Some of the tests are designed to be more difficult than others. Some have essay questions, while others are limited to short-response questions, like multiple choice, matching and short answer questions. If you don't find the combination of questions that best suits your class, you can also create your own test on The Beautiful Side of Evil. If you want to integrate questions you've developed for your curriculum with the questions in this lesson plan, or you simply want to create a unique test or quiz from the questions this lesson plan offers, it's easy to do.
Scroll through the sections of the lesson plan that most interest you and cut and paste the exact questions you want to use into your new, personalized The Beautiful Side of Evil lesson plan.
View all Lesson Plans available from BookRags. All rights reserved. Toggle navigation. Sign Up. Sign In. View the Study Pack. Lesson Calendar. Chapter Abstracts. Character Descriptions. Object Descriptions. Daily Lessons. Fun Activities. Essay Topics. Short Essay Questions. Short Essay Questions Key. Multiple Choice. Multiple Choice Key. Short Answer Questions. Short Answer Questions Key. Oral Reading Evaluation Sheet. Reading Assignment Sheet. Writing Evaluation Form. One Week Quiz A. Two Week Quiz A.
Four Week Quiz A. Four Week Quiz B. Eight Week Quiz A. Eight Week Quiz B. Eight Week Quiz C. Eight Week Quiz D. Eight Week Quiz E. You've even got some of the guys in tech believing you're a priestess from another planet and have strange powers.
So Kevan told me. I don't know sometimes, Damon. I know some think I'm insane-or on the very edge at least, I've seen it in their faces when they look at me. You know, sometimes I find myself smiling at their blind ness, their gullibility, cunning and plotting how I can best make use of that belief.
And suddenly I stop, frightened by my own deviousness. I really feel as though I don't belong in this world, as though I had been created for another dimension, a sparkling, radiant world where I could fly and soar into the air with my people and serve upon the altar of my God. Do you ever have the feel ing you're not really part of your body, that you were.
There is more beyond this life, Damon. There are spirit beings all around us. I can see them, hear them. I feel when they are near calling to me-but sometimes I'm so afraid of them. There is an awful evil which comes among them sometimes. They've come to me ever since I was little. They are there, Damon, others have seen them with me, heard them. But Tiresias and my Little People.
Perhaps I've been so lonely my own mind has created them. I'm so frightened sometimes, Damon. Oh, God, if I could only find peace within myself. His face was composed, but his eyes reflected a soul-trapped and screaming-searching frantically for the soothing, heal ing waters of peace-searching with no real hope of ever finding what couldn't long be lived without. I recognized the look. It was my own. In April I decided to adopt a snake. I made this momentous decision while I was still nursing several badly bruised ribs acquired by falling off the stage at Ford's Theater in Washington D.
We had entered the American College Theater Festival months before with an unusual production of an old German play called Woyzeck. Our show was selected one of the ten best out of colleges all over the country, a fact which gave us the honor of perform ing at Ford's Theater.
Opening night the lights dimmed on cue at the end of the fourth scene and then unexpectedly blacked out. I got turned around in the darkness and walked straight off the end of the stage. Somehow I landed on the only flat unit in the orchestra pit. If I had gone several inches in either direction I would have tripped over a footlight and landed on the edge of some open unit which quite possibly would have killed me.
As it was, the fall knocked my breath out. The pain on my right side was paralyzing, so I simply lay there for about fifteen minutes wondering if I could be seen from the front rows. I hoped not. All the critics were in the front rows. When I had caught my breath, I pulled myself back on stage during another scene change and finished the show.
Several years later I saw a newspaper article which mentioned that many performers had suffered strange accidents on that stage, especially in the path Booth had followed in his attempted escape after Lincoln's assassination. Where I had fallen was directly in the path shown on their diagram.
