The Posts of Many Others

     At first, this assignment irritated me. I did not see the point in reading the works of my peers. Nor did I see the point in leaving my comments to their work. Still, after reading many a blog, I'm still skeptical. But, I did pick up yet another reason to not want to read other 8th grade blogs: It's crushing. After browsing the works of Annie   and of Lilabet, I was ashamed not only of my blog posts, but of my capability as a writer in general. In 7th grade, I sat directly across from Liliabet. I'd lean over the table, and grab a hold of her published pieces, claiming the treasure before any other 7th grade eyes could reach it. Lilabet never failed to thoroughly impress me and inspire me to improve my writing, with a vague hope that it would one day be comparable to hers. I must admit though, eventually this newly found motivation became a sort of despair. The maturity of her cynicism, her ever-growing vocabulary, the complexity of a single sentence... I had always known that the feats of her writing could not be compared to mine... whoops! I just read Pia's blog... Yet another has been added to my list of superior writers)!
     Of all of their posts, how can I possibly pick only one? The posts are built upon each other and constantly poke, pinch and scream out, ''Tis I! I'm the best I tell you the best!'. As they bicker, yet another post climbs its way to the top, only to be pulled down and replaced by those beneath it! I try to single one out, only to think of another. I like these blogs not only because they're a swell suffusion of what I value in writing (grammar, vocabulary, originality, fluency) but because they tell me, 'Txai, you could do a helluva lot better'. 
     I like to say that I gained all of my current maturity and logic at the age of 4, I've yet to mature any farther, and do not think that I ever will. Growing up was annoying; the screams of kindergarten, the petty problems of 3rd grade, the condescending voice with which all adults addressed me in. I, sometime in elementary school, learned to not push myself. I did not need to. Studying wasn't necessary, neither was particularly heavy editing and revision to my writing. I believe that it was in 7th grade when I became aware that I needed to study in order to succeed in classes like Social Studies and Math. Later, thanks to the works of Lilabet, I learned that if I wanted to turn out a truly satisfactory piece of writing, I would actually have to work... hard. I realized that, in order to obtain my prior success once more, I would have to exert a legitimate effort.

Jim

     I'm not sure if I've already stated this but, just to make sure, I'll take the risk of repeating myself. Every few months, I re-read every single comic book in my possession. This takes hours upon hours to accomplish, usually devouring my normal reading life for at least a week. I did this about a month or so ago, but, I made a drastic mistake. I forgot to read Frank. In chapter 1 of volume 2, Manhog attempts to kill a bird, after suffering a head injury, he begins to worship Frank and becomes entirely delirious as his logic (which he didn't have much of to start with...) rapidly deteriorates. A can of silver paint applied to a skinned leg, a popped blood blister and an incident of near-drowning later, Manhog finally accomplishes his original goal, eating a freshly killed bird. The feel of this particular comic is very hard to put into words. It has a childlike appeal to it. 'Childlike' does not mean stupid or immature. I am positive that there are some freaky, abnormally intelligent and insightful 7 year olds out there who live this comic. I like this comic so much that I'm sure to read every single word inside of it. Whether it may be comments or publishing dates, I've read them all.   

     Frank is just one of the many, amazing comics that my dad decided to store in my bedroom one day. I've never really liked the superhero stuff, except Plastic Man. I admire meticulous artwork and effort. Upon discovering that Mad frequently used the same image in one of the features in an issue, I was extremely disappointed. Though I do go through my comic fades which are randomly born and eventually face sudden deaths, some of the masters have always stayed by my side. Well, before I wrap this up, I'd like to mention that you ought to read Jimmy Corrigan and I'd also like to dedicate this flimsy ELA blog post (which is barely worthy of containing this name) to Harvey Pekar, who died a few months ago... I do believe that the cause of his death was related to heart problems... Man, could I read that guy's rants, I was comforted to know that somebody besides myself was capable of feeling such repulsion towards ignorant beings. Heh, don't remember when Jackson  died but I won't forget the death of Harvey... I was, as usual sitting by the computer and listening to NPR... Well, this response is becoming much too conversational for my tastes, so I'll leave you 8th graders to your contemplation, teenage angst, and cellphones...

