I GOT AN "A"!
Gold star! Well, not really, but I got an A on my English paper! I was literally bouncing, I was so happy. The T.A. who graded it stopped me and made sure he knew who I was by name, and told me I had a "very distinctive voice," that I had an "excellent grasp of the material" and that "it was a highly enjoyable read" ...! I almost burst into song I was so thrilled. As it was I didn't even manage to leave the room before I did a little dance of joy *grins*
Thank God for useless English classes... This one was ENG239, "Fantasy and Horror" which is right up my alley. The enjoyment was definitely reflected in my grade, and I'm kind of wondering if I should post this as an independent fanfic just... well, just because. And I wonder if what I write is good enough for me to start writing fanfic again, to join the fanfic I have never posted.
I've never gotten an A before on any of my take-home essays and assignments - I do well on tests because I have the gift of bullshit, but essays intimidate me, and make me feel like anything I write is not well-researched enough, not articulate enough, just... not enough. And then I procrastinate well past the due date and eventually the point is moot, and I fail or just do badly, or never hand it in at all. I desperately needed this A to make me feel like I CAN do well in school.
So the assignment was to write a case study from the perspective of another character in one of the novels on the syllabus, but keeping true to the established narrative. I chose to write on L. Frank Baum's Patchwork Girl of Oz, which I hated. There was a method to my madness - in my version I got to address some of my concerns. I hated the book, so obviously I had a lot to say about how it SHOULD have gone. If anyone wants to read Patchwork, here's the link : www.gutenberg.org/files/955/955-h/955-h.htm
If anyone wants to read my story (please?) look under the cut:
Oh and... not mine, it belongs to whomever holds the estate of L. Frank Baum...
Memoirs of a Munchkin - The Trials and Tribulations of
Dr. Pipt, called the Crooked Magician
Foreword
The following is a transcription of the conversations with the Crooked Magician in the jail of the Emerald City...
My name is Dr. Nikidik Pipt . They say a crooked body is a sign of a crooked mind, of a twisted conscience. These things I may have, but I know too that I can recognize something abhorrent when I see it, and I see this new Oz as something to inspire trepidation, if not outright horror . I tell you this tale as a warning... and as a way to remember my most fearful mistreatment at the hands of Princess Ozma and her minions. I should hope that this will eventually make its way to someone who will appreciate the newfound horror of Oz, someone who will learn from this and mayhap stop it from happening anywhere else.
I was a dabbler in magic, enjoying my esoteric craft and finding ways around my crooked body through the adventures of the mind and of the spirit. I loved learning, in a way that few know and cannot explain - a yearning so deep that I searched high and low for grimoires, spellbooks, ways to bend the world to my will since I was unable to unbend myself from my crookedness. I met Margolotte one fine day, a pretty, quiet little Munchkin girl, and we fell deeply in love, despite my crookedness. Her family raised such a to-do, hue and cry, that I was forced to flee with my new bride and move to the most remote border of Munchkinland, bordering the Country of the Gillikins. There we stayed for many years, her caring for me and my crooked self, where I devised my first batch of the Powder of Life. It took me years - 12 of them, to be exact, and by the time I was finished I was no longer a young man but middle-aged, with a crooked body, some new back problems and a tendency in my wrists and ankles to lock in place. Margolotte was a great help, but as the years passed she became more and more demanding; first she wanted companionship - more than her crooked husband locked in his laboratory all day creating miracles, then she wanted something to catch mice, and finally she wanted a servant girl. With the first batch of the Powder of Life, (the recipe of which I will not describe in detail, as it could fall into the wrong hands) I created the glass cat. She was beautiful, but she was not what Margolotte wanted. I gave the creature a heart and brains made of a ruby and pink beads, but it was for naught. She was cold and would not catch mice as she was directed, and so she was christened Bungle.
