TED Talk: The Ocean and its Wonders

Over 80% of our planet is covered in oceans. Yet over 99% of them remain obscure, due to insufficient research done in this field. In this animated talk Mr. Robert Ballard reproaches our indifference to this fascinating asset that has been lying under our noses for millions of years. He tells us of his unprecedented journey through uncharted waters, of his discoveries that were previously unimagined by any other. Most of them, he recalls, were fortuitous, yet were some of the most earth-shattering, fascinating things he had ever seen. For instance, he tells us of upside-down water pools teeming with fish, underwater volcanoes belching methane gasses, the voluminous underwater lakes that give the illusion of being on land. There is no dearth of life even in the dark abysses of eternal darkness; in fact, some of the organisms have found ways to simulate photosynthesis without sunlight. These days this phenomenon is labelled and studied, but back when Mr. Ballard made this discovery, such a thing was unheard of.

Mr. Ballard continues to fervently elaborate upon the massive amounts of historical artifacts hidden in the seas; the near-complete absence of oxygen in some areas, he says, have led to the perfect preservation of sunken ships and their treasures. Vessels that sunk thousands of years ago are left virtually unmarred. The secret to the perfectly-preserved Titanic lies in the fascinating scientific mechanism of the ocean. If only we knew how to explore the seas properly, he says, then we would have on our hands the largest history museum on Earth.

But what captivated me most of all was his final point, about our future that may lie in the oceans. He advocates continuous research in the field of underwater innovations. Why is it, he asks, that we have plans to colonize the moon when he have the resources to build underwater houses? Why squander money and time by ignoring the biggest asset we have? The expenses that went into space research belittles what went to oceanic research, by far. This is an idea that literally never occured to me. In my opinion, this could break new grounds--those underwater houses that I've dreamt about, can become reality. Our current lives may even become ameliorated with the new added potential of underwater development. In order to facilitate that transition from a mostly terrestrial lifestyle to an aquatic one, I believe it would be in everyone's interest to heed Mr. Ballard's advice and pay more attention to exploring our oceans instead of only focusing on space. After all, our research is far from being exhaustive, and Mr. Ballard's is no exception. What he discovered is probably only a scratch on the surface. Incessant innovation and constant renewal of our knowledge of the deep underworld is pivotal to making this dream a reality. All simply depends on our volition and will to continue.

Review--Alice: Madness Returns (sequel to American Mcgee's Alice)

"Don't struggle, Alice. Let the new Wonderland emerge."

"Destruction! Corruption! My Wonderland is destroyed! My mind is in ruins!"

-Alice: Madness Returns



"My memories make me vomit!"

Goodness me, Alice. What's happened to you?

A lot, actually, since the ending of Through the Looking Glass, the second in the Alice in Wonderland (hereafter shortened to AIW) series by Louis Carroll. Everyone is familiar with little Alice Liddell and her fantastical journey through the dreamland she calls Wonderland. Anyone can recognize the Mad Hatter's frenzy with tea parties, the Cheshire Cat's signature grin and of course, "Off with his head!" Many, many remakes have been made of the classic tale, including the very famous Disney movie (1951) or the darker and edgier Tim Burton version (2010). But not many are familiar with poor Alice's struggles after her adventures; watching one's own family perish in a fire, after all, isn't something shared easily.

Wait, what?

Cue American Mcgee's Alice (2000), a third-person action-adventure game developed by..well, American Mcgee (American is his first name, believe it or not) and Electronic Arts.



That cat. That horrid, nasty-looking, wonderful Cat.*shudder*



As the cover makes clear, this is not your little innocent Alice any more. Shortly after her venture through the looking glass, a house fire destroys Alice's life, taking her entire family along with it. The only survivor of the horrific incident, she lapses into madness surging from grief and survivor's guilt. She falls into a catatonic state, eventually gets confined into Rutledge Asylum, and does not respond to any attempts to communicate with her.



But this is only what goes on outside. Asylum workers have no idea what's inside her head; if they did, they would be surprised. In fact, she's been having a pleasant cruise through Wonderland of old, only that it's not quite what it used to be:

(Yes, that's screaming faces in the wallpaper. You're not going mad, although Alice is.)

It's not much of a surprise, though; since Wonderland is a fixture in Alice's mind, it's only natural that it go mad as well, along with Alice.

That was basically the premise for the entire first game. Manoeuver through a dark and twisted Wonderland, help Alice battle incarnations of her guilt (in the form of horrid monsters) and recover her sanity, all while disturbing the craplocks out of yourself.

Aaaaand that was a terribly long intro for my review, which is to be about the second game in the series, aptly named Alice: Madness Returns.

If you successfully finished the first game, then congrats: you've helped Alice out of the Asylum. (That's not much of a spoiler, I hope.) Back in London, Alice believes she's free from her delusions, but alas, they return to her in their full horror:



Although she does have her bouts of sanity (she comes back to London from time to time), most of her in-game time is spent in Wonderland and therefore in her delusions. Not that I mind it much though.