Mama flew in from Mexico to take care of me. I don't know how I would have made it through that time without her. There was no more comforting hand in the world to me than my mother's. After several weeks I was able to fend for myself again and she returned to Mexico. That was when I decided to adopt a snake not as a replacement for my mother, I hasten to add. Besides, rehearsing Cleopatra's death scene for acting class without the benefit of an asp seemed futile.
And Professor Benecroft said live props were always helpful. Oddly enough, Barney's Animal Kingdom pet store was fresh out of asps. They did, however, have a beguiling South American baby boa. He was only 19 inches long and had the loveliest pattern on his back, so I named him Quetzalcoatl and took him home around my neck.
On the way to my dorm I ran into Adam. He was en thralled with my new pet and immediately proceeded to the workshop. After almost two hours of sawing and hammering, he presented the creature with a wooden cage. It had a leather shoulder strap so I could carry him with me, and a screen on one side so he could look out. It was fully equipped with a little tub of water and tree branch. Reactions to m y pet were varied. H e was either im mediately accepted and cuddled or, more frequently, greeted with short shrieks of ghastly recognition-as,.
The days were still cold so, as usual, I let the thing wrap himself around my neck to keep warm. In the middle of the conversation she stopped to ad mire my necklace. Quetzalcoatl lifted his head and flicked his little tongue at her. The ensuing scream turned heads halfway across campus.
My rendition of Cleopatra improved not at all with the acquisition of the baby boa, but it did start a fad on campus that lasted several months. More important to me, however, Quetzalcoatl was something alive to care for and love. Many, I know, will refuse to believe this, but boas have lovely personalities-well, South American boas anyway.
Central American boas have ticks and bite. Over a period of weeks he learned to recognize my scent with his flicking tongue and would make his way across my desk to wrap himself around my arm-something he did for no one else.
Of course there may have been no one else he wanted to throttle, either. Granted, a snake was a far cry from my first choice for a pet. I would infinitely have preferred a fluffy kit ten, but I never would have gotten away with a cat in the dorm. I suspected, correctly, that the girls would be somewhat less inclined to reveal the presence of a pet snake to the housemother for fear the thing would perhaps, somehow, appear under their pillow one night.
I also fancied Quetzalcoatl offered me some modicum of protection. You see, word had gotten out- I'm sure I don't know how-that the bite of this boa, unlike that of all others, was endowed with poison. I soon was given wide berth on my late night wanderings. The summer of found me desperately trying to put together a theater course I could take. I needed to add several extra credits required by the University of North Carolina, but I didn't want to stay in the States to get them. So, Mother and I went to the University of the Americas in Cholula, Puebla, a town of crumbling pyramids and churches which was located at the foot of two awesome snowcapped volcanos.
The depressing saga of that summer like my ballet fiasco of earlier days is best left untold. Not unex pectedly, in light of my last college transfer, the theater courses offered in Cholula were suddenly cancelled due to technical difficulties beyond their control-the teacher quit. The long and short of it is that at the end of the term, with the help of my parents and a wonderful lady soon dubbed "Mama" Clarine Furrow, I produced, directed, and starred in a public performance of Miss Julie in ex change for the needed credits.
Considering most of the cast had either defected to go sightseeing or had gotten themselves arrested for various and sundry ridiculous reasons, the show was really not half-bad-except perhaps for the scene in which Daddy tried to create the illusion of "gaily dancing peasants" all by himself.
Finally the summer was over and I hadn't jumped in to a volcano. My first night back in Chapel Hill, I hur ried out to collect a small bouquet of leaves and flowers to give to Professor Koch.
It was past midnight when I made my way to the theater and unlocked the doors. As usual, I slipped in quickly, locked the doors behind me and groped my way through the dark little lobby to the light switch at the entrance of the auditorium. There was a soft click as pale lights flooded the stage.
I've come back. Here, I've brought you your flowers. Can you hear me? The inner swinging doors of the theater began to thud against the large front panels I had just locked, not the gentle sound which frequently announced the arrival of the professor, but violent, angry, threatening to shatter them into a thousand pieces. Then, as sud denly as it had begun, the banging stopped-dead silence-and then an overpowering presence of evil rushed into the theater and flooded around me.
