After reading Haya's short story, Not Quite Chicken Soup, I like to believe that I had a better understanding of some of her thought processes… or perhaps a better way of putting it would be that I can now relate to her more, regarding possible thoughts and ideas. Her identifiable characters are easy to imagine and believe in, and their traits are recognizably those of the typical teenager. The fact that she can capture the complicated logic of youth in words is worth applauding (for even we adolescents have a hard time describing our ways of thinking)! The attributes and behaviours of these convincing characters are made ever more realistic with her constant use of an appropriate diction: an eloquent writing style with implied plots and themes, yet the concepts are easy (and enjoyable) to grasp after reading the entire story. Also, Haya's evocative and vivid imagery only make the reader fall even deeper into the authenticity of the words and ideas of the story!
So, overall, I'd say that Haya's got some serious skill.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
A Response to: An Ounce of Cure
An Ounce of Cure: a rather realistic set of events, occurring in the life of an everyday teenage girl. Written by Alice Munro, a not-so-teenaged woman herself, the thought processes and logic behind the narrator's actions are perfectly capable of happening in the mind of a young girl. In short, this piece of writing is both relatable and effective.
However much I enjoyed the story though, I was obligated to delve into the deeper meaning of everything, and analyze different aspects of the literature. First, we had to take a gander at the title, and try to make some sense of it. The title, "An Ounce of Cure", is derived from the saying "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure", which means it's better to spend a little effort in preventing something, than it is to spend more effort in trying to fix whatever the problem was. For the story, the title refers to the healing of an emotional/mental state, and the alcohol ingested was the "ounce of cure", which "cured" her of her depressed obsession over a boy with it's consequences. This theme is constant throughout the story, beginning with her emotional breakdown, to her ignorant binge drinking, and finally ends with her finishing reflection on how everything had changed her.
Next on the list of analytical points was the feelings expressed by the main character. From the words, behaviour, thought process, and of course stated facts of her emotions, certain feelings of innocence, love, heartbreak, obsession, panic, depression, fear, anxiety, awkwardness, dread, humiliation, and acceptance all appear in the story. They are all associated with certain situations, which bring a new set of life experiences to the Narrator: with each new feeling, a lesson is learned in the process.
Of course, now we must discuss who this "Narrator/Main character" is! Her name is never mentioned in the book, but she gives her age, and a rough idea of her social status. She is a young, teenage girl, set in a relatively modern day world. The plot of the story recounts a series of events, such as her first boyfriend, her first heartbreak, her first drink, her first alcohol poisoning, and her first total public humiliation, and sheds a sort of enlightenment on them (from her perspective, as she is telling this as the past).
It is not only her behaviour that defines her though. There are several ideas and thoughts that demonstrate how she perceives things, and how experience shapes her character. This is especially true in regards to the narrator's emotions surrounding Martin Collingwood, which change drastically as the story progresses, starting out hopeful and happy, then to obsession and depression, then to a mature acceptance of things as they are. These are all demonstrated through her words and thoughts, such as, "I had been in love all year… when a boy named Martin Collingwood had given me a surprised, appreciative, and rather ominously complacent smile in the school assembly" (103), "I gave up my soul for dead and walked into the kitchen and decided to get drunk… No, ,it was not like that… I decided to have a drink" (106), "I am a grown-up woman now; let him unbury his own catastrophes"(112).
Second to last on the list of discussion items was chronicling the events in the plot of the story. For pure simplicity, I will list them off.
