Sunday, October 30, 2011

Who likes October snowstorms?

Here is my essay so far- it may sound really unorganized or disconnected, but I'm working on it... I think the lack of power is really getting into my head...

     I peered over my grandfather’s shoulder, attempting to catch a glance at the brush that hovered over the paper. Its black-stained hairs glistened as it lowered onto the surface of the white sheet, flowing across the page with hypnotic movements.
     Stroke one. Grand jeté. Stroke two. The brush sashays. Stroke three. Dip. Stroke four. Sway.
            “What does that mean?”
            Shui.” Water.
            “Why does that word look so funny?”
            “Each stroke used to be drawn as curves- like the currents in a river. Now, we just write the character like this.”
            “Oh…” I tilted my six-year-old head. “Can you teach me how to write that?”

    Written Mandarin, like any artistic masterpiece, is an art that requires the time, patience, and diligence to master. Every written character involves great attentiveness and care; each radical and stroke of every word is as detailed as the refined pigments in a painting. Not only has written Mandarin become an art, but it has also evolved into a thread that, over time, has sewn the multiple Asian cultures together. This centuries-old written language represents cultures that have composed the heritage of a people, and it has carved a cultural identity and history.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Random paragraphs...

I'm just writing some exerpts for different parts of the essay... I can't exactly come up with a good beginning at the moment.. >.<
I know this may not make sense (it's really bad), but may you let me know if the approach/voice is okay (ish)? Thanks!

Traditional written Mandarin is a beauty and an art in itself; every stroke and defined detail is like the majestic quality within the Mona Lisa. However, what happens when an artist ignores these fine details as he emulates Da Vinci’s masterpiece? Where are the intricate dances of the brush? Where is the story within the image? And most of all, what would happen if other artists, too, blotched mounds of paint on the canvas and claimed that their work still had the essence of the original?
            For several decades, this new type of “artistic style” has been introduced and taught to millions of the new generation. Simplified Mandarin has proliferated throughout many countries beyond mainland China, and it has even become the most acknowledged form of the written Mandarin language. “Traditional Mandarin?” some may scoff. “Why must we learn that written language? Simplified is easy enough- it’s simplified!”

Monday, October 24, 2011

Persuasive Essay Beginning Idea

My essay topic is about how (in my opinion) traditional written Mandarin is more important than simplified Chinese. I am planning to write about how traditional Mandarin is the proper form of the language, and I'm going to mention how the simplified form "ruins" the original written language.
Do you guys think that I could begin the piece with a comparison-like scene between "texting language" and simplified Mandarin? "Texting language" (the extremes, at least) are a bit like simplified Mandarin; this language is a simplified version of the proper English language. I am not going to blankly state that "Simplified Mandarin is like texting language..."; I plan on writing a small scene that somehow illustrates my opinions about simplified Mandarin... (I may change this idea, but I just need some opinions on this...)

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Draft 4 (Final Draft?)

I made some corrections to the memoir, but please let me know if there are still some mistakes, and let me know if the theme is clearly revealed in the piece.
Also, what do you guys think of this memoir title: "The Hyde in the Broken Glass"(I don't know if 'the" needs to be there before 'Hyde'...) I'm trying to come up with other titles, but I'll just put that one out there first...