A voice-low, intense, quivering with rage spoke inside my head. You left me. You've brought me no green thing to place upon my stage. Where were you? I'm sorry, I had to go away for the summer. Don't you remember, I came to say goodbye when I left? Why are you so angry? I'm sorry, look. Here they are. I left the theater confused and frightened. For almost two weeks I visited the theater only in daylight. I took a daily offering of green things which I placed beneath the stage, and after a while I sensed he was no longer angry with me.
And yet there was no longer that total acceptance of before. Now, sometimes when I would rise and go to the theater in the dead of night or in the early hours before dawn, I was greeted frequently by a barrier, invisible but as solid as though a web of rubber netting had been stretched across the entrance.
I thought this was just temporary. Professor was still upset. He would get over it. Then several months later the final break came. It was during the running of a comedy called The Knack. Kevan was stage manager for the play. I was busy with some obscure experimental show which was rehearsing at Graham Memorial.
After my rehearsal I would walk over to Playmakers to watch the last act and help Kevan lock up the theater. Then we would sit by the stage and talk for a while before he would walk me home. Several nights into the performance, after everyone had left, Kevan flopped his long frame down into a seat in the front row and stretched his legs out on the ledge of the stage. Guess I'm just tired. I stared as Kevan continued speaking. His voice seemed to be coming from very far away. The form of a young soldier in a dark uniform began to materialize.
He couldn't have been more than seventeen or eight een years old. He was huddled on the floor by the wall, his whole body shaken by sobs that were now faintly audible to me. His head turned and he looked straight into my eyes, tears streaming down his face. He was clutching his right hip and suddenly I gasped in pain. Kevan stopped talking and looked at me. Kevan followed my eyes to the point in the aisle where I was staring.
Look at what? There's a young soldier there. He's crying. I can feel the pain in my hip. Don't you see him? Ah , look Jo, I think it's time to go. He needs to say something to me. I remembered Professor's anger towards me and didn't want to be in the theater alone tonight.
I got up to leave. I looked again at the young soldier. As quickly as he had come, he began to fade, his face bit ter, resentful, full of pain. He needed to speak and I had chosen not to stay. I had missed the moment. It was too late. Want to come down with me? Kevan went below while I walked about the stage. There was an old cot on the set and I stretched out on it to rest for a moment. I felt so tired. A tall pitch-black figure filled the booth.
I whirled around on the cot as Kevan's footsteps came running up from beneath the stage. The figure faded and disappeared. I think I saw someone in the light booth. He gave me a strange look but went up to check. He waved and called down to me from the booth. You've been acting awfully strange lately. Are you sick?
Let's go get some coffee," I answered. But I felt cold and afraid. The figure had seemed hostile and threatening. I went back again to the theater the following night though, determined not to be scared away. I went down front as usual to wait for Kevan. The theater was ominously still. I don't know if it's you trying to frighten me or if someone else has moved in, but it doesn't matter. I belong here too! Then, above me-a rustling sound. A dark hooded form-a hideous, contorted face, gleaming dead white, sprawled down on the grid over my head; enormous long eyes glinted bright shiny green-like the eyes of a wild maddened animal.
Dark arms hung. I backed slowly to the wall fighting for breath, my mouth opened in a scream that would not come. What's the matter? The pressure lifted and air rushed back into my lungs. I saw him. Just then we heard two footsteps on the iron walk-way above us. There is someone up there.
I could hear the ringing of his footsteps as he searched the entire area; then he was back, his face white. Beck grinned as he saw us. Jo's upset. Take her for some coffee will you? I've still got to lock up. I'm fine now, Beck, thank you. I've got some studying to do anyway.
Good night Jo! A car stopped to let us pass. I glanced up as we walked by and froze. The face in the car seemed to become the face I had just seen in the theater.