1. Story

The story of A:MR is closely related to the first game; so closely, in fact, that it's pretty lousy as a standalone game. Because the entire game revolves around Alice trying to find the responsible for her family's death, finding clues and symbolisms in the enemies she battles, it's nearly impossible to understand unless you've played the first game. Luckily the game is kind enough to include a summary of Alice's history in the Extra Content section of the main menu.

If you want something more haunting, however, you always have the Interactive Storybook on Facebook. It basically tells the same thing: Alice's story prior to the events of this game, which is what happened in the first game. I am personally a fan of games I can play without having played the entire series, so this was a major turn-off for me.

As for the story itself, it's pretty creative, I should say. The idea of Wonderland rotting away as Alice's mind corrupts is a fantastic idea for an action game like this one. Then again, there are incongruities between the first game and the second, making kinks in the story that aren't quite ruled out. For instance, in A:MR it is shown that the family that died in the fire consisted of Alice's mother, father, and older sister Elizabeth; however, in the first game there is no mention of a sister anywhere. Alice is merely quoted as saying, "My parents are....dead." Elizabeth is merely a plot element introduced in the second game. Thankfully, the first game mostly involved fighting with Alice's inner demons and the family didn't need too much attention.  

The second game plays out as a murder mystery, with Alice gradually recovering memories from within her Wonderland to find out if she really was the one to blame for her family's death...or if there was an outer culprit.

But the most brilliant part of it was how American Mcgee and the team managed to make everything from Louis Carroll's world 'click' together nearly seamlessly. The Walrus and the Carpenter in Louis Carroll's poem, for example, are reincarnated as villains; the flying pigs from the same poem are linked to the 'pig and pepper' episode in the first Alice book....those are just examples. There is a major 'warped Carroll' example in the later part of the game, which I cannot reveal since it is a major plot point as well. :)

Story: 4 out of 5 teeth

2. Gameplay

Before I begin anything, let me just get this out of the way: The. Scenery. Is. Gorgeous. To demonstrate:

And this is just the tip of the iceberg. While wandering in Wonderland I found myself constantly stopping to stare at the marvelous amount of effort poured into each level and every detail. The first game, though fantastically disturbing in its own right, does not hold a candle to this one.


A. Weaponry and combat

 That said, the first game does have more weapons than A:MR. That was one of the peeves for me as I played through; there was much less variety in the number of attacks you could bestow upon your enemies. But the second game has better weapons, in my opinion; whatever it lacks in quantity, it makes it up in quality.

There are four weapons in this Wonderland: the Vorpal blade, the Pepper Grinder, the Hobby Horse and the Teapot Cannon. The Vorpal blade and Hobby Horse are melee weapons (short-range) and the Pepper Grinder and Teapot Cannon are ranged weapons. Let me quickly outline them:



-The Vorpal Blade:



"The Vorpal Blade is keen...and always ready for service." -Cheshire Cat

The first weapon you encounter in Wonderland, it is a classic weapon iconic of the Alice franchise. It's exactly what it sounds like: a blade, used to slash down enemies at close range. It's the swiftest and lightest weapon to use, making it useful for weaker enemies with low defenses. Only works at a very short range, though, so enemies with a strong offense may be difficult to deal with.




-The Pepper Grinder:



Care for some pepper in your tea?



My second favorite weapon in the game (the Teapot Cannon is the best in my opinion, I just love ranged weapons), the Pepper Grinder is the Wonderland equivalent of a machine gun. Use it to shoot fatal shots of fiery pepper in your enemies' vulnerable spots. It is also very useful for toggling far-away switches (shoot it at the switch/lever, and it will activate). I particularly love the idea of a pepper grinder for a gun. Cranking the handle to shoot pepper--what a simple idea, yet so delightfully refreshing.

-The Hobby Horse:

In Wonderland, toys frequently double as weapons. In the first game, dice, jacks and cards were deadly ammo for the enemy. Now Alice is yet again armed with another not-so-innocent plaything, the Hobby Horse. The Hobby Horse hits like a truck and does about as much damage. Think of it as a giant, horse-shaped sledgehammer that neighs when you attack with it (no, seriously. It really does). It is also the most satisfying weapon to use, hands-down. During the attack, Alice is shown hovering in the air for a split second, Hobby Horse raised, right before the final, earth-shattering, mind-blowing smash that effectively 'stampedes' the enemy. I clench my fists in anticipation every time.

-The Teapot Cannon:

Take that, you uncouth scallywags! A true Victorian lady educates with a good dose of Earl Gray.



The Teapot Cannon is the one I found myself using the most during combat, and my favorite, too. Not only do most enemies perish in one shot of the Cannon, but it also makes a satsifying splash as the scalding hot tea hit the ground (or the unlucky enemy's face). Not to mention that you can fight Teapot Monsters with this weapon; fighting tea with tea, now that's got to be the biggest mindscrew I've seen since Inception. Because of this darned weapon, I find myself flinching and fighting the urge to grab a teapot and flee with it under my arm every time I see one.

Weapons can also be upgraded; throughout each landscape, there are 'teeth' scattered about. Enemies drop them once slain; teeth are also hidden in containers dispersed in each level. Using these teeth, you can upgrade each weapon up to three times:

(note: the Vorpal Blade does not change its appearance even when upgraded, although its damage skills rise.)

