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.  

A Shameful Post

     I don't want to come off as neglectful in regard to my homework, so I'll be honest about my reading life. After finishing Invisible Cities, I decided to take a small reading break. As most of you know, 'small reading breaks' have a strange tendency to go from a day or so long to a week long... It isn't as though I haven't read anything, but what I've been reading is far from a novel. My literary intake has consisted of Peanuts, Mad (the good ol' black and white ones), Little Lulu, and Tintin. I like to read all of the comic books and graphic novels in my room every few months, so that's what I've been doing. Over the break, When we were supposed to fill out a reading log, I debated over whether or not Ms. Reir would find it to be acceptable if I recorded the thousands of comic book pages I had read. I ended up reading something or other (I really can't remember what I read) and decided to record that instead.
     I'm unsure of what we can write about for the blogs this year. Last year, I'd write about the titles or books and billboards I'd read. I remember Ms. Reir saying that the blog would be about our Independent Reading Books, so, I've been curious as to whether or not we're allowed to just write about our reading lives, must we write about novels...? This is not en excuse to slack off, I love novels and read a good handful of them. It's often hard to find a book that lives up to my standards and I don't go to bookstores enough. A few times a month, I'll stumble along a fantastic book, but, really, it happens too rarely. My dad has some very well-read friends that suggest novels to me, but the books that they suggest are often hard to obtain... If books were an abundance in my life, I'd read them constantly. Everything on my book-shelfs has been at least twice and all of my comics at least four times. My parents are always willing to take me to a bookstore, but it's still hard to find something that I actually want to read. And, due to my habit of refusing to leave the house during the weekend, the time that I have for purchasing books is dwindled down even farther.
     I was thinking that it would be nice if we had a list of some sort where students could suggest books to one another. I'd really appreciate some suggestions in the comments or some sites that could give me some recommendations. I just really, really, really need a good book, one that I can get lost in...

Invisible Cities by Calvino

     It's silly, the way folks like to look at cities. Tourists, citizens, people scrolling through lists of hotels, all view a group of buildings and a mass of people as one, large blob. Not as small, small components of a fairly debatable environment. This book depicts what a city really is; a place broken down into several different moods, seasons and social cycles. Marco Polo describes what seems to be many cities (but, really, all of this cities are describing one place) to Kublai Khan, a Tartar emperor who's empire is falling. Marco, using either objects or the emperor's native language, illustrates beautiful and tragic places. Cities in the sky, cities hidden, cities that repeatedly fall to ruin and manage to build themselves back up, tediously, monotonically, only to be stripped of their beauty and culture once more. Place with names like Eudoxia, Zobeide, Despina and Olinda. Each city feels either extremely abstract or overly familiar. Calvino managed to break down entire structures and section them off, making what's either overlooked or misunderstood special, unique and different from the blur that we call a city.
     Calvino shows use how relations with others (represented as strings, or a mimic city), can grow either tiresome or completely overwhelming. When they become too much, the inhabitants leave, starting anew. Being able to abandon something, but not leave it unresolved! The dream of so many... Calvino does this frequently, intertwining reality with what humans want, showing how the things that we create for ourselves build up and suffocate us. In one city, The citizens wake up to find everything new. They have the 'latest refrigerator model', brand new clothes, shining floors. The garbage men haul away the filth of yesterday, things contaminated with a humans' touch and experiences. The dumps are forced to become more and more compact as these cities grow. The piles of faucets, books, shoes begin to stretch for the skies, on the verge of falling down and burying the perfect, pristine cities below.
     Most of the cities remind us of our dreams or desires. A city that is cloaked in the expectations and utopias of those that do not live in it. It makes me think of all of the hopes and horrible predicaments that humans create for themselves. As an entire species, we are dreamers. Longing what we know is impossible, craving what can be found beside us. We craft miniature fantasies, ideal worlds, ideal cities. We create horrible places, miniature hells into which we toss our troubles. While, really, all of the places that we fathom are the place in which we reside. I am constantly daydreaming, creating more pleasing lives for myself and for others. Making people that will never be born, houses that will never be built. But, I cannot help be aware of where I truly stand in our world. 14, middle school, computer screens, reading responses. The concept of dreams and reality intertwining aren't limited to metaphorical terms. Beautiful places are built on dirt and dead creatures compressed in stones. Streets shaped by the steps of heavy pedestrians have stories to them; places where extinct animals once strode, where the wooden wheel of a wheelbarrow broke, spilling to bodies of dead war victims onto the charred streets below.
     Calvino reminds us that places and that life are comprised of many things, small sections that unite to create a finished product. And, no matter how much these parts may seem to contradict each other, a polished creation is always born.       
    
      

The Picture of Dorian Gray

     There was once a rosy-cheeked, ivory skinned boy with hair that looked as though it were carved out of gold. He radiated not only an aura of beauty, but one of innocence as well; only pure thoughts could wander their way into his mind. His mere presence could calm tense company. His sweet voice was capable of taming all demonic beasts. All evil would halt in his, Dorian Gray's, path! All excluding Lord Henry and then, eventually, Dorian himself.
    Dorian was lured into a horrible metamorphoses by Lord Henry's cynicism and intellectuality. Hypnotized by Lord Henry's ideas of how life should be taken advantage of, Dorian was lead into a trap. He became aware how pulchritudinous he was and started to dwell in his beauty and wealth. Vanity is the thing most capable of tearing apart an angelic being. It allows a person to become immortal through their own eyes. Old friends become hideous burdens and matinées are suddenly held higher than a human life. Why did Dorian have to fall victim to such a cruel, long death? The slow and repetitive stabs to his soul?
       I allowed myself to fall for Dorian's facade constructed of his alluring beauty. But I had done so only because I longed so hopelessly for what Dorian once was. For his flushing cheeks and untroubled smile. The Dorian found in the portrait that Basil had painted for him. A portrait that aged instead of Dorian, who kept the looks of a lad into late adulthood. This portrait though, as days and years went by, did not age in the way a person would, but it depicted the soul of Dorian Gray. Blood ran through the hands of the Dorian in the painting, proof of the night Basil had been murdered by Dorian. A twisted grin appeared on its face when Dorian drove his young fiancée into suicide. The painting became disgusting, nauseating to look at. A repulsing monster lay comfortably in the heart of Dorian Gray!
     He'd acted gullible, falling for each compliment that Lord Henry engulfed him in, and agreeing to desert Basil, who'd once been his closest friend. It was heartbreaking (a word that I barely ever use). While reading the novel, tears welled in my eyes and periodic cries of 'Oh! My Dorian dear!' were most likely heard by my family as I grieved over the deterioration of Dorian Gray's soul.
     On the night that Dorian attempted to destroy the painting that mocked his very existence, the depiction of Dorian's soul won yet again by crushing Dorian under its weight. The dead body was not that of a beautiful creature, but was the body of the monster that had stayed hidden in Dorian's portrait: bloated, drenched in blood, and still wearing a grin on its face. Gray's soul was aware of its victory of its carriers mind. But, in the painting, stood the boy that Dorian once was, pale skinned and with cheeks that seemed to be lit on fire.