I knew it couldn't be, but my nerves finally reached their snapping point as. I began to scream. Beck held me a long time as I sobbed, terrified and helpless and broken hearted. Professor hated me. I no longer belonged. Dear, gentle Beck. He seemed to be endowed with some sort of super human patience. At a time when I was most alone, most vulnerable, he stood by and helped me keep a grasp on sanity.
He had been right; I needed him very much now. Even Paula, my roommate, had moved out after leaving me a three page typed letter about how im possibly morbid, inconsiderate, theatrical, and bizarre I was. I never went into that theater again except to attend classes. I never again took Professor anything living and green. One night several weeks after the final incident in the theater, a number of us gathered in Jack and Adam's room to talk and listen to music.
Beck and I were on some drug or other, a gentle kind of non-hallucinatory drug, the second of only four trips. I felt calm and mellow as I leaned back on his shoulder and waited for the music.
We had been promised something different that night, a new rock musical on the life of Jesus called "Jesus Christ, Superstar. Nevertheless, as the drug began to take effect, it seemed to me that I was sud denly there, an active participant in the drama of His life. There as He was betrayed. There as He was mock ed, and oh, God, as He was beaten with a whip that seemed to cut into my own flesh with every crack.
There as His hands and feet were hammered to the cross. For the first time in my life I became acutely, overwhelmingly aware that Jesus had really lived, had really experienced death on a cross. The first week I had been at Wesleyan, a girl named Nancy shared a little booklet called "The Four Spiritual Laws" with me and I had asked Jesus to become part of my life.
For a few months afterwards things seemed better. I always kept my Bible near and often read from the Book of Psalms to quiet my spirit when I felt myself sur rounded by evil. I quickly found, however, that reading the New Testament seemed to precede an especially violent and frightening attack from the be ings around me, so I began to avoid it.
It was my love of God, however, that kept me from actively seeking to develop the psychic powers I knew I had. A voice deep inside me would say, "No, don't, it will hurt God if you do. I was alone. Everyone had left. I found Beck downstairs in the lounge. He had been unable to bear the pain of listening to the suffering of Jesus.
We both decided we must find out more about this Man. We began going to church early Sunday mornings. Several months later, we had an encounter with Deity. We had been at what had inadvertently become an all-night theater troupe party. The music was mellow, the conversations deep, and no one wanted to go home. Mescaline, pot, and hash flowed freely through the group.
Before dawn Beck and I asked a friend for a ride into town so we could attend the early chapel ser vice. Our request elicited numerous moans and groans and comments of "I don't believe it! We sat in the dimly lit chapel,. With no warning, my heart began to pound and rny eyes filled with tears. I felt suddenly as though the Eye of God, stern and awful, had broken through a cloud and was gazing down at me, at once loving and severe.
Don't you know the harm you're bringing your spirit and body with those drugs? Later, as we walked down the grey, quiet street, Beck took my hand, "God doesn't want us to take drugs again, does He? It was hard. But even though I still went to the evening gather ings of the Thespian clan, I never touched drugs again. My life-style, on the surface, changed dramatically. An acid-head friend stole a copy of the Jerusalem Bible as a gift for us. We never did find out from where. Beck and I began to spend long hours reading it aloud to one another.
Or, rather, Beck spent the hours reading it out loud to himself. I soon encouraged him to read instead from Tolkien's Ring Trilogy when we were together. Somehow I couldn't bear to hear the sound of the words from the New Testament for very long.
The euphoria I had felt when listening to "Superstar" had become a black depression from which I could see no exit. I no longer went to the theater, but I still frequented the graveyard and little chapel. Now hardly a night passed when dark figures did not wake me, softly whispering words in a language I couldn't understand,. As I walked at night trees became gruesome, grotesque shapes covered with evil eyes, watching, waiting. Every time I crossed the street my heart pounded in terror for fear the demons would force some driver's hand to run me down.
Thoughts of death and intense rage filled my mind and I covered my journal with passages from Medea, The Bacchae, the Bad Seed, and the tortured poems of Edgar Allen Poe.