Jim

     I'm not sure if I've already stated this but, just to make sure, I'll take the risk of repeating myself. Every few months, I re-read every single comic book in my possession. This takes hours upon hours to accomplish, usually devouring my normal reading life for at least a week. I did this about a month or so ago, but, I made a drastic mistake. I forgot to read Frank. In chapter 1 of volume 2, Manhog attempts to kill a bird, after suffering a head injury, he begins to worship Frank and becomes entirely delirious as his logic (which he didn't have much of to start with...) rapidly deteriorates. A can of silver paint applied to a skinned leg, a popped blood blister and an incident of near-drowning later, Manhog finally accomplishes his original goal, eating a freshly killed bird. The feel of this particular comic is very hard to put into words. It has a childlike appeal to it. 'Childlike' does not mean stupid or immature. I am positive that there are some freaky, abnormally intelligent and insightful 7 year olds out there who live this comic. I like this comic so much that I'm sure to read every single word inside of it. Whether it may be comments or publishing dates, I've read them all.   

     Frank is just one of the many, amazing comics that my dad decided to store in my bedroom one day. I've never really liked the superhero stuff, except Plastic Man. I admire meticulous artwork and effort. Upon discovering that Mad frequently used the same image in one of the features in an issue, I was extremely disappointed. Though I do go through my comic fades which are randomly born and eventually face sudden deaths, some of the masters have always stayed by my side. Well, before I wrap this up, I'd like to mention that you ought to read Jimmy Corrigan and I'd also like to dedicate this flimsy ELA blog post (which is barely worthy of containing this name) to Harvey Pekar, who died a few months ago... I do believe that the cause of his death was related to heart problems... Man, could I read that guy's rants, I was comforted to know that somebody besides myself was capable of feeling such repulsion towards ignorant beings. Heh, don't remember when Jackson  died but I won't forget the death of Harvey... I was, as usual sitting by the computer and listening to NPR... Well, this response is becoming much too conversational for my tastes, so I'll leave you 8th graders to your contemplation, teenage angst, and cellphones...

The Scarlet Letter

     A women who lives in a Puritan village commits one of the most frowned upon sins; adultery. Having been pitied, Hester's life was spared, instead, she was made to wear an embroidered A on her dress. To do so, she used scarlet threads and branded herself with a beautiful A which reflected the evening sun as she was first released from her prison cell.
     I use the word branded intentionally, Hester will live her life with the townsfolk glaring at the medal of her sin. When she dies, her tombstone will be engraved with the letter she bore for nearly all of her life. It's spectacular, seeing the way that Hester is so quickly isolated from the community that she'd once been apart of. Though she sews clothing for those around her, they do not meet her eyes. It seems that they're only able to stare at the A on Hester's bosom. Walking to market, Hester's chest is singed with each disapproving glare. Her cheeks are made red by the way her customers freely make it known that they're disgusted by how unfaithful she'd been to her husband (who, by the way, hasn't been around Hester for years) she'd been.
     Logically, Hester secludes herself in a desolate abandoned cottage, rarely leaving, rarely speaking, friendless but spared of the townsfolk's resentment towards her. Who would do differently? Of course though, there always be those who claim to 'thrive on social interactions' and 'will die if they've only themselves for company!'. And, of course, there are the folks who shun social isolation. Why? I do not know. Many claim that it is unhealthy, but to leave your cottage only to be shunned is better than mental peace?
     Personally, I like to spend my entire weekends inside, ignoring emails, and with my cellphone's battery left uncharged. Being alone is nice. It's not as though that, if I were to leave my fort, I'd be bombarded with words of hate and disapproval, but why spend time with humans when I can daydream about more ideal things... more intriguing people, quieter places, massive, burnt forests, silk ballroom gowns, empty mansions overlooking a lonely plain, visited only by scorched, sacred trees? Where's that sort of appeal to be found in reality? Why waste time roaming congested city streets and waiting in line surrounded by filthy, obnoxious people (filthy and obnoxious in comparison to those that I can create myself)? Why go outside to only be welcomed by the same monotonous streets and people and cars? I truly do not see the point in all of it, I've already created a much more interesting world of my own.