I thought that this as a nice way to make up for the lack of weapons, especially compared to the last game, but I still would have liked to see more than four.

Weapons: 4.5 out of 5 Teeth



B. Technicalities

To be perfectly honest, the gameplay was not at all up to par. Maybe it was because of the massive load of game graphics the engine had to load up, or just my crappy computer, but I was all but unable to play the game smoothly if I had other applications running in the background. In order to play, I had to turn off all programs, check for any 'invisible' programs that I might have missed,  fire up the game, curse as I saw Alice stop randomly in her tracks, turn off the game, find that ONE little measly music player I had neglected to turn off, then start the game again. This was enough to try the patience of an oyster.

The sound was glitchy; if I decided to turn off the game in the middle of a level, the main menu music would ofen overlap with the game music. And if I chose to return to the game screen, the three soundtracks overlapped again, which forced me to turn off the game and start over. (That might have something to do with the fact that I didn't pay good money for this game--but shhh, we don't need to get into that. I'm going to buy it as soon as I'm old enough to play it legally.)

There were all-too obvious visible "invisible walls", which is gamer jargon for clearly visible, platform-like areas that are impossible to jump on. That detracted from the overall gaming experience, as I couldn't find myself absorbed into the game fully.

Technicalities: 3 out of 5 Teeth

Overall I adored the game, despite the technical difficulties. The sheer quality of the graphics was enough for me to overlook pretty much everything, even the glitchy sound, and of course anything AIW themed is enough for me to go insane over.

General score: 8.8 out of 10 teeth

Metaphorical Me (Mr. Moon) ((Marvelous M's!))

Assignment: write 3 words that define me metaphorically, then write a short paragraph with those words without using the verb 'to be'.

3 words:
-Alchemist
-Hunter
-Alice



The Alchemist struggles with her sad fate. Forever fascinated with death, with the Elixir that perhaps may never exist save in my imagination, forever roaming the deserts of the Living World that remain yet a mystery to me. Why do we live? And how does Death come to us, like a stealthy cat with its talons hidden? Questions that I ask myself, that I have asked myself since I could think, that I have been asking myself since the death of my grandfather and of a friend's friend.
In the meantime I hunt; I hunt not beasts, but beats. Music works as my salvation in a world I have yet to understand, an outlet for my confused feelings, perhaps. Whenever I hear a piece that pleases me, I immediately ask for its title and artist, then hunt it down over the vast plain called the Internet.
But ulitmately, a lost child constitutes my identity. They call her Alice, a child lost in reveries and an unfamiliar universe that does not know her, as she does not know it. Still a child, they say; she's yet to grow up; they cannot see, however, that she grows up in her own way--with her rabbit clutched tightly in her arms, she discovers, wonders, seeks.

Metafiction: Wonderland (not finished, entire thing will probably be very long, will add on to it bit by bit as I go)

The queen extended one white hand to her interlocutor, rather boredly.

"Is that all?" she said.
"Y-y-yes, Your Majesty," he replied tremulously.
"All right," she leaned her chin against her palm. "Off with his head."
Two guards emerged and dragged away the resigned Hatte, who only sighed and looked at the ground as he headed for his demise.
"Why am I always surrounded by idiots?" The queen, barely 7 years old, rolled her crystal blue eyes.

She heard the thump. The sound of something rolling on the floor. But she didn't care. Of course. She had heard that every day. She just never saw it.
Being only 7 years old, the queen believed that death sentences were the best way to punish a criminal (although it was to be admitted that her notion of 'criminal' was rather ambiguous). Those who stole anything from her domain, from a small cookie to a big boat, had gotten the same punishment: death.

"How many bad guys have we punished today?" asked the queen.
"That would be 32 for today, Your Majesty."
"And how many of them are waiting for tommorrow?"
"Forty-seven, Your Majesty."
"Very well. Now, I fancy a walk around the garden today. Don't forget my Lucy!"
The servant simply bowed. He was the 31st servant in 3 months. If he disobeyed the queen for even a fraction of a second, his head would fall. Hurriedly, he ran to her bedroom and fetched Lucy, a gigantic stuffed rabbit that the queen had recieved from the (now-dead) king.
"Thank you." The queen gave a wide smile to the servant, hugging the rabbit. "Let's go!"

The queen went out to the garden. She walked along the path. Beside the path, the thirty-two dead bodies were hanging in the gallows. Sixteen to the left, sixteen to the right. The faces of the casualties were all terribly distorted, showing the immense pain they must have endured at their last moments. The queen was smiling happily, trotting and hopping along the path.

"I'm expecting a very special guest today, Bernard," she chattered, swinging Lucy by its arm. "A very special one indeed." She skipped in her steps, made a half-turn and faced the servant. She was beaming in the way only children could. "Her name is Alice."
"Alice, Your Majesty?" the servant repeated, puzzled, then, trying his best not to sound disrespectful: "But, if I am not mistaken, Your Majesty, Alice is--"
"My name, I know," said the queen cheerfully, still skipping. "Isn't it splendid? She must be named after me."
The servant sighed imperceptibly. "Yes, Your Majesty..."