1. Narrator gives a brief introduction, and there is evident foreshadowing for the reader to absorb.
2. Narrator "falls in love" with a boy, Martin Collingwood.
3. Narrator and Martin go on a date, and she has her first kiss.
4. Martin dumps the Narrator for another girl, who is in the school play with him.
5. Narrator and her friend Joyce watch the school play: there is emotional pain.
6. Narrator becomes overly obsessed ("unwillingly obsessed") with the thought of Martin.
7. Narrator attempts suicide, but chickens out half-way through.
8. Narrator goes to a routine baby-sitting gig at the Berryman's.
9. Narrator is "morbidly depressed", and goes into the kitchen, to have a drink… or two.
10. Narrator gets alcohol poisoning, but manages to contact her friend via telephone.
11. Joyce and company arrive at the Berryman's, help out the drunk Narrator, and party it up.
12. Berryman's arrive home early, only to find the Narrator drunk and her friends dancing in the living room.
13. Narrator is driven home, and confesses to her mother (about everything).
14. Everyone learns about the incident, and her reputation is tarnished.
15. Another social incident occurs. This time, with another girl. People forget about the Narrator's mishap.
16. Narrator grows up, and matures emotionally.
So, after exploring all things pertinent to the theme of the story, we were then expected to have a look at some adages, choose two that best suit the story, and then add our own little personal flair to them. I believed the most fitting were:
"Better the devil you know than the devil you don't"
And
"It is impossible to love and be wise."
The first one ties in quite nicely because of the aftermath of the Narrator trying something she knew to be harmful, yet was still foreign territory.
The second one works as well, because of the frequent poor decisions made by the Narrator, while she obsessed over the thought of a boy.
However much I enjoyed the story though, I was obligated to delve into the deeper meaning of everything, and analyze different aspects of the literature. First, we had to take a gander at the title, and try to make some sense of it. The title, "An Ounce of Cure", is derived from the saying "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure", which means it's better to spend a little effort in preventing something, than it is to spend more effort in trying to fix whatever the problem was. For the story, the title refers to the healing of an emotional/mental state, and the alcohol ingested was the "ounce of cure", which "cured" her of her depressed obsession over a boy with it's consequences. This theme is constant throughout the story, beginning with her emotional breakdown, to her ignorant binge drinking, and finally ends with her finishing reflection on how everything had changed her.
Next on the list of analytical points was the feelings expressed by the main character. From the words, behaviour, thought process, and of course stated facts of her emotions, certain feelings of innocence, love, heartbreak, obsession, panic, depression, fear, anxiety, awkwardness, dread, humiliation, and acceptance all appear in the story. They are all associated with certain situations, which bring a new set of life experiences to the Narrator: with each new feeling, a lesson is learned in the process.
Of course, now we must discuss who this "Narrator/Main character" is! Her name is never mentioned in the book, but she gives her age, and a rough idea of her social status. She is a young, teenage girl, set in a relatively modern day world. The plot of the story recounts a series of events, such as her first boyfriend, her first heartbreak, her first drink, her first alcohol poisoning, and her first total public humiliation, and sheds a sort of enlightenment on them (from her perspective, as she is telling this as the past).
It is not only her behaviour that defines her though. There are several ideas and thoughts that demonstrate how she perceives things, and how experience shapes her character. This is especially true in regards to the narrator's emotions surrounding Martin Collingwood, which change drastically as the story progresses, starting out hopeful and happy, then to obsession and depression, then to a mature acceptance of things as they are. These are all demonstrated through her words and thoughts, such as, "I had been in love all year… when a boy named Martin Collingwood had given me a surprised, appreciative, and rather ominously complacent smile in the school assembly" (103), "I gave up my soul for dead and walked into the kitchen and decided to get drunk… No, ,it was not like that… I decided to have a drink" (106), "I am a grown-up woman now; let him unbury his own catastrophes"(112).
Second to last on the list of discussion items was chronicling the events in the plot of the story. For pure simplicity, I will list them off.