The powder remaining I sold to a witch in exchange for the Powder of Perpetual Youth (which was a great waste), a phonograph and the recipe to create the Liquid of Petrification. Whatever powder was left was later to bring the Sawhorse and Jack Pumpkinhead to life, though I know not the exact time or method. I used the recipe the Mombi the Witch had given to me, though I had less use for the Liquid of Petrification after a wooden table changed to marble and the Kalidahs were changed to garden ornaments . It took me many years, but for the joy of academia I distilled different types of brain furniture though I never did quite pin down “Intelligence,” substituting “Cleverness” instead. Margolotte was displeased with my efforts - we were well taken care of, yet she was lonely with only her crooked husband for society. She asked for a servant girl to help her with the household, and we decided to make her one out of an old crazy-quilt and further application of the Powder of Life. Now, since I had long since run out of it, I began the long and complicated process (do you know how wearisome six years of stirring can be?) of creating more of the magical substance.
Experimentation is the crux of magic, and so I managed to shorten the process by half. Six long, horrible years later, in which I hardly ate and slept not a wink, I was interrupted in my work by my dear wife, my friend Unc Nunkie, and his little nephew Ojo the Unlucky (misfortunate moniker there, pun intended). Thirty minutes later, I have a dancing and singing phonograph - I knew accepting the phonograph from Mombi had been a mistake - and a pair of statues, one of which was my beloved WIFE! I was furious, then devastated. Of course I, being brilliant and clever and magical, knew that it would be a simple thing to reverse - if only that blasted servant doll patchwork monstrosity hadn’t spilled all the remaining powder on the phonograph! Mombi certainly cheated me somehow when she threw in that blasted musical device in addition to the useless Powder of Perpetual Youth. Of course, my cleverness could not be downtrodden by adversity, for I knew that there was a further magical compound that would reverse the effects of the Liquid of Petrification. I sent off the boy, the cat, and the Angeline/Scraps/patchwork-servant-thing to quest for the required ingredients - and in the meantime I began to start the long, weary process of mixing up a fresh batch of the Powder of Life, just in case that boy (Unlucky, you know) failed to fetch the things I needed to bring my Margolotte back to me.
Not a week passed before the Soldier with the Green Whiskers came knocking on my door with a great cart. Arrested! Me! The pride of Munchkinland, the Crooked Magician of repute and renown - arrested for merely dabbling, (though as I told that Ojo, some of my feats were worthy of the Great Glinda the Good). He knocked over all my cauldrons, picked up my wife and my friend, and carted them (and my august person) to the capitol in disgrace. I had never been so humiliated in all my life!
I malingered in prison for many days - not knowing what was going to happen, what would become of my poor Margolotte, what was happening to my brave champions out braving the Land of Oz for the ingredients I still needed to revive my wife and Unc Nunkie. It was torture, though my jailor repeated often that,
"We consider a prisoner unfortunate. He is unfortunate in two ways-because he has done something wrong and because he is deprived of his liberty. Therefore we should treat him kindly, because of his misfortune, for otherwise he would become hard and bitter and would not be sorry he had done wrong."
I knew it was foolishness. I was not sorry! I would not become strong and brave, for I had never been strong or brave, with my crooked self and my strange yearnings for books and learning and magic. I wanted my Margolotte!
One day, long after I had lost track of how long I had been there (hours and days run together when you lack your freedom and are yearning for the chance to see your beloved) the Soldier with the Green Whiskers arrived at my prison to ferry me to the palace, where I would, no doubt, be executed or punished or some such. Imagine my surprise when I was given a chair to sit and a chance to gaze at my wife’s petrified marble face! Imagine the shock when Ojo the Unlucky, Scraps, and several new companions arrived in the throne room; I was paralyzed with hope that they had succeeded in their quest - was the Princess Ozma going to allow me to help my Margolotte? Release the strictures on magic, perhaps grant me leave to just combine the rare ingredients, for it wouldn’t take longer than a few minutes to boil the butterfly’s wing and the six-leafed clover in the gill of dark-well water, coat the three hairs with the oil from a live man’s body and then stir it all together. The resulting mixture would be sprinkled on Unc and Margolotte, and they would be as good as new. I was perched in a chair to receive my punishment for the practice of unlawful magical arts in Oz (something I did not believe in, for I had only used them to rid ourselves of the persistent mice problem and to make chores easier for my wife) and was told that I no longer had magic arts - and that I was no longer a crooked Magician, no longer a crooked Munchkin, even! Miracle of miracles, not only did I cease to feel the burning desire for more knowledge, but my limbs, for the first time in all my life, straightened out and became normal and whole! I was giddy with joy, but only for a few moments. I was no longer crooked, but I had no one to share my exhilaration with, for Margolotte was still made of marble.