Alice giggled and rocked on her seat. "What happened next?"
Her aunt smiled gently. "You'll have to wait until tommorrow to find out." She kissed the tiny girl on her forehead, then tucked her in. "Good night, dear."
As she walked out of Alice's room, the child called. "Auntie?"
"Yes dear?"
"I'm not the Queen Alice, am I?"
The elderly lady could not suppress a smile. "Of course not, dear. You're the heroic Alice, who defeats the Queen and saves Wonderland." She watched her niece snuggle into her pillow, satisfied, Lucy at her headboard.
"Sleep tight, Alice."
"Good night, Auntie."

Rose tenderly shut the door behind her. Violet was waiting for her, irate.
"Rose, what on earth were you thinking? Telling her stories about beheading, evil queens...filling her head with nonsense! How will you ever expect her to grow up?"
"Oh hush, Violet," said Rose. "Every child grew up with stories in their heads. Although I'll admit I did get a bit carried away with the beheadings. But I was only repeating what Charles told me anyway. He wanted to make sure Alice would hear it too."
"I told you not to associate with Dodgeson," snapped Violet. "He should be called Dodgy instead--why is he so infatuated with Alice? I tell you, he's a crazy man. Mathematics may make him smart, but only more insane. Well, it's very late now. I'm off to bed myself." With that she turned around curtly and descended the stairs.
Rose made sure her sister was out of earshot, then muttered, "Well, I'll say. Next thing, she'll be telling me to stop giving Alice sweets. Uptight to the extreme, she is." She shook her head and walked off to her bedroom.


Hey, you there.
Yes, you! You with the big eyes. Right there.
What's that? You don't have big eyes? Don't matter. Looks pretty bleeding big to me.
What do you suppose you are, hmm? A normal person? A respectable member of 'ciety, you say?
I used to be a rather respectable one meself--when I wasn't nipped by the bottle, that is. But a character's got to have something to do when he's not being cast, don't he?
Hang on--how do you know you're not a character too?
Say, ain't that a typewriter hovering over your life right now?
DOn't change the subject! You think you know who you are, do you? Well, I can see you bright and clear from over here--and you look a bleeding lot like me, I say.
What's that? You don't know what I look like? Don't matter a cent. I know perfectly well what I look like, and the writer's getting around to introducing me some time or other.
How can I see you, you ask? Why, you're right in front of me! In front of that giant monitor-thingamajig or whatever you call it. You see me clearly, I see you clearly. Simple as 'at.
Well, I've been around for longer than I should have. The writer's gone to the bathroom or wherever she's gone, and heaven bless her, and little Alice too. Seems like I'm the only bright one in here. I know my God, and I know her well. Do you?


Alice woke to the sound of pansies weeping.
"Hello, miss," she said, cautiously. Then it occured to her that she'd never heard of weeping pansies before; she'd never even heard of them laughing. "And flowers should have much reason to laugh, I believe," thought Alice. "But oh, what nonsense I am thinking!"
Meanwhile the flower had been sobbing away, its tears splashing onto the ground near Alice's feet. "Hello, miss," Alice began again, "you do seem so very upset. Is there anything I can do for you?"
The pansy raised its head. "Anything you can do!" it shrieked, in a shrilly voice that quite pierced Alice's ears. "Why, child, there's nothing you can do! The Queen's been at it again, and when she starts, nothing but the heavens above can stop her!" It resumed its wailing. "We're doomed!"
Alice pondered this very carefully. "The Queen," she thought. "Could it be the same queen I know?"
"Please, ma'am," she said aloud to the pansy, "Is the Queen's name Alice, by any chance?"
"That's the name!" shouted the pansy. "That's it--a lovely name, wasted on such a foul child. Why, I'd tear her out by the roots if I could!" It began to sway in fury.
Poor Alice was quite confused. "But this can't be," she thought. "Queen Alice is a figment of Auntie Rose's imagination. I couldn't possibly be in the story--unless I'm dreaming," she concluded. "Yes, that must be it, and I must wake up." She began to pinch her arm vigorously, to make herself wake, but nothing changed. "Oh dear," thought Alice, "then it isn't a dream after all?" She turned to the pansy, who had calmed itself down considerably at this point. "Please, ma'am," she said politely, "Where is this place?"
"Why, you're in Wonderland," said the pansy curtly. "Any respectable child should know that."
"Wonderland? Why, that's the name of the place in Auntie Rose's story!" exclaimed Alice.
"Auntie Roses I know of none, but there is a respectable rose garden to the north of here," sniffed the pansy. "If you're looking for stories, though, that's not the place to go; the Hatter knows of many. But," it added with a sigh, "I heard he was beheaded. This morning, in fact. It's the cursed queen who did it."
"I wish to return to my bedroom, please," said Alice, even politely still. "I was sleeping just now, when I woke up here."
"Bedrooms? You come from the Asylum, then?" The pansy's voice rose to a hysterical shriek once more. "You're an insane child?!"
"No, no, no, I most certainly am not!" cried poor Alice hurriedly. "I come from no Asylum at all! I only wish to go back home!"
"Well, be off then!" said the pansy shrilly. "If you need directions the Mapmaker is your man! Now shoo!"