Half a dozen times I started up the hill to see one of the local psychiatrists-and as many times stopped part way up certain there was little they could do.
The source of my problem wasn't psychological; it had its origin in a very different place, yet there was no one to whom I could turn to set me free. No one, perhaps, but God. My heart longed for Him, cried out for Him, but something barred my way. Weeping, I would fall to my knees. Then, at night, the evil beings would return and even my frantic whispering of the 23rd Psalm would not make them fade.
Oh God , why couldn't I, as the Psalmist, fear no evil as I walked through the endless valley of the shadow of death. Why was there no com fort for me in His rod and staff? And I would run to gentle Beck and he would hold me until my sobbing quieted. When in the winter of he asked me to marry him, I said yes. The logs burned brightly in the enormous fireplace Mother had long since dubbed "Albert's Folly. The breeze had been cool and refresh ing.
Now a gentle rain was falling on the Cuernavaca valley. The summer rains were beginning in earnest. I was curled on the sofa staring into the fire, absently watching the golden flames. A Brahms concerto played softly in the background and my little Siamese kitten, Solomon, purred, content and warm in my lap.
Mother sat in her blue velvet armchair, tagged "The Coffin Corner" by my Father in retaliation. She was reading an Agatha Christie mystery and smoking an ever present cigarette. From time to time I could sense her gaze on me, stern, concerned, loving. It had long been obvious to her I needed help; "psychiatric" was the category I knew to be under consideration.
I couldn't say I blamed her. Agonizing recent scenes of my weeping and slamming my hand in fury against a wall leapt to my mind. The last days in Chapel Hill had been a disaster. Mom and Dad had driven up to attend the graduation. Father had taken an instant, uncompromising dislike to Beck, an aversion he kept thinly disguised in reams of shredding sarcasm.
Any young man presented as a future sonin-law would undoubtedly have received similar treatment. I was Papa's baby, his firstborn.
No one was good enough for me, but especially not a soft spoken, gentle, young, theater lighting technician who traveled with a makeshift theater troupe and sported long hair and a beard which, however kemp! They couldn't see that Beck had pro bably saved my sanity, if not my life. Beck had cared enough to see me through one of the most difficult periods of my life.
Even Damon was unable, or, understandably, unwilling to persevere through the maze in which I found myself. Beck had not demanded explanations I couldn't give or changes I was powerless to produce. I loved him for that. But I knew within weeks of my return to Mexico that a marriage could never work.
I broke our engagement. Father probably also, unfairly, blamed Beck for my involvement with drugs, such as it was. Kai was a theater arts professor at Chapel Hill. He had known Mother when she did her graduate work there. Bryce I had received little en couragement and knew my work in theater, with but precious few exceptions, was abominable.
Somehow Kai had found out I had occasionally been in on the theater pot-parties and felt obliged to tell Mother when he saw her that June at graduation. Intellectually I understood his motives, emotionally I felt betrayed. Well, Kai had n o way of knowing I had stopped that.
April anyhow. Now if only Mom and Dad would believe that. I had been so on edge, so depressed and moody, they were both certain I had to be on something. I sighed. They would never understand.
Oh, God, if only I understood. I felt a constant, dark oppression all around me. Would I never be free of it? The kitten shifted in my lap. I gently stroked his head. In 48 hours you can learn to use your mind to do everything you wish. You can learn to overcome depression, relieve insomnia, eliminate negative think ing, avoid irrational fears, [Father's deep theater voice gave this last point special emphasis] , relieve ner vousness, develop ESP, and even gain peace of mind! There was not much for a "respectable" young American woman to do in Cuernavaca in those days.
Why don't you and Mother go check it out. We went. The promises listed in the ad Father had seen were confirmed and embellished at the introductory meeting by a confident looking man in his mid's named Tom. For example, I know of an old woman in Mexico City who performs astonishing healings and operations through having attained level 7, that is, control of the Delta frequency at which Cosmic Con sciousness and Enlightenment are achieved.