1. Narrator gives a brief introduction, and there is evident foreshadowing for the reader to absorb.
2. Narrator "falls in love" with a boy, Martin Collingwood.
3. Narrator and Martin go on a date, and she has her first kiss.
4. Martin dumps the Narrator for another girl, who is in the school play with him.
5. Narrator and her friend Joyce watch the school play: there is emotional pain.
6. Narrator becomes overly obsessed ("unwillingly obsessed") with the thought of Martin.
7. Narrator attempts suicide, but chickens out half-way through.
8. Narrator goes to a routine baby-sitting gig at the Berryman's.
9. Narrator is "morbidly depressed", and goes into the kitchen, to have a drink… or two.
10. Narrator gets alcohol poisoning, but manages to contact her friend via telephone.
11. Joyce and company arrive at the Berryman's, help out the drunk Narrator, and party it up.
12. Berryman's arrive home early, only to find the Narrator drunk and her friends dancing in the living room.
13. Narrator is driven home, and confesses to her mother (about everything).
14. Everyone learns about the incident, and her reputation is tarnished.
15. Another social incident occurs. This time, with another girl. People forget about the Narrator's mishap.
16. Narrator grows up, and matures emotionally.
So, after exploring all things pertinent to the theme of the story, we were then expected to have a look at some adages, choose two that best suit the story, and then add our own little personal flair to them. I believed the most fitting were:
"Better the devil you know than the devil you don't"
And
"It is impossible to love and be wise."
The first one ties in quite nicely because of the aftermath of the Narrator trying something she knew to be harmful, yet was still foreign territory.
The second one works as well, because of the frequent poor decisions made by the Narrator, while she obsessed over the thought of a boy.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Frozen fingers desperate to appease the gods of poetic inspiration:
A few haiku's, inspired by a cruel and unusual English class, in which we were "encouraged" to go outside in the untrodden snow, accompanied with the low temperature, ranging somewhere in the negative double digits...
So,without further ado, I present the fruits of my frozen labour. Enjoy :)
Caribbean views
Of the polluted black lake,
Stones see no evil.
Chemical cold drips
The icy blood of winter
So numbingly warm.
Appendages ache
Sonnet of shiv'ring bodies
Frostbite forever!
Murm'ring of suff'ring
Harsh waves of blue anti-freeze
Sing, chorus of cold!
Broken record thoughts
Cold has cracked the disc
I am obsolete.
Mourning loss of warmth
Such a low cold tolerance
C'est le froid méchant!
Abandoned vocals
Drifting audible memoirs:
Haunting, echoing.
So,without further ado, I present the fruits of my frozen labour. Enjoy :)
Caribbean views
Of the polluted black lake,
Stones see no evil.
Chemical cold drips
The icy blood of winter
So numbingly warm.
Appendages ache
Sonnet of shiv'ring bodies
Frostbite forever!
Murm'ring of suff'ring
Harsh waves of blue anti-freeze
Sing, chorus of cold!
Broken record thoughts
Cold has cracked the disc
I am obsolete.
Mourning loss of warmth
Such a low cold tolerance
C'est le froid méchant!
Abandoned vocals
Drifting audible memoirs:
Haunting, echoing.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
A Ballad
Green-eyed Dreams and Nightmare Obscenities
Button green eyes that reflect all his lies,
Observing your life with no sound,
His plush-fabric skin tells of places he's been
And of ideas and thoughts so profound.
Such a small, wicked critter, his button's a-glitter
Gleams of evils his mind knows alone.
His creator, held dear, now only has fear
His believ-ed abstractions unknown.
Green plastic mirrors had never looked queerer
Than they did on this night around Nine
With malicious intent; the mind so hell-bent
A scheme that sent chills down the spine.
His plan so defined; and a misery so blind
That the creature leapt down with ease
And as twisted this seems; a nightmare without dreams
The buttons shone bright with disease.
The sick little brain did anything but strain
To put this diabolical plan into action.
Creeps on the floor, intending for gore
Button green eyes show but a fraction.
It isn't til Twelve that the creator did delve
Into this room so shadowed and grim
Olive-styled irises looked on so desirous
And crept: a silent phantom.
The creator however, was ever so clever
And recognized the madness long ago
But creator or not, had never given thought
That death would green eyes bestow.
Buttons and plush sprung out in a rush
And ran forward with teeth bared wide
The creator knocked down, and looking around
For a weapon, but not one did he spy.
CHOMP go pearly whites, gleam subtly in dim light
And tear and gnaw at the insides
The creator screams as he's ripped at the seams
As the plush arms poke, rip, and pry.
