Pan. No, we would press on, free of all restraints!

The journey was difficult, filled with steep hills and narrow paths but happy thoughts fueled our desire. The sun moved to the center of the sky and sweat poured from our skin but we were far enough away now that our houses were shielded by the large trees. There was no point in turning back, our adventure was just beginning. We navigated through the paths with ease, thinking not in terms of left or right but onward and upward. Each fork in the road was a promise of something new up ahead. We gave no thought to how we would get back or if we even wanted to go back. Neverland was close, I could feel it. Butterflies flitted through the air like Tinkerbell, squirrels quarreled in the trees like Lost Boys, and there was not a pirate grown-up in sight. We explored for hours but time was something we never considered. We only knew it was time to go home when one of our parents yelled that dinner was ready but their voices could not reach us in Neverland.

The sun drifted out of sight and the once magically illuminated forest was dipped in darkness. The Tinkerbells had vanished and the Lost Boys abandoned us. We huddled together on the ground, flinching at every twig snap and brief howl. Were their alligators in the swamp we crossed? Coyotes in the rock caves? The ominous feel of danger blanketed us and we shivered. Our parents didn’t know where we were, no one would know where to look. We deserted our bikes and ran, hand in hand. We went off the path, running towards a distant light. Second star to the right and straight on till morning. We followed that star, giving no second thought to our bikes tangled in the shrubs. Every sound we made was amplified and echoed against us but it made us run faster towards that small light. As we grew closer, we saw it was a window. We knew that house. In a matter of moments we were off the dirt road and back on our street. We looked at each other wordlessly, tears drenching our faces. We went our separate ways, back to houses that welcomed us with a warm glow. I went into my house, helmet still plastered to my head and hugged by parents sobbing indecipherable words.

Artwork : Pointillism Self Portrait

Pointillism : Dot by Dot


Pointillism has always been a passion of mine. Something about making a picture out of millions of tiny little dots really intrigues me. The only draw back is it is a technique that is very time absorbing. To the left is the first stage of my self portrait which was completed on Jan. 27th 2011. I am only using a fine point black pen on watercolor paper (the watercolor paper prevents the ink from bleeding). I focused first on the face then on the darkest parts of the hair so I could build the bends and twists around it.









The second stage was to fill in the hair details varying from light and dark to capture the light reflecting on the single strands on the right side and the top left. I didn't get to finish the hair due to the fact that I had already put in about 10 hours. This stage was completed Feb. 4th 2011.








The rest of the hair and finer details were completed on Feb. 17th 2011. I also started the detail in the hand. The next part will be the cowl neck sweater. Hopefully in the next two weeks I will have the sweater done and then I will do one last sweep for highlighting.

Book Review: Child Thief

Peter Pan is no longer painted as the cherub faced child once read about. In the "Child Thief" by Brom, Peter has escaped from his Disney prison and jumped into a macabre fairytale where he saves, or recruits, abused children. New York City is filled with guns and drugs and Nick, a fourteen year old boy, runs for his life from murderous drug dealers. He would have been killed, if it weren't for Peter and his mischievous bloody games. Peter promises Nick a new place, a secret place where there is fun and magic and never a fear of getting old... but it is not the Neverland Nick expected.

Peter dragged him through a dark haunting mist into a half dead land. Nick is recruited into the Devils, a band of lost and stolen children who are bloodthirsty and don't treat newcomers well. Suddenly he is training for a war against the monsters, the Captain and the Flesh-eaters. If they lose, the Neverland will truly die and will be lost forever.

Brom takes the classic Peter Pan character from Barrie and twists him into murderous child, seeking to save children who have been abused and use them as soldiers in his army. The story is set in the real world and in a fantasy Avalon-like world, but it is the real world scenes that are the most haunting. In the opening scene, a little girl fears her father will come into her bedroom again and since her mother committed suicide, there is no one left to save her from his wandering hands . Nick is swept up in a world of drugs and is almost murdered by dealers.These pieces of fiction are closer to reality than the savagery that occurs in the fantasy world. This story feels like an un-purified Brothers' Grimm fairytale where violence runs rampant and the hero isn't as pure as he is usually written.

Shelf Life Rating of : 5 out of 5!



ISBN-13: 9780061671340

Creative Writing : Ten Year Photo

Part of My Non-Fiction Creative Writing Assignment

Photographs have a habit of piling up in the closet with a promise that they will be filed in a photo album later. Years go by and the stack grows until you can’t open the closet without pieces of the past falling to the floor. It’s strange how many of those photos become pointless, holding no memory and leaving you to question, “Why the hell did I photograph this?” I shuffled through the One Hour Photo packets, some of them over 10 years old. It is strange that although it only took one hour to develop the photos, it took me 10 years to actually look at them. I looked at places that were meaningless to me. Random trees, a bike path and old worn shoes. One after the other, I threw them in the trash and wondered why I wasted so much film. I paused at the last picture. It was me, younger. My hair was a bright blonde, short and stuck to the sweat on my face. It must have been summer because the trees were a bright green and my skin looked sunburned. I was on my bike and my arm reached out of the photo, I had taken it myself. Click. It was the time I ran away, convinced that I could live on my own. I thought I could survive on two peanut butter sandwiches, an apple, and a diet coke forever. But the sun started to set and I was afraid. I rode on the bike path in the woods and went home. I put the photo aside on my desk, wondering what would have happened if I had brought a flashlight.