I listened with dread as the boy told the Princess that he had got it all - all but the left wing of a yellow butterfly! How could Ozma allow this to come to pass? If a tin man clanks in the court, who cares if a yellow butterfly dies to save the lives of two Munchkins, one of whom was the former heir to the throne of Munchkinland (before the Unification of Oz under Princess Ozma) and the other my beloved Margolotte? I despaired at that moment, but was filled with the utmost joy when I learned that the Wizard of Oz, that most estimable Witch’s Apprentice, was present and able to heal my wife and my silent friend. With an ease that I admired and had never achieved, not even at the height of my powers, he made a few magic passes and mumbled a few words and my Margolotte was returned to me! I can live like a normal Munchkin man, now... perhaps Margolotte and I can move back to the centre of Munchkinland to be with her family, now that I am no longer crooked and no longer feel the need for the magical powers that I once lived and breathed. Foolishness. Of course the Princess Ozma in all her wisdom saw that what I did was wrong; that everything I had searched for had become nothing more than the petulant exercises of a child. I could be a normal citizen of Oz for the first time! I have never been so happy!
~ end of transcription~
~ speech for the academic committee of Shiz University, Three Queens, Ozma Towers and Briscoe Hall ~
My dear colleagues,
In my search for the truth, I have discovered a terrible secret. As shown by the above recordings of Dr. Nikidik Pipt, Princess Ozma does indeed rule with an iron fist wrapped in a silk glove, disguised by a winsome little girl. I never imagined that our former associate, the Crooked Magician, might one day lose that which made him one of the most creative and productive of our ever-dwindling numbers. As you have read, he begins by describing his love of academia, learning, and discovery. He was one of the most talented of us, for though he was born crooked and remained so for many years, he searched endlessly for ways to either heal his malady or to find ways around it, to make life more comfortable for himself and for his wife.
At the end of the recorded speech, he had come to terms with the idea that he might never create anything ever again. Not only was he accepting of this development, he was thrilled! Happy, even, that he had been stripped of his powers. The Nikidik Pipt I knew once told me that he was happy to be crooked, proud of his name “the Crooked Magician,” because he was glad to be physically incapacitated if only his mental perspicacity never failed him. Ozma is trouble; too controlling, too willing to use her power, and too willing to squash all tendencies for discovery and academic learning. Dr. Pipt is no longer a brilliant magician, merely a sheep that willingly does her bidding and is glad for it.
The Land of Oz is closed now, no longer accessible to Mr. L. Frank Baum and the outside world of the mysterious Kansas, from whence came our Princess Dorothy. I believe that Ozma, for all her supposed wisdom, was in error sealing us off from everything not Ozian. I understand that this is traitorous, what I feel, but if she believes that depriving the Crooked Magician of his mental acuity in exchange for straightening his body... well, I don’t believe that this is beneficial or benevolent. The people of Oz should be afraid - those who are different are either pets, like the Sawhorse, the Scarecrow, the Patchwork Girl, the Woozy... or eliminated, like the Wicked Witch of the West, Mombi the Witch, and the Crooked Magician of Munchkinland.
She is stripping us of our uniqueness in her girlish attempts to keep Oz immortal and unchangeable - the closing of Oz, the creeping horror of immutability and subsequent stagnation; the way she keeps the power of magic from all but those she has direct control over - the Good Witch of the East, and the Wizard. I fear for the future of Oz, my friends, I fear that one day we will be nothing more than a collection of mindless sheep, with the only irregularities in Ozma’s personal menagerie and directly under her thumb.
The psychological results of closing the country to outsiders are clear - it was a mistake and should have been avoided. We, as people, need a continuous influx of information so that we can continue to adapt. This closed environment, this polder of Oz , is poisoning us. Soon we will be kept as pets in Ozma’s menagerie or lobotomized like Dr. Pipt.