Now most of us here will probably never achieve such amazing control as this woman, Pachita, has, but you will be amazed nonetheless at what you will be able to do. Then, using charts, he explained briefly about the primary brain frequency generated by the human mind as recorded by an Electroencephalograph EEG.
The EEG is a very delicate and complex, not to mention ex pensive, electronic device used by scientists to detect brain waves. Reading a book or yelling at the dog who just messed up your carpet for the fourth time today is Beta activity. Deep relaxation and medita tion occurs at this level, as does regeneration of the body. The producing of phenomena not common to most of. I pro mise, each and every one of you who goes through the course will have ample proof of that on our last day.
Rather, you will learn to tap into those deep levels of mind at will for any pur pose you desire, as long as it is beneficial to yourself or mankind. All that was needed for the mental and spiritual evolution of man was this hour training program. Tom bent over and pulled a new set of charts out from under the table. Let's go on then. You will be able to sleep and awaken at will; to control and program your dreams to help you solve problems without stress and strain usually involved; to eliminate headaches, even migraines.
How many of you here get migraines? It applies the principles of 'expanded levels of awareness' learned in the first course to specific problems. For example you'll learn techniques for eliminating habits such as smoking or overeating,. You will learn to control physical pain and bleeding at will. Also, you'll be shown how to use a large mental screen like a movie screen , to aid visualization and continue to expand your consciousness. That next Saturday morning, June 26th, found Mother and myself stretch ed out side by side on the floor of a spacious but rustic living room, listening to an assertive voice read our "programming.
I took a deep breath and relaxed. I gave myself joyfully to these sessions, desperately clinging to everything Tom had to say as though they were the words of my salvation. I had returned to Mex ico from Chapel Hill in despair and turmoil. I could see no hope-no light anywhere-no chance of ever breaking free from the forces which surrounded me. Here with Mind Control, however, was my salvation indeed. It was possible to gain control over unknown forces-to gain power and victory over them, and I thanked God for it.
I let the phrases spoken by Tom during each session wash over me-"Every day in every way I am getting better, bet ter, and better. I have full and complete dominion over my senses and faculties at this level of mind or at any other level, including the outer conscious level as this is so.
I am always in control. O n the third day we began learning how to use visualization and image creation to help us develop our intuition and subjective communication-obscure terms used to describe ESP which Tom called not Ex trasensory Perception but, rather, Effective Sensory.
We learned to project our minds into dif ferent metals, exploring the different textures and qualities of brass, lead and iron. We mentally traveled through a leaf, then a little animal-but gently-very gently. Little pet birds had been found suddenly dead after careless psychic handling. Trust me. It will all be proven to you on the last day. Meanwhile let's move on. You still need to create your laboratory before we're through for today.
It was to be our haven and refuge-our place for solving problems. It could look anyway we wanted; some chose French provin cial, others early American. My room was a cave. The walls were made of amethyst and emerald crystals and glowed from within with a shimmering golden light. The gentle scent of roses and night jasmine permeated the room.
At the meeting, Grant started to lay hands on me to pray when an angry expression came across his face and he blew on me instead causing me to fall All Christians need beauttiful read this book and pray not to be deceived by the spirits in the land. Johanna became very good at psychic readings, and seemed to have definite psychic gifts. It is a better book then I thought it would johamna, and the last four chapters are pretty good primer on the Biblical basis of Christian Discernment.
Refresh and try again. A page turner for sure. To be honest I got this book as a birthday gift last year. Come n See More. She left the occult 30 years ago and has dedicated her service to Jesus Christ warning others about the dangerously deceptive practices that are sweeping our nation—and our churches.
Johanna Michaelsen fell into his trap of false miracles, Esp, and Spirit guides. Join our mailing list to receive the latest news and updates from our ministry team. Be the first to ask a question about The Beautiful Side of Evil.
0コメント