Those glassy, marble eyes stared back at me with impatience; the closer I looked into those windows, the more I saw a frustrated dove strapped inside of a cage, crying out shrill tunes of anguish and despair. As those moist eyes locked with mine, there was a small, distant voice emanating from the broken glass. The voice- which seemed to be merely whispering- was strangled and constrained, yet it was shouting at the top of its lungs, screaming something to me that I could not comprehend…
With the sun blazing over our heads, my cousins and I swam upstream against a sea of people, creeping into every open crevice to breathe. Multitudes of tents, food stands, and game stations adorned the field, the excitement in the air squeezing between the human bodies that populated the scene. On this sweltering day, my cousins and I attended a county fair. All three of us were excited for this yearly event, and our joy of seeing the rides, the shows, and the displays could hardly be contained. As I excitedly followed my cousins through the crowd, exuberant noises filled my eardrums and the cacophony echoed within my head.
            “I want another balloon! Why can’t I get another one? Please, pretty please?”
            “Mommy, I don’t want the vanilla ice cream anymore. I want the other one with sprinkles…”
            “…and I saw this great display of ancient beading techniques, and they had…”
            The disharmony that shrilled in my mind was soon torn asunder when I heard resounding barks. As I turned my head towards those sounds, I saw a wonder that I had never witnessed before: greyhounds. Fascinating creatures with long bodies and muscular chests, these greyhounds, coated with various shades of tans, grays, browns, and blacks, stood with magnificence. Their elongated legs and noses weighed down the front of their bodies, while their snake-length tails on their rear end balanced this tremendous weight.
            My cousins, who were also magnetized to their presence, inched towards the tents that shaded those resting greyhounds. I slowly trailed behind them, afraid to stand beside these massive creatures.
            “…These greyhounds have competed in over twenty races, and some of these races were in other states as well. Notice their long legs- those natural ‘springs’ are perfect for running on the tracks. That’s why these greyhounds can run so fast, even up to forty-five miles per hour…”
My cousins and I shyly approached a large greyhound that rested on the grass. This greyhound- a beautiful creature enwrapped in a gray and white robe- lay on the ground with a regal and majestic stature. Its tail pounded on the ground with every excited pulse pumping through its body, and the large, pink tongue that rolled out of its mouth hung over its mountainous teeth. Every time this greyhound inhaled a breath, the tendons and muscles that enveloped its legs, back, and shoulders appeared and vanished like the tides on the ocean shore.
Slowly and hesitantly, I knelt down to pet this fascinating greyhound. When I did, my mind was filled with excitement and joy: how could such a dominating creature be so gentle to a six-year-old girl? My small hands held this massive head. This greyhound, which had a look of curiosity and happiness, saw the wonder in my face, and those brown eyes, as large as the moon, reflected my intrigued countenance.
… And suddenly there was Hyde, his image shimmering in the broken glass. His evil glare penetrated my entire being, and his smirk- that haunting smile- laughed at my astonishment and ignorance.  Who is that man staring at me? Is he a villain from my nightmares? Who is he? Is he even a man? Soon enough, I realized that Hyde- this beast- was my own kind.
I peered deeper into those watering, pleading eyes; no matter how hard I attempted to erase his image, he was always still there.
There was Hyde, with an iron fist, forcing that poor creature to remain in that cold, lonely cage. There was Hyde, screaming at the whimpering and tired dog, torturing that greyhound to run, run, run. There was Hyde, disregarding the hurting creature, which even longed for Death to end its unbearable pain.
And while that greyhound lay crumpled on the ground, Hyde sat upon the throne of the world, watching other life fall before his feet. Fire danced in his evil eyes, and their taunting flames licked the bodies of the massacred life that lay buried beneath his throne.
As my cousins and I left the tent that day, I turned around to see that majestic greyhound one last time. The greyhound was looking towards the sky, and in the distance, I could hear its cry reaching up towards the heavens, far from the cruel chains that strapped it onto the earth. When I stared back down unto the ground, I glanced at my small hands. My hands- which longed to pet this creature again - bled as shattered glass impaled my skin, piercing deep into my soul as I watched that evil face glint in the pieces of glass, smirking at me behind the reflection of the sun above.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Flow of the piece...

Does my memoir connect throughout the piece? I have a feeling that there are awkward moments/transitions in the memoir...Please let me know!

Alternate Paragraph

I read your comments, and, I agree, there is a bit too much detail near the end. Here is an alternative second-to-last paragrph. Please let me know if it doesn't "flow" with the piece.

And while that greyhound lay crumpled on the ground, Hyde sat upon the throne of the world, watching other life fall before his feet. Fire danced in his evil eyes, and their taunting flames licked the bodies of the massacred life that lay buried beneath his throne.