"It's so dreadfully confusing here!" thought Alice, frazzled. "Everything seems to be everywhere--the garden, the Queen, the Mapmaker--oh look!" she said aloud, though there was no one to hear her. "A signpost--how convenient."
It was a very tall post, with arrows pointing in every direction Alice could imagine. "It's all I can do to read it," she thought, as she walked around it. "Oh, here it is; the Mapmaker's Lair. It's in the same direction as the Asylum," she thought nervously. "I hope it comes before it, I certainly don't want to pass an Asylum of insane children." And so she set off on the beaten path that lead to the Mapmaker.

The path was downtrodden with a thousand footsteps, and Alice found herself wondering how many had been there before her. "It seems that this man is rather popular," she pondered, "but if you're the man with directions, I suppose everyone wants to know you. Or," she remembered suddenly, "it could be the parents of the insane children coming to visit. That's so very sad," she sighed. Thinking about the Asylum was putting her in a bad mood, so she turned her mind to the little daisies growing along the path. They seemed to be chattering away.
"Beware, beware!" shouted one to Alice.
"Beware of what?" asked Alice, stooping down to hear it better.
"Beware of the children, who roam the darkness of eternity!" it shouted. "Beware of the Warden, who drinks blood as wine! And beware of the Room, where horrors lie unseen!"
"Don't listen to them," said a voice brusquely behind Alice. She wheeled around, alarmed. A short, stout man with a very bushy beard and a hunting hat was standing there. "They're always making up warnings and conspiracies. Amuses them to warn passerbys of them. Really just a load of dung," he said. He then spat, deliberately and carefully, on the grass. "Come on," he told Alice, turning away from her, "if you want directions, follow me." Alice, somewhat wary, started off behind him.

They walked on for a good while, leading deeper and deeper into some kind of forest. Alice was getting very nervous by now, and asked, in a small voice, "Please, sir, is this the way to the Mapmaker?"
"That's me," the man said gruffly. "I'm also the Warden of the Asylum. I live there. Don't worry," he added, after glancing back at Alice's frightened countenance, "it's perfectly safe. I have the discipline thing down pat. The children won't dare hurt you, or I'll skin them alive."

They were now coming to the entrance of a gray-bricked building, perfectly cubic and with perfectly square windows. It was unremarkable in the whole, except for the gigantic golden globe, gleaming and glowing, perched on top of it.
"This way, now," said the Mapmaker, pushing open a steel door and ushering Alice in. She carefully stepped inside, taking care to avoid the pools of urine on the floor. "How dreadfully unpleasant here!" she thought, as she followed the Mapmaker down the dingy coridor. "I can't imagine living here for more than a minute! How terrible it must be for the children!"
The two of them entered the office. The walls were covered with maps, some yellow and fraying, others drawn on sugar-white paper with a soft-leaded pencil. Some were scribbled in crayon, in red and blue and green; on the desk, rolled-up parchment maps were strewn everywhere.

"Now then," said the Mapmaker, sinking into his chair, "let's get down to business." He spread open a map that was longer than his arms were wide, and struggled with it for a bit. "Where do you want to go?"
"Please, I wish to return to my bedroom, sir," Alice said pleadingly. "I was sleeping just now, but all of a sudden I woke up in Wonderland."
"Hmm, strange, strange, very strange," muttered the Mapmaker distractedly, as he fumbled under his desk for a cigar. "Very strange indeed." He pushed a fat, green cigar into his beard (or where his mouth was supposed to be, at any rate) and looked up at Alice. "What was the name of the place you lived in?"
"London, sir," said Alice. "43rd Street, Lingham Avenue, Apple Tree Manors."
"Let's see now, London," said the man, running a pudgy finger over the map. "I don't see it here. It must be somewhere my children haven't visited yet."
"Do you send these children out around the world, sir?" asked Alice.
"I do," said the Mapmaker. "They visit every corner I send them to, and bring back pictures of where they saw. I piece them together to create a giant map like this one."
"But they're insane! They can't possibly take care of themselves!" exclaimed Alice, genuinely shocked.
"Ah, they manage it somehow or other," said the Mapmaker with a shrug. "They have a funny way of coming back, these insane kids. Always smiling, as if they were wanted here. They don't know squat about anything, but if I tell them to make pictures of locations and send them to me they do it just fine. If they don't, I can just flog them." He struck a match against his desk and lit his cigar. "They may be batnuts, but they do reap great profit."
"But how am I to get back, sir?" cried poor distressed Alice. "I don't live here, and I'm not-- I certainly don't know how to get back home!" She was going to say "I'm not insane!" but she didn't quite believe herself.
"Dunno," said the Mapmaker. "If it's not on my map yet, you're lost. Or I suppose, if you got here in a non-traditional manner, then you should leave in a strange way, too."
"But how is that to be managed?" cried Alice.
"Search me," said the Mapmaker. He blew a long cloud of green, foul-smelling smoke into Alice's face, disappearing behind it.