We raise our glasses to Dr. Nikidik Pipt, ladies and gentlemen, the creator of the Powder of Life and a dear friend and colleague. There may be a Nikidik Pipt still living in Oz, but he is not what we knew. A moment of silence, please.
Thank God for useless English classes... This one was ENG239, "Fantasy and Horror" which is right up my alley. The enjoyment was definitely reflected in my grade, and I'm kind of wondering if I should post this as an independent fanfic just... well, just because. And I wonder if what I write is good enough for me to start writing fanfic again, to join the fanfic I have never posted.
I've never gotten an A before on any of my take-home essays and assignments - I do well on tests because I have the gift of bullshit, but essays intimidate me, and make me feel like anything I write is not well-researched enough, not articulate enough, just... not enough. And then I procrastinate well past the due date and eventually the point is moot, and I fail or just do badly, or never hand it in at all. I desperately needed this A to make me feel like I CAN do well in school.
So the assignment was to write a case study from the perspective of another character in one of the novels on the syllabus, but keeping true to the established narrative. I chose to write on L. Frank Baum's Patchwork Girl of Oz, which I hated. There was a method to my madness - in my version I got to address some of my concerns. I hated the book, so obviously I had a lot to say about how it SHOULD have gone. If anyone wants to read Patchwork, here's the link : www.gutenberg.org/files/955/955-h/955-h.htm
If anyone wants to read my story (please?) look under the cut:
Oh and... not mine, it belongs to whomever holds the estate of L. Frank Baum...
Memoirs of a Munchkin - The Trials and Tribulations of
Dr. Pipt, called the Crooked Magician
Foreword
The following is a transcription of the conversations with the Crooked Magician in the jail of the Emerald City...
My name is Dr. Nikidik Pipt . They say a crooked body is a sign of a crooked mind, of a twisted conscience. These things I may have, but I know too that I can recognize something abhorrent when I see it, and I see this new Oz as something to inspire trepidation, if not outright horror . I tell you this tale as a warning... and as a way to remember my most fearful mistreatment at the hands of Princess Ozma and her minions. I should hope that this will eventually make its way to someone who will appreciate the newfound horror of Oz, someone who will learn from this and mayhap stop it from happening anywhere else.
I was a dabbler in magic, enjoying my esoteric craft and finding ways around my crooked body through the adventures of the mind and of the spirit. I loved learning, in a way that few know and cannot explain - a yearning so deep that I searched high and low for grimoires, spellbooks, ways to bend the world to my will since I was unable to unbend myself from my crookedness. I met Margolotte one fine day, a pretty, quiet little Munchkin girl, and we fell deeply in love, despite my crookedness. Her family raised such a to-do, hue and cry, that I was forced to flee with my new bride and move to the most remote border of Munchkinland, bordering the Country of the Gillikins. There we stayed for many years, her caring for me and my crooked self, where I devised my first batch of the Powder of Life. It took me years - 12 of them, to be exact, and by the time I was finished I was no longer a young man but middle-aged, with a crooked body, some new back problems and a tendency in my wrists and ankles to lock in place. Margolotte was a great help, but as the years passed she became more and more demanding; first she wanted companionship - more than her crooked husband locked in his laboratory all day creating miracles, then she wanted something to catch mice, and finally she wanted a servant girl. With the first batch of the Powder of Life, (the recipe of which I will not describe in detail, as it could fall into the wrong hands) I created the glass cat. She was beautiful, but she was not what Margolotte wanted. I gave the creature a heart and brains made of a ruby and pink beads, but it was for naught. She was cold and would not catch mice as she was directed, and so she was christened Bungle.
The powder remaining I sold to a witch in exchange for the Powder of Perpetual Youth (which was a great waste), a phonograph and the recipe to create the Liquid of Petrification. Whatever powder was left was later to bring the Sawhorse and Jack Pumpkinhead to life, though I know not the exact time or method. I used the recipe the Mombi the Witch had given to me, though I had less use for the Liquid of Petrification after a wooden table changed to marble and the Kalidahs were changed to garden ornaments . It took me many years, but for the joy of academia I distilled different types of brain furniture though I never did quite pin down “Intelligence,” substituting “Cleverness” instead. Margolotte was displeased with my efforts - we were well taken care of, yet she was lonely with only her crooked husband for society. She asked for a servant girl to help her with the household, and we decided to make her one out of an old crazy-quilt and further application of the Powder of Life. Now, since I had long since run out of it, I began the long and complicated process (do you know how wearisome six years of stirring can be?) of creating more of the magical substance.