But the shrieks, they subside, and are now only cries
Of silent post-mortem tears
Cloth lips dance with laughter, at the hereafter
And at memories of sedentary years.
Now our button-eyed fiend licks his lips semi-clean
An obscure sense of illness anew
The message he said, this voiceless undead,
"I ate his brain, and I'll eat yours too!"
Button green eyes that reflect all his lies,
Observing your life with no sound,
His plush-fabric skin tells of places he's been
And of ideas and thoughts so profound.
Such a small, wicked critter, his button's a-glitter
Gleams of evils his mind knows alone.
His creator, held dear, now only has fear
His believ-ed abstractions unknown.
Green plastic mirrors had never looked queerer
Than they did on this night around Nine
With malicious intent; the mind so hell-bent
A scheme that sent chills down the spine.
His plan so defined; and a misery so blind
That the creature leapt down with ease
And as twisted this seems; a nightmare without dreams
The buttons shone bright with disease.
The sick little brain did anything but strain
To put this diabolical plan into action.
Creeps on the floor, intending for gore
Button green eyes show but a fraction.
It isn't til Twelve that the creator did delve
Into this room so shadowed and grim
Olive-styled irises looked on so desirous
And crept: a silent phantom.
The creator however, was ever so clever
And recognized the madness long ago
But creator or not, had never given thought
That death would green eyes bestow.
Buttons and plush sprung out in a rush
And ran forward with teeth bared wide
The creator knocked down, and looking around
For a weapon, but not one did he spy.
CHOMP go pearly whites, gleam subtly in dim light
And tear and gnaw at the insides
The creator screams as he's ripped at the seams
As the plush arms poke, rip, and pry.
But the shrieks, they subside, and are now only cries
Of silent post-mortem tears
Cloth lips dance with laughter, at the hereafter
And at memories of sedentary years.
Now our button-eyed fiend licks his lips semi-clean
An obscure sense of illness anew
The message he said, this voiceless undead,
"I ate his brain, and I'll eat yours too!"
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Here's a little poem, written in anapestic tetrameter.
Enjoy :)
On top of my head sits a warm wooly hat,
With cute ears and shape, that resembles a cat.
It keeps my head warm, from the cold and the snow,
Cute as a button, the best hat, I know.
I wear it outside, when the weather is chilled,
But when the sun comes on out, I will have it on still.
I love my cat hat, I will cherish it's warmth.
Because it's my cat hat, it belongs in my heart.
Enjoy :)
On top of my head sits a warm wooly hat,
With cute ears and shape, that resembles a cat.
It keeps my head warm, from the cold and the snow,
Cute as a button, the best hat, I know.
I wear it outside, when the weather is chilled,
But when the sun comes on out, I will have it on still.
I love my cat hat, I will cherish it's warmth.
Because it's my cat hat, it belongs in my heart.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Hero Accountant and the Mystery of the Canadian Identity
He shuffles to the desk,
Hesitant and shy,
Cranes his neck to see the man:
A sort of intimidating guy.
"Name, please." he spits
In a monotonous tone.
"Er… Smith" he replies,
Our hero's voice all alone.
"Occupation." he then asks
Behind the desk, mundane.
"Accountant..." says the hero
His nerve begins to feign.
"Country." he asks next,
This giant behind the booth.
"Err…Canada" is the reply,
His words a little bit uncouth.
"Canada?" he queries.
A puzzled look upon his face.
"Yes, Canada," he responds,
"You know… that northern, cold place."
"Hmm…" ponders the man,
Stroking his chin as well.
"I don't recall such a country,
The name doesn't ring a bell."
Our hero is surprised;
Hadn't heard of Canada before?
How could he describe it?
So he thought a little more.
"Well, for one," he began,
"A large land, it covers a great deal,
Forests, rivers, fields, and farms
Lakes and mountains...", his little spiel.
"Hmm…" said the man,
And thought about the words just said.
"Well, the landscape does sound nice
But of Canada, I have not read."