"Oh, he's no help at all!" thought Alice, coughing madly. "I came here because I thought he could help me, but all I see is unmitigated cruelty all around! Oh, those poor children! Those daisies were right after all! Oh, and I do wish he would stop blowing that dreadful smoke into my eyes! It's quite blinding me!" She shut her eyes to keep them from tearing up, and as she did so she felt the smoke solidfy around her into a fluffy mass. She soon found herself surrounded by soft pillows, and opened her eyes to streaming sunlight.
"Well, I'll say! I'm back!" said Alice to herself. "I've finally awoken from that terrible nightmare--if it was a dream at all," she added doubtfully. "I couldn't make myself awake from it, at any rate. Suppose I would never wake up from it? And will I ever see the Queen?" Alice's head was spinning. "I should tell Auntie to stop telling me those stories!"



The queen turned to Bernard. "You know," she said, with a smile, "I do believe I should like to serve my guest some special tea. In the most special china." She cocked her head to one side, eyes shining innocently. "Do you think you can manage that?"
Bernard felt a small, unpleasant thrill up his spine. The word special could only mean one thing to Her Majesty.
"I shall inform the kitchen, Your Majesty," he murmured.


"Alice!" Violet called upstairs. "Alice, dear, are you ready yet?"
"Just a minute, Auntie!" Alice shouted, as her nurse fumbled with her waist-ribbon. "Nurse, don't tighten it so! It makes me choke."
"It's all I can do to hide this little tummy of yours, Miss Alice," grinned the nurse, "what with all the cakes you eat every day."
"Hmph!" said Alice, coquettishly turning her head away, "it's not MY fault Cook makes the best cakes all around!"
She soon descended, her brown, bobbed hair nicely complementing her pale yellow dress. Violet took her by the hand.
"Now, Alice," she said sternly to her niece, "going out to town is not a light business. I want you to be on your best behavior, and that means no pretending games, no make-believe stories, and not dragging your rabbit everywhere you go." She saw the girl pout, and added, "And no making faces at your aunt."

Spring of Realization

Ever since I was a child I’ve harbored a fascination for all living things. That fascination soon evolved into affection, to the point where I was unable to watch a creature—be it animal, fish or bug—suffer without crying, or tearing up in the very least.
But that didn’t include humans.
Well, it did, in the physical sense. I couldn’t bring myself to punch or kick anyone, even in jest, because I thought it would hurt them and I knew how it hurts. But I never stopped to think that other people had feelings too, ones that could get easily hurt depending on my conduct. I was on good terms with my parents, so they never had a chance to see how cruel I can get with words. Of course, that cruelty was never intentional. Nonetheless, more people than necessary were hurt by my comments.
“You’re really fat. Do you eat a lot?” “That dot on your face makes you look weird.” “Why don’t you talk like everybody else?” Call it brutal honesty, perhaps, or childish innocence—whatever it was, my peers hated me for it. In fact, I ended up being closer with boys than with girls because they were used to such teasing and found my sense of humor, well, acceptable. Girls on the other hand saw me as insensitive and downright mean.
I learned this the hard way. Blissfully unaware of foreign opinions, I was minding my business one school day when a bunch of girls I had been “judging” recently came up to me and sprayed insults at my face. I can’t remember them all; I’m sure the word “ssagaji” (싸가지) was included in there somewhere. All I could do was just stand and gape in amazement as one of them started tearing up, repeating the “mean things” I had said to her before, and another shouted curse words at me. I didn’t realize how much of an impact I had made on these girls with my simple words, and I was baffled. I never meant any harm. I was just telling them what I had observed, and even thought they would thank me for it later. Suddenly gripped by an anger that was unnatural for children my age (I was only 6), I snapped, “Well, I never told any lies.” I carefully concealed the fact that their words had hurt me tremendously, along with a dawning realization that this was what I had done to them as well.

Thought Pooping

I think I'll restart something that I used to do a long time ago, when I just started writing. I call it 'thought pooping', though I could just as easily call it 'random train of thoughts' or 'string of nonsense that wastes my time as I write it'. Basically I start writing on a basic topic or what's on my mind at that particular moment and just take it away from there. So I could start with global warming and end with Jack the Ripper, if my train happens to lead me in that direction.

I just re-read that previous paragraph and realized, god, it's hideous. I've been reading works by Korean-American immigrants at the library and walked away disgusted every time, mainly because I could tell when it was written by a Korean-American. I'm not talking about the people who were born in an English-speaking country and can't speak a word of Korean. Their writings are indistinguishable from native speakers' work. No, what I read are works by Korea-educated people writing in English, and I simply cannot abide their writing. Oh, they may try their best to sound American. The grammar might be 100% correct and the idioms perfectly mastered, but there's just something underneath the surface that shows, like translucent skin covering the organs. It's as if I can read the countless grammar lessons behind it, the hours spent mastering the conjugations and memorizing vocabulary words, memorizing that "as...as" is used to compare things and "used to" is used for showing past actions. It's as if I can see the EBS teacher with his rod in front of the blackboard.