Experimentation is the crux of magic, and so I managed to shorten the process by half. Six long, horrible years later, in which I hardly ate and slept not a wink, I was interrupted in my work by my dear wife, my friend Unc Nunkie, and his little nephew Ojo the Unlucky (misfortunate moniker there, pun intended). Thirty minutes later, I have a dancing and singing phonograph - I knew accepting the phonograph from Mombi had been a mistake - and a pair of statues, one of which was my beloved WIFE! I was furious, then devastated. Of course I, being brilliant and clever and magical, knew that it would be a simple thing to reverse - if only that blasted servant doll patchwork monstrosity hadn’t spilled all the remaining powder on the phonograph! Mombi certainly cheated me somehow when she threw in that blasted musical device in addition to the useless Powder of Perpetual Youth. Of course, my cleverness could not be downtrodden by adversity, for I knew that there was a further magical compound that would reverse the effects of the Liquid of Petrification. I sent off the boy, the cat, and the Angeline/Scraps/patchwork-servant-thing to quest for the required ingredients - and in the meantime I began to start the long, weary process of mixing up a fresh batch of the Powder of Life, just in case that boy (Unlucky, you know) failed to fetch the things I needed to bring my Margolotte back to me.
Not a week passed before the Soldier with the Green Whiskers came knocking on my door with a great cart. Arrested! Me! The pride of Munchkinland, the Crooked Magician of repute and renown - arrested for merely dabbling, (though as I told that Ojo, some of my feats were worthy of the Great Glinda the Good). He knocked over all my cauldrons, picked up my wife and my friend, and carted them (and my august person) to the capitol in disgrace. I had never been so humiliated in all my life!
I malingered in prison for many days - not knowing what was going to happen, what would become of my poor Margolotte, what was happening to my brave champions out braving the Land of Oz for the ingredients I still needed to revive my wife and Unc Nunkie. It was torture, though my jailor repeated often that,
"We consider a prisoner unfortunate. He is unfortunate in two ways-because he has done something wrong and because he is deprived of his liberty. Therefore we should treat him kindly, because of his misfortune, for otherwise he would become hard and bitter and would not be sorry he had done wrong."
I knew it was foolishness. I was not sorry! I would not become strong and brave, for I had never been strong or brave, with my crooked self and my strange yearnings for books and learning and magic. I wanted my Margolotte!
One day, long after I had lost track of how long I had been there (hours and days run together when you lack your freedom and are yearning for the chance to see your beloved) the Soldier with the Green Whiskers arrived at my prison to ferry me to the palace, where I would, no doubt, be executed or punished or some such. Imagine my surprise when I was given a chair to sit and a chance to gaze at my wife’s petrified marble face! Imagine the shock when Ojo the Unlucky, Scraps, and several new companions arrived in the throne room; I was paralyzed with hope that they had succeeded in their quest - was the Princess Ozma going to allow me to help my Margolotte? Release the strictures on magic, perhaps grant me leave to just combine the rare ingredients, for it wouldn’t take longer than a few minutes to boil the butterfly’s wing and the six-leafed clover in the gill of dark-well water, coat the three hairs with the oil from a live man’s body and then stir it all together. The resulting mixture would be sprinkled on Unc and Margolotte, and they would be as good as new. I was perched in a chair to receive my punishment for the practice of unlawful magical arts in Oz (something I did not believe in, for I had only used them to rid ourselves of the persistent mice problem and to make chores easier for my wife) and was told that I no longer had magic arts - and that I was no longer a crooked Magician, no longer a crooked Munchkin, even! Miracle of miracles, not only did I cease to feel the burning desire for more knowledge, but my limbs, for the first time in all my life, straightened out and became normal and whole! I was giddy with joy, but only for a few moments. I was no longer crooked, but I had no one to share my exhilaration with, for Margolotte was still made of marble.