"Does it have a different style,
A unique culture, a tradition?
Tell me, son," he said, calmly,
"What makes you a Canadian?"
Our hero started, stopped
And was stumped with no reply.
What was it that made him Canadian?
A good answer, he could not supply.
Was it that beaver animal?
Small, yet strong and tough.
Was it the weather, food, trees, houses,
The cities and all that stuff?
A country of immigrants Canada was;
A real hodge-podge of folkways.
Our hero, an accountant, couldn't claim
That he had lived many unique days.
"Well, it doesn't sound important,
What, with no individuality and such.
I'd have to say Canada sounds like… well,
A boring place… yes, just a touch."
The man behind the desk frowns,
Disapproving of our hero.
"With no identity, son, your chance
Of getting in here, is zero."
The meek accountant sighs, shrugs
A bit of a pushover he was,
He turns to leave the waiting queue,
When suddenly, a pause,
"Canada does have an identity!
A special and unique one, at that!
We're a generally peaceful society, too
With little to no combat
We have a variety of regions,
Many different domains.
An assortment of landscapes, too
A diversity that is quite plain.
We're a medley of culture, sure
A grand combination of ways.
We're a mishmash of uniqueness
The most multicultural of today!
The gatekeeper, aghast,
Behind the booth, eyes wide.
"So what you mean to say is,
Your difference is your pride?"
"Yes," smiles the hero,
Happy his point got through.
The desk-man let the gates open,
And our hero walks through them,
A Canadian true.
Hesitant and shy,
Cranes his neck to see the man:
A sort of intimidating guy.
"Name, please." he spits
In a monotonous tone.
"Er… Smith" he replies,
Our hero's voice all alone.
"Occupation." he then asks
Behind the desk, mundane.
"Accountant..." says the hero
His nerve begins to feign.
"Country." he asks next,
This giant behind the booth.
"Err…Canada" is the reply,
His words a little bit uncouth.
"Canada?" he queries.
A puzzled look upon his face.
"Yes, Canada," he responds,
"You know… that northern, cold place."
"Hmm…" ponders the man,
Stroking his chin as well.
"I don't recall such a country,
The name doesn't ring a bell."
Our hero is surprised;
Hadn't heard of Canada before?
How could he describe it?
So he thought a little more.
"Well, for one," he began,
"A large land, it covers a great deal,
Forests, rivers, fields, and farms
Lakes and mountains...", his little spiel.
"Hmm…" said the man,
And thought about the words just said.
"Well, the landscape does sound nice
But of Canada, I have not read."
"Does it have a different style,
A unique culture, a tradition?
Tell me, son," he said, calmly,
"What makes you a Canadian?"
Our hero started, stopped
And was stumped with no reply.
What was it that made him Canadian?
A good answer, he could not supply.
Was it that beaver animal?
Small, yet strong and tough.
Was it the weather, food, trees, houses,
The cities and all that stuff?
A country of immigrants Canada was;
A real hodge-podge of folkways.
Our hero, an accountant, couldn't claim
That he had lived many unique days.
"Well, it doesn't sound important,
What, with no individuality and such.
I'd have to say Canada sounds like… well,
A boring place… yes, just a touch."
The man behind the desk frowns,
Disapproving of our hero.
"With no identity, son, your chance
Of getting in here, is zero."
The meek accountant sighs, shrugs
A bit of a pushover he was,
He turns to leave the waiting queue,
When suddenly, a pause,
"Canada does have an identity!
A special and unique one, at that!
We're a generally peaceful society, too
With little to no combat
We have a variety of regions,
Many different domains.
An assortment of landscapes, too
A diversity that is quite plain.
We're a medley of culture, sure
A grand combination of ways.
We're a mishmash of uniqueness
The most multicultural of today!
The gatekeeper, aghast,
Behind the booth, eyes wide.
"So what you mean to say is,
Your difference is your pride?"
"Yes," smiles the hero,
Happy his point got through.
The desk-man let the gates open,
And our hero walks through them,
A Canadian true.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
What Canada Means to ME
We were asked to write a poem about what Canada means to us, so I came up with this.