How can I see that? When I read an English piece written by a Korean, there's a general feeling of...what should I call it....orthodoxy emanating from it. It's perfectly square, the grammar contrived to fit the molds. Colored within the lines, you might say. And how meticulously so! The writing reeks of dictionary paper. At least that's how I see it.
Some of the writings on other students' blogs (although those don't disgust me!) feel that way too--almost fanatically proofread. But they are students, who are still learning. Who knows what wonderful things they have in store. I just hope that they won't end up like the self-proclaimed 'professional' writers who publish half-baked crap that lacks the natural-ness (?) native writers have.

And my very first paragraph was exactly like that.

God, I sound so mean in this. I sound so intolerant of Korean writing, when I myself am part of the same demographic! This is ridiculous.

Shawshank Journal (what happened to my early draft?)

I first learned that King was insane after I read one of essays, “Why We Crave Horror Movies”, an essay which had captured the ego of the average human being and cast it in a grotesque light. Terrifying for us readers outside King’s mental circle, but I reckoned it would do marvels for his character development in fiction.
Shawshank Redemption is one of such works. Paired with King’s knowledge of life within the prison community (presumably second-hand, as he didn’t serve any time himself), his comprehensive approach to the human psyche created an utterly realistic drama that was delightful to read. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the story is how it managed to keep its head above the subject matter. Many a writer has written a prison novel, some of them based off experience. But in many of those novels it is easy to get caught up in descriptions of life within the walls, as there is an abundance of words just waiting to be written on the subject. And yes, King does include many descriptions. What he didn’t feel the need to do was explain the ways of prison life to his readers. He just let us figure it out ourselves, leaving us to picture the cells and the walls and not read about them. It’s the tried and true method of showing, not telling, and King does it beautifully. And instead of wasting time on backdrop, he jumps right to polishing the characters.
Even with the heavy subject matter and cultural references thrown at us, the readers never doubt Red and Andy’s reality for an instant. They might as well be real men, people that may be living in the state prisons even now, planning an escape or accepting their institutionalized life. King must have spent I don’t know how many years looking inside himself and others in order to achieve the level of solidity he has in Shawshank. It’s not just Red and Andy—after all, Red is one of the few honest men who own up to their crime, and Andy is just full-out innocent. It’s not hard for the readers to identify with them. No, it’s the other minor characters as well, who have indeed committed heinous crimes, may or may not admit to them, and may not be the kind of people you’d want to hang out with, but all of them show a terribly human facet of themselves. Like the rapist who carved marble as a hobby, or the coin collectionist. King therefore highlights the prisoners and criminals--ones we might overlook as mere scum--as human beings too. This is what makes his writing so compelling--we can read a portrait of our world in his books. And that is what every good writer does.

On Education

          

 How lucky I am to live here.

Here the double-edged sword of education is at its finest—or perhaps should I say the hierarchy is at its highest. Here, from the top of the figurative and literal mountain, I can observe what may just be the most characteristic and utterly fascinating facet of Korean society.

           Obama lauded it. Foreigners condemned it. I have lived it, in all its glory and horror. Now, after watching Sir Ken Robinson’s lecture, I begin to wonder about standards. There is a certain point in Sir Robinson’s speech, but according to that, the situation I find myself in seems quite a dilemma—is this the ‘right’ kind of education? Are we receiving enough breathing space, or is it just worse? Why are we here anyway?

           If KMLA really is a school with so-called “higher-quality” education than other “normal” schools, does that mean we are receiving Robinsonian education—namely, the pursuit of creativity in all its forms—or just harder work? Are we here because they deemed us smart enough for (and therefore worthy of) more educational options? Or simply because someone 20 years ago had the idea to make a smarthouse that would soon turn into college-machines? Sir Robinson mentioned that schools and factories run very much on the same basis. According to his point of view, KMLA is a very efficient factory indeed, one that would certainly squash all forms of creativity if there happened to be any. After all, students here are exposed to more classes, more subject matters, more time after classes to catch up on their work or even to learn new things. In short, they are open to more school hours. And somehow, this has made them extremely welcome to foreign colleges, many of which run on similar values as Sir Ken Robinson.

           Wait a minute. Do I smell a paradox here?

           It’s not just that KMLA is an aggregation of the country’s brightest and best, nor that they simply have better teachers than other schools (although that’s true). And it’s certainly not because the kids here know inherently how to utilize their education for creative purposes. Because it’s not just them. Education, after all, began with the pressing need to know things in order to survive, which in turn evolved into the insatiable thirst for knowledge only humans are said to possess. And this thirst applies not just to the “smart” crowd but also the “normal” crowd. Everyone wants to learn. Everyone has the potential to channel this energy into something greater. It’s all a matter of whether or not you apply yourself.

           I believe that it all boils down to how much we are willing to step beyond the material. The schools, following their need to educate the masses, impose standards; but if the students decide to go the extra mile and engage in creative activity—not just dance, music or art but also an application of their knowledge—why, then I believe the scope for creativity has become wider. Education is an eye-opener, not a closer. Sir Robinson said that education moves progressively upwards, then tilts slightly to one side. If the progression of that one side helps one understand more about the world and therefore expands the playing field of the mind, then no, school doesn’t kill creativity. It’s the mental sloth of the individual.