I listened with dread as the boy told the Princess that he had got it all - all but the left wing of a yellow butterfly! How could Ozma allow this to come to pass? If a tin man clanks in the court, who cares if a yellow butterfly dies to save the lives of two Munchkins, one of whom was the former heir to the throne of Munchkinland (before the Unification of Oz under Princess Ozma) and the other my beloved Margolotte? I despaired at that moment, but was filled with the utmost joy when I learned that the Wizard of Oz, that most estimable Witch’s Apprentice, was present and able to heal my wife and my silent friend. With an ease that I admired and had never achieved, not even at the height of my powers, he made a few magic passes and mumbled a few words and my Margolotte was returned to me! I can live like a normal Munchkin man, now... perhaps Margolotte and I can move back to the centre of Munchkinland to be with her family, now that I am no longer crooked and no longer feel the need for the magical powers that I once lived and breathed. Foolishness. Of course the Princess Ozma in all her wisdom saw that what I did was wrong; that everything I had searched for had become nothing more than the petulant exercises of a child. I could be a normal citizen of Oz for the first time! I have never been so happy!
~ end of transcription~
~ speech for the academic committee of Shiz University, Three Queens, Ozma Towers and Briscoe Hall ~
My dear colleagues,
In my search for the truth, I have discovered a terrible secret. As shown by the above recordings of Dr. Nikidik Pipt, Princess Ozma does indeed rule with an iron fist wrapped in a silk glove, disguised by a winsome little girl. I never imagined that our former associate, the Crooked Magician, might one day lose that which made him one of the most creative and productive of our ever-dwindling numbers. As you have read, he begins by describing his love of academia, learning, and discovery. He was one of the most talented of us, for though he was born crooked and remained so for many years, he searched endlessly for ways to either heal his malady or to find ways around it, to make life more comfortable for himself and for his wife.
At the end of the recorded speech, he had come to terms with the idea that he might never create anything ever again. Not only was he accepting of this development, he was thrilled! Happy, even, that he had been stripped of his powers. The Nikidik Pipt I knew once told me that he was happy to be crooked, proud of his name “the Crooked Magician,” because he was glad to be physically incapacitated if only his mental perspicacity never failed him. Ozma is trouble; too controlling, too willing to use her power, and too willing to squash all tendencies for discovery and academic learning. Dr. Pipt is no longer a brilliant magician, merely a sheep that willingly does her bidding and is glad for it.
The Land of Oz is closed now, no longer accessible to Mr. L. Frank Baum and the outside world of the mysterious Kansas, from whence came our Princess Dorothy. I believe that Ozma, for all her supposed wisdom, was in error sealing us off from everything not Ozian. I understand that this is traitorous, what I feel, but if she believes that depriving the Crooked Magician of his mental acuity in exchange for straightening his body... well, I don’t believe that this is beneficial or benevolent. The people of Oz should be afraid - those who are different are either pets, like the Sawhorse, the Scarecrow, the Patchwork Girl, the Woozy... or eliminated, like the Wicked Witch of the West, Mombi the Witch, and the Crooked Magician of Munchkinland.
She is stripping us of our uniqueness in her girlish attempts to keep Oz immortal and unchangeable - the closing of Oz, the creeping horror of immutability and subsequent stagnation; the way she keeps the power of magic from all but those she has direct control over - the Good Witch of the East, and the Wizard. I fear for the future of Oz, my friends, I fear that one day we will be nothing more than a collection of mindless sheep, with the only irregularities in Ozma’s personal menagerie and directly under her thumb.
The psychological results of closing the country to outsiders are clear - it was a mistake and should have been avoided. We, as people, need a continuous influx of information so that we can continue to adapt. This closed environment, this polder of Oz , is poisoning us. Soon we will be kept as pets in Ozma’s menagerie or lobotomized like Dr. Pipt.
We raise our glasses to Dr. Nikidik Pipt, ladies and gentlemen, the creator of the Powder of Life and a dear friend and colleague. There may be a Nikidik Pipt still living in Oz, but he is not what we knew. A moment of silence, please.