Enjoy :)
First thought: Cold.
The snow is pleasantly pretty, and sparkles with fantasies of towering snowmen,
Colossal forts gleam with an airy magnificence as they hide you and your strategic plans from view.
The stinging, gelid air torments the throat with reminders of icy wintertime,
For 3 months.
Stalactite-like icicles hang clear and drip with the honey-sweet words of Spring's promise,
Forming puddles alongside the rivers of melted snow; eager and rushing to continue on the cycle.
New boots, with the new smell of rubber and the gleam of freshly-bought, protect delicate toes from the frigid regions of the puddle.
Splash. All over your raincoat.
The rain and dissolving snow breathes with hope - at first.
Bleakness shuffles in with grey skies in tow, and misery loves company:
An invitation to the bird society was sent out, and now the party is in full swing.
Their raucous chorus greets ears with a message to wake up:
How welcome on a Monday morning.
Every morning.
Each bird song is a melodic interval towards the mild-mannered picnic days that lay ahead,
Singing of sunny days and warm clouds; sultry summers that will muffle all anxieties,
Fears will scurry away in bubbling creeks, yet to dry up in a drought-like heat.
After summer breeze-kissed smiles,
Humidity reigns supreme; nature's practical mind control.
But mellow days in the beach's sand soon follow, in lieu of the past harsh heat.
The Great Lakes lapping up the memories of footprints,
The beaches soon fade,
And the remarkable grand opening of Autumn takes place:
Shimmering curtains of multicoloured leaves drift to the ground, and lay down a welcoming mat for evening strolls.
The moon shines brighter now than ever.
Stars glitter through trees and the absence of leaves: they seem more multitudinous,
And their icy brilliance gifts the air with a crisp, refreshing feel of tranquility
Even accomplishment.
Stars glow brighter, bringing more briskness to the breeze; it breathes a foretelling of snow.
Chilled winds whisper these predictions in pink ears, and the murmurs spark ideas.
First thought: Cold.
Enjoy :)
First thought: Cold.
The snow is pleasantly pretty, and sparkles with fantasies of towering snowmen,
Colossal forts gleam with an airy magnificence as they hide you and your strategic plans from view.
The stinging, gelid air torments the throat with reminders of icy wintertime,
For 3 months.
Stalactite-like icicles hang clear and drip with the honey-sweet words of Spring's promise,
Forming puddles alongside the rivers of melted snow; eager and rushing to continue on the cycle.
New boots, with the new smell of rubber and the gleam of freshly-bought, protect delicate toes from the frigid regions of the puddle.
Splash. All over your raincoat.
The rain and dissolving snow breathes with hope - at first.
Bleakness shuffles in with grey skies in tow, and misery loves company:
An invitation to the bird society was sent out, and now the party is in full swing.
Their raucous chorus greets ears with a message to wake up:
How welcome on a Monday morning.
Every morning.
Each bird song is a melodic interval towards the mild-mannered picnic days that lay ahead,
Singing of sunny days and warm clouds; sultry summers that will muffle all anxieties,
Fears will scurry away in bubbling creeks, yet to dry up in a drought-like heat.
After summer breeze-kissed smiles,
Humidity reigns supreme; nature's practical mind control.
But mellow days in the beach's sand soon follow, in lieu of the past harsh heat.
The Great Lakes lapping up the memories of footprints,
The beaches soon fade,
And the remarkable grand opening of Autumn takes place:
Shimmering curtains of multicoloured leaves drift to the ground, and lay down a welcoming mat for evening strolls.
The moon shines brighter now than ever.
Stars glitter through trees and the absence of leaves: they seem more multitudinous,
And their icy brilliance gifts the air with a crisp, refreshing feel of tranquility
Even accomplishment.
Stars glow brighter, bringing more briskness to the breeze; it breathes a foretelling of snow.
Chilled winds whisper these predictions in pink ears, and the murmurs spark ideas.
First thought: Cold.
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