Defining Myself as a Writer

I took up writing as a defensive skill. Blame it on those Facebook and Tumblr ranters (usually pre-pubescent girls) who would write strings of maudlin, sentimental-sounding stuff in hopes of attracting attention. They let the world know they have problems; but when asked to tell us about it so that they can feel better, they replied, with a smile ripped straight from the movie screens, that they “don’t want to talk about it”, because it’s “kind of personal”. Then, I would think to myself, what was the whole point of posting it online where everyone is SUPPOSED to see it? I grew up with too many of those self-proclaimed sentimentalists, and decided that if I were ever going to express my internal struggles I would never do it for anyone but myself. Later, as I began to experience the ups and downs of puberty, I ended up buying a small padlocked notebook which was to become the storybook of me, Joelle Seung Won Jung—a girl hopeless in art, music, singing, any form of expression except writing. And it was no wonder that my motto as a writer would become I would write for myself. Unfortunately, that motto has caused many a poem and story to end up in the trash; I am not a forgiving audience.

Outside spectators have been more merciful. They have described my style as everything ranging from poetic to prosaic, funny to serious, erudite to light-hearted. Some have called me a pretentious writer, too. I have nothing to say to that. It’s true that I love to use big words in abundance, and that I sometimes throw in a few unnecessary ones just because I like the way the sentence sounds in my mouth. I hope it doesn’t look like I’m showing off when I do that, though—because that is far from my intentions. I do so purely for my own amusement, and when I’m aware that a certain piece is going to be shared I try to tailor my words to fit the purpose. My style also depends on my mood: on my better days, the words come rolling onto the paper straight from my brain and pop on the page as I read them. Rhythm is my forte then, and I become much more inclined to write poems. When I feel like a good, old-fashioned rant, my words are like a double-edged sword: refreshingly sharp yet scalding hot. One can almost hear me spitting and raving behind the desk. On my worst days, however, my brain goes thud. A dead lump. It just falls kind of flat, and suddenly I find myself writing things like “I have a dog. It is brown.” Sentences that just beg to put out of their misery. Then I just sit there with my mouth hanging open, staring blankly at the wall. Duhh.

Luckily, such days come less often than expected. Usually, I know what to do with my words. Thanks to countless English lessons and hours of practice I think I’ve finally gotten the hang of weaving my words together, of getting the words where I’d like them to be. At first it took hours of wrangling with the dictionary and tampering in the thesaurus. Even then, the right words evaded me. What helped me improve the most was reading inspirational works by other authors—and by inspirational I don’t mean the stuff on those black framed posters that talk pep. I mean pieces by Stephen King, Lewis Carroll, Charlotte Bronte, the works that drive me to write. Reading those somehow made me more eager for the task, and, strangely enough, made me imitate and learn from the writing style of those I just read. Most importantly, however, I learned to have fun in the process. Too many kids I’ve seen think English writing is a task sent from hell to make them miserable. I know, because I’ve felt the exact same way before. The entire process—the brainstorming, the outlining, the drafting, the writing itself—sounds so drab when taught in classrooms. Even more so when the first task is, “Write about your summer vacation”. But as long as I can make myself enjoy it, I’ll come out smiling in the end. I think that’s the greatest thing I could learn when it comes to writing.

           What didn’t help me at all was the fact that the methods of writing—how to outline, brainstorm, organize—was taught inconsistently to me for the past few years. One told me to write down whatever came into my head, then organize. Another told me that it was better to trim the ideas as I went on, since it could save me time and improve my thinking skills. People told me 5-paragraph essays were the canon, but readers don’t like it anyway. Whether it was sheer incompetence on my part or a result of a confused education, I’ll never know, but I never seemed to be able to organize and structure my essays properly. Every teacher who reviewed my essays would comment on the organization, even when the rubric was clearly given by the teachers themselves. I guess it didn’t help that I couldn’t give a hoot about organization, and since the main reader of my writings had always been me, it was a given that I would struggle on that front. But it’s not just the externally obvious problems. Many a day I have clutched my head in despair because I haven’t been able to convey the right emotions in my writing; the reader would never notice it, but I end up saying many things I never meant to, or things that aren’t sincere. A festering problem for me, since writing is my primary mode of expression. If that fails me, then I am left with no outlet to my thoughts. Sometimes (even now, to be honest), I feel that my writing style is too stuffy and too…”goody two-shoes”, so to say. My words are too conventional, not fresh enough. They feel like stale air in my lungs and they choke me. It is my biggest weakness.

           It’s frustrating on many levels, as I know that weakness is the hindrance between me and my goal: being an extraordinary writer. I don’t mean that in comparison with my peers, though. My yardstick is always myself, and when I know I wrote a good piece, I really know it. Adversely, I know very well when my writing is not up to par. My primary goal is to outdo myself, every time. For the simple reason that I can, and that I have absolutely no reason not to. In order to achieve that goal, I hope that this class can give me practice. Lots of it. I hope we do a lot of writing this semester because outside of school I get next to no chance to do any writing. Techniques, I’ve heard much of them. I think it would be better for me to do field work in class to improve. In any case, I’m really looking forward to it.